THE BARBARY PASHA by Allan Aldiss

 

 

 

 

            Jane Dudley pushed her way through the crowd of fat merchants, Turkish soldiers, shrieking children and veiled women and at last secured a place at the guard rail of the small vessel, desperate for a sight of the man she had come all this way to marry.

            She had been up since dawn, watching as they slowly approached the little port of Malik, with its low white buildings interspersed with the domes and minarets of mosques.

            Already she fancied she could smell that distinctive odour of an Oriental town.  It was early morning and as usual the warm sun was already bright, reflecting vividly off the mirror-like surface of the crystal clear Mediterranean - it was spring-time in the Levant at the turn of the century.

            Jane’s petite slender figure, her golden hair, her blue eyes, her vivacious smile and her blue muslin dress, all these made her stand out from the olive complexions, Oriental clothes and passive demeanour of the other passengers.  Indeed, the very fact that she was a pretty European girl had marked her as unique ever since she had come aboard at Smyrna to take passage along the beautiful, wild and mountainous southern coast of Turkey to this little known port, close to where the northern border of Syria now lies.

            As they turned past the breakwater and manoeuvred to moor stern-on to the quay, she looked anxiously amongst the watching crowd.

            There were Turks in European suits and dark red tarbouches, and other Turks in the more traditional wide Turkish breeches and embroidered waistcoats.

            There were Arabs, some wearing simple robes and greasy strips of cloth wound round their heads, others, obviously of a superior class, wearing immaculate white kaftans under black flowing cloaks, picked out with gold thread, with white kuffayiah head cloths and black aighal headbands.

            She saw women completely covered in long black shapeless burkas, that gave no inkling of the age or beauty of the woman underneath it, and provided her only with a strip of black lace, over the eyes, to see through.  Other women wore an opaque white veil over their faces that left their eyes uncovered.

            But there was no sign of William.

            She had been thrilled by his talk of wealthy Beys and Pashas, of Sheiks and Caids, of camels and beautiful Arab horses, of harems and of black eunuchs, of deserts and snow covered mountains, of raids and revolts against the rule of the autocratic Turkish Sultan in Constantinople, of fierce Moslem fanatics and their despised Christian subjects, of the crisp dry air and of the distinctive smells and scents of the Near East.

            They had become secretly engaged before he returned to Turkey to carry on with his excavations in the Syrian desert.  Then the aunt she lived with had died.  The shock of this was followed by the shattering discovery that most of her aunt’s capital had recently been lost in a series of unfortunate investments.  The house would have to be sold to pay outstanding debts, and there would be little left.

            With no other relatives she could turn to, her aunt’s aged solicitor suggested that, unless she married quickly, she would have to become a governess.  Become a governess!  With her vivacious character and her romantic leanings, such an idea was abhorrent.  But what was she to do?  To whom could she turn? Obviously this was the moment for William Lascelles to have appeared and taken charge of her life.  But he was away somewhere in Turkey!

            Suddenly and impetuously she had decided that she would go and join him.  There was nothing now to keep her in England.  The solicitors had advanced her a small sum from her aunt’s modest estate, with a warning that no more would be forthcoming for some months, and then probably only a small amount.  It was now or never! She must act quickly whilst she at least had some money, or see it all frittered away.  Driving her on was the terrifying thought that William would hardly be keen on marrying a governess!

            Without telling anyone - and indeed who was there to tell? - she bought a couple of suitcases and a train ticket to Marseilles.  She had telegraphed and written to William that she was coming out to join him, and then quickly left before he’d had time to reply, lest he tried to put her off.

            From Marseilles she had taken ship to Athens, and from there another ship to Smyrna, and then this small coaster to Malik, the small Turkish port where William had his base.  It had all been so exciting!  Travelling alone across Europe and the Mediterranean!  How her aunt would have disapproved!  This was almost the Twentieth Century, she told herself, a time when women were fighting to be free to do what they liked, a time when women would no longer be the chattels of men, a time of would-be Suffragettes and the Married Woman’s Property Act, certainly a time when a young woman could decide to go and join her fiancé!

            But now she had arrived, and where was William?  A feeling of despair and anti-climax began to creep over her as she scanned the jetty in vain.  She began to feel perhaps that she had been very foolish in rushing out here.  At the back of her mind was the realisation that she now had very little money left.

            And yet, she had to admit, it was very exciting.  Even more exciting than William had described.  She inhaled the strange smells of the Levant.  She saw trains of camels being led down narrow street.  She saw dirty-looking Arabs riding flea-ridden donkeys.  She saw well dressed Turkish gentlemen in immaculate European suits being driven in smart carriages by Negro grooms behind a pair of beautiful matched horses.

            She saw two veiled women, half walking, half running, alongside a well dressed man riding a beautifully harnessed mule.  Instantly her English up-bringing made her rebel against the sight.  Why were the women not riding and the man walking?  She saw other women walking respectfully behind men, carrying parcels and loads, whilst the men smoked long Turkish cigarettes and chatted amongst themselves.  It was not right!

            She remembered how William had said that in the Moslem world, women, and especially Christian ‘roumi’ women, were considered to be of little account.  Were these women concubines or slavegirls?

            Jealously she watched the other passengers being greeted by their friends and relations.  She felt very alone and rather frightened, alone in a strange land whose language and even whose alphabet she did not understand.  Thank heavens so many of the more educated Turks spoke a little French, as she did.  Schoolgirl French!  Little had she thought that she would be using it in the Levant.

            She waited on board for an hour in the warm spring sunshine.  The ship would soon be leaving for its next port of call.  One of the ship’s officers had suggested that she should go to the main hotel, and had called a ghari, one of the local horse-drawn cabs.  The Hotel de Paris had been William’s permanent address.  No doubt, she thought, he would be waiting for her there, not knowing on which boat she would be arriving.

            The friendly Turkish ghari driver loaded her two suitcases.  She saw that the men on the quayside were looking at her strangely.  Clearly the sight of a lone, unveiled, European woman was rarity in Malik.

            The cab drove through narrow streets, crowded with people and animals, before coming out onto a wide boulevard lined with high palm trees.  Spacious looking houses, the windows covered in Arabesque stone tracery or ironwork grilles, could just be seen over high walls.

            Then they arrived in the courtyard of the Hotel de Paris.

            The Greek booking clerk was courteous but firm.  Mais non, M. Lascelles was not staying at the hotel.  He had left two weeks previously to explore some remote Roman remains deep in the desert.  He was not expected back for some time, perhaps a month, perhaps longer.  No, he had no idea just where he was doing excavations, for M. Lascelles always kept that secret.

            He showed Jane her own telegram and letter announcing her arrival - still sitting in a pigeon-hole, unopened, behind the reception desk of the hotel.

            “Oh God!  What am I going to do?”

            “There is a boat leaving for Genoa in two weeks time, Mademoiselle, and meanwhile you could stay here.”

            “But I don’t have any money!” wailed Jane. 

            The smile on the face of the Greek clerk froze.

            “In that case ...”

            “I want to speak to the British Consul,” said Jane in a suddenly decisive tone.

            “There are no Consuls in this part of Turkey, Mademoiselle.”  It was the voice of the Hotel Manager, who had come to see what all the trouble was about.  “The nearest British Consul is in Damascus, several hundred miles away ... Did Mr Lascelles know anyone in Malik?”

            “I suppose he must have done - I don’t know - oh, there was a man who helped him get permission for his excavations - a Mr Zaid, I think - “

            The manager seemed to freeze.

            “Not - His Excellency - “

            “No, no, not an Excellency, just a - a Pasha I think it was - “

            “By the beard of the Prophet - His Excellency Zaid Pasha!”

            “Do you know him?  Does he live near here?”

            The Manager suddenly became very obsequious in manner.

            “Mademoiselle, Zaid Pasha is the Vali, the Governor, the representative of the Sultan, and one of the biggest land owners here, a man of great wealth and power.  A man of authority.  Of course we all know Zaid Pasha!”

            “Then send him a message!  Explain what has happened.”

            “Of course, Mademoiselle, of course!  And if you will be so kind as to accept the hospitality of this humble hotel meanwhile.”  He turned upon the Greek clerk.  “A room, you fool!  Hurry!  Our best room!”

 

            Jane lay resting on the bed of the comfortable hotel room, thinking over what had happened and, in particular, the extraordinary change in the attitude of the hotel staff, once she mentioned the name of Zaid Pasha.  What sort of a man was he?  How would he react to her message, asking for his assistance?

            A Pasha!  Even the title sounded exciting.

            She remembered that William had told her about the Pasha of Acre, a man with an impossible name, who had held up Napoleon not far from here.  With the help of Sir Sydney Smith, and a tiny force of Royal Navy ships and Marines, he had forced Napoleon to give up his plans to invade Turkey from Egypt after Nelson had sunk his fleet at the Battle of the Nile.

            She suddenly remembered his name: Djezzar Pasha.  His personality and leadership had played a key role in inspiring the handful of Turkish and Arab troops to perform miracles of endurance.  Backed by the small British force they had beaten off the cream of the French Army.

            People still talked of Djezzar Pasha, William said.  But, he had added with a laugh, one of the main reasons why his troops so respected him was that, even in his sixties, he was still known to have eighteen white European women in his harem, as well as many Levantine and Arab girls.

            In their eyes, it was his possession of Christian women in his harem that made him a real man, a leader.  William had explained that to have as your slaves European women, the woman of the hated Christians, the despised ‘roumis’, was a sign of power and success.

            Her reverie was interrupted by the hotel manager knocking on the door.

            “Mademoiselle!  I have myself been to see his Excellency, the Pasha.  He has sent his carriage to convey you to his Palace.  He begs you to accept his hospitality and protection whilst your affairs are sorted out.”

            “There!” said Jane triumphantly.  “I knew everything would be alright!”

 

 

            Jane followed the Hotel Manager into the courtyard, where a small enclosed carriage was waiting, a crest of two crossed scimitars and a star painted on the door.  A smartly dressed coachman held two sleek and carefully matched Arab horses - the same crest was branded on their quarters.  Her suitcases had already been strapped to the back of the carriage.

            Clearly this Pasha was someone who did things in style, who acted quickly and decisively.  If only William had more style and was more decisive!

            Then she saw a huge Negro holding the door of the carriage open for her.  He was hideous!  His jet black face was covered with tribal scars.  His small eyes glittered menacingly, he seemed particularly black and repulsive looking.  He did not hold himself as a servant in her presence, but rather as a master.

            “This is Mansour, His Excellency’s Chief Black Eunuch,” murmured the Hotel Manager, noticing the way Jane had recoiled in horror on seeing him.  “It is a great honour that the Pasha should have sent him.  The Chief Black Eunuch of a Pasha is a man of influence and importance.”

            He was dressed expensively in a long white robe, trimmed with fur, and was wearing a strange conical felt hat.  Later she was to learn that this was the emblem of a trusted black eunuch, employed to guard and control the women of a rich Turk or Arab.  Or, at least one of the emblems, for she saw that he also carried a thin whippy cane with a handle curved over like that of a walking stick.  It was just like the canes used in schools in England - but how strange that a eunuch should carry one in public, and obviously with pride.

            “His Excellency send me to take you to Palace,” said the huge Negro in broken French.  His voice was a strange high pitched rasping falsetto that came strangely from such a huge muscular frame.

            Jane looked around wildly for moral support.  The man was so frightening!  But the Hotel Manager was bowing her out of the hotel, clearly glad to be rid of an awkward and unexpected guest.  “Come!” said the Negro impatiently.  “Pasha not want English lady stay alone in hotel.  Not safe!  Maybe abducted.”

            “Abducted!” cried Jane.  What on earth had she let herself in for?  How stupid she had been to rush out here to Malik!

            The Negro gripped her arm, and she let herself be bundled into the carriage as if she were a child.  He was so strong!  He sat down beside her, still gripping her arm.  The carriage door was slammed shut and he pulled the curtains across the windows.  No-one could see into the carriage, and she could only vaguely see out.  The Negro had removed his strange headwear, revealing a shiny shaven skull which made him an even more frightening figure.

            Jane felt the carriage lurch as the coachman climbed up into his seat, and lurch again as the two horses moved off at a fast trot.  She tried to pull back the curtain, but the Negro restrained her, waving an admonishing finger.  She could not even see properly where they were going - she felt helpless, but also strangely excited.

            Soon the coach slowed down.  She could vaguely make out a high wall.  She glimpsed armed Negro guards.  She heard the noise of a gate being opened.  The carriage moved on again.  She heard the crunch of gravel.  They were in a private drive.  The carriage stopped again.

            The big Negro opened the door and lifted her out as if she were a child.

            Jane looked around.  She was in a courtyard, surrounded on two sides by a high wall and on another by a large building with terraces, hidden by arches covered with beautiful Arabesque traceries.  It was set in a large and beautifully kept park and a large doorway led into the Palace.

            But the Negro pointed with his cane across the park towards a smaller separate building.  Obviously, she thought, this must be the guest house.  He lead her along a winding path to this smaller building, unlocked the grilled door and let her through.  Then he turned and locked it again.  Security was tight in the Palace!  She shivered as she realised that she was now locked in.

            He led her into a simple white-washed hallway, spotlessly clean.  The floors were marble and precious rugs hung in the walls.  In an inside courtyard a fountain tinkled prettily, and there was a burst of colour from the flower beds.  Then he led her into a spacious room, brightly coloured and intricately patterned tiles on the floor, and bold swirling designs, apparently in Arabic writing, on the walls.

            The only windows looked out onto the interior courtyard she had just left. They were protected by large curved iron bars forming an attractive shaped grille.  Against the wall were several heavy chests, and there were some low tables surrounded by long, brightly coloured, leather covered cushions.  There were also several large ottomans.  Numerous mirrors reflected into each other giving an impression of limitless space.

            A curtained archway led off into another large room, clearly a bedroom, with a large couch in the centre.  Off the bedroom was an alcove in which she could see a bath.  The Negro pointed to the couch.  “You rest! I send someone come soon.”

            Then he was gone.  She heard the grilled door close behind him and the noise of the key in the lock.

            So this was the Palace of Zaid Pasha, the Governor of Malik!  It all seemed a very long way from the quiet Wiltshire village of Upper Handley, where her Aunt had lived.

            She took off her shoes and lay down on the comfortable bed, and looked around the room.  Immediately facing the bed was a large photograph hanging on the wall - a man in military uniform.

            Intrigued, Jane slipped off the bed to have a closer look.  The man in the photograph was tall, a well built man in his forties or fifties with a rather arrogant and nonchalant air, certainly a good looking enough fellow.  The mysterious Zaid Pasha!  Very European and civilised.

            She thought about the repulsive Negro who had brought her here.  The Hotel Manager had said that he was the Pasha’s Chief Black Eunuch.  Did that mean he had a harem of slavegirls?  Of course not, even if, as she had heard, the Sultan in Constantinople still had a huge harem ...

            Startled she turned round.  The door was opening.  A black hand came round it.

 

 

 

            The Negro who entered the room was just as huge and repulsive as the one who had escorted her from the hotel.  However, instead of being dressed in a gorgeously fur-trimmed robe, he wore bright red Turkish breeches and an embroidered waistcoat that left his gleaming and hairless muscular chest quite bare and his head, too, was shaved and glistening.

            Behind him came a tall figure, completely shrouded in one of the all-enveloping black burkas that she had seen women wearing on the quayside.

            The Negro, who seemed to be exceptionally black, held a light chain in his hand.  It was similar to the type often used in England as a dog lead.  Then she was shocked to see that the other end of the chain, divided into two short lengths.  Each of these was apparently locked onto metal bracelets fastened round each of the hidden woman’s wrists.  Indeed her wrists and hands were the only part of her that could be seen, and Jane noticed that they were very white and delicate.

            Because of the chain, her hands were held in front of her and she was being led by the Negro as if she were an animal.  The two bracelets on her wrists each had a large ring to which the chain was locked, and also a row of little bells that tinkled with every movement of her hands.

            The Negro looked carefully around the room and into the bedroom and its bathroom in the alcove.  Apparently satisfied that they were alone, he grasped the woman’s hands and unlocked the chains from each of her wrists with a tiny key.  Then he gave a signal to the woman.  Obediently she lifted the hideous black garment off over her head, and handed it to him with a respectful bow.

            She was a tall voluptuous young woman with grey eyes and long golden hair that hung down her back.  She moved gracefully and smiled hesitantly at Jane.  She wore a long kaftan of dark blue coloured silk, that seemed almost diaphanous and scarcely hid her firm young bosom and swelling hips, which contrasted with her small waist.  She was heavily made-up in the Levantine style, her cheeks rouged and her eyes outlined in black, which made them seem huge.  On her feet were Turkish slippers.  On her head she wore a little satin pill-box hat, fastened by two ropes of pearls that drooped across her forehead in a pretty half moon.

            She was one of the most gorgeous women Jane had ever seen.  But she was clearly scared of the Negro, who was watching the two women.  Jane had raised her hand to her mouth in a gesture of surprise.  Was this beautiful creature one of the Pasha’s harem?  But why had she been brought here, and why veiled and chained?  Did they have a common language?  She was about to say something, when the Negro gave the young woman a curt word of command in Turkish which Jane, of course, did not understand.

            The girl turned to Jane, smiling, her eyes sparkling.  She made a little Oriental salaam.  Jane saw that she seemed to have a curious shiny stainless steel collar round her neck.

            “I have been sent here to welcome you, Madam, on behalf of His Excellency, Zaid Pasha, my Master,” she said in perfect English.  “He hopes that you will enjoy your stay in his Palace until your fiancé can be found.  He asks you to excuse him, as he has an important meeting, but he will come and meet you as soon as he can get away.”

            “But you’re English!” cried Jane, delighted and astonished,to find someone who spoke English.

            “Yes, that’s why I was sent to welcome you.  I am Phileda.”

            “Phileda who?” asked the astonished Jane.

            “Just Phileda.”  She held out her arm and Jane saw that on the inside of her forearm some Arabic numbers had been tattooed on the inside of her forearm, followed by a red rose.  “Just Phileda, indentured servant number four five eight seven - to all intents and purposes just a slave.”

            Jane raised her hands in horror.

            “What?  A slave!  It can’t be true!  And that tattooed number!  It can’t be true!”  Jane shifted uneasily, and pointed at the Negro standing across the doorway as if on guard, his hands folded across his bare chest.  “And why’s he here?”

            The man was gripping a cane in one hand, a cane just like the one she’d seen being carried by the Negro who had brought her to the Palace.  “Tell him to go away! I don’t like him here.”

            “Nor do I,” said Phileda, “but he won’t go away.  He’s Mr. Ali and he’s here to watch over me.  It’s very rare that we are allowed out of the harem or out of the harem garden, and when we are we have to be completely veiled to prevent any man from seeing us.  We also have to be chained to prevent us from trying to escape, or from someone trying to steal us, even in the Palace grounds.”

            “Steal you!”

            “Yes!  As a blonde European, I am very valuable.  Many a young Turk would like to steal one of the Pasha’s European concubines for himself, or to sell us in Arabia to a wealthy Emir.”

            “My God!  Are you serious?”

            Phileda spoke sadly.  “This is Turkey and the Pasha is a rich and influential man.”

            “I don’t believe all this!”

            “I think you had better,” said Phileda gravely.  “It isn’t really so extraordinary, not when you think about it.  Not from the Turkish point of view, anyway.  They all hate and despise Christians.  `Nasranis’ or `Roumis’ they call us.  They love having white Christian women whom they can control and humiliate.”

            “But this is terrible!”  Jane could hardly believe what she was hearing, and yet she was finding it exciting and stimulating.  “This just can’t happen to an English girl these days.”

            “Oh yes it can!  Officially slavery may have been abolished in the Turkish Empire to please the European Powers, but for women, and especially for white Christian women, it still thrives - even if officially we are now indentured servants - indentured for life, to whatever man likes to buy our indentures.  Anyway, who knows what goes on behind the walls of a rich man’s harem?  A man’s harem, and the women in it, are the private concern of the Master alone, according to Moslem law.”

            “But ...”

            “But, nothing!  It’s true.”

            “Yes, but you, how did you end up here?”

            “Do you find me beautiful?”

            “Yes indeed, but ... “

            “Two years ago I was just Phileda Armstrong, a respectable and rather plain governess to a rich Greek family in Smyrna.  Then I foolishly let myself be seduced by the husband.  His wife found out, but she hid her jealousy.  Then one day, she called me down to meet a Turk, whom I later discovered to be Hamid Effendi, one of the leading dealers in white indentured servants, here in Malik, which is the centre for the slave trade in white girls.  It is well away from prying European eyes, and near enough to Arabia to attract many buyers from both there and Turkey itself.”

            “No!”  Jane did not know whether to be shocked or excited.

            “Anyway, he was on a buying expedition, acquiring Christian girls to be taken back to Malik to be trained as pleasure slaves in his special school, before being discretely offered for sale, and apparently decided that he could transform me into a really valuable slave girl.  He must have made a deal with the wife of my employer and lover, who had gone away on a business trip.   I ate several delicious cakes he produced, and that was the last thing I remember.  It was also the last time I saw Smyrna.  I woke up naked and chained in a cage in the hold of a small coaster, together with half a dozen other girls being taken back to Malik by Hamid Effendi.  He had got an Englishwoman cheap, and I was to be trained and beautified.”

            She smiled ruefully.

            “When I was considered to be ready for sale, I was made to sign an official document saying that in exchange for all the money Hamid Effendi had spent taking me to Malik and training me, I agreed to becoming an indentured servant.  For life!  And my indentures can be transferred without my agreement.  So I just became a slave to be bought, used, and sold.”

            Phileda sighed in resignation.

            “Then I was displayed at one of Hamid Effendi’s monthly private auctions.  I caught the eye of Zaid Pasha.  He had me inspected by his black eunuchs in front of him, and bought me.”

            “Surely you must have tried to escape?”

            “At first I did, but I soon realised that there is no escape from a Turkish harem.  Quite apart from the constant surveillance of the black eunuchs, and the number tattooed on my arm, there are armed Negro guards on the high walls of the Palace, and, above all, this collar.”

            She pointed at the shiny metal collar that Jane had noticed earlier, so wide and made of links of steel.

            “It is riveted round my neck.  And look at the inscription on it.  I can’t read Arabic script, but I know what it says: `I am the property of Zaid Pasha of Malik.  High reward paid for my return’.  So even if I did somehow manage to get out of the harem, and out of the Palace, every Turk would regard it as his patriotic duty to return a despised Roumi slavegirl to the Pasha.”

            “Then I shall get you out!” Jane shouted.  “”I shall tell the British authorities and he’ll be forced to free you.”

            “But he wouldn’t.  He’s not done anything that other rich Beys and Pasha’s and merchants don’t do.  They all have harems, and they all like collecting Christian slave girls, European if possible.  Anyway, the British authorities, as you call them, certainly won’t want to upset diplomatic relations with Turkey, or upset one of their most influential friends in Turkey, just because of a girl.  England, France, Germany, Russia, Italy and Austria, all the so-called European powers I used to teach about as a Governess, are vying against each other for influence and contracts with the Sultan.  Making a scandal about the private affairs of a well known provincial Governor, a friend of the Sultan himself, would do the English no good at all.”

            “Then I shall make a fuss in the English press ...”

            “God no!  He’d have me quietly killed and my body hidden - or maybe sell me to some awful Arab sheik living in a remote part of the desert!  Not a word, please.  Promise?”

            “Well, then, I suppose I must, but there must be some way ...”

            “There isn’t.  He knows that, it’s why he doesn’t mind me meeting you.”

            “Yes I see ... what a dreadful man - a cruel tyrant who enjoys oppressing innocent women!  And to think that I accepted his offer of hospitality!”

            Jane was now worried to death.

            “You had no alternative,” murmured Phileda.  “Face up to it!  You were mad to come here alone, and you should be grateful to the Pasha for sheltering you.  Anyway he’s not like that at all.  He’s a wonderful man!  He’s tall, handsome, strong and attractive.  He’s everything that a woman looks for in a man. Reliable, rich, self-confident, charming and courteous - except when he’s angry.  We all adore him!”

            “We! Who’s we?”

            “Well, virtually all the women in his harem.”

            “And how many’s that, for Heaven’s sake?”

            “Well, there are ... let’s see, half a dozen of us real European girls - and two more have just arrived, though officially they are Armenians.  Then there’s a dozen other Christian girls from the various subject races in the Turkish Empire: Armenians, Circassians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Macedonians and so on.  And there’s half a dozen Moslem girls, mainly Arab.  About twenty-five, not counting the older women who live in a separate building where life is much more relaxed.”

            “But that’s dreadful!  Absolutely wicked!”

            “Not for a Turk it isn’t.  Mohammed taught that women were put into the world for the greater enjoyment of men, but most of the time we are quite happy!  You should see us chattering and laughing when the Pasha comes into the harem, all trying to catch his attention like little girls crowding round a favourite uncle, or showing ourselves off to him when we are paraded in front of the screen behind which he is sitting hidden.  No, it’s not him we hate, it’s his black eunuchs and the constant fear of being punished.”

            “Punished!”  Jane’s eyes were drawn to the Negro standing by the door, tapping his cane.

            “You don’t think he’s carrying that cane for nothing, do you?  He has the right to give a girl six strokes for disobedience at any time - or even for dumb insolence.”

            “My God!” gasped Jane.  “But surely ...”

            Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps in the passageway.  The robed figure of Mansour, the chief black eunuch appeared.  He looked at the two girls, said something in Turkish to the other eunuch, Ali, and left.  Ali gave Phileda a curt order in Turkish.  She nodded obediently and turned to Jane.

            “Quick!” she said.  “The Pasha will be here in a few minutes.  We must stop chattering, or he’ll have me thrashed.  We must get you ready to meet him.  You must make yourself look as pretty and attractive as possible before him.  He hates women looking untidy.  Remember he is used to seeing them beautifully groomed smiling and docile!”

            Jane caught her breath.  This dreadful cruel, and powerful man was about to arrive!  Instinctively, she ran to the mirror and started to titivate herself, but Phileda brushed her aside, and started to brush her hair, to make-up her eyes with heavy black Turkish make-up, to rouge her cheeks, to paint her lips and to powder her shoulders and bosom.  Then she tightened the waist of Jane’s dress to accentuate her hips and breasts.

            It was all rather exciting, being prepared in this way for the eyes of one man.  Then, when she looked in the mirror, she was amazed at the transformation.  A most beguiling and attractive young woman, as heavily made-up as a Levantine woman, or a European whore, stared back at her.

            She was about to protest when the eunuch came over to inspect her.  He looked her slowly up and down, making her blush.  He said something in Turkish.

            “He says that you must show the Pasha more of your breasts,” said Phileda, quickly undoing the top of Jane’s dress and sliding it off her shoulders until her nipples were almost showing, ignoring Jane’s protest.

            There came the noise of a gong being struck.

            “He’s coming!” cried Phileda.  “Stand in the middle of the room, looking beautiful.  Take deep breaths to thrust out your bosom.  That’s better.  Now, don’t be shocked but I must be put back on the lead.  In the Master’s presence a girl must always be on a lead, unless he orders otherwise.”  She ran over to the eunuch and bent her neck, the eunuch reached up, and snapped the chain back onto the ring at the back of her stainless steel collar and again held her like a dog on a lead.  Then Phileda unbuttoned her long kaftan.  It slipped to her ankles, leaving her stark naked, except for her slippers, her collar and the little satin pill-box hat, with the chains of pearls drooping across her forehead.  But these only made her nakedness more erotic.

            She gave a quick smile towards Jane.  “This is rare chance for me to show myself off to him, and catch his attention, without him being distracted by a couple of dozen other girls!  I don’t mean that you’re not beautiful too, but you’re different.  You’re not one of us!”

            Jane saw that Phileda did indeed have a beautiful body in a slightly plump way.  Then she noticed something else that made her gasp.  Phileda was completely depilated!  It made her seem extra naked in a strangely sensuous way.  It gave her the distinct look of a little girl, a look that contrasted erotically with her large breasts.

            Phileda saw Jane’s shocked glance.  “That’s quite normal in a harem,” she whispered as the eunuch led her by the lead into the centre of the room.  “The black eunuchs check us over every week to make sure that not even the tiniest hair can be seen.”

            Startled, Jane suddenly saw what seemed to be a brand mark on Phileda’s left thigh, high up near her stomach.  She recognised it as the same crest she had seen painted on the Pasha’s carriage and branded on the horses.  My God, she thought, did this dreadful man really have his slavegirls branded too?

            There was hardly time to think ...

            In response to an order from the eunuch, Phileda fell to her knees.

            Jane’s head was reeling.  There was a sudden warning loud knock on the door and she cried out, startled.

            “Don’t move!” whispered Phileda urgently.  Then she dropped onto all fours, facing the door, the palms of her hands flat on the floor at the sides of her forehead, which was also touching the floor.  Her legs were wide apart in a further scandalous gesture of utter submissiveness.

4 - THE PASHA

 

 

            Two white youths entered the room.  They paused, and looked around, exchanged a nod with the black eunuch and then stood on either side of the door.

            The youths were dressed rather like European pageboys, scarlet tunics with a long row of buttons down the front, but with typically Turkish wide baggy breeches ending below the knee, leaving their calves bare.  On their head were little pill-box hats, rather like the one worn by Phileda.  But it was their faces that caught Jane’s attention and shocked her.  Each had been heavily made-up, their eyes outlined with black, their eyelids painted  a silver glittering blue, their cheeks rouged and their lips painted bright scarlet, just like Phileda and herself.  Indeed, they looked so much like pretty girls that had it not been for their flat bosoms they might have been mistaken for girls.

            A large man stood framed in the doorway.  She recognised him as the man in the photograph, but in the flesh he was both taller and more impressive than she had expected.  Although he moved in a dignified and slow way, he nevertheless gave the impression of being both athletic and strong.  Indeed his whole stance was one of power and strength of character.

            His well spaced eyes were piercing.  His shoulders were broad.  He had a small pointed beard, and his face was that of a strong-willed man, a man used to having his orders carried out instantly and without question.  With his prominent lips, his face was that of a man who appreciated the sensual aspects of life.  His complexion was very white.  Only his slightly curved and prominent nose and his dark eyes showed his Levantine origin.

            Jane gave a sudden gasp, a shudder of fear.  She was speechless.  No man had ever made such an immediate impression on her, an impression of sheer masculine domination and power.  She felt helpless beneath his gaze as he slowly and silently looked her up and down.

            With relief she saw him turn away.  She could not help reflecting however, that poor William Lascelles cut a very poor figure of a man compared to His Excellency, Zaid Pasha.

            The Pasha was looking down at the naked figure of Phileda, her head and shoulders to the floor, her legs wide apart, as if offering herself abjectly, her lead held taut by the black eunuch.  He seemed pleased at what he saw.  He smiled, and Jane saw that his smile was a mixture of cruelty and kindness.

            The black eunuch holding her lead gave a word of command.  Phileda began to crawl forward, still on all fours, still with her head to the floor.  She reached his feet, and to Jane’s horror, began to lick his shoes.

            The Pasha slowly raised the toe of one of his shoes, and Phileda began to lick the still dusty sole.  Jane was appalled.  Never had she seen such debasement of a woman, nor such arrogance in a man.

            The scene continued for several moments more, as if the Pasha was seeking to impress Jane with his power over his women.  Struck dumb, Jane looked away momentarily.  She saw that the two white boys were watching Phileda with a contemptuous smile.  Furious, she glanced back at the Pasha.  She noticed, for the first time, that he wore a red Turkish fez on his head.  But otherwise he wore European clothes with a stiff collar, a double breasted frock coat of a lightweight dark coloured material and dark trousers.

            If it had not been for the obscenely painted boys, the black eunuch and the naked white woman abjectly licking the sole of his shoe, he might have been a well-dressed, reserved, upper class Englishman.  Jane felt that this made it all the harder to accept, and yet, she had to admit, all the more exciting and arousing.  If he had been a half naked dusky African potentate, it would not have seemed nearly so shocking - or nearly so erotic.

            The Pasha turned back towards Jane.  Again he looked her up and down.  She felt that she was being appraised frankly as a women, appraised in a way that no Englishman, and certainly not William Lascelles, had ever dared to do.  She blushed furiously.  She swallowed hard.  She still could not find any words, and she felt that he knew this.  He seemed incredibly terrifying and yet well intentioned.  He was certainly devastatingly handsome and good looking, just as Phileda had said he was.  Now she understood how Phileda could be in love with such a man.

            Suddenly, he spoke in good English.  His voice was resonant and compelling.  There was a strong ring to it that matched his appearance.  “Miss Jane Dudley, I think?”  He bowed courteously, ignoring the naked figure of Phileda still licking the sole of his shoe.

            “Yes ... yes,” stammered Jane nervously.

            “Welcome to my humble abode, as I seem to remember you say in England.”  He laughed.  It was a pleasant laugh.  “I’m afraid that my English is rusty, despite my occasional encounters with our friend Phileda here.  Somehow, however, they never seem to be in circumstances conducive to practising my English!”

            “But your English is very good.”  Suddenly something made her need to add words of respect.  “Your Highness.”

            “Thank you.”

            Jane felt that he was acknowledging her use of his title, rather than her artless compliment on his English.  He was, she realised, a clever man who liked to fence with words.

            “But I believe you understand French?  I am much happier in that language.  Indeed, it is the second language of the educated classes throughout the Levant - as I am sure that your fiancé, Mr William Lascelles, must have told you.”

            He switched to French.

            “As I was saying, welcome to my Palace.  I hope that you will be happy here until we can locate your errant fiancé.”  He laughed again, that same easy laugh.  “We cannot have an attractive Englishwoman roaming around Malik on her own!”  Suddenly he looked serious.  “You would not be safe on your own.  Here, however, you’ll be well looked after.”

            “But, sir, I cannot presume on your hospitality.”

            “Nonsense, young lady, we will not discuss it further.  You will stay here until your fiancé returns.”  His tone was firm, and Jane realised with a delicious thrill that he regarded the matter as closed.

            “And you will be company for my little Phileda.”  He glanced down at the grovelling naked woman, then turned back to Jane, his expression quite blank, as if having your shoes licked by a grovelling naked English girl was an everyday occurrence in his life.  “But please, do not give her any ideas above her station.  Whatever or whoever she may have been, she is now nothing more than one of my indentured servants - the modern equivalent of a slavegirl.”

            Jane nodded.  Inwardly she was despising herself for not having the courage to cry out that he had no right to keep an Englishwoman enslaved in his harem.  But she was too overwhelmed by the Pasha, too overwhelmed by his civilised charm.

            “Come!” he said.  “Come and sit on the sofa.”  Courteously he helped her to sit down.  She was very conscious of her half exposed breasts, and of her provocatively made-up face.

            He sat down beside her.  The black eunuch handed him Phileda’s chain.  She was again grovelling at his feet, her long hair covering her face.  He turned to Jane, his hand absent-mindedly stroking Phileda’s hair and the back of her neck.  Jane felt most uncomfortable in the presence of the naked kneeling woman.  Scarcely daring to raise her eyes to the Pasha, she could not take them off the beautiful creature at his feet.

            “I think you will find it more comfortable to dress in the Turkish fashion whilst you’re here.”  He jerked Phileda’s lead, she raised her head obediently, her eyes kept demurely down.  “See to it!”

            “Yes Master.”  Phileda now also spoke French.  Jane saw that she risked a quick glance up at the Pasha, a glance full of silent adoration, but she took care to accompany it with a little coquettish wriggle of her buttocks that made the Pasha smile.  He turned back to Jane.  “Now tell me all about yourself,” he said gently.

            It seemed like an order.  Once again she found herself trembling, but more from excitement than with fear.  He really seemed to be a most charming man, despite his commanding manner and the fact that he apparently kept a harem of helpless slavegirls.  Perhaps it was this that made him all the more attractive?

            She found herself pouring out the story of her life, as if he were not a stranger but rather her ... father, or perhaps, she scarcely dared to think, her Master.  The two concepts seemed to merge as she continued her story.

            He interrupted once or twice to ask shrewd questions, as if seeking confirmation of her temperament.

            “I see you’re a girl of character, as well as beauty,” he commented when she had finished.  “I only hope that Mr Lascelles proves worthy of such a woman.  I had always associated him more with abstruse archaeological studies than with a hot-blooded woman like yourself.”

            Jane blushed.  It was as if he knew that she found him madly exciting, and his life, his power, his wealth, his slave women and his eunuchs all fascinating and sensually arousing.

            “Mademoiselle is a very attractive woman!” he said slowly with emphasis.  “We must see that she is kept amused whilst she is staying under my roof, eh, Phileda?”  He gave the chain another tug.

            Phileda gave Jane a glance of intense jealousy.  “As my Master wishes,” she murmured in an insolent tone.

            The Pasha smiled.  He enjoyed playing one woman off against another.  The black eunuch raised his eyes towards the Pasha. Quick, from years of experience, in  detecting the nuances of a young woman’s mood, he had noticed the tone of insolence in Phileda’s voice and now he raised his cane.

            Jane wondered whether even minor signs of insolence or sulkiness in a concubine were punishable by immediate application of the cane.  She caught her breath.

            But the Pasha waved the eunuch’s cane away.  Phileda, who had been terrified at her momentary loss of control, breathed with relief.  “Please, Master, I did not mean to give offence,” she cried.  She lowered her head and frenziedly began to lick his feet.  “Mademoiselle is indeed very beautiful, and I will do everything you ordered me to do.”

            “Yes, I’m sure you will, and six strokes of the cane this evening will help you remember to do so - and not to address me without permission.”

            As the Pasha said this, his eyes never left Jane’s.  She felt hypnotised by them.  She heard Phileda gasp.  She wanted to protest, to plead for Phileda to be let off her punishment but she was tongue-tied.  She had just heard him casually order a grown up Englishwoman to be flogged!  And for what even in a schoolgirl would be considered mild insolence.  The sheer arrogance of it all appalled her.

            “Please ... please ...” she began, but he quickly cut her short.

            “Perhaps you would join me for supper in my private apartments this evening?”  He gave her no time to accept or refuse.  “We can discuss your programme and what you would like to see of our town and the beautiful countryside.  And we can discuss contacting your fiancé.  Meanwhile I’m giving orders that my black eunuchs should look after you.  You will find that they are quite used to looking after European women.”

            He gave the black eunuch some instructions in Turkish, then turned back to Jane.

            “You will not object, I am sure, if they take certain steps to protect the honour of your fiancé whilst I have the responsibility of having you under my roof.  Phileda will explain to you later just what I mean.”

            With that he rose.  Phileda prostrated herself again.  The black eunuch took her lead from the Pasha and bowed.  Jane found herself rising to her feet in an awkward gesture of respect.  The Pasha bowed, took hold of her hand and kissed it.  He looked into her eyes with a smile, letting her hand fall.  She gasped with the sheer sensuousness of it all her hand rising instinctively to her open mouth.

            Before she could say anything, he had turned and swept out of the room, followed by the two painted pages.

 

 

 

            After the Pasha had left, the black eunuch bent down and unfastened Phileda’s lead from her collar.  He gave her a word of command.  She stood up and slipped the silver kaftan over her head.  Now at least partly dressed again in the transparent kaftan, she turned to Jane with an ironic smile.

            “Mistress has clearly made a great hit with the Master!” she said bitterly, speaking in English again.

            “`Mistress’!  Why do you call me that?  I thought we were going to be friends.  Please call me Jane and let me call you Phileda.”

            “But you are a free woman, and, as you see, I am only an indentured servant, no more important than a domestic animal ... you are going to dine in the Pasha’s private apartments tonight, I am going to be beaten for insolence.  I don’t want to get more strokes for not showing respect to a free woman who has caught my Master’s eye.”

            “I don’t want you to show respect to me, and I don’t want to be in the Pasha’s favour.  I just want to help you get away from him.”

            “There is no escape for me,” said Phileda slowly.  “You know that now.  And you’ve seen how he can be charming, attentive and very attractive - as well as cruel.”

            Jane held out her hand in sympathy, and Phileda took it.  “Yes, yes,” she said.  “Do let’s be friends.”

            “Oh yes, and there’s so much I’m dying to ask you,” said Jane.  “Will he let us talk for a few minutes?”  She glanced at the impassive Negro, once again standing across the doorway as if to block any thought of running away.

            “Yes.  I haven’t got my dancing lesson until later, and in any case we must wait for your Turkish clothes to arrive.”

            “I’m not dining with the Pasha dressed in something like that!” said Jane, pointing to Phileda’s scandalously transparent kaftan.

            “Oh no!  You’re going to be dressed as a Turkish lady.”

            “Oh!”  She quite liked the idea.  But then, unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out: “Who were those dreadful painted boys who came with the Pasha?”

            “Oh dear!” said Phileda.  “This is going to be difficult.  You’re going to be shocked.  I know I was, when I first came to Turkey and learned about them.”

            She paused, gathering her thoughts, and then went on.  “You must remember that whereas the Christian churches say that sex is all about producing children, the Moslems say that it should be enjoyed for its own sake.  They enjoy both boys and women equally, and there is no social stigma about enjoying boys.  It’s considered quite normal.  Most of the time they even make love to women in the same way as they would with a boy.  It’s degrading for a woman, and that’s why they enjoy doing it.  But it can be very pleasurable too.  It was one of the many things I had to learn about during my training as a pleasure slave at the school of Hamid Effendi.”

            To be trained as a pleasure slave!  Jane found herself becoming excited.

            “Some rich Turks even have harems only of boys,” went on Phileda, “but most have women in their harems, and also use white eunuch boys, garzons as they’re called, as their so-called pageboys and personal attendants.  These pageboys attend on their Masters at all times, in the bath, when dressing, when eating, when seeing visitors, when travelling and even when their Master visits his harem.  They’re usually castrated if they’re Christian boys.  All the Pasha’s pageboys have been castrated.  They say it’s just a simple operation - just a little slit and the boy’s testicles are removed.  They say it makes the boy more loyal to his Master since he cannot run away, as he would be a figure of fun back in the Christian communities of the Turkish Empire.  They use make-up, as you saw, just like us slavegirls; they dance for the Pasha, just like us; and they often share his bed!”

            “Well!” commented Jane, rather shaken by what she’d just heard, “it certainly is different from life in England!”  She paused.  “What happens when they grow up?”

            “Then they become their Master’s confidential clerks and stewards, running his affairs, his estates and his businesses.  The Turks feel that, having been castrated, they are not likely to be distracted by the desire for money or women.  They say they make loyal servants.”

            “I see,” said Jane thoughtfully.  She had to admit the logic of the Turkish system, even if it was barbaric by English standards.

            “Of course, we girls and the pageboys are deadly rivals for the Pasha’s favours.  They see so much more of him than we do, so it’s rather unfair.  Also being castrated makes them spiteful.  They’re always trying to catch us out breaking the harem rules, so that they can report us to the black eunuchs, or whisper things about us into the Pasha’s ear.  One of the Pasha’s white eunuchs is a young English boy, Hyacinth.”

            “What!” cried Jane.  “How on earth did ...”

            “He was a cabin boy in a ship visiting a Turkish port.  He got lost and strayed into the native quarter, and fell into the hands of some agents for a slave dealer.  They left his clothes on the beach so everyone assumed he had been drowned.  Being a good-looking boy, with a soft skin, he was taken to the house of the slaver who specialises in pageboys.  There he was castrated and trained.  Then he was offered to the Pasha who bought him.  His family in England think he is dead, and so of course he is to all intents and purposes.  Just like me, he’ll never go back to England again, not as a eunuch.”

            “Where is he now, poor boy?”

            “He’s still only sixteen.  He was the Pasha’s favourite garzon, and then the Pasha lent him as a present, a toy, to his wife.  Having been castrated after puberty, he can still give a woman pleasure - without the risk of becoming pregnant.  Many rich Turkish widows have several such white eunuch boys.  Lucky them!  The Pasha’s wife even takes Hyacinth to attend on her in front of her friends, when she visits the Hamman, the Turkish baths.  Now the Pasha wants him back.”

            Both girls laughed, blushing.

            “But then, what about these black eunuchs?”  Jane glanced  at the Negro by the door.  “They seem quite different.  They certainly look petrifying.”

            “Yes,” answered Phileda with a shiver.  “They are very frightening.  They watch us all the time.  They’re so cunning.  They see life as one long battle of wits against the women in the harem, and against the Christian girls in particular.  And they really enjoy having a white girl to beat! They completely run the harem for the Pasha.  He is too busy to bother himself about our little problems.  Harem discipline, and the training of the concubines, is entirely left to them.  But they don’t have authority over the Pasha’s wife, who lives separately with her own servants.”

            “How many of these awful black eunuchs are there, for Heaven’s sake?”

            “Well, there’s Mansour, the Chief Black Eunuch to the Pasha.  He is a man of great authority in Malik, as he has access to the Pasha at all times, even when he is enjoying himself in his harem.  You’ve already met him.  He really is petrifying.  I expect it’ll be him to beat me.  And under him are four others, including one who is trained as a hairdresser, and another who is a designer of wonderfully revealing clothes.  And there are several other young black boys, they’re learning their trade on the job.”

            “Black boys used for supervising grown woman?  My God!”

            “Yes, isn’t it awful?”

            “But where on earth do they come from?”

            “Well, I don’t really know much about them really, but the Arab girls in the harem say that they come from the Southern Sudan, and that they are specially chosen for being very black, strong and repulsive looking.  It’s supposed to be against the Moslem religion to castrate a fellow Moslem, so the eunuchs are all black Pagans from Africa, or white Christian boys from the Balkans and Caucasian provinces of the Turkish Empire.  The white eunuchs have nothing to do with us. The Turks feel that they would be far too soft on us, as fellow Christians.  So only black eunuchs are used in the harems.

            “Unlike us, they are taught to read and write, and, having now been castrated, are taught to become strict Moslems.  They are also taught all about controlling women in harems.  The black eunuchs hate white women because of the old African slave trade to America, and despise us as Christians.  As boys, they work in the harems under the older black eunuchs.  The black boys are often worse than the grown-up eunuchs.  It’s certainly very humiliating for an educated European woman to have to call a black boy `Sir’, and to have to ask his permission to speak, and, above all, to be caned by him.

            “You see, the black eunuchs completely dominate our lives.  I had read about harems, but I had no idea of the power of the black eunuchs.  They are trained to know all about our womanly ailments and problems.  As no Turkish doctors are allowed to see the face or body of a harem girl, it is the black eunuchs who keep us fit and well for the Pasha’s enjoyment.  They drill and exercise us in the gymnasium to keep our bodies in shape.  They decide how much food each of us should have.  They supervise and record our bodily functions, which we can only perform with their permission and under their supervision.  They are expert at whipping a woman so as to inflict maximum pain and humiliation without leaving a permanent scar.  They also use a sort of paddle, rather like a carpet beater, which hurts but leaves no real mark.  I expect that’s what I shall get tonight from Mansour himself.”

            “Oh no,” cried Jane.  “It’s all my fault, I made you jealous.”

            “Don’t worry,” replied Phileda.  “The harem system is based on jealousy.”

            “It all sounds terribly grim,” said Jane.

            “Oh no!” replied Phileda.  “We  girls all laugh and joke amongst ourselves.  Sometimes the Pasha watches from behind his screen, and he wants to see us behaving like happy schoolgirls, not sullen and cowed prisoners.  And, when he comes into the harem, he likes us to crowd around him, sitting on his lap and caressing him, like little girls.  In a harem, the Master is very much a father figure - or in many cases, a grandfather figure, for rich Turks enjoy keeping young girls in their harem even when they are very old.  They may not be able to do much with the girls sexually, but they enjoy looking at them and feeling them and, above all, keeping them locked up.”

            A father figure, thought Jane, that was what she so desperately needed, her father having died when she was only a child.  How she had longed, ever since, for a father.  How inadequately, she had to admit, did William answer that need ... her reverie was interrupted by Phileda.

            “Oh, before I forget, I must warn you about what the Pasha said about protecting your fiancé’s honour, whilst you were under his roof.  You’re going to have to wear a purity belt - a sort of chastity belt really.  Their use is quite common here in Turkey.”

            “I’m certainly not going to wear any such thing.”

            “Well, don’t say you weren’t told,” Phileda warned.  “And the black eunuchs will be strict about it too.  They insist on girls being kept pure - if you see what I mean.”

            She held out her wrists.

            “Why do you think we have these belled bracelets locked round our wrists?  So the eunuchs know what we are doing all the time, even at night!”

            She blushed before going on.

            “Even if we try to touch ourselves in the dark at night, under the bed covers, the patrolling eunuch will hear the bells tinkling and then you are in serious trouble, I can tell you.  A Turk likes his women to be kept absolutely pure.  He must be the only source of pleasure for his women.  This keeps us longing for him, longing for his touch, dreaming about him by night and day-dreaming about him by day.  The Pasha often goes away to Constantinople or on a tour of his province for weeks on end.  He often takes his wife and several of his Arab girls with him, but we Christian girls usually get left behind.  We might try to escape!  To make doubly sure about our purity whilst he’s away, he makes the eunuchs lock us into purity belts.  By the time he returns we are more desperate than ever to catch his eye.”

            “Goodness,” gasped Jane, “I never thought that a man ...”

            “Yes,” whispered Phileda, “this purity business is taken very seriously here.  Once, when I was a new girl in the harem, I tried to relieve myself one night, but the black eunuch on duty heard the wretched little bells.  The next day I was marched before the Pasha and accused by the eunuch of being unfaithful to my Master.  They said it was just the same as if I’d been trying to commit adultery.  The punishment for adultery here can be death by stoning.  I was lucky, I was told, to be sentenced to a mere dozen strokes of the Bastinado, on the soles of my feet, in front of all the other girls.  The pain was terrible and I could hardly walk for a week.”

            Jane was too shocked to say a word.  The thought of the handsome Pasha giving orders that she was somehow to be prevented from abusing herself, from ...  It was all too shame-making for words.

            Desperately wanting to change the subject, she asked: “And that mark on your thigh?  How did you ...”

            “I was branded by his blacksmith in front of the Pasha, whilst I stood bound to a post.  It is the same mark as he has branded on his horses, his donkeys, his camels -”

            “It must have hurt terribly!”

            “It was agony at the time, and I screamed my head off.  But the pain was at least partly off-set by the knowledge that being branded meant that he had decided to keep me.”

            “To keep you?  What do you mean?”

            “One day,” explained Phileda, “after I had completed my training, I was paraded naked, with  several other girls, in front of the Pasha.  Turks never buy a girl without seeing her naked.  He instructed his eunuchs to examine me intimately while he watched.  My God, that was shaming!  Then at the subsequent private auction he bought me.  But it was on the usual understanding that I was on approval for a week, after which I could be returned if he was displeased.  Sale and return!  You can imagine that I tried desperately to make myself pleasing to such a handsome and magnificent Master, even when I was given the usual introductory thrashing in front of him.”

            “Introductory thrashing?”

            “Oh, a Turkish Master always likes to impress his power and authority on a Christian girl that he has just bought.  He has her given a good thrashing in front of him.  I can tell you that it makes you treat a man with great respect, if you hate him.  But respect isn’t good enough.  I soon learnt that.  I was soon told that, unless I was more submissive and adoring, I would be sent back to Hamid, the slave dealer, to be sold to a brothel.  This really scared me.  I put aside all my English inhibitions and tried shamelessly to attract him when we were all paraded in front of him several times a day, first beautifully dressed and then stark naked.  At first he ignored me, then one evening the eunuchs told me that I was to please him with my hands and tongue, chained down on the bed, whilst he was taking his pleasure with one of his Arab concubines.  I was shocked and revolted, even though I had had to practise this during my training at Hamid’s.  But I knew that I just had to do it.  It worked.  The following day I was told that Zaid Pasha had decided to keep me after all and I was to be marked with his brand.”

            “How terrible!” whispered Jane, overcome by such a tale of sheer masculine domination.

            “Oh, I think it’s very pretty.  They put red into the wound to keep the scar looking bright red. All the girls must expect to be branded if we belong to the Pasha.  It puts up our value.”

            “What?” cried Jane, astonished.

            “You see a man will eventually retire even the prettiest and most provocative of his slavegirls and no matter how much she may love her Master, he may then sell her - or give her away as a present to one of his retainers, or to an important Arab sheik.  They would be proud to own a girl bearing the brand of Zaid Pasha.  Similarly, if she was auctioned on the block, the fact that she’d been in the harem of such an important man, and bore his brand on her naked flesh, would greatly increase the price that men would pay to own her.”

            “Of course there’s much more to it that merely increasing a girl’s value.  A tattooed number on your arm certainly makes you feel a slave.  Having to wear a man’s collar, like a dog, with his name, also makes you feel even more his slave, his animal, but actually carrying his brand really makes you feel quite helpless and in his power.  It makes you feel utterly dependant on him.  A woman can’t help feeling enormous respect and fear for a man who has actually marked her just like his animals.”

            Her voice softened.

            “It may sound extraordinary, but somehow you just can’t help falling hopelessly in love with such a man.”

            “You mean that you’re in love with this monster?”

            “Yes!  Yes!  It may sound crazy to you, but all his other women are in love with him, too.  We are also jealous of each other, as we compete to attract his attention, which is just what the eunuchs want.  It’s the harem system.  Lock up a group of attractive young women and under the strict supervision of black eunuchs.  Prevent them from having any contact with another man, and they will all, in their sheer feminine nature, fall hopelessly in love with their dreaded Master, even if they also hate and fear him.”

            Jane’s brain was in a ferment.  It was all so very exciting! Then a black servant girl came in with a pile of brightly coloured Turkish dresses: satin shalwars or baggy trousers, transparent blouses, little boleros, embroidered slippers and pretty little caps.

            “Oh!  They’re lovely,” gasped Jane in admiration.  She could hardly wait to try them on.

            Just then Phileda’s escorting eunuch said something to her in Turkish.

            “Look, I’ve got to dash.  I’m late for my dancing lesson. Dancing lessons are very important as the Pasha likes to see his women dancing in front of him and sometimes in front of his guests as well, though of course we are veiled on those occasions.  Eastern dancing is very different from ours.  It is purely intended as a spectacle to arouse men.  But it’s all rather exciting having that effect on your Master.”

            “Goodness!” murmured Jane.  Now that she had met the handsome Pasha, she could indeed understand how exciting it would be for a woman to dance half naked in front of him.

            “It’s nearly siesta time.  The eunuchs will bring you some fruit, yoghourt and little Turkish sweetmeats and put you to bed.  Then later on they will wake you, bathe you, dress you and take you to the Pasha.”

            “But I’m not a child,” protested Jane.  “I don’t want any horrid great Negroes undressing and dressing me, thank you very much.”

            “Don’t get angry, please, or I’ll be blamed by the eunuchs and given black marks.  I don’t want another beating!  Just think of them as rather strict nannies.  I know it all sounds very strange, but you’re in Turkey now and it’s the custom.  The Pasha has ordered them to look after you.  He regards it as a courtesy, so don’t anger them.  Remember they each carry a cane, and they are each used to using it at the slightest provocation.  I know that you are the Pasha’s guest and a free woman, but I wouldn’t push my luck all the same, if I were you.  Just remember that they are used to having complete authority.  Now I really must fly.”

            With that she went over to the waiting eunuch.  He slid her black burka over her head and adjusted it so that the little lace insert was over Phileda’s eyes.  She was completely hidden to any prying eye that might see her on her way back to the Palace harem.  He locked his chain leashes onto her wrist bracelets, and holding her from behind, took her out of the room.

            Moments later two other black eunuchs, one only a boy, came into the room carrying two trays of food and a glass of sherbet.

            They gestured to Jane to sit down on a large leather cushion in front of a low Turkish table on which the food was placed.  Feeling hungry after all the long morning, Jane sat down cross-legged on the cushion.

            “Lady must not sit like that!” said the older eunuch sharply in broken French.  “In Turkey, only men sit cross-legged.  Ladies kneel.”

            They showed her how to kneel on a cushion, sitting back on her ankles.  She realised it was a much more submissive and feminine position and one that would give pleasure to a dominant man.  Would she have to kneel like this in front of the Pasha?  Instinctively she knew that she would.

            The eunuch and his boy assistant stood over her as she ate the various little dishes.  It was rather like being a child in a nursery, just as Phileda had said.

            The feeling of helplessness was heightened when, after she had finished her meal, they took her into the bathroom alcove.  The Negro produced a brass bowl and a notebook.  Suddenly she realised what it was intended for.  Highly embarrassed and even more embarrassed by their presence she angrily waved them away.  But they paid no attention, partially undressing her and standing over her waiting for nature to take its course, having even turned on a tap in the bathroom to encourage her body.

            Jane was now scarlet with embarrassment.  To have to do this in front of the two Negroes, one of whom was a mere boy!

            But she simply could not wait. She had no alternative.  What made it even worse was that instead of putting the bowl on the floor, so that at least she could squat over it, the young boy held it up behind her in his hands, so that he and the older black eunuch could see exactly what was happening, and, to her intense embarrassment, she heard them commenting in Turkish on what she was producing.

            Jane felt utterly degraded.  She felt that anything else the Negroes made her do would be nothing as compared to that awful intimate scene.  She would tell the Pasha how they had treated her!  He’d soon put them in their place!  But would he, she wondered - and could she really discuss such an intimate matter with a man, a stranger?  She remembered Phileda’s warning not to annoy the eunuchs.  No, she decided, perhaps it would be better to just keep quiet and accept it all.

            She was beginning to feel increasingly drowsy.  Although she was not used to the idea of taking a siesta, she now longed for a little sleep in the comfortable-looking bed.

            It was in this very sleepy frame of mind that she let the Negroes completely undress her, sponge her down all over and put her into a beautiful satin nightdress.  She could not help running her hands down over it.  It was gorgeous!

            Suddenly she felt herself being lifted up and carried by the huge Negro as if she was as light as a feather, or anyway just a little girl, across to the bed.  They tucked her in, just like a nanny might put a young girl to bed.

            She was now feeling even more drowsy, she could hardly keep awake.  Had they put some drug into her food to make her sleep properly?  Vaguely she remembered Phileda’s story of being drugged and kidnapped.  But she was safe in the Palace of Zaid Pasha.  It was a comforting thought - to be under the protection of such a powerful and strong minded man.

            Hardly able to keep her eyes open, she saw that the eunuch was holding a little casket.  In it lay a little curved triangular shaped strip of beautifully worked silver mesh, from which hung a tiny bell.  A present from the Pasha!  How kind of him.  And how pretty it was.  How lovely it would look on her bosom.  The eunuch made the little bell tinkle, and laughed.

            It was a pretty little noise.

            Jane closed her eyes and within seconds she was asleep.

 

 

 

            Jane tossed uneasily in her drugged sleep as consciousness gradually returned.  It had been a strange and curious sleep, full of wild and exciting dreams that left her aroused and frustrated.

            Doubtless the drug that the eunuchs had given her had accentuated the sensuousness of her dreams, just as they knew that it would.  They had many years of experience of drugging young women with aphrodisiacs.

            Jane dreamt of the tall and handsome man who had made such an impression on her, and who allowed his black eunuchs to rule his women with a rod of iron, or was it a slender cane?  A man who, despite his apparent cruelty, seemed to arouse his women’s deepest and most sensuous feelings.

            Half awake, she day dreamed of being one of the Pasha’s slavegirls, of being overwhelmed by the sense of his power and charm, of wantonly longing to give herself to him, or being forced to display herself helpless and naked in front of him, of being in his arms ...

            As she awoke more fully, slowly and deliciously, she could feel that she was highly aroused.  Automatically, she put her hand down under the bedclothes, to ease the tension, as she had done so often in the past, though she had never felt quite so aroused.  Smiling to herself, she felt her hand gliding over the smooth silky satin.  Then through the satin she touched something metallic between her legs.

            Suddenly she was awake, wide awake, her fingers moving desperately hither and thither.  She opened her eyes.  Leaning over her was the hideous face of a Negro, a very black Negro.

            “You excited by dreams of Master,” he said in his high pitched voice.  “But now you can not touch yourself.”  He laughed, and she gave a gasp.  He put his own hand down to check through the satin.  She felt the cold metal pressing against her, intimately.  She recoiled, then heard a sudden tinkle from below - as from a tiny bell.

            She tried to slip her hands down but they were firmly held in the eunuch’s grip.  She tried to lift up the bedclothes to see, but was given an admonishing slap.

            What devilish thing had they done to her?  Her mind was racing.  At least it wasn’t hurting!  She remembered what Phileda had said about not angering the eunuchs and tried to relax, to smile up at the Negro.

            “Good!” he said.  “Like nice cup of tea?”  He handed her a little Turkish cup of sweetened tea and she drank it eagerly, hoping it would calm her frayed nerves.

            “Now time get up and get ready join Master.”  The eunuch’s French was basic, but the meaning was clear.

            He reached down and lifted her out of bed.  Dumbly, she allowed herself to be carried into the bathroom, where she saw the Negro boy was waiting by a hot bath.  She could not stop them lifting off her nightdress.  She looked into the mirror and saw that a curved silver triangular-shaped wire mesh grille was now fastened over her loins.

            She recognised it as the one that the eunuchs had shown her just before she fell asleep - as a present from the Pasha.  This must be what she had felt under her night dress.  She heard the tinkle of a bell and recognised the pretty little bell that she had seen dangling from the beautiful silverwork mesh.

            She saw that the triangular silver mesh was fastened on either side by a tiny steel chain that led up over her hips and behind her back.  She could feel a third chain went up behind her between her buttocks.  She glanced round into the mirror behind her.  There in the small of her back, where the three chains met, was a tiny padlock.

            She put her hand down to touch the grille.  This time, the eunuch merely smiled.  The centre of the grille was raised so that she could not feel anything under it - not even her beauty bud.  But the sides and the top were tight against her skin.  She pulled in her breath, but could not get her finger under the grille.  She looked in the mirror again.  She had to admit it looked very pretty.

            “Master says stay pure for future husband whilst in his Palace,” said the eunuch with a knowing smile.

            For Jane, it was embarrassing enough to be naked in front of this Negro and his boy assistant, eunuchs or not, never mind seeing what they had strapped onto her while she lay in a drugged sleep.  What else had they done?  She felt something strange, somehow different under the raised grille mesh.  She looked down, but of course she could see nothing through the chain mail of the grille.

            She was shaking with anger and despair.  As she did so the wretched little bell tinkled merrily.  It would do so, she realised, with her every movement.  Still overcome with embarrassment, she let them put her into the bath.  They began to wash her all over.  It was too awful, and yet it was relaxing and somehow exciting.  She felt that she was being prepared, being made beautiful for the Pasha.  The eunuch’s black fingers stroked and probed.  She could not help becoming aroused again.

            They lifted her out of the bath and dried her with a huge soft Turkish towel.  Once again, it was as if she were a little girl.  There was something she now needed to do!  Urgently.

            As if anticipating her needs, the black boy produced the same little brass bowl that they had made her use before her enforced siesta.  Presumably they would now take the belt off her, but they made no such attempt.

            She looked into the mirror again .  It was certainly very pretty, she had to admit, and beautifully made with the top and sides exactly curved to fit a woman’s body.  Suddenly she realised the purpose of the line of little holes in the silver mesh that ran down the centre and the reason why the chain that went up behind her was so tiny.

            Once again, she blushed deeply, as the boy, who hardly came up to her waist, held out the bowl.  Once again she had to stand with her legs wide apart and bend her knees, whilst the boy, standing behind her, held the bowl under her.

            “Come!” whispered the horrible boy encouragingly.

            Poor Jane felt utterly degraded but too scared to protest.  Soon Nature took its course, and the boy was rewarded by the tinkling sounds of liquid dropping down into the bowl.  When she had finished the eunuch wrote something in a notebook and patted her head as if she were a little child.

            “You always perform like that now,” he smiled.  “Only Chief Black Eunuch have key to your belt and he not unlock without orders from Master.”  He pressed a large wet sponge to the grille, before drying it with a towel.

            Only the Pasha could order the belt to be removed, she thought in horror.  But how, how with the chain going up between her buttocks, was she to ...

            As if in answer to her unspoken question, the Negro made her resume the same humiliating position, looking straight ahead, hands clasped behind her neck, knees bent and legs wide apart.  The boy came behind her and she felt him slightly pull the chain aside.  She felt his finger touch her rear entrance.

            She jumped.  No man or boy had ever touched her there.

            “You see,” smiled the big eunuch, “with boy holding chain you can perform from behind into bowl he is holding.  But only with him holding chain aside.”

            Jane stood desperately trying to hide her naked body with her hands from the sight of the two Negroes like the shy virgin that she was.  At least in the bath, the water had seemed to cover her nakedness.  She simply could not get out of her mind the awfulness of having to perform through the little grille into the bowl whilst it was held by the boy, or having to perform into it from behind whilst he held the chain aside.

            The eunuchs had now established a complete moral ascendency over her.

            Next they lifted her up and laid her on her back on a high massage couch.  Gradually she relaxed as they smoothed away her tensions with their clever fingers, squeezing and stroking her legs, her belly, her breasts and her face before turning her over to repeat the process down her back and buttocks.  It was a wonderful feeling.  It was certainly all relaxing.  But the eunuchs were also clever at preparing women for the Pasha.  Soon Jane found that she was getting highly aroused under the mesh of her purity belt.

            Her eyes began to open wider than ever, her naked breasts became blotched with red, her mouth opened, her breath became short.  The Negroes exchanged glances.  They knew the signs!  They took away their hands.

            Jane wanted to scream at them not to stop.  She even heard herself whispering to them, begging them to continue.  But the Negroes just smiled.  They picked her up and placed her gently back into the now cool bath, where she lay panting in her frustration, too shame-faced to meet the mocking eyes, her own lowered in humility.

            She lay there, her body on fire.  She slipped her hand down towards her loins under the water, seeking to ease her frustration, but of course the silver mesh was in the way.  Moreover, she found, the fact that the centre of the mesh was kept slightly raised prevented her from pressing it against the secret source of all her pleasure.

            Not only did her belt effectively protect her from a would-be seducer, but her purity was also effectively protected from herself.

            She looked up to see that the two Negroes had been watching as she explored around her purity belt, and were grinning at her discovery of her helplessness, making her again blush with shame.

            Then they stood her up and dried her again before leading her over to a little dressing table.  They sat her down on a small stool facing a mirror, and proceeded to brush her hair with long slow strokes.  No longer was it brushed up, like that of a fashionable Edwardian lady, but hung straight down her back, like that of Phileda, like that of a young girl.  They were clearly fascinated by her honey-coloured hair, talking about it to each other in Turkish.  Finally they fastened it together behind her neck with a large blue satin bow, leaving the ends hanging down between her shoulder blades.

            Then they proceeded to make up her face, using even more of the heavy Turkish cosmetics than Phileda had done when she prepared her for the Pasha’s visit.  Once again, she found it exciting, being prepared so carefully for the eyes of one man - the Pasha.  Once again, her eyes were heavily outlined and lengthened with kohl, her eyelids painted with silver antimony, her cheeks heavily rouged and her lips painted a vivid scarlet.

            No respectable Englishwoman would ever have dared appeared in public so heavily painted, but the effect was brilliant and startling.

            Suddenly they spun her round on her stool.  The Negro eunuch held her arms behind her naked back and the boy came round.  In his hand was a little bottle and a tiny brush.  Whilst the Negro held back her hands, forcing her to thrust out her breasts, the boy slowly proceeded to paint something first on one nipple and then on the other.  It seemed cold and icy.  She could feel her nipples were becoming erect and large.  It was strange and exciting, despite being done by a young black boy.

            Then he put down the bottle and picked up a tiny pot.  He began to paint her now swollen nipples the same brilliant scarlet as her lips.  The Negro released her hands and turned her back to face the mirror.  Shocked by what had been done to her, she had to admit to herself that the effect was beautiful.  But surely she would not have to display her naked breasts when she was taken to join the Pasha?

            Then they dressed her.

            The little bell tinkled from between her legs as they made her step into a voluminous pair of satin trousers, the shalwar, which fitted tightly round her ankles.  Under it she was naked - except of course for the horrible purity belt and its little bell.  Everyone was going to know she was having to wear the belt!

            They made her put a loose white transparent blouse.  Shocked and yet excited, she saw that her scarlet painted nipples could be seen through it, in a very provocative way.

            Next came a short embroidered bolero with stiff sides that instead of hiding her breasts, drew attention to them - and to her painted nipples.  She looked around for something to cover her bosom, a shawl, a coat, a cloak, anything!  But the eunuchs shook their heads and smiled approvingly at the effect.

            They put little Turkish slippers on her feet, and a tiny Turkish embroidered cap, rather like Phileda’s, on her head.  Again, just like Phileda, they draped two lines of pearls from her cap across her forehead, but they also pinned from the cap a strip of white transparent silk that covered her face beneath her eyes and rested on her nose.

            A hint of her scarlet lips and rouged cheeks could be seen through the veil.  Above it, her eyes flashed anxiously in a most delightful way, as she gazed awestruck into the mirror.  A ravishingly beautiful young Turkish girl stared back at her, her breasts and painted nipples accentuated rather than hidden by her gauze-like blouse and short bolero, the lower half of her face scarcely hidden by her Turkish yashmak veil.

            Gone, as she had already seen, was her fashionable and sophisticated European swept-up hair style.  Instead, her hair had been brushed and combed straight back like that of a young girl.

            “Come!” ordered the burly black eunuch.  “Now I take you to Master.”

            She wanted to protest the the Pasha was not her Master, but before she could say anything the Negro had started to cover her carefully in a shapeless black burka, just like the one that Phileda had had to wear when crossing the Palace garden.

            “Many gardeners and guards, as well as visitors,” explained the Negro.  She realised as he adjusted the strip of lace over her eyes, that she would not be seen by another man, except the Pasha, until William returned.  It was all very exciting.

            With her heart in her mouth, and her arm  gripped by the muscular eunuch, she was led outside into the Palace garden.  She could just see through the strip of lace.  The black eunuch boy was walking behind her, his cane in his hand, as if escorting one of the Pasha’s women.  At least she didn’t have to be led on a chain like Phileda.

            In the evening twilight she saw the high walls that made escape impossible.  She saw the barred windows.  She saw the beautifully tended flower beds and the busy Turkish gardeners, who paid no attention to the black shrouded figure escorted by two eunuchs.  At the gate, and patrolling the garden, were armed Negro guards.

            She could feel her breasts swaying in a most unaccustomed way.  She blushed as she felt the silver mesh pressing against her most intimate lips.  Embarrassingly, she heard the occasional tinkle of the bell of her purity belt from under her baggy Turkish trousers.  But she also felt how her body lips were being pressed together under the grille of her purity belt.  It felt strange ...

            Suddenly she remembered seeing that Phileda had had all her body hair removed, and had said that this was quite normal in the harem.  Had they removed all her hair while she had been sleeping, drugged?  Were her own pretty little beauty lips, hidden under the purity belt, now as hairless as those of Phileda?  How awful that would be - but how exciting!

            She heard an outburst of girlish laughter as they passed the harem wing of the Palace, and wondered what it must be like to be kept locked up in the Pasha’s harem like Phileda.  Then suddenly she was led through a side door into the Palace itself.

            She had an impression of brilliant light coming through numerous windows, marble floors, beautiful tiled walls festooned with ancient weapons.  There was a general air of great luxury.  Clearly the Pasha was a man of wealth as well as power.

            Outside a large door the eunuch turned and lifted off Jane’s burka, and then looked her over, adjusting the hang of her bolero and tucking her blouse more tightly into her satin trousers so that her breasts were pressing more tightly against its silken transparent material.

            She was acutely conscious of her purity belt and its little bell, and of being made-up in a way that would have branded her as a whore in England.  She was even more acutely conscious of her painted nipples, but above all she was acutely conscious that she was about to dine alone with a man who apparently kept numerous European women captive in his harem, a man she should hate with every fibre in her body.

            But she was also acutely conscious that she was about to enter the private apartments of the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever met, a man of great wealth and complete power in this remote part of Turkey.

 

 

 

            Jane found herself in a beautiful room that might have been in a fashionable house in Mayfair.  Modern European pictures hung on the wall.  A perfect Sheraton writing desk stood in one corner.  A small but beautifully proportioned eighteenth century English dining table stood to one side and there were antique English bookshelves and occasional tables.  The only sign of the East was a large leather cushion at the side of the sofa on which the Pasha was sitting.

            He rose courteously as she entered and kissed her hand.  He was dressed in well cut European evening dress.  How could this obviously highly civilised and charming man be the same lascivious Pasha that Phileda had been describing?  As if in answer to her silent question, he made a gesture around the room.

            “This is my private study and dining room.  My European room.”

            “It’s beautiful, Your Excellency,” gasped Jane.  “How did ...”

            “How did a wild, barbarous Turk, ever come to appreciate and collect such things?”

            He laughed and waved aside Jane’s embarrassed protest.

            “When I was a young man I studied in Paris and visited England.  I learned to appreciate both English and French beautiful things: your pictures, your literature, your furniture, your horses and of course, your women.  I have started to collect all these things here in my Palace.  I have several French Impressionist paintings, and some early English ones.  I have a library of both French and English books.  I have several English thoroughbreds in my stables, and some French trotting horses.  And, of course, I have several English and French women in my harem - and now I have the beautiful Miss Jane Dudley staying in my Palace as my honoured guest.”

            He gave another little bow and took her hand, gazing into her eyes fiercely, with a look that melted her heart and stopped her from launching into a tirade about the dreadful way she had been treated by his eunuchs, and how wicked he was to keep Phileda and his other Christian girls captive in his harem.

            “Please come and sit down beside me and tell me how we can best contact William.”

            He led her towards the large cushion.  To Jane’s consternation she saw that he meant her to sit on it, at his feet.  But her consternation was even greater when the little bell of her purity belt started to tinkle as she moved forward.  She blushed crimson at the sound of the shameful thing but the Pasha, charming and courteous as ever, showed no sign of having heard anything.

            Jane felt even more embarrassed that he ignored the sound of the bell.  By doing so he had established a clear moral ascendency over her.  Instead of being an angry little spitfire, screaming her protest to a defensive Pasha, she was an embarrassed young woman, shyly on the defensive in the presence of an overwhelmingly self confident courteous older man.

            Jane was about to sit down cross-legged on the cushion, when she remembered what the eunuch had taught her about Turkish manners.  Dutifully, she knelt down in the submissive position that she had learned with her legs underneath her, and her buttocks resting back on her heels.  She found herself looking up at the Pasha, her back straight and her half exposed breasts thrust forward under the transparent blouse.

            She blushed and made as if to cover her breasts with the tiny bolero.  But the sides would not meet across her breasts, and she felt herself blushing an even deeper crimson.

            Jane realised that she must make a charming and provocative sight, with her prettily painted face raised to meet that of the Pasha, her hands twisting nervously in her lap, and her scarcely veiled breasts peeping out from behind the bolero.

            She realised that her beautiful blue eyes, and her golden hair, both a rarity in Turkey, added to the lucid picture of an innocent and delightful young Englishwoman.  Presumably, the Pasha could easily arrange for her to disappear and put her straight into his harem alongside Phileda, she thought with an excited little shudder.  Was that why he had allowed Phileda to tell her about the harem?  Or did he now find it more amusing to pay court to her in the European way?  Was he playing some sort of game with her?

            She looked up at him again.  On the one hand she was fascinated by him and by her new surroundings, on the other she could not forget the appalling way she had been treated by his black eunuchs.

            She was seeking an opportunity to complain of her degrading treatment.  Surely this civilised and urbane man would be horrified if he knew what had happened?  But the Pasha kept the conversation on other topics, and never gave her the chance to change the subject.  He was busy describing the finer points of one of his pictures when Mansour entered the room bearing a cushion on which rested a tiny key.  He offered the key to the Pasha who smiled, picked it up and showed it to Jane.

            “This is the key, Miss Dudley, to something rather precious that is now in my safe keeping.”  He handed it back to Mansour, who took it, bowed and left the room.

            The Pasha turned back to the picture and continued describing it to Jane.  But Jane was hardly listening.  Her mind was in a turmoil.  Was that the key to the hateful purity belt?  Was her purity the valuable item that was now in his safe keeping?  Was he indeed playing a game with her, or was she just imagining it all?

            She lowered her eyes in shame.  When she raised them again, the Pasha was busy talking about another picture.  Her mind was in a ferment.  She could not pay attention to what he was saying.  Displaying the key must have been intended as a signal to her, a signal that he knew what had happened, that he knew what the eunuchs had done to her, and that it was to be an unmentionable secret between them!  She simply could not look him in the eye, such was her shame and embarrassment.

            “Now I must show you something else I brought back from England.”  He smiled as he raised her up and led her across the room to a little curtain.  “I saw round several of your schools, and I was very impressed with the importance that was attached to keeping young people fit and strong.”

            He pulled back the curtain which covered a wooden latticed screen.

            “Look!”

            Jane peered through the screen, and was astonished to see that she was looking down into a miniature gymnasium.  There were parallel bars on the walls and the floor was of wood.  In one corner was a vaulting horse.

            “So this is how you keep yourself fit and looking so well?”

            “Oh no,” replied the Pasha, “I keep myself fit by riding.  No, no, this is for the young concubines of my harem.  Mansour has been trained by the Turkish Army as a Physical Training Instructor.  He puts my girls through their paces every morning.  I can hear him doing it from  my desk or, as you can see, I can walk over and watch.”

            As she looked away in embarrassment, Jane’s eyes fell upon something that looked rather like a carpet beater hanging on the wall of the gymnasium.  With a sudden shock she remembered that Phileda had said that the eunuchs, as well as using their canes to punish a woman, also used a sort of paddle rather like a carpet beater, which hurt but left no real mark.  And Phileda expected to be beaten with it this very night!

            The Pasha drew the curtain across the wooden screen, and led Jane back top the cushion on which she had been kneeling.

            “My eunuchs also use the gymnasium as a punishment room,” he said with an innocent smile.  “I always leave such minor details to Mansour and his team.  They are responsible for maintaining discipline in the harem.  I am far too busy to worry about such minor matters.”

            Minor matters!  He had ordered poor Phileda to be thrashed that night, and he called that a minor matter!  Jane could hardly believe what she had heard.  She was gathering her thoughts before making a violent scene and storming out of the Pasha’s room when he clapped his hands and immediately two handsome white youths entered.  They had long beautiful curled hair, painted lips and cheeks, and wore white silk kaftans.  With  a shock, she realised they must be white eunuch pageboys.  Did he really make love to them, as Phileda had insinuated?

            The Pasha must have seen something in her expression, for he glanced from her to the pageboys.  “I suppose Phileda has been talking?” he said.  “But you don’t quite believe her?  Well, you may as well know that many Turks see no harm in enjoying both women and boys - and indeed often prefer to make love to a woman as they would to a boy.”

            Jane was speechless.

            “These are Christian boys who have been castrated to keep their skin soft and beardless,” the Pasha continued.  “I am not ashamed of them, not at all, indeed they attend on me everywhere I go.  They are a more obvious sign of my wealth and power than the white women locked up in my harem.”

            Jane was finding all this talk exciting in the extreme, although her sense of dread of this man was increasing also as the two boys walked round with little bowls of Turkish sweetmeats and glasses of sherbet which they offered him with humble and respectful gestures.

            She was ignored completely, which was fortunate at first as she badly needed to regain her composure.  Yet despite all that had happened the delicious smell of the choice pieces of roasted lamb quickly made her feel hungry.  The Pasha was ignoring her now as he helped himself to the bowls of food that the pageboys were pressing on him.

            “You must forgive our Turkish habits,” said the Pasha after a while.  She was now watching him hungrily and longingly.  “Our women do not eat with us, they eat after us.”

            Was the Pasha gratuitously insulting her?  A new surge of anger made her start to rise to her feet.  Again she wanted to storm out of the room, but this time the Pasha put his hand on her arm, gently pushing her back onto the cushion.

            “But, of course, it is equally a tradition for a man to feed a woman from his plate!  Try this - you will find it delicious.”

            He held out a small piece of roast lamb in his fingers, just as in Europe a man might offer a choice bit from his plate to a favourite dog.   When she opened her mouth to protest, he popped it in.  It was indeed delicious.  He smiled and then laughed, and she found herself laughing too, even though she was well aware of the moral ascendancy he had achieved with this little gesture.

            Ignoring the waiting pageboys, he launched on a very funny description of how he picked up one of his pictures in a small gallery in Paris.  As he talked, he was again helping himself to the delicious smelling food.  At last, whilst still talking, he held out another choice morsel, and again she could not help accepting it gratefully.

            A few mouthfuls later, Mansour entered the room and bowed respectfully to the Pasha.  He whispered something in the Pasha’s ear, glancing with his snake-like eyes to the curtain over the lattice that looked down into the gymnasium.  She caught the words in French “... the girl is ready, Your Excellency.

            Phileda?  Again anger surged thought Jane.  She was about to launch into a violent protest when the Pasha, with a smile, put the most delicious little tit-bit into her mouth, at the same time nodding to Mansour, who bowed and silently left the room.

   A few moments later there was a swishing, splattering, noise from behind the curtain over the wooden lattice work.  She heard a cry, a woman’s cry of pain.  Startled, she looked up.  The Pasha paid no attention, and just continued to ask her about her schooling and how she had met William.

            A minute later the noise was repeated, and again there was the cry of a woman in pain.  Again the Pasha ignored it.  He was drawing her out on why she had come to Malik by herself.  A minute later there was the same noise and the same cry of pain.

            Again, the same noise, and again a pitiful cry.

            The Pasha was still talking.  Suddenly she heard a pleading voice.  It was Phileda.  “No more, no more!  No more!  Please Sir, no more!”

            Jane looked at the Pasha with her mouth wide open.  It really was an extraordinary and impossible situation!

            “Excuse me a moment, my dear,” said the Pasha suddenly.  “It won’t take a moment.”

            With a manly stride the Pasha went across the room and partly pulled back the curtain over the grill.  As he did so there came the noise of another stroke of what must be the carpet beater.  Again she heard poor Phileda scream in pain.  The Pasha had said that she was to have six strokes and five had now been delivered.  Surely he would spare her the last one?

            “Please, Your Excellency, please ...” Jane started to say, but the Pasha turned to her with his normal charming smile and put his fingers to his lips.  As he did so came the noise of the sixth and final stroke.  A last final scream reached the room through the lattice work.  The Pasha drew the curtain across again and came back to Jane, smiling as if nothing had happened.

            “Well, as I was saying,” he continued in a reassuring tone, “we must make sure that you are happy here until I can deliver you safe and sound to your fiancé.  Don’t worry, I shall take great care of you, Miss Dudley.”

            “Thank you, Your Excellency,” Jane heard herself say.  How she despised herself for not protesting at the way poor Phileda had just been thrashed - and thrashed for nothing, for a little moment’s insolence, brought on by jealousy of herself.

            The meal continued for another hour with no more interruptions.  The food really was delicious.  The Pasha made Jane laugh as she had not laughed for a long time.  Gradually she began to forget about his harem, about Phileda, about the concubines, and about his black eunuchs.

            An hour later, the Pasha’s meal was over.  Although he had continued to feed her with little tit-bits, she was still feeling quite hungry.  He laughed as he saw her eying the dishes wistfully as the pageboys took them out of the room.

            “You must not begrudge my women a few of the choicest morsels left over from my dinner!  I will order that a further small selection is also sent to your room in the guest house.”

            She realised that the Pasha was putting her on a par with Phileda and his other girls, but she did not mind now.  Somehow it seemed quite natural.  Indeed, she was regretting the speed with which time seemed to have raced past while she was with him.  He had been so charming, so amusing, so attentive, and so delightfully handsome, that her embarrassment of her bosom being half exposed, and of the awful bell that rang from her purity belt, and of the noise of Phileda being beaten, had gradually melted away.

            Once again, she found it hard to believe that this civilised man in his immaculate European evening clothes, with his fluent French and his amusing talk of London and Paris, could be the same man as Phileda’s terrifying Master.

            Perhaps, she dared to wonder, it would be rather exciting and fulfilling to be one of the Pasha’s women.  Certainly it seemed that Phileda had found it to be so, despite her beating that night.

            A pang of jealousy went through her at the thought of this gorgeous man enjoying himself with Phileda - or indeed, with his other women.  As if he had read her thoughts, the Pasha suddenly turned to her.  “Perhaps you would like to watch me choose my women for tonight?”

            Jane felt she should protest, but once again he gave her no chance to speak.  Pulling her from her cushion at his feet, he led her to the door.  She saw that a eunuch was now standing there, the same eunuch who had brought her over from the guest wing.

            “Go with Ali,” he said politely but firmly.  “Tomorrow, Mansour will show you round the town, and tomorrow at lunch you can tell me all about it.”

            He bowed courteously as ever, and Jane found herself making a little curtsey to him.  Was it an automatic recognition of his superior station in life, or was it, she asked herself, an acknowledgment of his masculine superiority?

 

 

 

            Ali gripped her arm and led her along the passageway.  She turned her head desperately for another sight of the Pasha but he had already gone.

            “Come!” said the Negro in his harsh high pitched voice.

            The way he held her reminded Jane of how he had led poor Phileda by a lead snapped onto her wrist manacles, as if she had been a dog.  Phileda had said the Christian slavegirls were regarded as little more then animals.  Jane shivered at the memory as she was led into a gallery that led off from the Pasha’s private study.

            This gallery was comfortably furnished with a sofa and arm chair and a little table on which stood trays and boxes of Turkish cigarettes.  A room for a man to relax in.  It was was also a rather dark room, until the eunuch pulled back a curtain on one wall, when light streamed in through a large window covered by a latticed wooden grill.  The grill looked down into a large brilliantly lit room, and Jane realised that because the gallery was darker, nobody in the room below would be able to see through the grill - from here the Pasha could look down without being seen.

            Jane looked - and gave a gasp of astonishment.  She saw a beautiful room, lavishly decorated in the Turkish style, far more beautiful than the rather austere gymnasium which she had last seen through a similar grill.

            High columns of white marble reached up to the ornately carved ceiling.  Brightly coloured Turkish rugs partly covered the smooth marble floor.  Huge windows, covered with lattice arabesques and elaborate curved cast iron bars, looked out onto a private walled garden that was lit with lamps, and to which the only access was through a closed door.  The only other door into the room was a large strong-looking wooden door reinforced with iron bolts.  It also was closed.  It all somehow gave Jane the impression of a luxurious prison.

            But it was the people that made Jane gasp in astonishment and admiration.

            Half a dozen young women were sitting on brightly coloured leather cushions, laughing and giggling to each other like schoolgirls.  They were all incredibly beautiful, immaculately groomed and made up.  Some were dressed in long French evening dresses that showed off their voluptuous bosoms and slim waists.  Others were wearing elegant European day dresses of flowing silk and muslin which must have been wetted to show off the lines of their bodies, for the women were clearly naked under their dresses.  It seemed that the eunuchs liked to dress the girls in their charge in a wide variety of clothes to amuse the Pasha.

            In a corner of the room were several other girls dressed in little-girl dresses that showed off exquisitely their well developed figures.  They were playing with their dolls in front of a large dolls house, undressing them, bathing them, and putting them to bed just as little girls might do.  Standing over them and clearly making sure they behaved like little girls was another huge black Negro eunuch whom they were nervously eyeing.  The inevitable long whippy cane in his hand, he was smiling with approval at the girlish antics of the young women in his charge.

            In another corner two white girls were copying an Arab girl who was belly dancing to Eastern music being played on a gramophone.  They were all dressed as Turkish dancing girls, with transparent silk trousers slung low on their hips, supported by a wide belt covered in tinkling coins.  The gyrations of the girls bellies and the shaking of their hips contrasted in a highly erotic way with the swinging of their bouncing breasts, which were quite bare.

            The huge eunuch came over to them, walking slowly and watching the girls carefully, calling out what seemed to be a mixture of threats and encouragement that made the girls shake and gyrate their sweating bodies with even more vigour and energy.  His jet black face creased into a smile that showed off his white teeth as they flung themselves into a frenzy of pulsating motion - a clear imitation of a woman’s natural movements during what would be highly excited love-making.

            The eunuch wound the gramophone up again, and motioned the exhausted women to continue.  He raised his cane threateningly and the gyrations were resumed.

            Then he walked over to another group of young women in various dresses, including some very like her own, but with transparent trousers that showed off their naked legs and bellies.  They were sitting on a huge cushion, giggling over what seemed to be a child’s picture book.  There was no sign of any letters or printed writing - just pictures of what seemed to be a European fairy story.  A book for little children who had not yet learned to read or write.

            Jane remembered Phileda saying that the eunuchs kept the women ignorant, like children.  She had not appreciated what she meant until now.  How awful for an educated woman!  Did the eunuchs want to keep their brains stultified, so that they would happily play with dolls and look at picture books?  Did they not want them to age mentally a day from when they first entered the harem?  In the Moslem world women were scarcely educated.  Was this ignorance of the outside world also imposed on Christian slavegirls to make them think only of their duties as pleasure slaves?

 

            Suddenly Jane saw a life-size portrait of the Pasha himself on the wall opposite her.

            She thought of the photographs on the wall of her bedroom in the guest wing, but this was quite different.  The Pasha had been painted wearing a long Arab robe open down the front and displaying his virile torso.  She caught her breath in astonishment as she saw that the picture also portrayed his manly attributes in full and proud erection, whilst two naked women knelt at his feet.  One was a fair haired woman with very white skin, and the other a dark haired girl with the olive skin of a typical Mediterranean young woman.

            The Pasha was standing with his leather riding boots placed well apart.  He was pointing with a short riding whip to his feet, a stern expression on his face.  The dark haired girl was bent double, licking one of his boots, while the fair haired girl was looking up at him, an adoring expression on her beautiful face as she held up chained hands in supplication.  The attitude of submission of the two women, and of self confident male domination by the Pasha, contrasted vastly.

            Jane could not take her eyes off the picture.  It was the most erotic and arousing picture that she had ever seen.  It dominated the whole room, and she could see the young women were all constantly glancing up at it.

            Then her eyes were distracted by a very attractive tall young woman wearing a long transparent silk and cream coloured kaftan.  Phileda!  She saw her crossing the room, running in an exaggerated way on her toes, with her arms straight and swinging at her side.  She ran up to a young black boy, dressed like a eunuch with baggy trousers, an open waistcoat and white conical hat.  The bells on her bracelets were ringing as she swung her arms.

            The boy must have been one of the young black eunuchs that Phileda had said were even worse than the adults.  She saw Phileda place her hands on her head and bow to the boy in a particularly servile gesture.  As she bent over, Jane saw that her buttocks were still red from the beating which had only recently been administered to her in the gymnasium.  She saw Phileda whisper something to the boy.  It must have been something embarrassing and private, for Phileda was blushing.

            Another young woman, also clearly a European girl, and dressed in a long evening dress, ran up to the black boy in the same exaggerated way.  She also placed her hands on her head, and bowed humbly, before blushingly whispering something to him.

            The boy nodded and gestured to the two young women to precede him to an alcove.  With their hands still on their heads, the two beautiful young creatures swayed into the bathroom and disappeared from Jane’s sight, followed by the boy.

            “You look!” suddenly said Ali, who was still holding Jane in a firm grip by the arm.

            He drew back another curtain, displaying another latticed screen, which this time looked down into the gymnasium.

            “His Excellency very impressed by gymnasiums in boys school in England,” said Ali in his guttural French.  “He install one here in the harem for his women.  Mansour give all women one hour drill and exercises every day.  Develop here very well.”  He pointed to Jane’s bosom, making her blush.  “Pasha enjoy watching.”

             Indeed, Jane realised, that sitting here on a comfortable sofa, smoking a cigarette and perhaps chatting to his cronies, he could really enjoy watching his collection of slavegirls, both in the harem itself and being exercised and drilled in the gymnasium.  In his European style office he could, apparently, only look down into the gymnasium.

            “Drill very good for harem discipline!” said Ali with a cruel grin.  “Any mistakes and girl feel that!”  He pointed at the carpet beater that was hanging on the wall of the gymnasium.  “Girl bend over horse in gymnasium, and whoosh!” - he made a stroke with his hands as if whipping one of the women - “very good for discipline.”

            Jane’s hand flew to her mouth in a natural gesture of alarm and shock, remembering Phileda’s beating earlier on that evening.

            “See!”  Ali pointed to a large blackboard with what seemed to be a list of names written in Arabic, some with ticks after them.  “That list of concubines.  Each tick black mark!”

            All the eunuchs, including the boys, Ali explained, could give black marks for minor offences or lack of respect, walking in the harem or not running in the silly way she had seen Phileda and the other girl do, addressing a eunuch without first asking permission, being lazy or slack, going to the bathroom or into the harem garden without permission, not looking properly groomed and made up ... and so on and so on.

            Black marks would be added to the board until each Friday when the Pasha returned from the weekly midday prayers at the principal mosque in Malik.

            Then, whilst the Pasha watched from behind the screen in the gallery where Jane was now standing, any girl with more than five black marks would be given five strokes by one of the black boys and any girl with over ten marks would get ten strokes.

            “Very good for discipline,” the burly black eunuch laughed.  “Each girl keep looking to see how many black marks she got!  And if got three or four, then she on best behaviour for rest of week.  And if got eight or nine, she desperate!  But after Wednesday women not told if get more black marks.  They not know until Pasha come and marks read out.  This keep all very obedient!”

            What a cruel and cunning system!  Jane could indeed image the constant terror of the women.

            Then Ali described how, every Friday, the girls would be paraded in the gymnasium wearing their best clothes and looking their prettiest.  They would be lined up with the tallest on the right and the shortest on the left.  They were not allowed to talk and had to stand at attention as they waited the Pasha’s return from prayers and the reading of the list.

            Meanwhile the black eunuchs, men and boys, would be walking up and down, laughing amongst themselves as they watched the terrified women.  The boys would be impatiently swishing their dog whips.  Unlike the women, the eunuchs knew who had exceeded the magic numbers of five or ten black marks - each boy already knew which woman he would be thrashing!

            “When Pasha ring bell from behind screen, Mansour read out name of first girl to be beaten and number of strokes.  She then step forward and bend over gymnasium wooden horse.  Black boys take down trousers.  They fasten ankles wide apart on wooden horse and then fasten wrists to bottom of horse on other side.  Girl now tightly bent over, but must look up at screen for Pasha.  White women hate being beaten by black boy in front of friends.  And all the time other women watch, wonder if they will be beaten too, how many strokes.”  The big Negro laughed again.  “Yes, very good for harem discipline!”

            What would it be like, Jane wondered, to be one of the girls due to be beaten?  How degrading it would be to be undressed and made to bend over a wooden horse, knowing that the Pasha would be watching, unseen, from up here.  And yet she could not help also feeling that it would really be exciting to be displayed before the Pasha, to be wriggling in pain in front of him ...

 

            Suddenly there was a deep reverberation, as if from a large gong being struck hard.  There was sudden panic in the harem, the girls abandoning whatever they were doing and rushing into the bathroom.  Facing them was a line of mirrors under which were hair brushes, combs and sets of make-up.  Quickly and deftly, they began to touch up their make-up, to make their eyes even more appealing, to brush their hair into even more silk-like strands, and to adjust their dresses to show off their figures.  The little bells on their bracelets were ringing madly.

            Clearly, no talking was allowed.  Mansour, the chief black eunuch himself, followed by the black eunuch who had been on duty in the harem room, and his young boy assistant, were all walking up and down behind the line of women, giving one instructions to apply more kohl to her eyes, another to use more rouge, and another to pull down her dress more to show off her breasts.

            After a few moments Mansour gave a word of command and the girls filed out and lined up in a row along one side of the harem with the tallest girls at one end and the shortest at the other.   They stood there in silence, their half exposed bosoms rising and falling rapidly in their trepidation and excitement.

            Suddenly the gong was struck again.

            Mansour called out a number, and a tall girl at the end of the line stepped forward and with mincing steps and swaying hips ran forward to a small carpet placed in front of a latticed screen.  It was Phileda!  She ran with her arms held straight and away from her body her hands and fingers bent back in a particularly submissive gesture.

            Jane suddenly realised that the Pasha must be seated behind the screen, invisible from the harem itself.  Now he was going to choose the women to share his bed for the night, just as he had said he would.  Jane could hardly believe her eyes.  She was actually witnessing a Turkish Pasha choosing from his bevy of beautiful concubines which ones most caught his eye that night.

            Phileda paused in front of the screen.  She put her head back and thrust her arms back behind her, forcing her breasts against the silk of her kaftan.  Her mouth was open.  She was offering herself completely and humbly.  She held this position for several seconds.  Then, accompanied by the tinkling of the bells on her bracelets, she suddenly slipped the kaftan off her shoulders.  It fell to her ankles.  Now she was offering herself nude.  Again she kept quite still for a few seconds, and then gracefully fell to her knees in front of the screen, her hands flat on the floor, her forehead touching the marble, her long golden hair flung forward, baring the back of her neck.  She held this position for several seconds, and then deftly turning at right angles to the screen, again lowered her head in humble obeisance.

            Jane could see that with her full breasts hanging down prettily beneath her, Phileda must indeed be a delightful sight for a man seated behind the screen.  Then Phileda raised herself again onto her haunches and turned through another ninety degrees, so that she now had her back to the screen.

            There was a gasp from the line of the watching girls.  To turn your back to the Pasha!  But Phileda opened her legs and again let her head fall to the floor, offering herself and displaying herself in the most abject way imaginable.  Jane realised that not only would she be displaying the most intimate parts of her body, but also the marks of her beating.  Then Phileda rose, picked up her kaftan and ran off to the other side of the harem, where she stood panting with the exertion, still naked, waiting for the other girls to join her once each had given her own display.

            The chief black eunuch called out another number.  The girl who had been in the bathroom with Phileda now slowly walked forward to the screen, her beautiful long evening dress swaying delightfully.  She curtsied deeply in front of the screen, a delightful picture of obedient girlhood.  Three times she curtsied, and each time she undid another button on her corsage, so that finally her breasts hung down quite bare as she stooped in front of the screen.

            Then the black eunuch boy stepped forward and quickly unbuttoned the back of her dress.  He held it as she stepped out of it, standing quite naked, with her hands coyly over her breasts.  Then she repeated the three curtsies before joining Phileda at the far side of the harem.  Hers had been a quite different display from Phileda’s, but perhaps even more erotic.

            And so the inspection continued with each girl going through a short display.  Each was trying to out-do the others in catching the Pasha’s eye.

            Several of the women were obviously European, like Phileda, and Jane wondered how they had come to be in the Pasha’s harem.  Others looked more Levantine, perhaps Armenian, Arab or Greek.  They were all remarkably beautiful, however, each in a calculatedly different way.  They were all smiling, and appeared to be eager to please their Master.  Despite the strict harem discipline, they all looked happy.

            As each stripped naked in front of the screen, Jane saw that each had had her body hair removed, giving each a strange little girl look, and making each look extra naked.  She also saw that each had, like Phileda, been branded on the front of their thigh with the Pasha’s brand of two crossed scimitars.

            Two of the girls were heavily pregnant.  The Pasha must like to have girls in an interesting condition in his harem.  When they were undressed, she saw that they wore the same little silver mesh purity belt that had been locked onto her.  She wondered why.

            Both girls seemed to be proud to be pregnant, flaunting their swollen bellies in front of the screen.  To her surprise, Jane was not as shocked as she might have been.  Somehow such things did not seem so bad in the atmosphere of the harem.

            Some of the girls seemed to be still in their teens.  However there were also several still beautiful creatures in their thirties or forties, women who had perhaps spent most of their lives in the Pasha’s harem.

 

            After the last of the women had paraded in front of the screen there was a pause.  Then two other women were led into the harem.  They were both fair haired and slim.  They were wearing identically coloured transparent trousers, and identical tiny boleros that left their breasts bare.

            Like all the other women, they wore a bright stainless steel collar round their necks, but in their case a short lead, clipped onto the ring at the front of their collar was held by a black eunuch boy carrying a dog whip.  They were walking awkwardly as they stumbled along behind the two black boys, and Jane saw that their hands had been chained behind their backs.

            The two women were led up to the screen.  Jane saw that one was an attractive woman of about thirty-five, the other a girl in her late teens.  There was a distinct likeness between them.

            “They new Armenians dogs,” said the eunuch, gripping Jane’s arm.  “Mother and daughter!  Sent to Pasha as present.  They just arrived.  They from rich Armenian family  living in France and visting relatives in Turkey - the mother is a French woman married to an Armenian - now all arrested for plotting revolt.  Sultan order massacre of Armenian rebels, but pretty Armenian ladies spared.  They sold to slave dealers.  Rich Turkish masters pay much for pretty Christian mother and daughter!”

            Jane looked down in horror at the two poor women.  She had heard of the appalling massacres of the Armenians in the Turkish Empire, but had not previously realised what it meant for a woman.  Nor had she realised that it might result in a mother and daughter, who were really European, ending up in the same harem, slaves to the same Master!

            As if reading her thoughts, the eunuch added: “Turkish gentlemen much like have mother and daughter in harem.  But these not yet trained for Master!”

            The two black eunuch boys, still holding their charges by their leads, slipped down the silken trousers of the older of the two women, so that she was now naked in front of the screen.  A second later her daughter was equally naked.  “Legs wide apart,” ordered one of the boys.  It was too much for the older woman.  “Pig!” she screamed and spat at the screen, “Pig!”

            There was a horrified gasp from the line of concubines, but the two black boys smiled as if they’d been expecting such an outburst.

            The two women, helpless with their hands chained behind their backs, were hustled into the harem gymnasium and then lined up in front of the leather covered horse which was now in the centre of the room.  One of the black boys went over to the wall, and took down the same carpet beater which she had seen hanging there earlier on.

            He showed it to the two Armenian women.  Jane heard the mother burst out, “No!  No!”

            Her cries were joined by those of her daughter.

            “They both get good beating later!” said Ali.  “Nice long wait here first.  They soon learn not to insult Master!”

            Jane’s attention was now caught by Mansour down in the main harem room.  He clapped his hands.  The line of naked young women straightened themselves expectantly.  He called out two numbers.

            “These the girls Master has chosen for tonight,” explained Ali.

            Jane saw Phileda step forward, looking delighted.  She was joined by another girl.

            The other women, disappointed, walked across into another slave alcove off the main harem room.  Ali drew back yet another curtain, and Jane found herself looking down into a pretty little room in which there were several lines of covered mattresses on the floor - this must be the harem dormitory.

            Except for a line of cupboards containing each woman’s clothes and personal objects, it was very bare.  There was a raised platform, rather like a pulpit, from which all the dormitory could be watched.  On the wall facing the mattresses was a copy of the same erotic picture of the Pasha that was in the other harem room, also lit with candles.

            Jane realised that as each woman lay in her bed in the half darkness of the dormitory, she could not help looking at her fierce Master.  It would be the same last thing that she would see before falling asleep, and if she awoke during the night, it would be the first thing she would see again.  She would be obsessed by the image of the Pasha and of his virile masculinity.

            No wonder the girls in the harem were indeed obsessed by the Pasha, the only man in their lives - indeed the only normal man they ever saw.

            The women were all now putting on their little nightdresses, lying down on their mattresses and pulling up the covers.  The black eunuch on duty in the harem climbed up into another little pulpit so that he could see them all.

            “Lie still!  No touching!”

            Ali turned to her and explained.  “When Master takes women to his bed, all other girls also go to bed, and lie still and think about what Master doing.  It makes them think of ways of pleasing Master themselves!  It makes them try harder to be chosen!”

            It was, Jane had to admit to herself, a devilishly clever system.  All these frustrated and jealous women, besotted by one man, day and night, with their most secret and intimate thoughts being directed towards him, towards how to please him, how to catch his eye.  And yet, she thought, in some strange and primitive way it must be very exciting and fulfilling for a woman to be treated in this way.

            Ali led her past the little gallery to look down again into the harem bathroom.  Phileda and the other girl were being bathed, washed and dried by a black eunuch boy under the close supervision of Mansour himself.

            Evidently Phileda had been right when she said that the Pasha’s visit to Jane’s room had been a wonderful opportunity for her to catch his attention when he was almost alone.  Her display of her naked body might have been degrading and humiliating, but it must have made an impression on the Pasha.  Had the fact that he had also heard, and partly seen, her being beaten also affected his choice?  How shocking - and yet how exciting!

            When Mansour called out an order the two girls held out their wrists.  She saw him lock a chain on each of the girls belled bracelets - now each girl’s wrists were linked by a heavy two foot length of chain.

            “Master likes to have girls chained in his bed,” explained Ali.  “Then they no fight him!  Make girl feel real slave.  Also excites girl!”

            To be chained in the Pasha’s bed!  Even the idea was exciting.

            The first girl was led over to the table on the bathroom on which were laid a variety of rubber tubes.  With a start, Jane recognised their purpose.  She remembered that Turks often liked to use women as if they were boys.  Clearly, the black eunuchs were now going to make sure that the girls were ready for any eventuality and would be spotlessly clean - inside and out.

            Poor Phileda, thought Jane.  But Phileda was looking radiantly happy and excited as her body was meticulously prepared for the Pasha.

            In an English novel, reflected Jane, most girls would be weeping and protesting.  And yet here they were, two Christian girls obviously delighted and thrilled at having been chosen to be raped by their cruel Master - a cruel and pitiless Master, an evil monster who, for all his charm and civilised air, was really a barbarian who enjoyed imprisoning and tormenting helpless women.

            But was the Pasha really like that?  Was it simply a matter of a vastly different culture, a different attitude to women?

            Her head was still reeling with these conflicting thoughts, and with the extraordinary scenes which she had just witnessed, when Ali gripped her arm and led her away.

 

 

 

            “Wake up!  Wake up sleepy head!  The Pasha has sent me to say he hopes you slept well.”

            It was the voice of Phileda.  She was dressed in a smart silk European day dress.  She might have been going to have lunch at Claridges, instead of being destined to spend the day locked up in a harem, but Jane could see that under the dress she was naked.

            “The Chief Black Eunuch will collect you in an hour to take you round the town.  You are lucky!  I’ve hardly ever been allowed outside the harem garden - never mind outside the Palace walls.  However, there are compensations - like last night!”

            Indeed Phileda looked like the proverbial cat that had swallowed the cream, thought Jane angrily.

            Phileda handed Jane a tray of coffee and fruit.  “You must eat! The Pasha wants you to put on weight - in the right places of course.”  She smiled, running her hands down over her own ample bosom, tiny waist and spreading hips.  “He’s very taken by you!”

            Jane was about to make an angry contemptuous reply, but Phileda continued her monologue.

            “Did you see the little exhibition I put on last night in front of the Pasha?  I’d been practising it for days in front of the bathroom mirror.  And it certainly worked!  Actually, though, I think he would have chosen me no matter what sort of display I put on - just to make you jealous!  Jealous of another Englishwoman.”

            “Me jealous!” burst out Jane unconvincingly.  “Jealous about you and that barbarian of a Pasha!”

            “Shush!  Don’t let the eunuchs hear you talk about the Pasha like that.”  She looked anxiously at the eunuch standing impassively by the door.  “They may not understand much English, but they can certainly recognise a tone of voice.  Even if you are a free woman, you must still be careful.  Anyway, even if the Pasha is a barbarian, he’s certainly a glorious one!  What a night!

            “I don’t want to hear about it,” said Jane angrily.

            “But you must!  Making love to the Pasha is our main topic of conversation in the harem, and one which the eunuchs encourage.”  She looked at the eunuch standing by the door, watching them.  Folded over his arm were the bleak Burka and lead which Phileda had to wear on the short journey from the harem.  “He will be expecting me to tell you all about it whilst you eat your breakfast.”

            “Oh, very well!” said Jane with an irritation that completely belied the considerable excitement and curiosity that she was indeed secretly feeling.

            “Well,” said Phileda, launching into her story, “you saw how the Pasha chose me and another girl, Gloria.  She’s a new girl whom the Pasha only recently bought.  Her husband was a big landowner in Bulgaria where they hate the Turkish conquerors.  They are always revolting against them.  One day they will succeed.  Anyway Gloria’s husband was involved in plotting a revolt and was betrayed to the Turks.  The Turks shoot any men involved in revolts, but hand any good-looking young women or boys over to the slave dealers.  They pay a handsome price to the Turkish secret police, and of course this makes the police all the keener to accuse more Christians from the occupied countries of plotting against the Sultan.  It’s fear of what will happen to their families if they are caught plotting, that is the main reason why so many Christian peoples abjectly accept being part of the Turkish Empire - an Empire in which they are only second class citizens with the threat of being shot or enslaved constantly hanging over their heads.”

            “I see,” said Jane.

            “Well, Gloria is a very beautiful woman and was a very valuable piece of merchandise.  Down here in Malik, there is a great demand for such women from the wealthy Arab sheiks.  They visit Damascus from all over Arabia and come to Malik to buy one or two Christian girls to take back to their harems.  Malik is also considered to have excellent training schools for slave girls.  A girl who has been trained in Hamid’s Establishment, like me, is widely sought after.”

            She tossed her head proudly.

            “Anyway Gloria was sent here to be trained and when she was considered to be ready, she was first offered to the Pasha, who bought her ...  However I was to be the upper girl last night, and she, as a new girl, was to be the lower one!”

            “Upper girl?  Lower girl?”  Jane was becoming increasingly interested.

            “Well, a Turk has a quite different attitude to love from an Englishman!  In England we have been taught that love making is something rather shameful that we must put up with from a man.  Here we are taught during our training that a woman’s body is a beautiful instrument that can give exquisite pleasure not only to a man but also to the woman.  In England it is the man who takes the initiative.  But here, having bought his women, a man likes to lie back and be pleased by them.  So we are taught to use our fingers, our lips and our tongues to arouse and excite our Masters and woe-betide us if we don’t!”

            “Oh! ... but what about the upper and lower girls?”

            “Don’t you see?  The Pasha likes to have one girl chained by a short chain fastened to the back of her collar to the foot of his bed, under the bed clothes - she’s the lower girl.  Her job is simply to lick her Master.  She is chained so that her head only comes up to his waist.  He can’t even see her most of the time - he just feels her tongue as she obeys his commands.  The Pasha always has a dog whip in his hand in bed, and he uses it to ensure that the lower girl goes on and on giving him pleasure without getting any in return - though sometimes, if she does very well, he will relent.  I’ve often been the lower girl and I can tell you it’s pretty frustrating  whilst he amuses himself with the upper girls, or an upper girl and a page boy.”

            “Two upper girls?  A page boy?  You don’t mean ...” cried Jane in a scandalised tone.

            “Yes, normally the Pasha will have two upper girls to amuse him - one on each side and each trying to outstrip the other in giving him pleasure.  Remember, the whole essence of the harem system is competition - urged on, of course, by fear of the eunuchs whip!  Often the Pasha will have only one upper girl, and have one of his page boys in his bed instead of a second upper girl.  That really does make for competition!  As I expect you saw, the Pasha always has his girls manacled with a short chain in his bed - it makes us look more like slaves and, of course, makes us feel more like one.  But the page boys are not chained at all.  It’s jolly unfair.”

            “Oh!” was all that Jane could say at these new revelations about the Pasha.

            “He finds the contrast between a white boy’s smooth hard body and a girl’s soft one very exciting.  That’s why all the girls in the harem are buxom and plump.  The eunuchs make us that way with their special food and exercises and make sure that we stay like that.  The Turks have a saying: ‘If you want a small bosom and narrow hips, chose a boy!’  So we have to be very feminine with heavy breasts, small waists and swelling hips!  Anyway, I’ve been getting off the subject.  I’ve often had to serve as a lower girl, as I said.  It’s pretty nerve-wracking.  There you are - at last the Pasha had chosen you, but he’s also chosen two other girls as well.  All three of you line up at the foot of the Pasha’s bed under the orders of a black eunuch.  The Pasha will probably be reading in his bed and pay no attention.  You stand there naked and in silence, not even daring to cough or look at him.  You have to keep your head up and your eyes fixed on the wall.  Finally you hear him putting down his book, or some salacious French magazine.  You still don’t dare look at him, but you know that he is looking over the three of you.  You try and look as seductive as possible.  Then he points to one of you and nods to the eunuch, indicating which of you is to be the lower girl.  She’s not necessarily the least attractive, on the contrary the Pasha clearly enjoys making a beautiful woman serve as his lower girl.”

            Phileda paused for a moment as if remembering just such an occasion.

            “Then the eunuch lifts up the bottom of the bed covers and you have to crawl up the centre underneath them.  It’s dark and you can smell the masculinity of the Master.  You wriggle your way up the huge bed, up between the sturdy legs and thighs of the Master which you can only just see in the darkness.  You feel the chain running down your back beginning to get taut and then just when your face reaches the very core of your Master’ virility, you feel it holding you back.  The slightest sign of any reluctance to start licking, kissing and stroking your Master and he throws back the bottom of the covers and gives you a smart stinging crack of his dog whip across your bottom!  So there you are in the darkness, just a tongue and a pair of hands, straining anonymously to please your Master, and terrified of his whip.”

            “Oh no!” murmured Jane.  This wasn’t at all what she had imagined that making love to the Pasha would be like.

            “Then you see, or rather feel, the other two girls sliding up the bed on either side of the Master.  Not held back by any restraining chains, they go on past you until they are level with the Pasha himself.  You see them running their hands over his body, gently arousing him, stretching down to where your tongue is very active.  You hear them whispering sweet nothings to him, telling him of their adoration.  You hear them giggling as he, in turn, fondles their bodies.  You are already familiar with the arousal of your Master, now the two girls are also becoming aroused as they start their ardent love-play under his direction.  And all the time you are lying there under the bedclothes and licking gently with the tip of your tongue as if your life depended on it.

            “But it was poor Gloria who was chained down as lower girl last night.  And there was no page boy or lower girl lying on the Pasha’s other side!  I was his alone!  I think it was because of you and the fact that I am also English.  He wanted to see how an Englishwoman would perform alone!  Anyway it was wonderful.  His hands!  The touch of his hands!  Often I’ve left his bed in the morning still frustrated, and deliberately kept unsatisfied by him - but not last night!  He was wonderful.  I’m still exhausted!  What a man he is!”

            “Oh stop it!” cried Jane angrily, overcome by what she secretly realised was not disgust but jealousy.  “And as for that hateful Pasha, well ...”

            “I can see you’re just madly jealous!” laughed Phileda.  “Admit it.  You’re just longing to be seduced by him!”

            “I’m certainly not longing for any such thing,” protested Jane coldly.  “I hardly know the man.  I must remind you that I am engaged to marry a good respectable ...”

            “And deadly dull man!” interrupted Phileda.  “I’ve heard all about him.  He wouldn’t dare even contradict you, never mind whip you.”

            “I should think not!” protested Jane.

            “The more’s the pity for you, then,” smiled Phileda.  “I’ve learnt that the more a man beats you, provided its not too hard, the more you love him!  It’s something the Turks have known for centuries.  They even beat their wives, never mind their slave girls.”

            There was a silence as Jane lowered her eyes in shame.  It was true, all night she had been dreaming that the Pasha was either beating her himself, or had ordered her to be beaten in front of him.  Even the mere idea was madly exciting.

            “Don’t be shy!” whispered Phileda.  “I was just like you, until I was put through the routine of Hamid’s training establishment.”

            “But how can you be trained to ... accept such things?”

            “Very simply!  By the whip!  And also by the fear that if you do not measure up to the standards of a Hamid-trained slave girl then Hamid will dispose of you to a brothel or some dealer catering for a lower class of buyers.”

            “This training ... was it very difficult?”

            “Yes I suppose it was at first,” replied Phileda thoughtfully.  “But after a few weeks, it became quite normal to walk on the tips of your toes, to sway your breasts, to run across a room with your hands out straight and your hands bent back in an erotic way, to move and stand in a way calculated to drive a man to a frenzy of uncontrollable desire, and then to drive him to the heights of ecstasy.”

            “Quite a school!”

            “You should see it!  Ask the Pasha to have you taken there!”  Both girls laughed, but Jane was thinking seriously whether she could ever really dare to ask the Pasha such a thing!

            “Come on!” cried Phileda after a pause, starting to pull back the bedclothes.  “The eunuch is waiting to bathe you and dress you and will be angry if you keep him waiting.”

            “I suppose you have to be careful yourself,” said Jane in a serious tone, “or you’ll soon be ...”

            “In an interesting condition?” Phileda completed her sentence.  “Oh no!  The eunuchs see to that!  A proud Turkish Pasha would never have a Christian slave girl as the mother of his son.  That’s what his Turkish wife is for!”

            “But I distinctly saw last night that two of the harem girl were pregnant,” objected Jane.

            “Yes, but not by the Pasha!”

            “What!”

            “Well, you see it’s different here.  In England a pregnant girl is hidden away and regarded as untouchable by Englishmen.  But in the Near East it is considered to be a natural state for a young woman, and the men find it very beautiful.  The Pasha always likes to have a couple of his slave girls on their way to expecting a child.  He has us Christian the girls mated in front of him with one of his black soldiers - black so that the girl can’t later claim that the Pasha is the father of her mulatto child!”

            “But I thought that he didn’t allow his harem girls to see another man?”

            “They don’t.  The eunuchs hood her so that she can’t see the Negro soldier, and the soldier can’t see her face!  The Pasha enjoys matching the girl and the Negro, and takes as much trouble over it as an Englishman might take in selecting a stallion to cover a favourite filly.”

            “How awful!”

            “Well, they find it all quite natural.  Good child-bearing hips can put up the value of a slave girl!  They enjoy making a white Christian girl carry a black baby.”

            “But surely, she can try to ...”

            “To get rid of it?” asked Phileda with a laugh.  “No, the eunuchs are much too clever for that!  And, anyway, as you saw they make the girls wear a chastity belt once she’s been mated.  So she can’t do anything about it, even if the eunuchs weren’t watching.”

            “You mean that’s why the pregnant girls were wearing those belts - they were being forced to carry a black baby?”

            “Exactly!” said Phileda.

            “But, how dreadful and cruel to use a woman’s body in this way without her consent!”

            “Well, as I keep telling you, they regard us as mere animals to be used for whatever purpose they like.  Of course, the girl herself may not want to get rid of the black baby after the first shock.  The Pasha takes a great interest in a girl once he’s had her mated!  The eunuchs say that I will soon have me mated!  He told Mansour that the milk of a blonde girl tastes better than any other!”

            “What!” cried Jane.

            “Yes!  You must have noticed last night that blonde woman in milk.”

            There was a long pause as each of the girls were lost in their private thoughts.

            “And what about the mother and daughter I saw last night?”

            “Ah, well, they weren’t really Armenian.  The mother, Juliette, is a French woman who had been married in France to a wealthy Armenian banker.  He had died and she was planning to get married again.  But before doing so, she brought her daughter, Myriam, to see her father’s relatives in Eastern Turkey.”

            “So they are really French!”

            “Yes.  And whilst they were staying with her late husband’s relatives, one of the sons of the house was was caught in some plot against the Sultan.  The whole family was arrested as revolutionaries.  The men were shot out of hand and the women imprisoned.  Then a Turkish officer, wishing to ingratiate himself with the Pasha, told the two women he could arrange for them to escape out of the country and back to France.  Juliette gratefully gave him all her jewellery.  Then he disguised them as Greek women and had them escorted here by his soldiers and handed them over to the Pasha as a present together with the court order for their arrest and enslavement.”

            “And did the mother really get beaten?

            “Oh, yes! Calling the Pasha a pig, indeed!  After you had been taken away, he was furious.  We all had to stop whatever we were doing and line up to watch - as a lesson for us all.  I was just being got ready for the Pasha’s bed and the other girls were going to bed when we were ordered back into the gymnasium and lined up along one side of the gymnasium and those two were facing us.  You remember that they were quite naked.  Neither they, nor any of us, could take our eyes off the cane carpet beater that the young black eunuch boy was waving in the air, and occasionally bringing down hard onto the leather covered horse in the middle of the gym.”

            “And then?” Jane could not stop herself from asking.

            “The Pasha was behind the screen up in the gallery.  He knocked on the lattice as the signal that he was ready for the punishment to begin.  The chief black eunuch called the mother forward and made her bend over the horse.  He made her put her legs apart and stretch up on her toes.  Then he walked round to the front of the horse and made her straighten her back and raise her head so that the Pasha could see her face as she was being beaten.  Finally he was satisfied and she had to call out the first stroke.

            “The black boy raised the cane and after another long pause brought it down across her bottom.  She gave an awful scream and collapsed onto the floor holding her buttocks and sobbing.  But the chief black eunuch told her that because she had broken her position, that stroke didn’t count and she had to get up and assume the same position again, gripping the edge of the horse with her hands and again count the first stroke.  This time she somehow managed to keep her position after the stroke.

            “She had to remain bending over for almost half a minute, before the chief eunuch let her go back and stand at attention with her hands straight down her side, whilst her daughter was called forward to receive her first stroke.  It seemed so unfair, as the daughter hadn’t said anything, but she had to be punished too.  She was very brave.  And then it was the turn of the mother again, but this time the chief black eunuch made her first face towards the latticed gallery and say to the hidden Pasha that she deserved to be beaten.  She was crying as she said it, and had to repeat it several times until she had said it properly.  It was terrible seeing the beautiful sophisticated French women in her thirties being treated in such a degrading way, but no doubt the Pasha found it most invigorating - that’s probably why he was in such good form later on in bed!”

            “Oh!” said Jane.  The idea of a man being sexually aroused by watching a woman being beaten was something quite new to her.  She could not help finding it all very exciting.  She wondered what it would be like to be beaten in front of the Pasha, knowing that he was finding the spectacle more and more stimulating.

            “Anyway, it all dragged on for some time.  I don’t think either of them, or any of us, will ever dare call the Pasha a pig, again.  Finally they were led away, and the other girls were sent back to the harem dormitory whilst Gloria and I were hastened back to the bathroom to complete quickly being prepared for the Pasha’s bed - quickly, because he now wanted us urgently.  There! Now you know it all.”

            Jane was silenced by Phileda’s description.  She could imagine the whole scene.  The terrified mother and daughter.  The huge grinning black eunuchs.  The hateful young black boy with the paddle.  How awful for a woman in her thirties to be beaten by a mere boy - and a black one at that!

            She could imagine the line of scared young women, wearing their short nightdresses, each feeling desperately sorry for the two women being punished, and yet each thanking God that it wasn’t her.  And the Pasha, the dreadful Pasha sitting at his ease, smoking a cigarette, and probably being attended on by his white pageboys, as he gave the signal for the punishment to commence.  It was horrible to think about - and yet rather exciting!

            There was a long pause as both women were occupied by their thoughts.  Then suddenly, Phileda again pulled back the bedclothes, interrupting their reverie.

            “Come on!” she cried.  “We can’t go on gossiping forever.  Mr Ali is waiting to bathe you and get you ready for your outing.  Oh, and don’t forget to call him Mr Ali and call even the eunuch boys Sir.  They get very angry if a Christian girl doesn’t call them Sir or Mr.  You have been warned!  Remember that they are very touchy about not being treated with respect by what they regard as a mere dog of an infidel Christian.”

            Phileda heard the ringing of the little bell on Jane’s purity belt, and saw the flash of silver between her thighs.

            “Oh, so that’s the type of belt they’ve used on you.  It’s a great sign of the Pasha’s interest.  You should be proud of it!”

 

 

 

            Half an hour later, washed cleaned made-up and looking beautiful, Jane was covered in a simple black shroud that went right over her head and down to the ground, giving no hint to the beautiful Englishwoman beneath it.

            “His Excellency not want create disturbance of free European woman visiting town,” Mr Ali had explained.  “Like this you just any woman and not draw attention.  Now Chief Black Eunuch take you in carriage.”

            So it was that once again Jane found herself sitting in the carriage of the Pasha, with the grim and terrifying Mansour holding her arm in a proprietary way through the material of her burka.

  This time the curtains of the little carriage were drawn back and she could see out.  She found that she was getting used to a burka and could see fairly well through the strip of black lace gauze in front of her eyes, but under it, to her embarrassment, she had been kept naked - naked, that is, except for the purity belt with its little bell.

            The massive gates of the Palace swung open as the carriage made its way at a fast trot past the high walls and into an attractive tree-lined boulevard that at first glance might have been one in a southern French town.  But the typical Eastern scene made it seem very different, as did the distinctive Eastern smells.

            Jane was fascinated by all she saw.  The other Palaces of wealthy leading Turks peering over the tops of high walls, the sight of well dressed men, wearing European long morning coats and red tarbooshes seated outside cafes drinking tiny cups of Turkish coffee, and ignoring the passing figures of women, dressed like herself, in shapeless burkas.

            As they left the smarter residential area and drove into the centre of the town, the roads became narrow streets and bewildering lanes.  A mass of people, Turks dressed in voluminous baggy trousers, and Arabs dressed in long robes and white headdresses, and again more women in burkas, pressed against the carriage.  Again she noticed how the women were often apparently bowed down with heavy parcels, whilst the men carried nothing.

            She saw youths holding hands with youths, just like girls might do in Europe.  She saw a grown man holding hands with a handsome young white boy and remembered what Phileda had said about the Moslems regarding love of a boy as quite normal, and indeed more practical than love of a jealous woman, who had to be locked away out of sight of other men - and who might also become pregnant.

            She saw again what she had first noticed on her arrival in Malik: men riding on camels and donkeys, followed by the veiled figures of women half walking, half running alongside them.  Sometimes she saw white pageboys running at their Master’s stirrup!

            She saw a camel ridden by an immaculately dressed Arab followed by a line of a dozen heavily veiled women.  On either side of the line a Negro overseer was riding a donkey, and urging the women on with a cane.  With a shock, she saw that the women were chained together by the wrist.  Two long chains ran from behind the camel’s saddle and down each side of the line of following women, with each woman’s wrists being linked to one of the two chains - they must be captives or slavegirls, but she could make out nothing of them through their black shrouds.

            She saw the camel turn into a large courtyard, the chained women following along behind, the Negroes mounted on their donkeys bringing up the rear as the gates to the courtyard clanged to behind them.

            Mansour, seated beside her in the carriage, turned to her.

            “Those Armenian women, husbands and fathers traitors, and shot.  Women now slaves.”

            “But where were they being taken?” asked Jane.

            “That house Hamid Effendi.  Big slave dealer.”

            So that was Hamid’s establishment, about which she had heard so much from Phileda!  And were those women being taken there to be trained as pleasure slaves, and sold as slavegirls for rich mens harems - just like Phileda had been?  Jane’s curiosity was even more aroused.  Indeed she hardly noticed anything else as they continued the drive round the busy and thriving port so taken up was she by the thought of what went on behind the walls of Hamid’s training school.

 

            A few hours later, the Pasha smiled as the slender petite figure of Jane was ushered into his private study.  She felt his eyes looking her up and down and blushed.

            “Ah, Miss Dudley, how pretty you look this morning!  Obviously your tour of our town has done you good.  Did you enjoy it?”

            “Oh yes, indeed, Your Excellency.”  She was very embarrassed as the little bell now tinkled continuously from under her dress whilst the Pasha courteously helped her into a comfortable chair.  But he gave no sign of having heard anything.

            It was now nearly an hour after her return.  She’d been given a refreshing bath by one of the black eunuchs.  He had then produced a long full flowing day frock of muslin cut in the latest Parisian style.  Was it, she had wondered, one normally worn by one of the Pasha’s European concubines?  Then the eunuch had escorted her to join him for lunch.

            Only the occasional tinkling of the awful bell spoiled her composure.  Otherwise she was very pleased to be wearing European clothes again for a European style lunch with a handsome man dressed in a well cut European double breasted frock coat.  She might, she thought, have been meeting a friend for lunch at Claridges - but then as she moved in her seat the wretched bell gave another tinkle.

            “I hear that  you were particularly interested in one particular establishment in our beautiful town,” the Pasha said in his slightly mocking but arresting voice.

            Again Jane felt herself blushing as she realised that he was referring to her interest in the establishment of Hamid Effendi.

            But he changed the subject.  “Talking of beautiful things,” he drawled, “how did you find the collection of beautiful women that I keep in my harem?”

            At last, thought Jane!  At last he has given me a chance to say what I think of him and his harem.

            “I think it’s dreadful!  How can you compare collecting real live women, including kidnapped European women, with collecting modern paintings or thoroughbred horses?  How can you, a well travelled, educated and civilised man, keep these poor creatures locked up at the mercy of those hideous black eunuchs?  How can you ...”

            “Ah!”  The Pasha was smiling, bland as ever.  “I see you are deeply shocked that I should possess a harem of beautiful girls.  But you must admit that they seem happy and cheerful, and even, perhaps, fond of me!  Indeed, I believe that Phileda has told you that she is actually in love with me?”

            “Yes, but you never allow her to see another man ...”

            “I should think not!  That young woman cost me a great deal of money.”  He laughed.  “Pretty young English women do not come on the market every day of the week!  Is it surprising that I make certain that shehas no opportunity to fall in love, or even flirt, with another man?  Surely such an arttitude in quite reasonable - even for a well travelled, educated and civilised man as you so kindly describe me to be?”

            “No, no, you must let her go.  You should release her - and all your other Christian girls!”

            “What, after all the trouble I have taken to have them taught to give me exquisite pleasure?  You do not understand how our religion encourages us to enslave Christian women - we see nothing wrong in this.  In the Bazaar the men talk of me with admiration because of my collection of Christian women.  And besides, you must admit that Phileda and her companions are happy and well.  They think only of pleasing me.  Indeed they worship me.”

            “Isn’t that because they are whipped if they don’t?  Men don’t whip women in England.”

            “No, your men are weak.  They live a dog’s life, harried and nagged by strident women.  Nor are their women happy.  A woman respects a strong man who will keep her in order.  The beating of a woman in a man’s harem may make a lot of noise, but rarely is much harm done.  Indeed, the mere threat of a cane is usually sufficient.  A man likes to enjoy a beautiful, laughing and unmarked woman.  He certainly doesn’t want to have a cowed and injured one on his hands.”

            There was a pause as the Pasha lit another cigarette.  “Have you ever been beaten by a man?” he asked suddenly.

            “Certainly not!”  The very idea was shocking!   But the Pasha thought it made her blush again quite delightfully.

            “And yet have you never secretly longed to be?  Most real women have!  Have you never despised a man for not exercising his power over you?  Come, admit it!  Have you never secretly longed to be lying helpless in a man’s arms, to have all decisions taken for you, and to be helpless in his power?  Admit it!  It’s quite natural in a woman ... Well?”

            Jane quailed before his fierce gaze.  There was a lot of truth in what he had said.  How well he understood women!  How she had longed for William to carry her off.  Instead, it was she who had followed him to Turkey!  How often had she regretted that he did not treat her more resolutely, more harshly.

            “Well ... perhaps once or twice, but ...”

            “But nothing!” interrupted the Pasha in a firm tone.  “You are a natural slave, like most women.  After proper training, and with proper discipline from an experienced black eunuch, you would make a delightful slave.”

            “Oh!”  Once again she could feel that she was blushing.  She suddenly felt hot and moist in her loins.  To be a slave!  A helpless slave of a strong and ruthless man like the Pasha!  She felt too shy to look him in the eyes, and looked demurely down into her lap where her hands were twisting with embarrassment.

            The Pasha must have seen that he had struck home.  He patted her gently on the head.  “We must remember that you will shortly be married to Mr Lascelles,” he smiled.  “Before you leave to join him, would you perhaps like to see more of any part of Malik?  Perhaps you would like to see the inside of the establishment of Hamid Effendi, the slave dealer?”

            Jane’s heart gave a jump.  How had he guessed?  She had heard so much about Hamid and his establishment.  It all sounded so exciting.  Actually to see round it as a free woman would be really exciting, but she was shy about admitting that to the Pasha.  Fortunately, he appeared to take it for granted.

            “It’s not quite so simple as you may have thought, my dear,” he said.  “Hamid would hardly allow a free European woman to wander round his establishment, particularly that now, officially, slavery does not exist in the Turkish Empire.  However, I maybe able to arrange things differently ...”

            He paused, and then clapped his hands.

            A good looking pageboy came into the room and bowed respectfully to the Pasha.  Jane recognised him as one of the white eunuch boys she had seen in attendance on the Pasha.  The Pasha gave an order in Turkish, and the boy bowed again and left.

            “Now, go next door,” said the Pasha.  “You’ll find a grill through which you can see into this room.  You can watch what happens.  But you must not make any noise, or attempt to speak, or interrupt what you see.  Is that understood?  Can I rely on you?”

            “Well, I suppose so,” replied Jane rather confused.

            “There is no question of supposing so,” said the Pasha, looking into Jane’s eyes.  “Do I have your word that you will keep quiet?”

            “Yes, Your Excellency,” said Jane, obediently lowering her eyes to the floor.

            “Very well then.  Go next door and shut the door behind you.  You will find that it is an annexe to this room, and a room where many of my papers are kept and where my secretaries often work.”

            Jane did as she was told.  There were several desks in the small room in which she now found herself.  There was no-one else in it.  She looked around for the grill.  Peering through it she could see into the Pasha’s study.  She stood there watching in silence, wondering what on earth she was going to see.

 

 

            Jane was looking through the grill into the Pasha’s study when she heard a knock on the door, and as two black eunuchs entered the Pasha’s study she saw that one was Mansour, the Pasha’s chief black eunuch of whom she was so nervous.  Alongside each of the two eunuchs crawled a woman, on her knees, led on a leash attached to a collar round her neck, the eunuch gently tapping her buttocks with his cane as if to remind her to behave.

            The two woman were stark naked, except for their shiny steel collars, and for a wide leather belt strapped tightly round their waists which showed off their long backs and the rounded swell of their hips.  They were the French women - Juliette and her half Armenian daughter, Myriam.

            The two of them made a pretty picture as they crawled side by side up to the sofa on which the Pasha was placidly sitting.  The black eunuchs gave them both a sharp tap on the buttocks with the canes, as if to remind them of what they had previously been instructed to do.  Instantly each of them began to lick avidly at the Pasha’s shoes.

            The eunuchs handed the two leashes to the smiling Pasha, who now held them taut, one in each hand.  He looked down at the women approvingly for some time as they both humbly licked, their tongues thrust well out in a way that had obviously been practised.

            It was, Jane felt, a perfect example of female subjugation by a strong willed male.  And these were educated European women - a mother and her daughter!  She shivered as she watched, imagining what it would be like to be one of them.  She had to admit that it was an exciting, if frightening, thought.

            The Pasha looked up enquiringly at his chief black eunuch.

            “Your excellency,” began Mansour, “these two Christian dogs wish to beg for your forgiveness.”

            The Pasha smiled again.

            “Well?” he said, giving the mother’s leash a jerk.

            “Your excellency!  My master!”

            She began in French in a half muffled voice, keeping her head down to the floor.  As she spoke clearly and slowly as if remembering a lesson half learnt, Jane found that she was able to understand her well.

            “This Christian dog acknowledges His Excellency to be her Master.  She will be greatly honoured if he would take her into his harem as one of his slaves, to serve and obey him and to abandon all thoughts of other men.  She wishes to give her Master pleasure, and to live only for his pleasure, for as long as he may deign to keep her.”

            The Pasha looked approvingly up at Mansour.  Clearly he felt that he and his cane had done a good job.  He turned to look down at Myriam and gave her leash a tug.

            “Well, and how about you?”

            “This little Christian dog also begs her Master to take her into his harem,” came a young girlish voice.  She too kept her head down to the floor.  “I wish to offer up my virginity to my Master.  Forsaking the sight of all other men, I wish to be kept for his exclusive use and pleasure.”

              Again the Pasha gave a look of approval at his chief  black eunuch and his cane.  It was really quite extraordinary, thought Jane, to see a pretty young girl, brought up in France and used to flirting with boys of her own age, begging a man over three times as old as herself to keep her for his exclusive use.

            Jane had been shocked to see how young Myriam really was.  She scarcely looked more than eighteen - just a French schoolgirl and yet now destined for the Pasha’s harem.

            The girl was now twisting her head and actually smiling coquettishly up at the Pasha.  It was the natural behaviour of a female in the presence of a powerful male, and Jane saw that she had also opened her legs more in a gesture of submission to the male - a gesture that she had already been made to practice.

            Jane remembered what Phileda said happened to girls who looked at the Pasha without permission.  She held her breath waiting for an explosion from the Pasha or from the eunuchs.  But this time Myriam’s indiscretion was ignored.  It was as if the Pasha and the black eunuchs had accepted her flirtatious gesture as a secret sign of her submission, a sign that she wished to distance herself from her mother’s more hostile attitude.  It seemed that she accepted the fact that her future happiness depended on her obedience to her new Turkish master.

            Both Juliette and Myriam were still kneeling at the Pasha’s feet, their heads low, the palms of their hands flat on the floor on either side of their heads, and their long blond hair flung forward baring their necks.

            The Pasha nodded again to Mansour.

            “Kneel up, little dogs!” ordered the chief black eunuch.  “Heads up!  Hands on head!”  With little taps of their canes, the two eunuchs positioned each of the women to their satisfaction.  A tear was trickling down the side of Juliette’s cheek.  Doubtless she was feeling the humiliation of being treated in this way in front of her daughter.  Doubtless too, she was feeling the shock of realising that she would now never remarry, or even see her French fiancé again.

            Myriam was looking cheerful, having shown the Pasha the coquettish and flirtatious side of her character.

            Both woman were now staring straight ahead at the wall, looking past the Pasha, not daring to look him in the face.  The Pasha spoke slowly and with emphasis.

            “Both of you will now be sent away for a period of training to see if you are fit to enter my harem.  I shall periodically come to watch your progress.  If I am pleased with what I see, then I will consider accepting you into my service.  You will then both be branded with my crest.  If, however, I am not pleased by your submissiveness or by the degree of skill in love-making that either of you have acquired, then you will both be sold to a brothel serving my black soldiers.”

            There were horrified gasps from both the mother and her daughter and for a second both of them turned their eyes pleadingly to the stern faced Pasha.

            The Pasha handed the two leashes back to the eunuchs. “Take them away,” he ordered.

 

 

 

            “Come back in, my dear,” said the Pasha.

            She knew she should upbraid him for his conduct and beg him to release the two unfortunate women, but before she could gather her wits together, the Pasha gestured to her to sit on a cushion by his feet.

            “I am sending them to Hamid Effendi.  He will see to it that they become delightful and willing slaves.”

            “You mean you will send them to a slave dealer to be trained for your harem!” said Jane astonished.

            “Indeed!  I shall want to have them pleasing me in front of each other.”

            “But they are a mother and daughter!”

            “All the better!  A well educated European mother and daughter are a rare prize for my harem.  And anyway they will now be assured of a comfortable and healthy life, being looked after by black eunuchs, never having to worry where their next meal comes from, and never having to fight off the attentions of strange men.”

            “You mean,” said Jane angrily, “being constantly terrified of being beaten by black eunuchs.”

            “Bah!  It’s natural for women to be beaten.  It’s good for them!  They even find it exciting being beaten if front of me.  And, as I’ve already told you, the treatment may make a lot of noise but doesn’t do much real harm.  If your Christian religion told men to beat their woman like ours does, Europe would be a happier place.”

            Jane lowered her eyes, feeling herself blush.  Her anger at the Pasha was immediately replaced by a feeling of ... of what?  To be the Pasha’s slave!  To be in his power!  The Pasha’s voice, the voice she found so madly attractive interrupted her confused thoughts.

            “But, of course, you are not one of my slave girls.  You are my honoured visitor, the fiancé of another man.”  Again he laughed sardonically, making her tremble all over with a mixture of fear and excitement.

            Suddenly he changed the subject.  “So you want to see the inside of the establishment of Hamid the slave dealer?”  He did not wait for her to confirm or deny it, he just swept on.  “Very well, but there is no way that you could ever be allowed in as a free European woman, you would have to go in the guise of a slave girl.  Do you understand?”

            To go there disguised as a slave girl!  Goodness it was all getting more and more exciting.  Her eyes were still demurely lowered to the ground, and she could not bring herself to raise them to meet those of the Pasha.  She simply nodded her assent.

            “Now listen carefully.  As you know, I am sending Juliette and her daughter to Hamid for a month’s intensive training.  It produces a much more submissive woman, a woman more eager to please.  It also prevents her from getting any ideas above her station.  Do you follow me?”

            Indeed she did!  The idea of being being trained for use by the Pasha was madly exciting.  Too thrilled to trust herself to say anything, she continued to sit still, her eyes lowered, and the Pasha’s voice dominating her thoughts.

            “Hamid always has new girls, sent to him for training, shown round on arrival, so that they get a good idea of what they are in for, and of the standards that they must reach.  He finds that in this way the girls co-operate better.  He then examines them to decide whether they are suitable.  So I will send you with Juliette and her daughter, nominally as merely another slave girl, whom I would like his opinion as to her suitability for training.”

            “My suitability for training!” wailed Jane, now genuinely alarmed.  “You aren’t planning to leave me there?”

            “Certainly not!  Mansour and Ali, who will be taking all three of you to Hamid tomorrow morning, will have strict orders to bring you back again.  We don’t want Mr Lascelles to lose his fiancée, do we?  They will simply tell Hamid that I am going to have you circumcised before sending you to him to start your training.”

            “Circumcised!”

            “Female circumcision is an old custom  in harems, though you find it more in Egypt than in Turkey.  It makes it harder for a woman to enjoy making love, so that she has to try harder, and go on longer, much to the delight of some Masters.  I myself prefer a more responsive woman.”

            Female circumcision!  The very words took Jane back to her school days, the furtive whispering in darkened corridors, the secret searchings in the encyclopaedia and in certain books of Eastern travel.  It was terrible, she remembered.  She looked up horrified at the Pasha, but  he cut her protest short.

            “Don’t worry!  You are my guest here.  No one is going to do it to you really, though I admit it would be a good joke to play on your Mr Lascelles - though perhaps he would not even notice the difference!  Anyway, you will be quite safe, and yet able to satisfy your natural curiosity, the curiosity of any young woman, as to what goes on in the house of a slave dealers specialising in dealing with high grade white women being sold and trained as pleasure slaves.”

            “Oh!” said Jane.  She did not know whether to be relived or shocked.  She could not help feeling excited, however, at the thought of what she was going to see.

            “Of course the black eunuchs will have to prepare you so that you genuinely look like a slave, a slave who I am considering for my harem, after training and circumcision.  And you must not under any circumstances speak English.  Hamid must not suspect you are a free woman.  He will be told you are just another abducted Armenian woman, like the other two.  Do you understand?”

            “Yes, I see,” she murmured.  But what did he mean by ‘prepared’?  She was too shy to ask.

            “Very well then, go back now with Ali to the guest wing and rest properly before tomorrow’s visit.”

 

 

 

            Jane lay drowsily in bed, looking out at the early morning Mediterranean sunshine, and down on to the well tended garden that surrounded the palace.

            The gardeners were already up and about, watering the flowers and shrubs, and raking the gravel paths.  Beyond them lay the high wall that surrounded the palace.  Beyond that, half hidden in the haze, was the outline of the mountains behind Malik.

            To one side was another high wall, the one that shut off the harem garden from the palace garden.  She remembered seeing the pretty little harem garden in the twilight through the lattice screen in the balcony above the harem two evenings before.  Idly, she wondered who tended the harem garden and when.  Phileda had been adamant that the harem slaves were not to allowed to speak to another man, or even to see one.  So presumably the Pasha would hardly allow his women to be excited by the presence of handsome young virile gardeners!

            Suddenly she heard footsteps outside the open door of her bedroom, the door specially left open so that the black eunuchs watching over her could come and go as they liked.  Watching over her!  Were they guarding her or supervising her?  With a guilty gesture, and feeling like a naughty school girl, she pulled her hands from under the bedclothes and put them where the eunuchs liked to see them: on top of the sheets.

            It was all so embarrassing, so shame-making, and indeed so unnecessary, for there was no way she could have been misbehaving with that wretched purity belt so tightly strapped round her loins.  Why had she not insisted that they take it off?  She wasn’t, after all, one of the Pasha slave girls - who’s purity, as they called it, they were responsible for.  This time she would be firm, but even as she resolved to do so she knew that it was a waste of time.  She was putty in the hands of the huge and forbidding black eunuchs, and she was still too shy to discuss it with the Pasha.

            Already, only two days after she had had the belt put on her, she was beginning to feel and understand the frustration and secret longings of the harem girls that Phileda had so poignantly described.

            Her eyes caught the photograph of the Pasha hanging on the wall, and she felt herself becoming aroused by desire under the silver grill of the belt.  If the Pasha had given secret instructions to the eunuchs to put the belt onto her so that her thoughts would constantly turn to him, he was certainly succeeding!  However she could not be certain whether she thought of him with adoration or fear, respect or sheer hatred, or a mixture of all four.

            Who, she wondered, had been summoned to his bed yesterday for his siesta?  She felt a pang of jealousy.  Yes, she was definitely jealous!  Did that mean that she was falling in love with the Pasha?  Was she falling in love with a barbaric and cruel Turkish Pasha?  What nonsense!

            Her mind began to race.  Had he used a higher and a lower girl in the way that Phileda had described?  She imagined herself in the role of his lower girl, hidden and anonymous, her only reward a gentle pat from the Pasha’s hand as he occasionally reached down to hold her in position by gripping her hair.

            Had he also had a white page boy in his bed?  The very idea had filled her with disgust when Phileda had told her about the page boys.  But now, already, she seemed to accept them as part of the way of life of a virile Turk.  Disgust had turned to jealously, jealousy of the Pasha’s young white page boys, as well as of his young white concubines.

            Her thoughts were interrupted as two black eunuchs entered the room without knocking or even asking permission.  She saw that one was Ali, and the other a young black boy.  Both were carrying their long canes, their badges of office.

            “Good morning Mr Ali, Sir!” she said dutifully, remembering what Phileda had said about the black eunuchs being so touchy about being treated with respect by Christian girls.  Then she saw that the black boy was scowling at being ignored.  “Good morning, Sir!” she said hastily to him, embarrassed at having to call a mere boy ‘Sir’.

            “Good morning, little Miss,” replied Ali in a rather patronising tone.  “Little Miss will now be prepared for visit to House of Hamid.  Then we give you breakfast, then we go.”

            “What do you mean, prepare me for this visit?” asked Jane anxiously.  She remembered that the Pasha had used the same expression, and that she had been too shy to ask him what he meant.  She was simply to be disguised as a slave - nothing more.

            “You soon see, little Miss.  Mr Ali not hurt you!  You no worry!  Mr Ali know your body well now.”

            Yes, thought Jane, that was indeed true, though the idea made her blush.  Ali knew her body very intimately!  And he had access to the key to her purity belt.  The huge strong Negro, with his sinister face, had become her Nanny, a strict and capable Nanny who seemed to know all about girls like her.

            Now he bent down and pulled back the bedclothes, making Jane curl up with shame for the little nightdress he had put her into the previous evening left little to the imagination.  Suddenly he picked her up as if she were a doll.  Helpless in his strong arms, she was carried into the bathroom, where the hateful young black boy was standing with a bowl.  She did not mind so much performing in front of Mr Ali, but to have to do so into a bowl held by a young black boy was too much!  Then she saw that the boy also had a length of rubber tubing hanging over his arm.  Her eyes widened in horror as she recognised its purpose.  Oh no!

            As if he had read her thoughts, Ali said: “Now little Miss, we must make you nice and clean for your visit to House of Hamid.  We not want risk any accidents there.  We not want to risk disgracing Pasha!”

            My God, thought Jane, surely the Pasha doesn’t know what they are now proposing to do to me!  “No! No!” she wailed.

            “Too late now to change mind,” said Ali angrily.  “Pasha has told Mansour to make all arrangements.  Come now, you ask young Mr Abdul to hold bowl and make you nice and clean, let me hear you ask him nice and politely.”

            “No, it’s too much!” cried Jane trying to shield her naked body with her hands.

            “Come, little Miss!”  Ali’s eyes glittered.  He raised his cane menacingly.  “You not want to make me angry?”

            What would the Pasha say if he knew that his black eunuchs had actually threatened her with the cane?  Or would he not be bothered with such minor matters?  Jane suddenly felt helpless and afraid.  Her resistance collapsed.

            “Please Mr Abdul, Sir, please hold the bowl for me!” she whispered blushingly.

            “And make me nice and clean!” said Ali in a threatening voice, his cane still raised.

            “And make me nice and clean,” Jane repeated dutifully, blushing even more.

            She was even more embarrassed a few minutes later when, kneeling on all fours on the high couch, she felt the soapy liquid running up inside her, whilst the black boy put an experienced hand under her belly as it began to swell.  It was all too degrading, but at least they had removed the hateful purity belt.  Indeed, before commencing operations, Ali had quickly unlocked the tiny padlock in the small of her back, allowing the belt to fall away.  She had felt the lips of her body open again after two days of being squeezed tightly together.  Scarcely had she finished performing into the bowl held by the black boy, when she saw Ali coming towards her with what she recognised as a spray-type douche.  He gently parted her body lips and washed her out there too.

            Soon, her ablutions completed, she was turned over onto her back on the high couch.

            Oh, how lovely, she thought, at least they’re going to give me a relaxing massage!

            But Ali quickly fastened a strap around her waist and another round her neck, tying her down to the couch.  Alarmed, she put out her arms to try and push the eunuchs away, but they were gripped and quickly pulled down between her legs and fastened to the outside of her ankles.

            She was now in the most vulnerable position a woman can be put into, lying on her back, wide open and helpless, her raised legs held wide apart.  Because of the way her wrists had been fastened to her ankles she found she was quite unable to close her legs.  Ali pulled down two light chains hanging from the ceiling and fastened them to her ankles.  The chains took the weight of her legs, making the position easy to maintain.

            Supposing the Pasha came in while she was held in this humiliating position?  Or perhaps he was already watching from behind some screen!  It was too awful.  She tried to raise her head and look round to see if there was any screen, but the strap around her neck held her down.  She heard the two black eunuchs, Ali and the boy Abdul, talking at the foot of the couch.  They seemed to be mixing something in a bowl.  She could not see what was happening.  She was frightened.  She wanted to cry out but the bathroom door was closed so no one would hear.

            Ali came up to the top of the couch.  He was sharpening a cut-throat razor!  With a start she remembered the Pasha’s joke about female circumsion.  Surely, these awful Negroes couldn’t be planning to ...

            “Mr Ali, Sir,” she begged tearfully, “don’t do it to me!  The Pasha promised me ...”

            “Don’t you worry, little Miss.  We not hurt you.  But you keep quite still!”

            Suddenly she felt something soapy being rubbed between her legs.  Shaving soap!  Ali bent down over her, a large shaving brush in his hand, and the black boy reached down from the other side of the couch.  She felt his hand pulling and stretching her body lips.  She heard a scratching noise, something was moving, scraping, low down on her belly.

            She was being shaved!  Her body hair was being shaved off!  She would be just like Phileda and all the other harem girls.  Just like Juliette and her daughter.  So that was what the Pasha meant by being ‘prepared’, so that she would look like a real slave girl.  A feeling of anger at what was being done to her, was now tempered by a feeling of relief that nothing worse was being done.  No female circumsion!

            “You keep quite still!” repeated Ali, wiping the soap covered razor.  “We cut hair short when put on purity belt, now we remove completely.  You must be quite hairless for inspection by Hamid Effendi.”

            “What!” cried Jane.  Then she remembered what the Pasha had said about Hamid personally inspecting the women to see if they were suitable for training.  How she wished she had never asked to see Hamid’s wretched establishment!

            She did not dare move an inch as the two eunuchs worked carefully down, closer and closer to the most intimate parts of her body.  They repeatedly brushed her skin with the shaving brush and then carefully shaved off the soap and hairs, pulling her skin taut, and then running their hands over her skin to check that she was now perfectly smooth.  At last it was over.  The black boy handed Ali a bowl of talcum powder and she felt it being poured over the curves of her body and smoothed down with the palm of Ali’s hand.

            They untied her and stood her in front of a long mirror.  They smiled at each other, as if to acknowledge a skilled task carried out.

            Jane could hardly bear to look in the mirror.  What she saw was the same little girl look that she had seen on the Pasha’s real slave girls.  Was this mandatory for all Christian girls, as a way of differentiating their status?

            “Very good!”  It was the voice of Mansour, the chief black eunuch, who had just come into the bathroom.  He bent down and rubbed his hands down the now smooth skin.

            “Very good!  Just like real slave girl!”  Then he looked at her.  “In future we use special cream to keep smooth.  Pasha not like prickly skin!”  He laughed and Jane felt her cheeks flushing.

            Jane was now offered a little fruit and coffee for breakfast.  Then she was taken back into the bathroom and, ignoring her protests, they fastened a new chastity belt onto her, rather different in design.  Instead of a triangular shaped silver mesh, a pretty heart-shaped curved brass disc was locked over the curve of her body.  Running down the centre of the disc was a narrow slit.  Whereas the silver mesh had been fastened tightly, thereby ensuring Jane’s purity as well as her chastity, this disc was more loosely fastened.  It was, however, quite enough to protect her chastity.

            “This to protect you on way to Hamid’s,” said Mansour.

            She looked down at the prettily curved disc being reflected back in the mirror.  A scimitar had been engraved on either side of the central long slit, the sign of the Pasha’s brand, the sign that his slave girls all wore branded onto their thigh once they had been accepted into his harem.

            She could not take her eyes off the engraved crest.  Somehow it made her feel as if she really belonged to the Pasha, and this feeling was heightened when the eunuchs slipped a wide shiny stainless steel collar round her neck.

            She saw that Ali was dropping what seemed to be a lead pellet into the join of the collar.  Then he picked up a large instrument, rather like a huge pair of pliers, and began to squeeze the joint.  Then he put down the instrument and examined the collar.  The lead pellet ensured that the collar was now riveted round her neck.  Only with a special riming instrument, and blows from a hammer, could the pellet be removed and the collar taken off her.

            The feeling of being owned that the collar gave her was overpowering.  If the Pasha had come in to the room at that moment nothing would have prevented her from giving way to the primitive emotions that were flooding up inside her.  She would have thrown herself at his feet.  Would she ever experience such powerful feeling with William?  He would be horrified if he had ever learnt what had happened to her.  Yet, by contrast, Zaid Pasha must have known just what the black eunuchs were going to do.

            As she looked in the mirror, her eyes dropped again to the curved disc chained round her lower belly.  She could see that even though it was quite small, it would indeed effectively prevent a man, any man, from penetrating her.  And the long slit was far too narrow to allow even a little finger to pass, never mind anything else.  It was a most effective chastity belt.  Her emotions were aroused even more by the realisation that the Pasha and his servants had complete control over her intimacies.

            But the black eunuchs had not finished.  Gripping her nose to make her open her mouth, they thrust a leather gag into her mouth.  It was tightly fastened behind her neck.  She was now quite unable to say a word.  Furious, and flashing her eyes, she tried to protest but the Negroes just ignored her grunts.

            Then, stark naked except for her chastity belt, her gag and the collar, they put the inevitable shapeless black burka over her.  Only her hands and wrists remained uncovered, and soon they too were covered by shapeless black gloves and hideous black socks, whilst her feet were thrust into a pair of ugly black boots.  From the outside there was now no hint of her exquisite English beauty: she could well have been an old hag of ninety.

            There was a lace strip in front of her eyes.  It enabled her to peer out without even her eyes being seen by a passer-by.  She noticed that it could be unbuttoned, and wondered when and if it would be.

             “When in House of Hamid we unfasten,” explained the eunuch Ali.  “Pasha not want people in street to see or hear his women.”

            His women!  Gagged and wearing his collar and chastity belt, engraved with his crest, Jane certainly felt like one of them!

 

 

 

            Hidden and gagged under the burka, Jane was led out into the palace courtyard.  She saw that two saddled donkeys were standing waiting.  Near them were the black shrouded figures of two women, who she guessed must be Juliette and Myriam.

            Jane was made to stand immediately behind the shorter of the two figures, presumably Myriam, and in front of the taller one, Juliette.  The eunuchs had a passion for ranging women in order of height.  It was another form of domination, another way of enforcing discipline in the harem.

            “Hands away from bodies!” suddenly ordered the Chief Black Eunuch.  “Keep out straight!”

            Jane felt a slight sting on her buttocks through the burka, as Ali gave her a sharp tap with his cane, making her obey the order.  All three women now had their right hand raised, held at an angle away from their bodies.

            Then Ali locked a manacle onto Myriam’s wrist: it was attached to a chain.

            “Eyes to your front!” ordered Mansour.  “Not look down!”  He went down the line of women, temporarily unbuttoning their lace visor or peepholes to make sure that his order was being obeyed.  Jane felt another tap on her buttocks, and she fixed her eyes straight onto the middle of Myriam’s back.  It was, a typical and unnecessary way of humiliating a woman.

            She felt a manacle being locked onto her own right wrist.  She felt the heavy weight of the short length of chain that linked her wrist to that of Myriam, standing only a couple of feet in front of her.  She felt Mansour’s eyes watching her.  She did not dare look down.  A moment later she heard a click behind her as Ali fastened a manacle onto Juliette’s wrist.  She felt the heavy weight of that chain too.

            “Hands down!”

            With relief Jane let her hand fall to her side.  “Raise left arms!” came the order.  Jane heard the swish of the cane behind her, but it was not for her this time.  She heard a little thud as the cane hit home.  She heard a muffled cry from Juliette, clearly she too had been gagged.  Obviously the eunuchs did not want to risk any of the women calling out while they were being marched through the town to the House of Hamid.

            “You move quicker when chief black eunuch give order, Christian dog,” came Ali’s growled warning.

            Then an identical length of heavy chain was manacled onto the women’s left wrists.  Jane now found herself standing in a line, each wrist linked by a short length of chain to the wrists of Myriam, standing just in front of her, and to Juliette, whom she could hear sobbing quietly through her gag immediately behind her.

            She was held quite helpless.  She had read about coffles of black slaves being marched by cruel Arab slavers across Africa.  She was now coffled herself, a pretended slave ready to be marched to the establishment of a slave dealer.

            She heard another muffled gasp from Juliette, but did not dare turn round.  A few seconds later she herself gave a similar gasp as Ali checked her manacles, and then ran his hand down over her body to feel, through the burka, that her chastity belt was still properly in place.

            Two rather longer lengths of chain were led forward from Myriam’s wrists and fastened, one on each side, to the stirrups of one of the donkey’s saddles.  Phileda had said that a Christian slave was just an animal, and now they were helplessly harnessed behind a real animal!

            Ali went down the line buttoning up the lace visors in front of each woman’s eyes, leaving Jane peering through the little gaps in the intricate lacework.  No one would get even a glimpse of her sparkling eyes.

            “Little Christian dogs!” came the voice of Mansour.  “You run behind donkey, or you feel Mr Ali’s cane.  You not look round in town, or you feel Mr Ali’s cane.  You not make noise in town, or you feel Mr Ali’s cane.”

            Through the lace on the front of her burka, she saw Mansour mount the donkey in front of the line of woman.  Ali then mounted the other, and rode alongside them.  She saw Ali kick his donkey forward.  A second later she felt a jerk on her wrists as Myriam was dragged forward.  She too stumbled forward and was then jerked backwards as the heavy chains dragged Juliette forwards.  Soon they learnt to move along together.

            Mansour kicked his donkey into a trot.  Jane felt a sharp tap on the buttocks from Ali’s chain as he rode beside them.

            “Run, little dogs, run!” he cried.

            They ran across the palace garden to the large main gate where the grinning guards stood waiting.  The gates swung open.  They ran out in to the crowded, noisy, dusty street.  The gate swung shut behind them.

            Jane had driven down the streets of Malik in the comfortable seclusion of a closed carriage.  How different it was to be running breathlessly along as a doubly chained slave, one of a coffle of slaves being driven and dragged through the busy narrow streets and lanes!

            No one seemed to pay them much attention.  The sight of a line of shrouded and chained women, half running, half walking behind a donkey and being urged on by the cane of a Negro mounted on another donkey, must have been an everyday sight.  Indeed, she remembered how she had seen just such a coffle of woman, chained behind a camel.

            Her burka slipped on her head and now she could hardly see anything at all.  She was just trotting along, guided by the pull of the heavy chains on her wrist.

            She was panting and out of breath, but she felt Ali’s cane driving her on.  What a fool she had been to ask to be taken to the House of Hamid!

            She could hear the cry of beggers and hawkers right alongside her.  She smelt unwashed bodies, camel dung and refuse.  She could still see practically nothing.  Desperately, driven on by fear of Ali’s cane, she stumbled on.

            At last the pull on her wrists slackened.  She heard Mansour’s voice, and another voice answering him.  She heard a gate being opened.

            The line moved forward again.

            The gate closed behind them with an ominous thud.

 

 

 

            Followed by Ali, Mansour and Abdullah, the Negro chief trainer of the House of hamid, took the coffle of women through two heavy iron doors, each guarded by armed guards.  Hamid certainly took no chances about his valuable charges trying to escape!  They were taken up some stairs and into a long gallery which looked down into a succession of large training rooms.  The gallery was intended for use by Hamid and by Abdullah, when checking up on how each class was getting on.  It could also be used to give important clients a preview of the women that Hamid would shortly be offering for sale.

            Chained closely to each other by both wrists as Jane and her two companions were, they had to turn their heads sideways to look down into each room, as instructed by Abdullah - so that they could learn just what would be expected of them.  At a first glance there did not seem anything particularly interesting about the first room, indeed it was virtually empty except for a tall, thick smooth post.

            Then Jane jumped as a whip cracked and she saw a black  eunuch, dressed in a black frock coat and stiff collar, like Abdullah.  This was the European style ‘stamboulike’ worm by officials in Turkey.  The formality of his dress clashed with the nakedness of three white women kneeling on all fours by one wall.  In the Negro’s hand was a long carriage whip.  It was this that he had cracked and Jane saw how all three women had raised their heads expectantly, as if awaiting a further order.

            The Negro pointed to a pretty young women.  Then he paused.  Jane saw that the woman’s breasts were rising and falling as if she was breathing heavily in anticipation.  Suddenly the Negro cracked his whip again, and immediately the woman rose up gracefully and ran and knelt behind the post, facing it, her knees and breasts on either side of it, her belly pressed against it, her hands round the back of it as if embracing it.

            “Of course,” Jane heard Abdullah say, this time speaking in French to make sure the Pasha’s women understood, “this may be done to music and with more than one girl.”

            The whip cracked again.  Immediately the young woman half rose to a crouching position.  She began to writhe about the pole.  “Kiss it, love it, caress it,” commanded her trainer, cracking the whip again.

            “Now - more slowly - that better!  Now hardly move, use thighs.  Just the inside of thighs, keep belly back.  That better!  Now move slowly round the pole, keep inside of thighs touching it.  More sensuously!  Kiss the pole!  Lick the pole!  Keep knees bent, belly back!  Now, go right round the pole, very slowly, touch it with left nipple and inside of both thighs.  Good!  Now go other way round, touching it with right nipple.  No!  Only tip of nipple must touch the pole.  Head up!  Now bend down and place a drop of saliva onto the pole.  Good!  Now stand up, as you were, and let me see you draw the saliva right round the pole first with one nipple ... and now with the other.  Good!  Now rest.”

            There was a pause as the exhausted girl got her breath back, resting back on her knees.  Jane saw that she was looking up at them.  Was she wondering whether one of them would be the next girl to be put to the pole?  Jane shivered.  She was glad she was free, and not a slave.

            “It’s a useful exercise,” said Abdullah to the Pasha’s two black eunuchs.  “It helps a girl learn to address herself to a standing master.”

            Jane heard the trainer down in the room call out to the girl.  “Is our little girl wet?”  The young woman nodded, blushing.  She was Macedonian, the widow of a young man who had rashly criticised the Turkish overlords.

            “Very well.  Up again!  No, not too high.  Keep knees bent.  Now very gently place a little oil from between your legs onto the pole ...  A little more!  Now belly back.  I want to see you rub that liquid into the pole, right round it, with the inside of thighs.  Don’t touch the pole with belly.  Good, rub it in.  Right round!  Up and down!  Head up.”

            Jane could not take her eyes off the jerking girl.  She was a most erotic sight as she struggled round the pole, encouraged by little flicks of her trainer’s long carriage whip and keeping her knees bent and her legs well apart, rising up and down to rub  her own most intimate juice into the woodwork.

            “Rest!”

            The girl gratefully sank back onto her knees, resting on her heels.  Again she looked up at Jane, this time with a superior little smile on her face.  There was contempt and hostility in her eyes.  She knew that from now on her life as a slave girl would be one of competition with other women.

            Jane, embarrassed, looked away, at the thick post itself.  It was dark and shiny.  It had been rubbed smooth by the bodies of countless woman, and polished with their intimate juices and saliva.

            Jane could feel herself ready under her burka.  Ready, if ordered, to place a little polish onto the pole!

 

            “Slowly!  More humbly!” said the trainer in the next room, in a more cultured and much stronger voice.  He was half crouching over the crawling naked girl, moving around to get a better view as she crawled.  Then he moved up to the other end of the room to wait for her approach.  To her surprise, Jane saw that this trainer was Turkish but that over his face was a black mask, making it impossible to see what sort of a man he was.  But his voice was harsh.

            “Head lower!  Keep your legs apart as you crawl!  Back straighter and buttocks higher!”

            Jane watched as the woman approached him slowly, on hands and knees, her breasts hanging beautifully, her nipples just grazing the tiled floor.

            Then she dropped the dog whip from her teeth before his booted feet.  She remained there, head down, in position.

            “That’s better!  Now let me see your hands really far back.”  Then he bent down and picked up the whip and threw it across the room.  The woman kept quite still.

            “Fetch!” he ordered.  She rose lightly to her feet with a graceful movement.  Then with her arms held out from her body and swinging as she ran, and with her hands bent back so that her outstretched fingers were straining to be parallel to the floor, she hurried across the room.  She dropped to her hands and knees gracefully.  She picked up the whip in her teeth and turned to face him, again keeping quite still, her eyes fixed on his hands.

            Suddenly he snapped his fingers.  Again keeping her head down and her back beautifully straight she crawled slowly back to him, the whip held in her teeth.

            If Jane had been excited by what she had seen in the previous room, this display of female submission and animal-like obedience was almost overwhelming.  She heard a gasp from Juliette standing chained behind her. She must have been thinking how awful it would be to have to do that in front of her daughter.

            Jane could not help imagining what it must be like to be made to kneel and watch another girl performing, knowing it would be your turn next.

            “Next!” she suddenly heard the trainer call out.  She could hardly stop herself from replying ‘coming, Sir!’

            She had noticed that in both rooms there had been three or four women, all white.  Whilst one of them was being put through her paces by the trainer, the others knelt along one wall, watching carefully.  Now the next girl gracefully rose to her feet and ran quickly forward to kneel in front of the trainer.  He threw his whip across the tiled floor.

            “Fetch!”

            “As you can see we do not use a Negro as a trainer for this lesson,” Abdullah explained in his halting french for the benefit of the women, as well as for the Pasha’s black eunuchs.  “An experienced black eunuch is ideal as a trainer for the pole lessons, but for this one we want the girl to associate the trainer with her future or present Turkish Master.  So we use a mature Turk.  He wears a mask because this lesson has such a strong effect on the women.  When they crawl back with the whip between their teeth, they really feel they are crawling back to their Master and we don’t want them to get emotionally involved with a trainer.”

            Jane realised that, indeed, as a mere spectator she had not only associated the girl with herself, but also the masked trainer with Zaid Pasha.  How clever these trainers were!  How well they understood the mind of a woman!  Just like the Pasha’s own black eunuchs!

 

            “Again!” ordered the masked Turkish trainer.  “And this time put more endearment into your performance.”

            He turned back to the watching line of naked girls, kicking the girl away with his foot as he did so.

            “Remember, your Master is your whole life.  For you, as a Christian slave girl, nothing else matters except your Master.  He may be ugly.  He may be repulsive.  He may be cruel. He may be unfair.  But to you he is God.  You depend entirely on his goodwill.  At a snap of his fingers he can have you thrashed.  He can have you put down and killed, like an animal.  No matter what your secret feeling may be, you have to convince him that your truly worship the very ground he walks on, that you adore him, that your life is not worth living without him.  And to convince him, you must first convince yourself.  You must forget your former husbands, lovers and flirts.  Now you love your Master, and only him - and you’re going to try hard, really hard, to show that love.”  He  paused, he cracked his long carriage whip.  He pointed it at the girl he had kicked away.  “Now, again!”

            She went to the end of the room, turned and then with a happy and entrancing smile on her face she ran excitedly back to the man, who was standing wearing a long embroidered dressing gown.  She threw herself onto her belly in front of him, kissing his feet passionately.  Then she rose slowly to her knees, kissing his robe adoringly from the ankles to the waist.

            “Choose me, Master,” she whispered excitedly.  “I love you.  I will give you much pleasure.”  Her knees were wide apart.  Her belly lips were moist and glistening as she thrust them invitingly towards him.  “Oh my Master, your little slut dreams only of you.  She promises she will take no pleasure for herself.  She will think only of your pleasure - the  pleasure of the Master she adores and worships, and who’s shoes she is not worthy to kiss.”

            “Better!” grunted the Turk from behind his mask.  “Back into line!”

            The girl ran back to her position at the end of the line.  She stood with her hands straight down to her side, her chin up, her breasts rising and falling from the emotion, which, this time, it was clear she had really felt.

            “You!”  Sitting down, he pointed at the next girl.  “Practise from behind!”

            She was very pretty.  Her eyes glistened as she ran to stand behind him.  She bent down, letting her naked breasts touch the back of his head.  She put her hands forward round his neck and down slowly onto his chest, stroking him lovingly with the palms of her hands.  She was licking him adoringly under the ear.  She began to whisper little nothings.

            “Choose me, little me, your little slave girl.  This little slave wants to give her master pleasure, wonderful pleasure, and excitement and thrills.  This little slave thinks of her big strong master all day, and dreams of him all night.”

            “Fair!” said the trainer. “But I still want to hear more genuine passion.  Remember that your Master is the most wonderful thing in your life.”

            He pointed at another girl.  “Next!  On my knee!”  She was a beautiful creature.  She walked entrancingly towards him, her fingers outstretched and horizontal.  She slipped onto his knee, just as a little girl might do, with her shoulders back she tickled his chest with her breasts.  She put her hands gently round his neck.  She licked up at his chin.  One hand slowly slipped down the man’s body, touching it only with her finger tips, down onto his thighs and then up again.

            “Oh my Master, how I love you!  I adore you!  I worship you!  I want to be your little girl.  Your little live doll.  A little doll for you to play with.  A little doll to give you pleasure, much pleasure.  Please don’t send  me away!  I can’t bear being away from my Master.  I love my Master!”  So intense was her emotion that tears began to roll down her cheeks.  “Please don’t send me away.  I’ll be a good little girl, a very good little girl, Master!”   The man pushed her away and she fell to her knees sobbing.

            “That was very good! ... So, at last you are all beginning to get there.  I want to see you all carried away by your emotions, I want to see you all crying, crying for your Master. I want to see you all crying your hearts out at the thought of being separated from your beloved Master.” 

 

            The last class were being practised in the use of their tongues.  “In this room they are taught to be the silent, anonymous givers of pleasure,” Jane heard Abdullah say.

            She looked down.  There were two trainers in this room. One, wearing a long white robe, was sitting on a comfortable sofa.  He was a Turk and masked.  In his hand was a dog whip.  He snapped his fingers.  A naked young woman ran up and fell to her knees in front if him.  He snapped his fingers again, and she lowered her head and put it under his heavy robe, letting the folds completely cover her.  Her wrists had been linked in front of her by a short chain.

            Jane shivered, imagining what it must be like to be in the dark under a naked man’s robe.  She saw the woman slowly squirming her way up the robe, her head making it bulge.  She stopped just below his waist.  She saw the man part his legs under his robe.  She saw the woman’s head going up and down.

            Suddenly the man looked angry.  He reached down and lifted up the hem of his robe, baring the woman’s backside.  He gave her a sharp tap with his dog whip.

            “No!  Just tip of tongue.  Nothing else.”  He flung down his robe again.  Jane saw that the woman’s head was now quite still.  She could hear a little lapping noise coming from under the robe.

            “Better!  Just tip of the tongue.  Now the tips of fingers as well ... and now let me feel just the touch of your lips!”

            Jane’s eye was now caught by the other man.  Once again he was a masked Turk.  He was half sitting up on a long wide bed, the lower half of his obviously naked body covered by bedclothes.  Three girls were taking it in turn to crawl up under the bedclothes from the bottom of the vast bed.  Not only were they naked, as was apparently usual in the training classes, but a chain was fastened to a ring at the back of the simple iron collar that all the women in training wore.  This chain ran down their backs and was fastened to a ring in the floor at the foot of the bed.  Once again their wrists were linked by a short chain.

            “That was better,” came the voice of the Turk, deep and strong, like that of the other Turks - quite different from the high pitched voice of Abdullah.  “You must remember that a Lower Girl’s function is quietly to please her Master under his bedclothes whether he is reading, drinking coffee, or making love to one of his favourite page boys or concubines.  A Lower Girl has no other function.  She must not talk.  She must not show her face.  Her only reward comes from the thought that her Master must be greatly enjoying keeping her hidden down under the bedclothes. Frequently he will hold her there by her hair.  She must feel grateful for this small attention.”

            The man in the room below picked up the book and began to read. The girls kneeling at the foot of the bed looked at each other silently.  Suddenly, without putting down the book, he called out: “Next!”

            One of the girls began to squirm her way up the bed.  First  her head, then her back, then her buttocks and finally her legs slowly disappeared as she slowly wriggled  up between the reader’s legs.  Jane saw that he put his hand down, presumably to grip the girl’s hair. She saw that the chain coming out from the foot of the bed was now bar-taut.  The man’s hands prevented her from avoiding her duty by slipping down the bed, the chain prevented her reaching the much more comfortable position of lying alongside him - a position that was also much less tiring, anyway for her tongue.

            Jane saw that the man put down his book and pick up a dog whip.  He brought it down across the bedclothes with a fearful crack, though the thickness of the covers must have protected the girl quite well.  But she must have been terrified of the noise as she lay there in the dark, the masculine smell of the aroused man in her nostrils, as she strained to reach him with the tip of her tongue.

            “Don’t stop!” he growled.  “Keep going.  Tell yourself that you worship your Master, and that you’re doing this as proof of your love.”

 

 

 

            Jane looked down into the next room.  “How beautiful!” she murmured to herself.

            The Turkish musicians, playing in the corner of the room, stopped for a moment.

            The girl down below looked enquiringly at the Negro trainer.  He nodded approvingly.  “Your dancing is coming along very nicely.”

            A ring had been fastened around the girl’s left wrist and to this was attached a long slender gleaming chain.  Standing as she was with her left hand raised, the chain hung down in a loop before rising up again to a ring in the front of her metal collar, through which it was free to run before hanging down again to run up to the ring fastened to her right wrist.  Although the chain slightly confined the girl’s movement, by incorporating it into her dance the effect was made more entrancing and erotic, with the chain symbolising the girl’s status as a slave.  The heavy rings on her wrists and the collar round her neck emphasised this all the more.

            The musicians started to play their Eastern style music again, and girl resumed her dancing.  She was smiling excitedly, clearly thrilled to be dancing in such an uninhibited way.  Her eyes were half closed.  She was imagining she was dancing half naked in front of her Master, arousing and pleasing him with her erotic movements.

            The head trainer smiled down at her approvingly.

            “Even for girls who are not particularly good dancers, this chain training is excellent.  Our clients like to buy a girl who is vivacious and lively, as well as submissive and obedient.  It is not easy to train a girl to be both, but dancing brings out all these inherently natural qualities in a girl.  Women, educated Christian women, brought up to be ashamed of their bodies, find to their surprise that they have a natural and instinctive desire to dance before a man, to provoke him with their arrogance and gaiety, and then to appease him at the last moment by submissively throwing themselves at his feet.”

            Jane listened in wonder.  How true this was!  The head trainer was describing her own feelings and deep desires.  Ever since she had been a little girl she had longed to dance, to dance teasingly before a man.  These men really seemed to know all about women!

            Was this the reason why the Pasha had encouraged her to visit Hamid Effendi’s training school for slave girls?  To make her face up to her secret desires, and to realise that although she might have had to hide them in England, here in Turkey men understood the secret desires of women?

 

            “No, no, you must wash him far more delicately and gently,” the Negro trainer was saying to the girl who was bending over the bath sponging a young white man.  Like her, he was naked.  Jane saw that he too wore the slave collar round his neck and was blindfolded - clearly he too was a slave.  He could not see the naked girl but he could feel her.  She was being trained to arouse a man’s sense of touch.

            “That’s better!  You must make it an exciting and arousing experience for him.  Now soap your hands and use them down there.  Gently!  Yes, now you’re beginning to get a reaction.  Well done.  Now soap your breasts and let them brush his skin - hardly touching him.  Good!  Now you’ve got his manhood erect, keep it erect.  That’s right, gently massage him under the water.”

            The slave moaned with delight.  The trainer motioned to the girl to stop.  After a minute he ordered the slave to stand up.  “Now let’s see you dry him.  Again this must be an exciting experience for him.  Watch him carefully.  Make sure you keep him aroused.  Use the towel gently, and use your other hand.  That’s better!  Keep your eyes on his manhood.  Run your nipples across his belly ... that’s good.”

            Again the slave moaned in ecstasy, and the trainer motioned to the girl to stop.

            “Attending on her Master, when he bathes, is a wonderful opportunity for a slavegirl to show her respect and adoration.  Now make him feel you adore him ... slowly! ... that’s better ... now the next girl!”

 

            “Of course,” the head trainer said to Mansour as he led them down the narrow passageway, and down the dark stone steps to what seemed to be dungeons, “it would be a waste of time to put a delicate young Christian girl, or an older married woman, straight into a class when they arrive.  It would be just as stupid as putting a green horse between the shafts of a carriage.  Both must first be broken in, and this is where we do it!”

            The place was dark and damp.  Myriam, chained ahead of Jane, suddenly gave a scream as a rat ran almost across her feet.  “You see how these little Christian dogs hate rats!” the trainer laughed.  “They will see plenty of them down here.”

            He opened a heavy wooden door and led the way into a hallway.  In the centre of the hallway was a leather covered wooden horse - just like the one in the Pasha’s harem, thought Jane.  Would it too be used for beatings?  She shivered excitedly.  Along both sides of what could only be described as kennels were rows of little doors, low down just like the entrance to real kennels.  There was a gap of several inches between the bottom of each door and the floor.  A Negro was pushing a flat bowl of revolting looking cold, half-cooked porridge under one door, using his foot.

 

            “This girl has completed her training,” said Hamid Effendi’s chief black trainer.  “She’s graduated as a Hamid girl.  The little red rose has been tattooed, you will see, onto her arm alongside her newly registered slave number - or perhaps I should say, these days, her indentured servant number.  She’s now proud to be a trained pleasure servant, and will try hard to attract the attention of a rich Master.”

             She was naked on the block.  A Negro trainer stood over her, whip in hand.  The room was round, with several small discreet alcoves separately curtained off, each containing a comfortable sofa for a potential buyer who would be inspecting the women on display, and bidding for them.  There were large mirrors all around.

            The girl’s weight was on the palm of her hands and on her toes.  Her arms were straight, her head was up, her legs were wide apart and straight, her back was slightly curved downwards with her buttocks slightly raised so as to display her intimices towards the alcoves.  It was a degrading position for a woman, the shame was heightened by a chain that linked her wrists.

            “Show yourself!” ordered the trainer, with a crack of his long carriage whip.  The girl began to thrust out with her buttocks, alternately thrusting out and squeezing in, whilst keeping her legs splayed in a highly erotic display.

            “Show yourself to the men over here.”  The trainer pointed to an alcove to one side.  “Keep your legs straight!”

            Keeping her hands and toes on the floor, the girl awkwardly moved round until her buttocks faced the designated alcove.  Then she repeated her display.

            It had been a degrading sight.  But it would show her submissiveness to her would-be buyers.

            “Next position!” ordered the trainer.

            The girl gracefully turned over onto her back, clearly repeating a movement that had been much practised.  She parted her legs.  She raised her knees.  Slowly she raised first one leg, then the other, and once again she was ordered to offer herself, thrusting her belly up and down.

            “Next position!” came the order.

            The girl rose to her feet.  She stood up straight, her shoulders back, her breasts thrust forward, her eyes fixed on the alcove facing her.  She had an inviting smile on her face.  The palms of her hands were at her side.  The chain linking them was taught across her thighs.

            The whip cracked.  Her smile vanished.  She put her hands behind her neck.  She parted her legs and then bent her knees, at first only slightly and then more until she was almost in a squatting position.

            “Show yourself!”  She hesitated.  The whip cracked menacingly.  Again it was the turn of her belly to be alternately thrust out and sucked in, in a series of gestures that left little to the imagination.

            Again, Jane found herself imagining that she was the girl.  How awful to have to display yourself in such a shameful way before strange men.  And yet, might it not also be highly exciting?  She could indeed feel that she herself was already wet and aroused, under the curve of her new chastity belt, at the mere idea.  Then she noticed that the girl’s naked body was in a similar state - signs that the girl’s trainer was not slow to notice as he made her practice displaying herself so brazenly.

            “Good!  A nice hot little Christian slut, showing off her arousal.”

            The girl was blushing.

            “Now put your hands on your hips.  Go on displaying yourself.  And now gently shake your breasts!  And put out your tongue ... No!  Not like that!  Put it out straight, as if you were licking a peach - or our Master’s manhood!  That’s better!”

            And so it went on.  If she were a rich man, thought Jane, she would pay anything to have such a delicious young thing in her power.

            “Although this girl is practising being sold on the block,” Abdullah explained, “the routine would be the same for a girl who had been sent here by her Master for training.  She would be showing off to him again, but now as a trained pleasure slave.  She wouldn’t know if he will accept her back, or take advantage of her greatly increased value to have her sold to some other Master - who might be even more terrifying!  And she is scared lest her Master’s eye might have been taken by one of the other girls being trained here.  So she is desperate to show herself off to him as a superbly provocative yet submissive slave girl.”

            Jane heard Juliette, still chained right behind her, catch her breath as she listened horrified to what the chief trainer was saying.  Obviously she was realising that she, in her turn, would have to perform before the Pasha in a month’s time just like the girl on the block before them.

            “Run round!” came the order from the Negro trainer below them.  His whip cracked.  The girl placed her chained wrists on top of her head.  The whip cracked again, and like a well trained performing animal the girl began to run round the block, raising her knees in an exaggerated way.

            “Knees higher!”  The whip cracked again, this time only inches from her buttocks.  The girl was now prancing round like a circus horse, raising her thighs until they were horizontal, her back straight.  It was a pretty display, by a well trained and obedient slave girl.

            “Speak!”

            The girl stopped.  She faced the empty alcoves.  She stood rigidly at attention, her fingers straight down her thighs, her wrist chain hanging by her knees, her head up.  “I will give my Master great pleasure.  Please buy me!”

            She flashed her eyes appealingly around the alcove.  She made an irresistibly beautiful and desirable picture.  But her Negro trainer was not satisfied.  He cracked the whip angrily.

            “Say it again!  And this time say it as if you really meant it.  You will be standing naked and helpless before sophisticated men used to the appeals of slave girls.  You must melt their hearts.”

            The girl repeated her little speech, this time speaking more slowly with greater emphasis.

            “That’s better!  Next!”

            Just then a young black boy who came running into the gallery and whispered something to him.  He turned to Mansour.

            “Now,” he said, pointing to Jane and to the mother and daughter, “Hamid Effendi wants to see these girls.”

            Ali led the coffle out of the viewing gallery and down the passageway.  As they left Jane saw that the girl was being put through the same slave paces as the first girl had been.

 

 

 

            Jane stood in the chained line of women in the middle of the room.  Deftly unbuttoning the fastenings on the sides of their burkas, Ali slipped them off.  So now they were stark naked as they stood closely chained by both wrists, one behind the other, ready for the inspection by Hamid Effendi himself.  Naked, that is, except for the little brass chastity discs locked over their intimacies.

            “We take these off when Hamid Effendi inspects you,” said Ali. It was bad enough thought Jane, to be chained, almost naked and awaiting the inspection of your body by a Turkish slave dealer.  It was even worse knowing that your last line of defence, your chastity belt, was going to be removed in front of him - yet somehow it also was desperately exciting.

            The black eunuchs from the Pasha’s harem and Hamid Effendi’s chief trainer were chatting away in Turkish in a corner or the room, paying no attention to the waiting line of naked white women.

            Then Ali looked round.

            “Heads up,” he barked, raising his cane menacingly.  “Hands straight down your sides, fingers stretched down, eyes looking straight ahead.  Look at wall!  Do not move!”

            Now Jane realised why they had been chained in order of height, the diminutive Myriam in front of her and the tall Juliette immediately behind her.  She could just see over the head of the woman in front of her as, scared, she kept her eyes fixed on the wall.

            Jane saw that there were drawings on the wall.  One depicted one of the training sessions that they had just witnessed.  A woman crawling with a dog whip in her mouth.  A girl being trained at the post.  A girl kneeling imploringly at the feet of a masked Turkish trainer.  A girl dancing naked.  A girl bending over the padded horse, a girl performing on the block.

            Jane saw that there were other drawings representing training scenes that they had not seen: a girl licking a man from behind; two naked girls kissing each other whilst their Negro trainer stood over them.

            Staring at these pictures of the domination of Christian girls, as she stood naked at attention, Jane was confused and ashamed.  She had not realised the complexities of training a pleasure slave.  Never had she imagined that women could be so dominated by men.  She wished she had never asked to visit the slave dealer’s establishment, yet she had found it the most exciting experience of her life - as exciting as the brief glimpse she had seen of the Pasha’s harem.

            These men, unlike the men she had seen and grown up with in England, were Masters, true Masters of women.  And the women were happy to have such Masters.  She, too, would be happy to have such a Master, she realised.  It was a feeling that was quite natural to her as a woman, but was one largely ignored in so called civilised England and Europe.

            These thoughts and memories, strengthened perhaps  deliberately by the drawings she had to keep looking at, and by the terrifying thought of the forthcoming inspection of her naked body by a strange man, were arousing her as she stood helpless and chained.  She could feel herself becoming hot and moist again under the disc of her chastity belt.  The thought that the disc was shortly to be removed horrified her, and yet again stimulated her further.

            Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large heavily  bearded Turk enter the room.  The chief trainer and the Pasha’s two black eunuchs all bowed obsequiously.  Ponderously, he walked over to a high backed chair immediately in front of Myriam, just under the drawings.  Jane saw that his eyes were cruel.  There were rings on his fingers, the outward sign of a successful Levantine merchant - a merchant whose merchandise was women!

            Hamid Effendi turned to the Negroes.  Gesturing to the cowering women he put short sharp questions to Mansour, and to his own chief trainer.  They spoke in Turkish, and Jane found it perhaps even more embarrassing and shaming to be discussed in a language she could not understand.

            Then Hamid Effendi nodded at Ali.

            “Hands back!” ordered Ali.  The three woman now held their arms back on either side of their waists.  Each found that her wrists were increasingly held back by the chain linking her to the wrists of those of the woman behind her.  Mansour held back the wrists of Juliette, the last girl in the line, thus forcing back Jane’s hands which in turn held back those of Myriam.  Never had Jane felt so helpless, like an animal tied so that it could be felt and examined.  Then Ali deftly and quickly unlocked the little padlock in the small of Myriam’s back.  Her chastity belt fell away.  Next he unfastened her gag.  Hamid Effendi slowly looked her up and down.  Jane saw that the back of the girl’s neck was reddening as she blushed under Hamid’s gaze.

            “Head up!  Eyes on wall!  Keep silent!” shouted Ali.  Myriam straightened up, her breasts thrust forward by the way that her arms were being held back.

            After a long pause, Hamid Effendi beckoned Myriam forward.  The line of chained women shuffled forward awkwardly until Myriam stood between the slave dealer’s knees.  Jane did not dare look down, so she could not see what he was doing.  She heard Myriam catch her breath several times and gasp.  She heard Hamid give a grunt of satisfaction.

            “This little virgin will train well,” he said in French.  “She will give Zaid Pasha much pleasure.”

            He nodded at Ali, who bent down and unfastened the girl’s wrist chains.  Myriam was led away.  Led away to start her training, and, Jane realised, to be broken in - down in the dreadful dungeons.  The young girl gave a last look at her mother and seemed about to cry out to her, but the chief trainer thrust her gag back into her mouth as he pushed her through the door to where another Negro eunuch was waiting - the same jailor that they had seen earlier on in charge of the kennels and the dungeon.

            Jane was now made to walk forward to stand, in her turn, between the knees of the gross Hamid Effendi.  She tried to hold back but Ali brought his cane down across her naked back, making her scream behind her gag.  Seconds later she felt Ali unlock her chastity belt.  It fell away displaying her completely.  Then he unfastened her gag.

            “Head up!  Eyes on wall!  Keep silent!”

            Jane felt Hamid Effendi’s hands on her lovely blonde hair, feeling its texture.  She felt the back of his jewelled hands on her cheeks but she did not dare look down.

            “Open your mouth!” he ordered in French.

            Jane felt the dealers practised hands lifting up her lips to get a better look at her teeth.  She felt like an animal being examined.  She tried to lift her chained hands to her face to brush away his awful fingers but, of course, her hands were held back behind her.  She was helpless.  Dutifully, she opened her mouth.  She felt his fingers inside her mouth, examining and feeling her teeth.  He smelt her breath.  “Put your tongue out!”  She wanted to refuse, but Ali gave her a warning tap on the shoulders with his cane.  Obediently, she put out her tongue.

            She felt Hamid Effendi’s hands on her breasts, lifting them, weighing them expertly, lifting them high up and then letting them go to judge the bounce, squeezing her nipples, making them hard, drawing them out.  Only the repeated tap of the cane prevented her from recoiling in horror.  Then his hands dropped to her waist, kneading her belly in an experienced manner and running his hands down behind her back and over her buttocks.

            “Bend your knees and part your legs!” he ordered.  “Wider!  Down more!”  The next two minutes were the most embarrassing of Jane’s life.  Suffice to say that her virginity and her double tightness, were all clearly established.  Even worse, her state of arousal was also noted and commented on with approval.

            “How old are you?”.

            “Twenty-one, Sir,” she quickly answered keeping her eyes on the wall.

            His hand was still on her, playing with her, driving her almost mad with desire and shame.

            “Look at me!”

            She couldn’t!  She could not look in the eyes of a man who had just examined her so degradingly and who still held her against the palm of his hand, a palm against which she found she could hardly stop rubbing herself - just as she had seen female animals do when in season!

            “Look at me!”  Again the slave dealer’s harsh order was accompanied by a stroke from Ali’s cane across her shoulders.

            “No!  No!” she sobbed.

            She saw Ali raise his cane again.

            “Alright!  Alright!  Please just don’t beat me again.”  Obediently she lowered her eyes to meet the cruel piercing ones of Hamid.

            “She is a delightful little creature, and a natural slave,” said Hamid to Mansour.  A natural slave!  No!  But she felt herself press against the palm of the dominating slave dealer.  She felt like putty in his experienced hands.

            “Yes, indeed, a really natural little slave, waiting to be taken by her Master!  The Pasha is indeed lucky to have acquired her.  I shall certainly recommend to him that she is sent to me for further training, but I shall also recommend he does not have her circumcised.  Depriving a woman of pleasure can give a man great satisfaction, but in her case, she responds so well that it would  be a pity.  You want to please your Master, don’t you, little slave?  You would enjoy being his little toy, wouldn’t you?”  Hamid’s eyes were ruthlessly boring into her, dominating her, hypnotising her.  “You would like to be his little slave, wouldn’t you?  Answer me!”

            For a moment Jane forgot that she was really a free woman, she forgot that she was only pretending to be one of the Pasha’s slaves so as to see the training given to real slave girls.

            “Yes, Sir,” she said, dropping her eyes in shame.

            “You want to be what?”  He nodded at Ali and Jane felt the tap of his cane.

            “I want to be his slave, Sir,” she sobbed.

            “Say it again!  And say it loudly!”

            “I want to be his slave, Sir!”

            There!  She had said it!  She had said what secretly had been in her mind ever since she had arrived at the Pasha’s palace.  She had been made to express out aloud her most secret thoughts.

            “Now write it!”  Hamid handed her the yellow pad, as Ali freed her wrist chains.

            “No!  You don’t understand!”

            “Oh yes I do!  I can recognise a natural slave in love with her Master when I see one.  Now write:  ‘I want to be one of Zaid Pasha’s slave girls’.  Go on!  Write!”

            Terrified and mesmerised, Jane wrote the words, he eyes staring at the page.

            “Now sign it!  Sign it with your accursed Christian names!”

            She signed it ‘Jane Dudley’.  Hamid took it back and handed it to Mansour with a laugh.

            “Zaid Pasha will be most amused to see the effect of merely watching a little training!  How much greater will be the effect of a real training programme!  Tell him to let me have her for a month, and I will return her to him as the most passionate and obedient little slave he has ever enjoyed.”

 

 

 

            “I think I may need your help, Jane,” said the Pasha with the arrogant laugh that she found so irresistible.  “Do you know what is meant by Droit de Seigneur?”

            It was two days after Jane’s visit to the establishment of Hamid Effendi, two days of living in luxury in the Pasha’s guest wing, always  watched over by the black eunuchs from his harem.

            ‘Droit de Seigneur!’

            The very words brought back memories of girlish whispers in school corridors of shocking and excited explanations, of relieved laughter that no such system still existed.

            “Why, yes Your Excellency,” she replied.  He called her Jane now, but he had not excused her from calling him by his full title.  “It was a rather quaint old medieval custom that died out years ago - if it ever really existed.”

            “It’s still very much the custom here in the remoter parts of Turkey,” said the Pasha.

            “Oh really?”  She tried to put on a bored voice to disguise her excitement.

             “In these parts of Turkey there are only a few Christians - members of subject and conquered races.  The local Imans, our Moslem priests, want to keep it that way.  So when a Christian girl wants to get married, she must first seek the permission of the local Turkish Governor and of the Moslem Iman.  They must certify that she is a loyal subject of the Sultan and fit to be a Turkish mother.  It is the custom, if the Governor finds her attractive, for him to insist that she spends a little time in his household so that he can be sure of her suitability and loyalty.  He hands her over to his black eunuchs and she is put into his harem for a few weeks, or even for months.  Of course she loses her virginity, loses it to the man who must vouch for her loyalty as the future mother of some of the Sultan’s Christian subjects.”

            The Pasha paused, as it to ensure that Jane had taken in what he had been saying.  Her mind was beginning to race.  What was this devilishly attractive man trying to tell her?

            “Yes, it’s a clever system,” the Pasha continued.  “If the girl does not collaborate fully, then she does not get permission to marry.  If she does, however, then not only will she get the permission but perhaps also a handsome marriage present of silks and jewels - and, though she may not yet know it, a half Turkish baby.  For this reason, it is often normal for Christians to be forced to bring up their first child as a Moslem.  The Iman will have her examined to make sure that she is no longer a virgin and that, hopefully, she is already carrying a good Moslem child.  When she is released, she gets married quickly.  The young man does not ask any questions, and when the first child is born he is usually called after the Pasha who took her virginity.”

            “Oh!” cried Jane in astonishment.

            “From our point of view,” continued the Pasha, “not only are these girls a delightful source of pleasure but also a useful way of introducing our young teenage sons into the joys of mating Christian girls.  Moreover the girl will be left for the rest of her life with the vivid memory of the power of her Turkish overlords, a memory that will help ensure that she and her family treat us with the respect that is due to us from our conquered Christian subjects.”

            “But surely, Your Excellency, the future husband sometimes objects violently?”

            “In which case, my dear Jane,” replied the Pasha urbanely, “the girl he wishes to marry would not get permission to do so!  Better a slightly used bride, than no bride at all!  In any case he is often unaware of how his bride-to-be obtained her permission to marry.  And the Pasha’s black eunuchs would teach her how to disguise the fact that she had already lost her virginity ... would you enjoy being such a girl, Jane?”

            Jane laughed nervously, feeling embarrassed.  She lowered her eyes.  The Pasha had a knack of making her feel that he knew her most secret thoughts.

            She looked up at him.  “I think, Your Excellency, that it would depend on whether I liked the Pasha in question.  But anyway, this rule would not apply to me, as an Englishwoman.”

            “But it would, here in this remote part of Turkey!  You are a Christian.  If you want to get married, then you must have permission, and that permission must come from me.”  The Pasha looked forcibly into her eyes making her quail.  “Moreover the story of your arrival in Malik has now gone around the bazaars.  The Mufti of Malik, our chief priest, has already been to see me to insist that I implement the rule.  He even said that he would want to insist on his right to inspect you, to make sure that you had lost your virginity.  Only a good Moslem, he had insisted, had the right to enjoy being a Christian slut’s first man ... I think I really rather agree with him!”

            Jane gave a gasp, but did not trust herself to say a word.  The thought of being taken by this magnificent man was both terrifying and unbelievably exciting.

            “But perhaps we might excuse you carrying my child at your wedding,” laughed the Pasha.

            Leaving Jane speechless, he turned and picked up a piece of yellow paper, the paper she had signed in Hamid’s training school.

            “I can see that the visit to the slave training school made quite an impression on you, and brought out some of your most secret thoughts,” laughed the Pasha.  It was this same laugh that she found so attractive.

            He put down the yellow sheet of paper and picked up another.

            “A natural slave ... with training could become a humble and submissive slave girl ... shows signs of enjoying teasing men ... has a passionate nature ... good child-bearing hips ... should be mated to increase the size of her breasts ...”

            When he put the report down, Jane was trembling.

            “Interesting, very interesting,” he said, as if what he had been reading had no direct bearing on Jane.  But now he knew everything!  She was putty in his hands!

            “So you wish to apply for permission to marry, Miss Dudley?” he asked, suddenly speaking in an official tone of voice.  “And you know the conditions?”

            Jane felt her heart beating quickly.  “But William?” she whispered.  Then answering her own question, she added.  “He must never know.”

            “Exactly!” laughed the Pasha.  “I thought you would come round to looking at it like that ...  Look up at me, Jane!”

            She found herself looking up at him almost coquettishly.  When he stroked her hair she shivered with excitement.  She found herself longing, driven by some primaeval instinct, to reach up for his hand and take it to her lips, to kiss it passionately and submissively.

            His other hand reached down and touched her breasts through her thin Turkish blouse.  She caught her breath.

            “I am leaving tomorrow for a short tour of inspection along the coast, visiting some of the smaller towns and villages, in my official steamer,” she heard him saying.  “I would not want to leave you here alone.  I shall be taking Phileda and several of my other concubines - the villagers will expect me to provide dancing girls for our banquets ashore.  Would you like to come too?  You would enjoy the trip and the coast is very beautiful. And Phileda would be company for you.”

            “You mean come as ...”

            “You would come as a Christian girl seeking permission to marry.  Anything else would cause too much scandal.”  He patted her cheek.  “I’m glad that you agree because I have already given the eunuchs instructions to include you amongst the baggage I am taking on board.”

            Jane’s anger suddenly exploded.  Her eyes flashed.  She rose to her feet.  He was taking too much for granted.

            “And supposing, Your Excellency, I don’t agree?” she demanded haughtily.

            “Then you will be put on board my yacht, for my personal enjoyment, just the same.  However you would be kept chained in a cell when not wanted in my bed.  You would still lose your virginity, but because your conduct had not been satisfactory you would not be given your permission to marry.”

            “Oh, you Turkish men!  You’re just beasts, beasts who only think of their own pleasure,” Jane sobbed.

            “Exactly, little Jane,” smiled  the Pasha.  “And it’s your anger that makes you so irresistible.  Now calm  down and kneel  again at my feet, or the eunuch will be tempted to use his cane!”

            “Ouch!”  She felt a sharp tap on her buttocks.  She spun round.  Ali, the black eunuch who had brought her to the Pasha’s apartments, had quietly entered the room and was standing right behind her, his cane raised.

            “You’re just a dirty bully!” she sobbed as she fell to her knees.  “You just use a huge Negro to frighten a poor girl into doing what you want.”

            “Exactly!” laughed the Pasha as he bent down and began gently to stroke her breasts.

            “Oh ... oh!”

            “Except that the huge Negro, as you call him, would also be frightening the poor girl into doing what she wanted to do as well.”

            “How can you say such a thing!”

            “I do say it, and you know that it’s true.”

 

 

 

            It was a few hours later that the summons came.

            But it was not at all what she had expected, and hoped for!

            “The Lady Lalla Zora, the wife of His Excellency, wishes to see the English girl,” said a black servant girl who had suddenly appeared.

            Immediately the eunuchs bustled round Jane, dressing her in the smartest Turkish costumes that they could find hanging in the wardrobes, and fetching more from the harem.  Scarcely had they dressed her in bright green, than they shook their heads, stripped her naked and dressed her in  brilliant blue, only to change it all to a soft pink.

            They brushed her hair until it shone.  They painted her nails for the third time that day.  They touched up her eyes and they put sparkling sequins in her hair.  Being summoned by the Pasha’s first wife was clearly a full-dress affair!

            Only when they were really satisfied that she looked ravishing did they cover her in a black burka and lead her out into the palace gardens and across to a secluded and very pretty villa, or kiosque as the Turks called it.

            Once inside her burka was removed.  The eunuchs gave her dress a last minute adjustment and smoothed her hair.  Then she was led into a large brilliantly lit room.

            Sitting erect on a high sofa was a beautiful and striking-looking Turkish woman of about forty with huge eyes, dark hair and a voluptuous figure.  She said something in Turkish, and a second later Jane heard an English voice.

            “The Lady Lalla Zora, His Excellency’s wife, says you are very beautiful - no wonder His Excellency is taking you with him on his forthcoming trip.”

            Jane turned away from the fascinating figure on the sofa to the side  of the room from where this voice, a boy’s voice, had come.  Startled she saw an almost naked youth of startling beauty.

            His face, his eyes, and even his nails were painted just like hers.  His long blond hair, beautifully groomed, fell to his shoulders where it was curled upwards in page-boy style.  His chest was bare and hairless, his figure slight and almost girlish.  Round his waist was a wide green satin cummerbund, the tasselled front of which hung down to his knees, disclosing on the front of his smooth left thigh the same brand of two scimitars that she had seen on the thighs of Phileda and the other slave girls.  Except for this cummerbund and his Turkish embroidered slippers, he was naked.  In his hands he held a long stave with a wide-spread fan on the end.

            Lalla Zora clapped her exquisitely painted hands.  The youth ran and stood by her, keeping the fan slowly moving over her head.  Again she spoke in Turkish.  Again came the perfect English translation.

            “Lalla Zora wishes you to approach closer.”

            “But you’re an English boy!” cried Jane astonished.  Then suddenly she remembered something that Phileda had said.  “You’re the cabin boy who ...”

            “I am Hyacinth.”  Lalla Zora said something in an angry tone.  “My Mistress is angry because we are talking together.  My role is only to act as an interpreter.  Please don’t interrupt or ask me questions, or I shall be beaten!”

            “Oh!”  Jane was silenced.  Lalla Zora looked her up and down, making her blush.  She gave a word of command.

            “She says, turn round,” said the English boy.

            Hesitantly, and then rather proudly, Jane turned and showed off her figure.  Another word of command.  Jane saw the black eunuchs who had brought her coming towards her.

            “She wants you to undress.  She wants you see you naked!”

            “What!  Undress here?  In front of all these people!”

            “Apart from My Mistress and her maid servants, there are only eunuchs,” the boy said quietly.  “It is the custom for the Mistress to inspect girls in whom the Pasha is interested.  It would be better to do what she says!”

            So Jane began to unbutton her clothes, handing them one by one to the eunuchs, blushing deeply as she did so.  Soon she was standing naked to the waist, her hands covering her breasts.  Again came a command in Turkish.

            “And your pantaloons,” translated the boy.

            Desperately embarrassed, Jane stood in front of the Turkish woman, stark naked except for the humiliating silver purity belt that had been put on her again after her return from the slave dealer.

            “She wishes you to put your hands on your head and walk round the room.”

            Jane did as she was bid.  There seemed no alternative - and, as the English boy had said, there were only women and eunuchs!

            Next the key was inserted into the tiny padlock at the small of her back.  The chastity belt fell away, displaying Jane in her full and now hairless nudity.

            Again she was made to walk round the room, before returning to stand in front of the Pasha’s wife, who looked her up and down and then said something in Turkish.  There was laughter in the room.

            “She says that His Excellency is right.  It would have been a crime to have left the deflowering of such a beautiful creature to your fiancé.”

            Jane was too ashamed, too shy, too embarrassed to say anything.  She stood there naked, being appraised as a woman by the wife of the man she loved!

            The Turkish woman said something in a conversational, almost sad, tone.

            “She says that she is sorry that you are not a real slave.  She would have liked to have bought you to give to her son for his birthday.”

            “Her son!” gasped Jane.

            “Yes,” replied the English boy eunuch.  “He is twelve and on his thirteenth birthday they will give him his first Christian slave girls to start his harem.  Meanwhile, his father lets him use his slave girls.”

            “Oh!” cried Jane, silenced once again by the thoughts of the sheer male dominance of Turkish life.  The Turkish woman laughed.

            “She says she will recommend her son to accompany his father on his trip.  She will ask the Pasha to let her son have you!”

            “Oh no!” screamed Jane, suddenly overwhelmed by it all.  She dropped her hands from above her head, and buried her face in them.  The son of the Pasha!  A twelve year old boy!

            “Put your hands back quickly over your head!” said the boy urgently.  “You will make her angry.”

            Hesitantly Jane placed her hands back again on the top of her head, in the submissive position of a slave girl under examination.  The Turkish woman began to comment on her body.

            “She says that your body is crying out to be used for breeding, that you would look very pretty carrying two little slaves.  She says that if you were her slave she would have your mated to her favourite black dwarf to see what you would produce.”

            “How dare she...”

            “She means it as a compliment.”

            Before Jane could say anything Lalla Zora languidly gestured to the black eunuchs to give Jane back her clothes.  She watched as they first locked the purity belt back over her body lips and then dressed her, then stood up and smiled.  She stroked Jane’s blonde hair approvingly.

            “She hopes you will be happy married to your fiancé, but that she doubts that you will ever forget Zaid Pasha - or his son, her son.”

            With that Lalla Zora swept from the room in a regal manner, her beautiful English boy valet running behind her and leaving Jane in a state of considerable shock.

            If her brain had been in a torment before the encounter with the Pasha’s first wife, it was now a maelstrom of confused ideas and concepts.  If only, she thought, if only I had only stayed in peaceful and uneventful Hampshire!

 

 

 

            “Heads up!”

            The order came from the powerful and frightening figure of Mansour, the Pasha’s chief black eunuch: it was early the following morning.

            The black shrouded figures straightened under their burkas.  As they did so, five little bells tinkled from underneath the shapeless coverings, for in accordance with the harem procedure for concubines chosen to accompany the Pasha on his trips away from Malik, all wore chastity belts.  These were not only intended to protect the honour of the Pasha in strange surroundings where other men might have the opportunity to rape his women.

            “Hands to your sides!”

            There was a chinking of heavy chains from under the burkas as the woman put their hands down their naked thighs.

            “Report!” ordered Mansour.

            From under her burka, the woman who was standing apart called out: “Leila!”  She was the Arab girl whom Jane had seen giving belly dancing lessons in the harem.

            Then the tallest girl on the right of the line of the four chained women stepped forward.  “Phileda!”

            The next tallest girl, standing next to her, stepped forward.  “Magda!”  It was the buxom young Austrian woman who was the Pasha’s current personal milk slave, and who therefore travelled everywhere with him.  She stepped back, her naked heavy breasts hidden by the black burka.

            Jane felt a sharp dig in the ribs from the girl on her left.  Hesitantly she stepped forward.

            “Jane!”  All night she had tossed and turned, wondering if this drawn out forced seduction was real or only a dream.  But it was real, and her forthcoming rape was coming closer and closer and there was nothing she could do about it - even if she wanted to.  She felt a gentle tug on her burka.  Back into the line, the chains linking her collar to those of the girls on either side of her jingling as she moved.

            “Ruth!”  This was a lithe Roumanian Jewish girl, one of the girls Jane had seen practising her belly dancing in the harem, no doubt chosen for the dancing displays that would enliven the feasts the Pasha would give to the elders of the coastal villagers.

            “Pay attention!” came the high-pitched fierce voice of Mansour.

            He paused so that his words would have greater effect.  “Mr Ali in charge, with Mr Mustapha and Mr Abdul.  Leila, as only Moslem girl, will be Head Girl.”

            He turned towards Jane as if to explain.  “She only a concubine, but as Moslem girl she far superior to you Christian dogs.  You show her respect.  You let her pass through door first.  If she want your chair or cushion, you give it to her at once.  She has authority to report you to Mr Ali for punishment.”

            “And Faisal Bey, the Master’s son, he now coming too.  You please him, like you please Master or else he have you beaten!”

            Mansour nodded to Ali, who led the four Christian girls out into the courtyard, where the Pasha’s baggage waggon was being loaded.  The concubines were merely part of his baggage.

 

            Peering through the gauze strip of her burka and through a crack in the side of the baggage waggon, Jane saw the Pasha climb down from his smart carriage.  He made a virile picture of masculine pride as he took the salute of the Guard of Honour drawn up alongside the freshly painted steamer.  By  his side strode the figure of a boy, dressed like his father in a smart Turkish uniform.

            “That’s the Pasha’s son all right,” whispered Phileda.  “He’s a vicious and cruel little squirt.  He may be only twelve, but how he likes to hear a girl screaming under the whip!  We all hate him.”

            The Guard of Honour marched off.  The baggage waggon drove up to the gangway.  A party of sailors came down and carried the Pasha’s cases and trunks on board.  Ali came and unlocked the door at the back of the waggon, he told the Christian girls to get out and lined them up.  The two black eunuch boys preceded them up the gangway, their canes in their hands like badges of office.  Leila, also hidden under a burka, walked

behind them and Ali brought up the rear.

            They passed a luxurious salon, part of the Pasha’s quarters.  Then they arrived on a little enclosed deck: the women’s deck.  It was barred like a cage at the sides and over the top.  An awning also went over the top and side screens were attached round the sides - all to hide the Pasha’s concubines from prying eyes.

            They were led into a small room, with two-tier narrow bunks.  Over the head of each of the bunks was a ring with a padlock, to enable the woman’s wrists to be fastened so that, chastity belt fitted or not, they could not touch themselves in bed.  The Turks really are obsessed, thought Jane, by the idea of enforcing purity amongst slave girls.

            Soon they stood naked in their little dormitory cabin, lit up only by two small portholes.  Ali now produced five short little satin tunics.  They buttoned on the shoulders so that they could be put on or taken off by women with their wrists chained.  The front plunged deeply to their navels scarcely hiding their breasts, and over their shoulders was a sort of sailor’s collar.   The waist was tightly belted and the skirt absurdly short.

            But the women were glad have something to cover their nakedness.  On the right breast of each tunic was the Pasha’s crest of two scimitars.  Even Leila had to wear the revealing tunic.

            Then they had to put on the yashmak veil that fastened behind their necks and rested on the bridge of their noses, hiding their faces, except for the eyes, in case of an accidental encounter with a member of the crew.  The veils were only to be removed, Ali ordered, in the presence of the Pasha himself or his son.

            Jane looked into the bathroom that was alongside the girl’s dormitory.  The dormitory might be small and crowded - that was of little concern to a Turkish gentleman - but the bathroom where his woman were cleaned for his pleasure, and where they made themselves look beautiful for his delight, was a different matter altogether.  It was large and spacious.  Numerous Turkish cosmetics were laid out together with hairbrushes and mirrors.  Clearly it was intended that the girls were to be kept spotless and looking beautiful throughout the voyage.

            The ship began to vibrate gently with the throb of the engines as lines were cast off and they got under way.  Excited like schoolgirls on an outing, the young woman all rushed out onto their private little deck, laughing, giggling, jumping about in their short tunics, and peering through little slits in the side screens as Malik began to disappear.  Soon, under a bright sun, the ship was slowly cutting its way through the flat calm of the Mediterranean sea.

            When he was satisfied that no one on the shore could see his charges, and that the deck was also cut off from sight of the crew, Ali and his young assistants took down part of the canvas side screens, letting in a refreshing breeze.

            Then Ali went round testing and inspecting the iron bars that made this special woman’s deck into a cage out of which the young women could not climb, and into which no would-be amorous swain could penetrate.  He then checked that there was no access to the woman’s quarters except through those of the Pasha himself.  He carefully tested the raised rings above each girl’s bunk, and then the view from the raised seats in the dormitory and on the private deck which were expressly intended to enable a supervising black eunuch to keep a close eye on what his charges might be getting up to.

            Satisfied that he could now ensure both the chastity and the purity of his young women whilst they were on board, he instructed his two young assistants to unlock the chastity belts from each girl’s loins.

            It was the first time that Jane had not had to wear a chastity belt since her arrival in the Pasha’s palace.  With her body hair removed, and her little tunic hardly reaching down to her hips, she felt very naked and exposed - excitingly so.  Originally, she reflected, the Pasha had apparently ordered her to be put into a chastity belt to protect what he called the honour of her fiancé.  Now that he intended to deflower her himself, and as she was under the continuous supervision of his black eunuchs, there was no need to take more than the normal precautions that his black eunuchs took with all his women.

            It was all very exciting.  She was now in the same position as his concubines, all trying to outwit the black eunuchs, and risk a flogging, in order to obtain a few minutes of bodily relief.  It was all very shaming, but it was the inevitable result of the frustration in which they were deliberately kept by the black eunuchs, so as to heighten their sensual awareness and their dependence on the masculinity of the Pasha, their Master.

            Their private deck, despite the rather forbidding bars, was attractive and comfortable with several chaises-longues and deck chairs as well as large leather cushions.  The excited young women threw themselves down onto them, relieved at not now having to wear chastity belts.

            But Ali now clapped his hands and made them line up again.

            “You will still be watched.  Remember that if any of you are found touching yourselves or each other it will be twelve strokes of the cane immediately!”

            He looked hard at Jane.  She blushed, realising what he meant.  But how dare he threaten her, she thought, with an arrogant toss of her head in a gesture of contempt.

            Pooh, she thought, I’m not afraid of you.  As Ali turned away, she put out her tongue at him, a gesture reminiscent of a little girl showing her contempt for a superior.

            “You little fool!” whispered Phileda, now standing beside her.

            But it was too late.  One of the black eunuch boys had noticed Jane’s insolent gesture.

 

 

 

            “Jane! come here!” Ali ordered.  Nervously, Jane stepped forward. She heard the other girls behind her suck in their breath in fear.

            “You not now His Excellency’s honoured guest.  You just Christian dog, seeking permission to marry another Christian dog, by pleasing Master.  You need lesson in harem discipline, now you get twelve strokes!”

            “No!  You’ve no right to threaten me!” cried Jane angrily.

            “Oh, yes he has, little Jane!” came a voice from behind her.  There was a sudden commotion as the other girls all fell to their knees, their hands flat on the wooden deck, their foreheads touching it.  The Pasha had unexpectedly stepped through the door leading to his apartments.  He had changed into a long robe.  Behind him stood one of his white eunuch page boys, his long hair beautifully brushed and curled up at the ends in a page-boy cut, just like Lalla Zora’s boy.

            The Pasha was smiling, and she felt reassured.  Now Ali was really going to be put in his place!

            “And for arguing with my black eunuch you will now receive not twelve strokes but eighteen.”  He paused and sat down in comfort, his page boy standing behind him.  “Now!”

            Jane was immediately seized by the two black boy eunuchs.  They bent her over a wooden table in the middle of the deck.  Her hands were pulled forward and held by one of the boys.  A strap on the table was fastened tightly across her waist, tying her down.  She was helpless.  She was going to be beaten, for the first time in her life, and in front of a man - in front of the Pasha!  She could feel her scandalously short tunic riding up over her bottom.  Horrified she realised that with her chastity belt removed, the Pasha seated behind her could see her now hairless intimacies.

            “Legs apart!” ordered Ali.  Oh no, this made it even worse!  She felt utterly degraded.  But more was to follow.

            “Offer yourself to your Master!” the Negro ordered.  With a sob, she thrust her parted thighs backwards in a primitive placatory gesture of submission.  Never had she felt so humbled.

            There was a long silence.  Jane saw that the other girls were still kneeling on all fours with their heads and hands on the deck, like the well-trained animals that they were.

            Ali came round the table to face her.  Terrified she looked up at him.  In his hand was his long whippy cane.

            “Kiss the cane!”

            Hastily she did so.  “Kiss lovingly.  It represent Master’s authority.  Kiss respectfully and slowly ...”

            This is awful, thought Jane as Ali then went behind her, quite unbelievably awful.  Was she really going to be flogged in front of the Pasha?  And the other girls!  And the white page boy!

            Suddenly she felt a sharp tap on her bare buttocks.  She tried to jump up, but the strap round her waist held her down.

            “Head up!  Look straight ahead!  Arch back downwards!”

            Her buttocks were now thrust out.  She felt Ali lift up the back of her short tunic with the tip of his cane, baring her bottom completely.

            She remembered what the Pasha said about a harem beating making more noise than real harm.  She just hoped that it was true.

            “In the name of Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate!” intoned the burly Negro.  She suddenly felt hopelessly small and helpless by comparison with his great strength.  She clenched her wrists.  She tried to clench her buttocks.

            “No!  Relax!” ordered the Negro.  “Relax more ... more!  That better.”

            There was a sudden whistling noise, and then a streak of fire across her bottom.  She screamed.  The pain was terrible.  But what was worse, the pain or the humiliation?  Tears sprang to her eyes.  To be beaten in front of the Pasha!  Then she felt a familiar feeling in her thighs.  She was becoming aroused!  Aroused by her beating!  Aroused by being beaten naked in front of a man she loved.  A man she loved?  How could she love a man who degraded her so?  But she knew she did.  And she knew that he could not help seeing the signs of her arousal!

            “In the name of Ali the Merciful, the Compassionate!”  Again the streak of fire across her bottom.  Again her scream.  Again the long pause as she displayed her further arousal to the man she no longer regarded as her lover, but as her Master.  She was given two more strokes, and then the strap round her waist was unfastened.  The Negro boy let go of her chained wrists.  Astonished, she stood up, unsteadily.  Was  her beating over?  Was she going to be let off the remaining strokes, and of having to display her growing arousal?

            “Show your stripes to your Master!  Go over to him!  Turn round!  Bend over!”

            Blushing with unbelievably embarrassment, she found herself doing what she was told.  She remembered that Phileda had told her that this was the Pasha’s normal practise.

            “Keep still!”

            “I think, Ali” she heard the Pasha say in his casual attractive voice, “we’ll have the next four strokes a little lower down, across the backs of her thighs.”

            He might have been talking about the clipping of a favourite mare.  Then she felt his hands tracing the lines of the four strokes.  It was desperately exciting feeling his hands on her body.  Unable to help herself, she opened her legs to his hands, as if begging for him to touch her there, to relieve her arousal.  But he paid no attention!

            She was led back to the table.  But this time she was bent over it facing the Pasha.  She was too ashamed to look at him as she felt the strap being fastened round her waist again.

            “Legs together, this time!” ordered the Negro.  She realised that he must have caned hundreds of woman.  He was so cunning.

            “Up on your toes!  Right up!  Strain up!  Now arch your back down and raise your head up!  Now hold that position!  Concentrate on it!  Think!  Higher up on your toes!”  At last he seemed satisfied, making Jane really concentrate on holding her position.  Then came the order she was half expecting and dreading.

            “Now look at your Master.  Not your take your eyes off his!”  A sharp tap on her bottom accompanied this order as Ali realised that it would be one that she would have to be driven to obeying.

            She raised her eyes to the Pasha’s, as if begging in her distress and arousal for mercy.

            “In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate!”  The cane came down across her tightly pressed thighs but this time it was far harder than before.  She could not help herself screaming much louder that before, how could she stand any more strokes?

            The Pasha said something in Turkish to Ali.

            “Master says you took your eyes off his!  That stroke not count.  You get extra stroke, now this time you keep eyes on Master!”

            Somehow she managed it for the next stroke.  Having to look at him while he sat smiling in comfort while she was being beaten had the effect of arousing her even more.  By the time the next three strokes had been given to her, she was almost at fever pitch with arousal, pain and humiliation all driving her almost mad.  She felt a complete slut.  She could not wait to be untied and to have to bend over in front of him, and to have to feel his hands on her body.

            But she was not untied.  Instead, the Pasha lethargically rose and went behind her.  Suddenly she felt his hands.  She could not help thrusting her back into his hand, showing him her aroused wetness.  She gasped as he slowly stroked her.  She was reaching a crescendo!  Then suddenly he stopped and went back to his seat.

            “No, please don’t stop!  Don’t stop!  Come back!” she heard herself screaming shamelessly.

            She heard the Pasha suddenly snap his fingers.  She saw the other girls straighten themselves like dogs awaiting a further command from their Master.  “Ruth! come here!”

            The Jewish girl crawled across the deck to her Master’s feet.

            “Down!”

            Ruth put her head under the long robe, insinuating her lithe body up under it between his outspread knees.  There was no doubt about what she was doing with her tongue.  Jane realised that if being beaten in front of him aroused her, so watching her being beaten had aroused the Pasha.  Her beating was simply an excuse for the Pasha to receive pleasure from his slave girls.  Since her visit to Hamid’s school she was now aware of such things.  She saw the Pasha move Ruth’s head with his hands.  She saw the robe rising and falling with the movements of Ruth’s head underneath it.  She saw the Pasha half close his eyes with pleasure.  She could not take her eyes of the little scene.

            Then the Pasha opened his eyes and nodded to Ali.

            “In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate!”

            Jane had to watch the Pasha being pleasured by Ruth as she was given the last twelve strokes of her caning.  She realised that although he was being pleasured, he was not allowing himself to be brought to a climax.  The pain was almost unbearable, but so too was the sight in front of her, and the knowledge of the role that she was being made to play as she writhed under the cane, stimulating the Pasha’s arousal.

            Despite the quite appalling  pain, she could feel herself being deeply aroused.  Now more that ever she felt under the exciting and complete domination of the Pasha.  He was in truth her Master.

 

 

 

            It was dark and stuffy under the bedclothes.

            Jane lay alone in the Pasha’s bed, in his spacious cabin.  She could feel the chain running down her back.  One end was fastened to the ring at the back of her stainless steel collar.  The other was fastened to the foot of the bed.  It was this chain that kept her down under the bedclothes, unable to crawl up to the comfortable pillows, to light and air at the top of the bed.  A heavy chain riveted round her wrists had been drawn up the bed, under the bedclothes, and fastened with a silk scarf to the top of the bed.  So, as Ali had said to her, she could not now misbehave whilst waiting for the Pasha to finish his lunch and take his siesta.

            Her bottom was still unbelievably tender from her thrashing and even the slight weight of the bed clothes hurt her if she made the slightest movement.

            Jane had been lying there, held by the chains, for nearly half an hour.  By lifting up the top of the bedclothes occasionally with her hands she had found she could get a little fresh air.  She was frightened and alone, yet at the same time madly excited at finally being in the Pasha’s bed.

            It had been only a short time after her beating in front of the Pasha that the white page boy had brought the message.  Pointing to Jane as she lay amongst the slave girls on her stomach on the deck, he had told Ali that the Pasha wished her to be chained as a Lower Girl in his bed for his siesta.  No, he had said, the Pasha had said nothing to him about an Upper Girl.

            Jane had been washed and douched until she was as spotless inside as out.  Ali had made sure she was quite empty - there must be no risk of an embarrassing accident.  In reply to Jane’s request for a drink of water to help settle her nerves, she had been allowed to take only a tiny sip, and twice she had to kneel over the inevitable brass bowl.

            Her bitter thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening.  She heard footsteps.  She heard the falsetto voice of the Pasha’s white page boy as he undressed his master.  There was a pause.  Horrified, Jane realised the white page boy had not gone, that he was still in the room, that he would be witnessing her submission.

            Then she heard the top of the bedclothes being drawn back, the rustle of his silk gown.  Her hands were released.  Quickly she pulled them down.  She felt the bedclothes rubbing against her sore bottom, at least she was lying on her tummy.  Then she felt the Pasha’s naked legs slowly feeling their way down under the bedclothes one on either side of her. Not a word was said.  She was again in complete darkness as he settled down in the bed.  She could smell him, a strong masculine smell.  She tried to wriggle up to get some air, but of course the chains held her down in the darkness.

            Her face was now against his hard body.  She knew what she was expected to do, but it was all too much!  Still not a word was said.  Perhaps she was not expected to do anything after all?  She lay quite still, relieved.

            Then she heard the Pasha angrily click his fingers above the bed clothes.  Presumably he was giving an order to his white page boy.  She felt his hand reach down and grip her hair, holding her tightly.  She felt the bottom of the bedclothes being slowly drawn up, baring her legs and then her naked bottom.  She heard a whistling noise.  A cane!  Just as in the morning, fire streaked across her soft little bottom.  She screamed under the bedclothes.  She tried to wriggle away, but the chain and the Pasha’s hand held her tightly.  There was a long pause, again she heard the angry flick of the Pasha’s fingers.

            Again the whistling noise came.  Another stroke!  Again she screamed.  Still nothing was said, but she knew what she had to do!  She put out her tongue and started to her lick her Master’s hardness, licking upwards gently, softly and tantalisingly in the darkness.  He thrust her head backwards and then down, and again she started to lick her Master, licking like an obedient little dog might lick her master’s hand. Indeed, as his hand left her hair she found herself grasping it eagerly and covering it with kisses.

            The bed covers were replaced over her naked bottom, but she realised that the white page boy was still standing, ready to apply the cane again should she falter.  She began to use the tips of her fingers to supplement the tip of her tongue.  She realised that the Pasha was beginning to doze off, to take his regular siesta, to dream erotic dreams whilst one of his women softly pleased him.

            It was a humiliating role, and yet one which she found somehow deeply satisfying.  He had chosen her to give him pleasure under his bedclothes.  She began to feel proud of her humble and anonymous role.  Careful not to wake him, she used the tip of her tongue and fingers, to send little shivers of delight through his manly frame.  Was he dreaming of her?  This, she realised, as she gently tongued his hard manhood, was the instrument that would soon, perhaps this very night, take her virginity.  In some primitive way she felt it was only right and proper that she should first be made to worship it, to adore it and to lick it.

            Before her visit to the slave training establishment, the very idea of doing what she was now eagerly performing would have been shocking and horrifying.  Now, driven on by fear of the cane, it was exciting and arousing.

            Her reverie was cut short.  The Pasha was awake again and she had allowed her tongue and fingers to falter!  She heard the dreaded snap of his fingers.  Hastily she re-applied herself to her task.  But it was too late!  She felt the bedclothes being drawn back again.  Once again her hair was gripped to hold her still, to hold her in position for the cane.  Twice she heard it whistling through the air.  Twice she screamed under the bedclothes, as it was slashed across her very tender posterior.  Then the bedclothes were replaced.  Not a word was said, but she knew why she had been beaten, and she knew what she had to do to prevent being beaten again.  She did it.  And she kept on doing it, even though she suspected that he had now dozed off again.

            Half an hour later, she felt him stir.  His manhood was again erect and probing as she humbly worshipped it as the instrument that would soon take her virginity.  The Pasha gripped her hair.  He positioned her mouth and thrust his manhood into it, making her slowly give him exquisite pleasure.  She could feel that she too was becoming acutely aroused, but there was nothing she could do about that.  She did not dare lower her chained hands to satisfy her own body.  Indeed the fingers of both hands were holding the Pasha’s manhood.  He kept her at it for some minutes.  She heard him give an occasional sigh of pleasure, a sigh which drove her on to greater efforts.  Several times he gently pushed her away from his body to avoid coming to a climax, and then allowed her to resume.

            Suddenly she felt him climb out of the bed.  She heard the noise of the white page boy washing him and then dressing him. Still not a word had been said to her as their footsteps went to the door and once again she was all alone.

 

 

 

            Jane was sitting on one of the leather cushions on the women’s deck.  She was looking out across the calm blue sea towards the mountains of Turkey, a very beautiful sight in the evening light.

            Her reverie was interrupted by Ali.  He had a piece of embroidery in his hands and some brightly coloured silks. He handed them to her, then he showed her a completed piece.

            “You copy!  Keep you busy!  This for footstool for your Master.  You copy carefully.  No mistakes!  You get cane for any mistakes.”

            “Yes, Mr Ali, Sir!”

            She was glad to have something to do.  She saw that several of the other girls were busy doing embroidery.  It would keep her mind off the events of the day: her humiliating beating in front of the Pasha; his use of her as a Lower Girl during his siesta; and the ever present thought that the Pasha really had brought her on this trip to lose her virginity to him, like any local Christian girl seeking permission to marry her Christian boyfriend.

            She had embroidered various cushions for her aunt in England.  She was quite expert at it.  But this one was particularly difficult.  She remembered that Ali had said she would be beaten for any mistakes.  She would have to concentrate carefully.  As she started on the work, she felt a thrill at the idea that her work would be used on a footstool for the Pasha.  He would wipe his feet on her work!  It somehow seemed appropriate and symbolised the domination of the Pasha which she was now experiencing.

            An hour later it began to get dark.  The ship had anchored in an uninhabited bay.  The breeze had dropped and little lights had been rigged up across the woman’s deck.  It all seemed very beautiful and romantic - a romantic setting for her forthcoming rape.

            One of the Pasha’s page boys came onto the deck.  The women all looked up curiously.  What message did he bring this time?  He whispered into Ali’s ear.  It seemed serious, for Ali quickly sent for his two boy assistants.

            Then he came over to Jane. “You put down embroidery!  You come with me!  At once!”

            She followed Ali and one of the black eunuch boys to the bathroom.  The other black boy remained watching the women.  They always had to be under supervision, she thought sadly.

            Five minutes later she found herself crawling across the Pasha’s luxurious rugs.  Her short little tunic had risen up around her waist, below which she was completely naked.

            Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Pasha’s shoes.  He must be sitting on a large sofa, she thought.  Next to his shoes was a smaller pair of boy’s shoes.  The Pasha’s son must be sitting next to him!  It was bad enough to have to humiliate herself like this in front of the Pasha, but to be seen naked and crawling by his young son made it doubly embarrassing.

            At last she reached the Pasha’s shoes.  He raised a toe ...  She heard his voice.  It was harsh.

            “Now listen carefully.  You are here because it is only right and proper that as a Christian dog you should offer your virginity up to a True Believer before you meet your fiancé.  You know this is true.”

            He paused.  Jane felt utterly under his domination - as much as she had in his bed as a Lower Girl that afternoon.

            The Pasha continued.  “Not one word!  But you’re now going to knock your head on the floor as a sign that you know you’re going to lose your virginity.  Now, knock your head!”

            Helpless Jane did so.  She felt an abject slave.

            “Harder than that!  Do it again, or you’ll be caned!”

            Desperately she struck her forehead hard against the floor.

            “That’s better.  Now listen carefully.  Just listen.  One word from you and it will be twenty strokes.”

            Jane could not help trembling, such was her terror.

            “I have decided to allow my son, my precious beloved son, to take your virginity.”

            Jane’s mind exploded.  No!  No!  It’s not him, it’s you I want to give myself to, she almost screamed aloud.  Only the sheer fear of the twenty strokes kept her silent.  Her whole body shook with a violent sob.  The Pasha was silent, letting her absorb fully the devastating news: she was going to be taken by a twelve year old boy!

            She would never, she thought, have acquiesced in coming on this trip, if she had thought that this would be the result.  But had she really had any option?  It was all too awful.

            There was complete silence for a full minute.

            “It is, of course, a great honour.  You will be his first virgin.  The black eunuchs have instructions not to take any precautions, and if you conceive you will have to explain to Mr Lascelles why your first child has such dark eyes.”

            The Pasha laughed aloud.

            “Now you are going to knock you head on the floor as a sign that you are grateful to me for letting my son exercise my rights of droit-de-seigneur over you.”

            Horrified, scarcely knowing what she did, Jane knocked her forehead on the floor once more.

            It was obviously the Pasha’s wife who had engineered all this.  Jane thought of her with black hatred in her heart.  She heard the Pasha’s slow casual voice.

            “Later this evening my son and I will be coming to watch you all dance for us on the women’s deck.  My musicians will be staying hidden behind a screen so that they can not see the dancers.  Ali will be in charge.”

            Jane was listening carefully, but she did not see the relevance of all this to the fact that she was now going to be raped by the Pasha’s son.

            “You will be dancing for us as well.  But don’t worry!  We shan’t expect you to be able to belly dance, but after your visits to Hamid Effendi’s school for slave girls, I shall expect you to have a good idea of how to dance erotically for men.  Each girl will, of course, be trying to attract my attention.  But you, my little Jane, you will be dancing for my son.  You will dance naked in front of him.  Your dance will be aimed at him.  The other girls will be surprised, for they do not know about this conversation.  You will not tell them that your virginity has been reserved for my son to take tonight!

            “After your dance, you will sit by him flirting with him like a whore - exciting and arousing him in a loving way, until he finally orders you to his bed.  In his bed you will again be passionate and adoring.”

            He paused yet again to make sure that his commands were understood.

            “Have I made myself clear?”

            Horrified Jane struck her forehead against the floor again in an submissive gesture of assent.

            “Very good!” laughed the Pasha, though there was still an undertone of menace in his voice.  “Provided you perform satisfactorily tonight, I may use you myself tomorrow or the next day.”

            Jane’s heart leapt!  She felt his hand fondle her hair absent-mindedly.  At least it was something.  He was still fond of her even if he was giving her virginity to his son.  She remembered that the other girls had frequently been used by the boy.  Now that she was having to play the role of a slave girl, it was not so surprising perhaps, that she too would be used by the boy.  But not the first night!

            Suddenly she felt the boy’s hand gripping her hair.  He lifted her head up off the floor.  Startled she looked up at the boy.  He was fat and cruel-looking.  Without any warning he suddenly smacked her face hard, twice.

            “How dare you look at me!” he screamed.  Quickly she lowered her eyes demurely.  “You’ll pay for that later on!  Ali’s cane will make you show more respect!”

              The Pasha looked on in a fatherly and approving way, glad to see that his son was standing no nonsense from a mere chit of a Christian girl.  Now she was as frightened of the boy as she was of the Pasha.

 

            She had been dancing for some time ... swaying erotically to the music ...

            Once again the music suddenly stopped.  Again she stood stock still.

            Ali stepped over to her again.  He unfastened one of the long broad ribbons that hung down from her collar down over her breasts and belly, and down to her ankles.  Then he unfastened another from the back of her collar.  He threw them onto a little pile of similar ribbons in front of her.

            In the twinkling half light of the women’s deck, it was clear that Jane now had only one ribbon in front, and one behind.

            The music started again.  Jane’s hands were touching, back to back, above her head.  Her shoulders, her belly, and her hips were all slowly undulating to the slow sensuous music.  Her brilliant scarlet lips were matched by her brilliantly painted nipples and her body lips which appeared and disappeared provocatively behind the one remaining front ribbon.

            Her eyes were on Faisal Bey, the Pasha’s son.  She was dancing for him and for him alone.  He sat, a small fat and unattractive figure, by himself on a sofa.  His eyes were riveted in anticipation on the delightful naked figure of Jane.  The fact that her dancing was amateurish only made it all the more arousing.  He was playing with a long dog whip, as he watched her.

            She swayed up to him.  He raised his whip.  She swayed back again.  She turned away, the long ribbon that hung down her back swaying over her soft bottom.

            Jealously, she flashed her eyes towards the Pasha himself.  Dressed in a long Eastern open cloak and brightly coloured robe, he was sitting back enjoying the spectacle.

            Kneeling up on the sofa on his right, Jane saw Leila, the Arab girl.  Her left hand was round the Pasha’s neck as she whispered little murmurs of love into his ear and kissed his cheek.

            Her right hand was gently thrust down deep into the Pasha’s robe.  She was naked.

            Both Leila and Magda had already danced for the Pasha.  Only Phileda and Ruth, the Jewish girl, had still to dance.

            The music stopped yet again.  The last of Jane’s ribbons fell to the floor.

            The music started up again and changed to a faster rhythm.  Jane knew that only by humiliating herself before the boy could she please the Pasha.  Now bereft of any covering, she swayed herself toward the boy.  She had been watching him playing with the dog whip.  She knew what she had to do, what she must do, to please the Pasha.

            The music came to a crescendo and stopped, she flung herself at the feet of the boy, grovelling at his feet, her eyes raised pleadingly.  He raised the whip, as she knew he would.  He brought it down hard across her back, once, twice, three times, and then once more.

            Jane was screaming, but she was also kissing the boy’s feet.  Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the Pasha smiling approvingly.  That was reward enough.

            Feeling a complete whore, she slowly got up.  She sat on the boy’s knee.  She put her arms round his neck, kissing him passionately and lovingly, astonished at her own forwardness.  Again she glimpsed the Pasha’s approving smile.  Surely her performance tonight was satisfactory - so far.   Could she really go through with it all?  But was there really any alternative?  How desperately cruel the Pasha was, forcing her to make love to his son.

 

            She lay on her back on the boy’s divan bed.  The weals on her bottom and thighs and the new weals across her back made it very painful.  Under her bottom were two large cushions, to thrust up her loins.  She was helpless, tied down like a sacrifice.  The boy had even ordered her to be gagged and blindfolded.

            She heard him come into the room.  His step sounded rather heavy.  She felt something light, like a feather, running up and down her thighs, up and down her body.  She tried to cry out, to protest, but she could only make little grunts under her gag.  Oh how she hated this boy!

            Slowly and surely she felt herself being aroused, madly aroused.  Ashamed, she felt herself raising her body to the boy, offering herself, like a slut, like a whore.  Was this, she sobbed behind the gag, how she would remember for the rest of her life, the way she had lost her virginity?

            She felt his hand on her body.  For  a moment she shrank back, but soon her body was making her thrust forward again, begging, begging, begging.  Suddenly she felt his manhood.  She was quite helpless.  She was penetrated slightly.

            The boy seemed surprisingly experienced.  He kept her fully aroused, setting her whole body on fire.  She was screaming under the gag, screaming with pain - but also with delight.

            She felt him slightly withdraw before driving in again.  She held her breath.  This was it!  This was the moment in which she was going to become a woman.  In fact, it was a moment that was tantalisingly drawn out.  Under the gag she was crying out a name.  It was not the boy’s, it was the Pasha’s.  If only this had been him!  Why had he been so cruel?

            Then suddenly the boy drove into her with surprising force.  She felt her virgin defence break.  Again she screamed and as she did so her blindfold was ripped from her.

            Blinking in the sudden light, she found herself staring into the blazing eyes of Zaid Pasha himself!

 

 

 

            It was not until late that night, that wonderful night that she would indeed remember for the rest of her life, that she plucked up enough courage to ask.  She remembered that Phileda had told her that slave girls risked a beating if speaking without permission.

            “Please, Sir, Your Excellency, may I speak?”

            She was lying curled up alongside him.  He had told her to put one arm lovingly around his neck, he had told her to reach up periodically throughout the night and gently lick his cheek, his neck and his ear, like an adoring little dog, and to flash her eyes submissively up at him in the half darkness.  They were, she had found, gestures that had come quite naturally to her, gestures of subservience and homage.  With her other hand she was gently cradling his manhood, his wonderful manhood which had taken her and then given her so much delight, and which was now resting.

            “Yes, little Jane, you may speak.”  The Pasha laughed, amused at the way this untrained English girl was so quickly picking up the ways of an oriental slave girl.

            “Why, Sir, why the ...”

            “The deception?  Why did I tell you that you were going to be given to my son?”

            “Yes, Your Excellency,” she whispered gently into his ear.

            “Don’t you see?  How else could I have got you to myself all night!”

            “Oh! I see ...”

            “It’s a great honour to be alone in my bed, without several other slave girls all competing for my attention.”

            “Yes, Sir!  I’m so grateful, Sir!”

            “It will be for the first and last time, little Jane!”

            “Oh Sir!”  She reached up and as a little sign of gratitude licked his bearded chin.  “But, surely, wasn’t your son disappointed?”

            “Hardly!” replied the Pasha.  “It is not often that a twelve year old boy has a chance to have four girls in his bed!”

            “Oh!”  The sheer licentiousness of it all, she thought, the single-minded concentration on how best to use women for your pleasure!

            “In any case, he’ll have plenty of other opportunities to enjoy you during the next few days, my exquisite little Jane.  There will also be opportunities for you to show your gratitude to him for having foregone the delights of droit-de-seigneur.”

            “Oh!”

 

            For Jane the next week passed like a dream.  It was a week that seemed to have been largely spent in the Pasha’s bed, or sitting adoringly on his knee, or at his feet, seeking to attract his attention whenever he visited his women in their cage-like little deck.  After that first delirious night she was never alone again in his bed, always there were one, and often two other girls.

            Once she was shocked to find she was sharing his bed with one of his pretty white page boys.  She was grateful that Phileda had warned her that this was considered quite normal in Turkey - as was using a woman like a boy, something which still appalled Jane every time she was used in this way.  However, she realised it made her feel utterly subservient to the Pasha.

            Several times she was again given the humiliating role of Lower Girl, an event that made her all the more appreciative when she was chosen to be an Upper Girl.

            On several occasions, of course, she had to suffer the jealousies and frustrations of not being chosen at all, and of having to lie silently in her bunk in the little dormitory, her wrists chained to the ring above her, whilst other girls were enjoying themselves with the Pasha.  She had to lie there in the darkness of the night, or in the shade of siesta time, wondering what they were doing and why the Pasha had spurned her.

            She was experiencing the way that black eunuchs had for centuries kept all the girls in a rich man’s harem on their toes and keen to please their Master.  Writhing in her frustration, and driven half mad by jealousy, she like many a slave girl before her, planned how to make herself irresistible to her Master, and then to give him so much pleasure that in future he would choose her again and again.

            She had also been chosen, this time in all seriousness, by the Pasha’s son.  She had steeled herself for it, knowing that it would be her turn sooner or later.  She knew she must pretend to be loving and adoring just as she was naturally with the boy’s father.  But when it came to the point he had to use his dog whip on her frequently to keep her up to the mark.  It was an unpleasant experience.

            Would she find, she wondered, that William was equally unsatisfying after what she had experienced in the harem of the Pasha?

 

            The little steamer called in to visit several isolated fishing villages and small towns.  The Pasha would spend much of the day inspecting the village or town and listening what the local elders had to say while encouraging them to renew their loyalty to the Sultan.

            Meanwhile, the side screens surrounding their deck refastened, Ali would exercise his slave girls and put them through their paces.  It was the first time that Jane had been made to perform the almost military drill that the Pasha had introduced into his harem as a way of both keeping his women trim and disciplined.

            She found it hard when she was coffled with Ruth, the Jewish girl from Roumania, to practise a joint erotic display that Ali had decided they were to perform together, their faces always veiled, in front of the Pasha and his guests.  It took numerous strokes of the cane, and the threat of being reported to the Pasha himself for a major thrashing, before she could bring herself to overcome her inhibitions and exchange with Ruth the passionate embraces that it amused Turks to watch reluctant white girls perform.

            Clearly, the Pasha enjoyed showing off his numerous slave girls, especially the European and Christian ones.  In the evenings he was frequently invited ashore to a banquet or gave one on board.  He expected his slave girls to participate by dancing assiduously before his guests in the oriental way.

            The other girls had already been already well trained in the art of pleasing a man by humbly and submissively offering him food and drink as well as in dancing.  Jane, of course, was quite untrained.  But after her performance at dancing to the Pasha’s son on her first night on board, and after much practising with Leila, was considered to be suitable to perform before the Pasha and his guests.

            Thus all five women were frequently sent ashore under the supervision of Ali, heavily veiled, and of course chained together.  On arrival Ali would remove their burkas, but then make them cover the lower half of their faces with a tantalising white veil.

            Each was dressed in a flowing pair of silken pantaloons, bolero and except for Magda, a pretty Turkish blouse.  Magda, as the Pasha’s personal milk slave, who’s milk would be offered to his guests during the evening, was not allowed to wear a blouse.  With her swollen breasts brushing aside the skimpy bolero, she made a most erotic sight.

            Periodically during the evening, Ali would come in to the room in which they were kept waiting under the supervision of one of the Pasha’s black eunuch boys, and would beckon one of them to come out and dance, to serve the next dish, or, as with Jane and Ruth, put on a well rehearsed erotic display.

            Although Jane had not been trained in belly dancing, she was used again to perform an exciting form of Turkish dancing that involved little more than swaying to the music.  Wearing her veil, she would stand completely naked except for her wrist chains and the same dozen long strips of broad shimmering silk ribbon, fastened in a simple slip knot to her metal collar, that she had had to wear when dancing to the Pasha’s son.  Once again, every time the music stopped she would have to hold whatever position she was in, while Ali removed one ribbon.  The music would then recommence.

            The dance would continue until she had only one little ribbon left, when with a deep obeisance she was allowed to scuttle out of the room, red-faced with embarrassment, leaving the assembled men to congratulate the Pasha on the submissiveness of his new Christian slave.

            Indeed, the sight of several European women, all clearly his slaves, wearing his collar with a chain riveted round their wrists, and except for Jane bearing his brand on their thighs, made a considerable impression.  So did the fact that they were all under the strict discipline of his huge Negro eunuch guard, his cane always in his hand.

            The Pasha was indeed regarded with increased awe and respect as a devout Moslem who knew how to handle Christian girls.

 

            On the last evening of the cruise, the small steamer anchored in a beautiful but deserted bay.  There was an air of excitement on the women’s deck.  Ali looked along the uninhabited shoreline and agreed that the side screens could be taken down, allowing the women to enjoy the beautiful scenery and the magnificent sunset.  Then he ordered them into the spacious bathroom to be washed and groomed.

            After he had supervised the bathing of the slave girls by his black boy assistant, he had Leila dressed as an Arab houri with transparent long silk trousers and a matching blouse.  Smiling, he sent her off in the care of the black boy to amuse the Pasha’s son for the night.

            Then he opened a large trunk that he had brought with him from the Pasha’s palace.  Out of it he produced four beautiful white European ball dresses, cut in the latest Parisian style.  There was a gasp of delight from Jane’s companions, as he also produced long white gloves, silk stockings, satin dancing shoes and gorgeous jewellery.  This was followed by gorgeous silken underwear, again from Paris: beautifully embroidered bust bodices, chemises, and, most exciting of all for these woman normally forced to be half naked, long boned corsets.  All this was greeted with astonishment by Jane, and with girlish shrieks by Phileda, Ruth and Magda.

            “A ball!” they cried.  “A harem ball!  Oh how romantic!  How lovely!  And all out here under the stars with the moonlight reflecting off the still waters of the bay.  A ball!”

            She shouldn’t mind, explained Phileda to the rather bemused Jane, that there would only be one partner for them all, only one beau.  A harem ball meant that for once they could put up their hair and look like European woman of fashion.  A harem ball meant that, until midnight, they could pretend that they were back in Europe again, that the normal harem rules were relaxed, that they would be free to gossip, tease and flirt with the Pasha as if he were a European prince and they the ladies of his court.  They might even be allowed to sip a little champagne.  Above all they could forget that they were the Pasha’s women, that they were his private property bought and paid for, his animals, his slaves - until midnight!

            Their excitement was intense and the atmosphere was electric as they carefully did up each other’s hair and helped each other into the now almost unfamiliar underclothes.  They laced up each other’s long fashionable corsets, admiring the tiny waists, the flowing hips, and the prominent bosoms that these gave them.  They praised the way Magda’s extra opulent bosom was now set off by her now small waist.

            Ali was watching these girlish antics with approval.  He made them put little white ribbons in their hair to give them a more innocent and girlish look.  He allowed them to use only a touch of rouge and only a touch of mascara.  After each had put on her exquisite ball dress and little satin slippers, he handed her a beautiful fan of white soft feathers.  They must, he admonished them, behave as if they were debutantes, shy and nervous debutantes at their first ball.

            At last he was satisfied that all was ready.  He allowed the excited girls - with Jane now just as excited as the others - to peep through the curtains that he had drawn over the little windows that gave out onto the women’s deck.  They gasped with delight.  It had been transformed into a fairytale terrace.  Coloured Chinese lanterns lit up a scene reminiscent of a summer ball in Europe, with little French chairs, rugs and a sofa.  The hidden musicians started to play - not the normal oriental music but the latest exciting and romantic music from Paris and Vienna: waltzes, polkas and even the new quick-step.

            They saw, standing in the middle of the deck, casually holding a cigarette, and looking immaculate in a well cut full evening dress, a satin lined cloak thrown over his shoulders, a silver topped black cane in his hand, his white bow tie perfectly tied, the elegant figure of the Pasha.

            Ali went to the door, held it open.

            “Miss Phileda Armstrong!” Ali announced with justifiable pride as a vision of English loveliness stepped regally, and yet demurely, onto the deck.  The slightly exaggerated tremor of her fan showed her emotion and excitement.  She curtsied exquisitely to the Pasha.  He kissed her hand respectfully and attentively.  He offered her a glass of champagne which she refused gaily, until he pressed her further.  He complemented her on her appearance.  She flashed her eyes coquettishly and yet tremulously, and tapped him on the wrist with her fan.  They made, thought Jane jealously, a delightful couple.

            “Fraulein Magda Von Sternauser!”  Regretfully, Phileda moved to the side as the Pasha raised Magda to her feet and started an impassioned discussion about the latest Richard Strauss opera which he had recently seen on his travels, whilst his eyes seemed fixed on her opulent milky white charms.

            “Mademoiselle Ruth Abrahams!” announced Ali.

            The Pasha was teasing Ruth abut the natural beauty of Jewish women and she, in return, was blandly asking how he knew about it, bearing in mind that he was a Moslem and like all Moslems hated the Jews.  Laughing he began to tell Ruth about a fascinating Jewess whom he had met recently in Paris.

            “The future Mrs William Lascelles!” announced Ali.  Blushing with confusion Jane stepped onto the deck.  Such was her emotion that she nearly stumbled as she curtsied deeply, more deeply than she had every curtsied to anyone in her life.

            “Ah Mrs Lascelles! ...  as I think we should call you now, since I understand you will tomorrow be receiving permission to marry - provided,” he smiled enigmatically, “that nothing untoward happens meanwhile!”

            Leaving Jane standing with her mouth open, he turned back to Ruth and continued, to her delight, his rhapsody about Jewish women.  What did he mean, wondered Jane anxiously, as Magda, trying to be kind, handed her a glass of champagne.

            A few minutes later, the Pasha turned and formally asked Magda to dance.  The other girls watched jealously for he was clearly an excellent dancer.

            It was not until nearly another half an hour before Jane found herself in his strong arms languidly turning to the music of the latest Viennese waltz.  It was absurd, she thought, but she felt just like the heroine of a Victorian melodrama swooning in the arms of the man she loved on the eve of her wedding to another.  She gazed into the Pasha’s eyes adoringly and appealingly, but his face was a mask.

            The music stopped and he put his hand round her waist.  She shivered with excitement at his touch.  He led her over to the guard rail.  The mountains looked unbelievably beautiful and wild in the moonlight.  He took her hand and gently squeezed it and she could not help returning the little secret gesture, her eyes lowered in a mixture of sadness and modesty.  He raised her chin, making her look up again into her eyes.

            “I have a feeling, Madame,” he said with a little bantering laugh, “that you will not easily forget a certain Turkish Pasha, even if your marriage is as happy as I hope that it will be.”

            “Oh no, Your Excellency,” she found herself murmuring.  “I shall never forget you, never, never, never.”

            A little sob shook her small body.

            The Pasha smiled.  “Good!  But don’t be sad.  Wipe away your tears.  This is a happy occasion.  Come, we’ll dance again.”

            But she could not stop the tears that poured down her face as he again took her into his arms and whirled her around the deck.  Soon, despite her tears, she was smiling, as he teased her about her future married life, before returning her to her companions.

            And so the extraordinary party continued.  The gay music was constantly punctuated by girlish laughter, by the Pasha’s own deep laugh, by the chink of champagne glasses - and of course by the metallic clinking of the chains riveted round the wrists of each of these beautiful creatures!

            The Pasha danced with Jane twice more, holding her in the formal European way.  For the other girls it was a delightful and enjoyable break from their harsh life as one of the Pasha’s collection of women.  But for Jane, it was the sudden realisation that a page in her life, a dear dear page, would soon be turned.

            Suddenly there was a noise of eight bells being struck at the far end of the steamer.  Midnight!

            There was a pause.  Ali coughed.  He now had his cane in his hand again.

            First Ruth, and then Phileda and then Magda fell to their knees before the Pasha’s feet, the palms of their hands and their foreheads touching the deck.  Ali coughed again.  Jane saw that he was looking directly at her.  She, too, fell to her knees in the same humble position.

            “Ali!” came the voice of the Pasha.  “I am so pleased with my little girls tonight, but I really can’t choose between them.  Have them all sent to my state room.”

            There was the noise of the Pasha’s footsteps as he left the deck, none of the women moved.

            Then Ali clapped his hands twice.  Jane saw the other girls kneel up.  She did so too.

            “You will be taken back to the bathroom and undressed.  Then you will be washed, ready for the Master.  Tonight you will all wear new long satin French nightdresses for the Master’s delight.”

            Half an hour later, four beautifully groomed young women were kneeling at the foot of the large bed in which the Pasha was lying.  Two white page boys each held two leashes, the ends of which were fastened by a slip catch to the ring at the back of the girls steel collars.  The girls kept their heads down.  They did not dare to talk.  They could hear the Pasha chuckle to himself as he turned the pages of a book.  How long was it since they had been allowed to read a book!

            Then they heard the book being shut with a slam.  “Release the little dogs!” came the Pasha’s order.  His page boys reached down and slipped the leashes off and four young women eagerly started to crawl on their bellies up the bedclothes.  Another night of love had begun - just one more for the other girls, but a last one for Jane.

 

 

 

            Mansour, the Pasha’s chief black eunuch, swept in.  “Quick!  You hurry!” he shouted.  “Man come for you now.  Must get ready!  Hurry!”

            It was two days later.  Two days in which Jane, now back again in the guest wing of the palace, had again been treated as an honoured guest.  She again looked like a typical innocent young English girl, pretty and charming - except for two things: the black eunuchs had made her keep on the mesh silver chastity belt under her English dresses - and she was no  longer a virgin.

            But the Pasha had ignored her - too busy, she had thought, now that he was back with all his other women.  But she did have one visitor.  Earlier that morning Ali had brought Phileda over from the harem, chained and shrouded in black, to say goodbye.

            It had been an emotional moment for Phileda.  As a slave in the Pasha’s harem, she was unlikely ever to have another chance of speaking to an Englishwoman.

            “What will happen to you?” asked Jane, genuinely concerned about her friend.

            “Perhaps I’ll be his favourite!” said Phileda.

            “It’s all so awful,” cried Jane.  “How can I get you away from this harem?”

            “You simply can’t, and you know very well by now that if you were to try then the result might be disastrous for me.  Stop feeling sorry for me!  I’m much more sorry for you, having to go away.  You really love the Pasha, don’t you?”

            “Yes,” murmured Jane.  “I know it’s mad, but it’s true.”

            “Well, so do I, and at least I shall be staying here even if only as one of his slave girls.”

            They had looked at each other, smiling.  They had fallen into each other’s arms and both were fighting to keep back the tears.  Then Ali had said that it was time that Phileda was taken back to the harem.  They kissed and then Phileda, again shrouded and chained, was led away ...

            And now William Lascelles, her fiancé, the man she had come all this way to marry, was waiting for her!

            Mansour beckoned her forward.  She stood submissively in front of him, nervously eyeing his cane, the symbol of the Pasha’s authority.  Her hands were behind her neck, in the supine attitude she had learnt to assume whenever one of the black eunuchs called her.

            With his cane he lifted up the front of her dress.  He said something to the black eunuch boy with him.  The boy bent down.  Jane could feel that he was unlocking the padlock of her chastity belt.   She felt it slip down her legs. The boy grunted and  caught it, and handed it to Mansour.

            “Lie down on your back!  Legs apart!  Knees raised!”

            The young black eunuch boy began to rub a paste down over her beauty lips.  Jane could feel that it was beginning to burn.  She tried to put her hands down, but Mansour tied them to the top of the couch.

            “Master want to be sure that you quite hairless when you are first seen by another man,” explained Mansour grimly.

            How on earth, wondered Jane, was she going to explain this, and so much else, to William?

            Half an hour later Jane was standing up fully dressed again, and looking very beautiful.  Mansour handed her a little ornate oriental box.

            “You open!  Present from Pasha!”  She opened it.  Inside was a simple metal brooch in the shape of two crossed scimitars with an Arabic letter above them - the mark of the Pasha!  “You wear!” said Mansour, fastening it to her dress.  “It make you remember Master.”

            Yes indeed, she thought, yes indeed!

            Just then Ali came into the room.  “Mr Ali now come to take you,” explained Mansour.  “He in charge of you here and on steamer - only right that he hand you over now.”

            They covered her in a black shroud, then Ali snapped two chains onto her wrist.  Right up to the last moment, she realised, they were treating her as a mere Christian slave girl.  Moments later she was led by her chains by Ali across the palace gardens to the Pasha’s personal apartments next to his harem.

            “Stand here!”

            Through the lace grill in front of her eyes, Jane saw Ali go into the Pasha’s room.  She heard voices.  She did not dare move.  Then Ali returned silently, he slipped the black burka over her head and unfastened her wrist chains, then gripping her tightly by her arm he led her into the Pasha’s study.  She saw the Pasha, a handsome figure of a man, dressed formally in a European morning coat, a red fez on his head.  And standing alongside him was William!  She noticed he was dressed in a rather lightweight crumpled jacket and breeches.  His young, rather weak, face lit up when Jane entered the room.

            “Jane!” he cried.  Then he turned to the Pasha.  “How can I ever thank you for looking after her, Your Excellency.”  He turned back to Jane.  “You look so well!  Positively glowing!  What have you been doing to look so wonderful?”  He sounded almost juvenile and rather callow.

            He’d never guess, thought Jane with a chuckle.  He’d just never guess!  The Pasha gave a little laugh, making her blush.

            William kissed her rather formally.  He held her as if she were a fragile flower.  It all seemed rather unsatisfactory compared to someone else’s embraces, someone who was not ten thousand miles away!

            Suddenly she felt Ali grip her arm again, she looked across the room for a second at the Pasha.  Damn you, she thought, damn you for being so handsome, so fascinating, so exciting, so dominating, so deeply satisfying.  Damn you for making other men seem so inadequate, so boring.  The Pasha coughed and William stood back: Ali still held her arm.

            “This is Ali,” explained the Pasha to William, “one of my black eunuchs, who has been looking after your fiancée while she has been here.  He has taken great care of her for you.”

            Great care! thought Jane bitterly, remembering all the humiliating moments - quite apart from the beatings he had given her.  Then she saw the Pasha whisper something to William, who reached for his wallet.

            “Very grateful to you, Ali,” William said, pressing several notes into the grinning Negro’s hand.  Jane could hardly believe it.  He was tipping Mr Ali, the eunuch who had so degraded her!

            “And now, young man,” said the Pasha.  “What are your plans?  Here is your future bride’s official permission to marry, something which every Christian girl in this part of Turkey must obtain.  I have signed it myself!”

            “Oh Your Excellency, how very kind and thoughtful of you.  You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”

            Kind and thoughtful!  Cunning and cruel would be better words.  Or dominating and demanding!  Or, she admitted wistfully, exciting and arousing!

            Lascelles rather immature voice brought her back to reality.

            “I must get back to the excavation quickly.  I think we’re just on the point of making an exciting discovery.  Jane could come with me for a few days.  My Lebanese assistant and his wife will be with us as chaperones.  Then after a few days we will go on to Damascus and get married in the consulate chapel.”

            “It is wild country between here and where you are excavating,” said the Pasha very seriously.  “I do not like the idea of your taking Miss Dudley there without an armed escort.”

            “An armed escort!” laughed William  “No need for that!  Nobody’s going to bother to attack us!”

 

 

 

            A week had gone by since the party left Malik.  They had ridden across the mountains, following an atrocious road, and down across several valleys.  They were now in the wild almost desert country near where William was carrying out his archaeological excavations.  They had slept in small inns and were planning to carry on that evening to a village several miles ahead.

            For Jane it had been a difficult time emotionally.  She was annoyed to find William now even more attentive than she had expected.  Perhaps the sight of Jane’s somehow changed beauty, now in an oriental setting, had increased his sensuality.  Certainly he could hardly wait to marry her and consummate their marriage.

            It was ironic, she knew, that whereas in England she had been annoyed by his coldness and shyness, here she was infuriated by his forwardness.  The fact was that, after the Pasha, he still seemed a poor fish.  She needed time to get over being seduced by the Pasha and felt more and more out of love with William, increasingly appalled at the thought of their forthcoming marriage.

            So it was a rather unhappy little group that was passed by a wild looking group of armed Kurdish tribesmen going the other way through a narrow gorge.  The tribesmen looked boldly at Jane, and at the well-laden pack horses that the servant led.

            “I hope they are not bandits,” laughed William.

            It was the last thing he said, for a few seconds later he fell from his horse, shot through the heart as the Kurds attacked.  It all happened very quickly and noisily.  They seized the packhorses and slaughtered the Arab servants.  Suddenly in the gathering darkness, they realised that they had allowed Jane, the beautiful foreign woman, the ‘feranghi’ whom they could sell for a large sum to a slave dealer, to escape.  Shouting angrily at each other, they galloped along the tracks looking for her.

            But Jane’s horse, frightened by the shooting, had rushed up the side of the gorge.  Then it had suddenly turned back, flinging Jane off and galloped away in the opposite direction to the angry Kurds.

            Jane had knocked her head on a rock and lay temporarily stunned, hidden from view behind a rock.  It was an hour later that she struggled to her feet, her head slowly clearing.  It was now dark.  Terrified by the memory of what she had seen, she stumbled even higher up the mountain side.  Driven on by fear, she ran and ran for hours, stumbling over stones, desperately seeking to get as far away from the gorge as possible.

            When dawn came up suddenly, as it does in the Orient, she saw nothing that she recognised.  She was all alone in wild and inhospitable country.  There were small rock-covered hills and scrub, nothing else.  Below her a simple track wound its way across the plain.  As the sun climbed higher and higher she lay hidden in the shade of a large rock, too terrified to move lest the bandits reappeared.

            She cursed poor William for having refused the offer of an escort.  And now he lay dead in some nearby gorge.  Her whole life seemed pointless.  The man she had come out to marry, a journey which had used up all her money, was dead.  The only friend she had in the whole of Turkey, the Pasha, was many miles away.  The nearest foreign embassies or consulates were even further away.  And she was in bandit infested country.

            All day she lay there, scared and frightened, hungry and thirsty.  There was no sign of any life.  Then, just as the sun was going down, a country cart came lumbering along the track below her - a four wheeled covered waggon drawn by four horses.  As it came slowly down the track towards her she saw that the driver was an armed Turk wearing baggy trousers and a short jacket.  A rifle was slung over his shoulders.  Alongside him was a Negro, a large fat Negro rather like the black eunuchs in the Pasha’s harem.  She wondered if he was indeed a eunuch, but what would a eunuch be doing here?

            The waggon was now immediately below her as she lay hidden in the scrub.  She was trying to decide whether to run down and halt it when the driver himself stopped it.  Thinking perhaps that she had been seen, she hid deeper in the undergrowth.

            Then she saw that they were planning to camp below her for the night.  The horses were unharnessed and tethered, then fed from sacks of food hanging from the back of the waggon.  She saw the driver and the Negro rig up a comfortable looking tent and build a fire.  She saw a large pot of some sort of food being heated on the fire.  She could smell its aroma.  It made her feel even more hungry and thirsty.  She saw the Negro carrying the pot to the back of the waggon and start to ladle its contents into a large number of small bowls, which he preceded to pass into the waggon, through a slit in the cover.

            There must be some sort of animal in the waggon.

            It was now dark - she began to creep down.  She would try to see whether it was safe to ask the driver for some food and to be taken to the next town.

            Now she heard voices, coming from the waggon.

            Women!

            That explained the presence of the eunuch, then - he must be escorting the women of some local potentate.  He had hung a small lantern up inside the waggon and now she could see the outline of some figures, female figures illuminated against the canvas cover of the waggon.

            Craning to see better, she tripped and fell.

            Immediately the driver levelled the rifle in her direction and shouted out.  Terrified that she might be shot, she answered.  Instantly, the driver and the Negro raced over towards her, grabbed her, and dragged her over towards the light coming from the waggon.  Then they held her up to the light - clearly astonished to find a white girl.

            The Negro thrust back her sleeve.  He was looking for the tattooed number of a slave!  Then he felt her neck, as if to see whether she was wearing a slave girl’s collar, and started to ask her questions.  But of course she could not understand him.  She started to speak in English, and then in French, but neither the driver nor the Negro could understand a word of what she was saying.

            Whilst the driver held her firmly, the Negro began to search her, looking for some sort of identification.  But she had nothing.  Her bag, her passport, her papers, her money - all had been abandoned during her escape from the bandits.

            When they had established that she had no identifying marks and nothing to prove who she was, the two men laughed loud and long together, slapping each other on the back.  Then, whilst the driver still held Jane tightly, the black eunuch pulled off her riding boots and with a knife cut away her britches.  She began to scream in protest, but they only laughed as he proceeded to cut away her underclothes, leaving her dressed simply in a blouse.  He saw her shaved body lips and grunted with satisfaction - apparently they suited him very well.

            Then he reached inside the flap of the waggon and pulled out something that clanked in a way that chilled Jane’s blood - it was an iron collar hanging from a heavy chain.  Unable to move, she was helpless as the collar was fastened round her neck.  She saw the Negro reach out for a large pair of pincers hanging from the back of the waggon.  She saw him pick up a lead pellet from a small bag, and them squeeze the ends of the collar together.  The collar was now riveted round her neck.

            The Negro then drew back the cover of the cart and the driver thrust her inside.  There, in the light of the little lantern hanging from the top of the roof, were nearly twenty young white women!

            They sat docilely facing each other in two rows along either side of the waggon.  There was little room, for the waggon was only small.  Each of the girls was holding a bowl of food, the food Jane had seen being thrust into the waggon.  Like herself each girl was half naked except for a blouse, a shawl or a little cloak.

            But what really caught Jane’s eye was that each girl was collared, just as she was, with a length of chain several feet long running up to an iron bar which ran the length of the waggon just under its roof.  Each chain was attached to a ring that was free to run up and down the bar.  For as long as the bar was locked in place in the waggon, each girl was held inside the waggon by their collar and chains.  Although she did not realise it at the time, Jane was now chained inside one of the standard type of waggons that had been used for hundreds of years by slave dealers in the Orient to transport their wares.

            The Negro checked Jane’s collar and chain.  Then he grunted with satisfaction, gave her a bowl of the same simple gruel that the other girls had, and strapped the covers at the back of the waggon together again.  She could hear the Negro and driver laughing again as they went back to their fire and their own little tent.

            The girls on one of the benches moved up slightly to give her room to sit down, then they all started to talk to her, to question her.  She could not understand them.  They started to scream at her.  There was a warning cry from the eunuch and they all dropped their voices to nervous little whispers.

            Jane tried them out in English and French.  One girl whispered that she spoke English.

            “But who are you all?” whispered Jane. “And why are you chained like this?  Why have they chained me?”

            “Quiet!” the girl whispered.  “My name is Yaila.  I am Armenian, we all are.  We’re being taken to work in a carpet factory.  It belongs to a rich Turk - from what the eunuch and the Negro have been saying, he has twenty girls sent to him every couple of months ...”

            “My God!”

            “Their boss is a slave dealer who got the contract.  A good contract, twenty girls a month and no training necessary!  Oh yes, a very good contract.  He was getting a bit desperate so he told the local authorities that a revolutionary uprising was being plotted at a particular Armenian convent where I and the rest of the girls had gone to become novice nuns.

            “The Turkish authorities, well bribed by the slave dealer, tipped off a party of Kurdish tribesmen and told them that nothing would be done to prevent them sacking the convent, and carrying off the novice nuns and the treasure of the convent, provided the women were handed over to the slave dealer.  So here we are - they even took two nuns to make up the twenty.”

            Indeed, as Jane saw, two of the young women had their heads shorn just like nuns.

            “This is dreadful!” said Jane.

            “It got worse!”

            “It couldn’t!”

            “Oh, but it did.  We were all repeatedly raped by the Kurds, and now we are terrified that we shall become the mothers of half-Kurdish slaves.”

            “But how could you work as mill girls -”

            “You’d be surprised!  Anyway, the Kurds didn’t care.  They only kept us for two days and then they handed us over to the slave dealer.  He had us tattooed with slave numbers and sent us off in one of his slave waggons to the mill owner, and here we are.”

            “My God!” said Jane again.

            “At least,” said Yaila, “here we all are but one.  One girl died.  So there are only nineteen of us now.  The slaver will not be at all pleased with these two, the Negro and the eunuch, if they only deliver nineteen.  That must be why they seem so pleased to get you.”

            Jane looked at the girl and saw a strange compassion in her eyes.

            “All they need do is tattoo you with the number of the girl who died and all is well for them again - they must think of you as manna from heaven!”

            “Oh no!” Jane gasped.  “They couldn’t!  I’m English -”

            “Shush!” Yaila whispered.  “It’s better for me not to know anything about you.  I think you are just Mary now ...”

            “Mary?”

            “Mary who died.”

            “But they can’t do that!”

            “They will!” whispered Yaila urgently.  “Especially as you can’t deny it, you can’t speak their language, can you?  And please keep your voice down, or the eunuch will come back and whip us all.  This is Turkey!  Surely you realise that they can do anything to a Christian girl, and particularly to a girl who is officially Armenian.  Look!  What you’ve told me about yourself must remain a secret between us.  None of the other girls will want to know about you, and I won’t tell them.  And when we get to the mill, you mustn’t say anything.  If they knew the truth about you, they would probably have you killed to prevent any scandal.  The Turkish authorities wink at the existence of Christian slave girls, provided there is no scandal and no one knows about them except their Masters.”

            “You think I’m going to become a work slave like the rest of you and just disappear?” sobbed Jane.

            “Yes!  There’s no escape.  I’ll try and teach you a little Turkish, and we’ll try and keep together.  If anyone asks, I’ll say that you are an Armenian girl who has been brought up abroad.”  Yaila paused, and looked around at the other girls huddled in the waggon.  “I think that you and I are much prettier than the others.  Perhaps we can use our looks to get away from the life of a mill girl.  Better a Turk’s pleasure girl than a mill girl!”

 

 

 

            After a week in the waggon, trundling slowly across the mountainous countryside, Jane began to pick up a smattering of Turkish and the usual words of command that were used by the black eunuchs.

            Then, one morning, the black eunuch opened their collars with a special tool and held back the flap at the back of the waggon.

            “Out!”

            They were in a courtyard, surrounded by high buildings.

            “The factory!” Yaila whispered.

            The eunuch lined them.  They were still only wearing their blouses and shawls.  Then a Turk with a whip came across and talked to the eunuch in Turkish.  He counted the young women carefully.

            Twenty had been ordered.  Twenty had been delivered.

            Jane looked around wonderingly.

            “Don’t even think of escaping,” Yaila whispered.  Indeed the entrance to the courtyard was closed by a double gateway, through which the waggons passed.  It was now closed, with two armed guards in front of it.

            “Legs wide apart!” ordered the Turk with the whip.  Then he walked slowly down the line of terrified woman, all naked below the waist.  But he seemed to be more interested in their arm muscles, feeling each girl carefully.  None of them dared to speak.  Jane remembered that Yaila had warned her that she might be shot as an embarrassment if she disclosed that she was English.  She kept silent.  She was an Armenian girl now.  Desperately, she repeated to herself the Turkish phrases that Yaila had taught her.  She would explain her bad Turkish by saying that she had been brought up abroad.  But the Turk with the whip said not a word, as he felt her arm muscles and then put his hand down between her outstretched legs to feel her thighs.

            Having gone down the line of trembling women, he went behind them.

            “Touch toes!”

            Obediently, but blushing, the young women bent over, their legs wide apart.  Jane was blushing like the others as she realised what she was now displaying.  She bit her lips when she felt his hand between her thighs.

            “Stand up!”  Greatly relieved, they had all done so.

            Satisfied, the Turk with the whip turned to the eunuch and signed a receipt for the women then counted out a large sum of money.  Grinning, the eunuch stuffed it into his waistband.  Twenty women had been paid for, praise be to Allah, and life was good!  He mounted the now empty waggon and the driver headed for the gateway.

            The gates opened and for an instant Jane wondered ...  but beyond it the second gate was still shut, and it was also guarded.  Not until the first gate closed behind the waggon was the second gate opened.  With a labour force of white slave women, security was clearly strict in the factory.

            The Turk marched the women into the processing room and made them strip.  They were now as naked as when they were born.  They did not even have a collar round their necks.  Hidden as they had been under the canvas covers of the waggon, they had no idea where they were, or to whom they had been sold.

            The whip cracked menacingly.

            “Get into line!” ordered the stern looking Turk.  The young women hastily stood one behind the other, naked before the clerk seated at the desk.  They moved quickly, not wishing to risk the whip.  A pile of abandoned blouses and shawls lay where they had been standing before.

            “No talking!”

            Jane could feel the tips of Yaila’s breasts touching her back as they rose and fell agitatedly, just like her own.

            “Hands on heads!”

            The Turk cracked his whip, making the line of young women jump.  Jane did not understand the order, but she saw that the other women had placed the palms of their hands, one above the other, on top of their heads.  She thought it was a silly and humiliating position, but she was quick to follow suit.  It was, she realised, one that made a women feel submissive and subject to male authority.  There was a long pause whilst the line of women kept silent and quite still.

            Then they were called forward one at a time.

            “Next!”

            Again the whip cracked.  The frightened women all moved up one place in the line, each keeping her breasts pressed against the back of the girl ahead of her.

            “Next!”

            There was only one girl ahead of Jane, and she could now see what was happening.  As the girl stepped forward to the desk, the top of which came to her thighs, she parted her legs.  A clerk behind the desk look at the girl’s body now being displayed in front of him and gave a contemptuous grunt.

            “Number?”

            Jane saw the girl lower her left hand from her head and hold it out so that the clerk could read the number, then raise it to her head again.  The clerk said something which she could not follow and the Turk, now stripped to the waist, his fat glistening body shining with sweat, came up holding something in his hand - an iron collar, which he placed round the girl’s neck.  Then he put his whip down on the floor and bent the collar so that the little rings fitted into each other.  Then, just as the eunuch had done in the wagon, he dropped a lead pellet down into the cylinder formed by the rings, and picking up a large pair of pincers squeezed the soft lead pellet so that the ends flowed over the rings, thus riveting the collar round the girl’s neck.

            “Next!” ordered the sweating Turk.

            The clerk was a sour-faced young man.  She saw him looking expectantly across the table at her thighs, which out of modesty she had kept pressed together.

            “Open your legs!” whispered Yaila into her ear.  “It’s a sign of respect.”

            Blushing Jane parted her legs, displaying her intimices to the young clerk.  It was a gesture, she would learn, the factory slave girls would be expected to do whenever they were addressed by a man.  He reached forward and with his pen touched her there.  She gave a little jump.  She heard him give a contemptuous laugh.   “Number?” he asked harshly.

            As the girl in front of her had done, she lowered her left hand from her head and held it out.  The clerk turned it so that he could read the Arabic numbers that the eunuch had tattooed on to the inside of her forearm and check her number against a list.  It was similar to the list that had been signed and returned to the black eunuch as a receipt for the twenty women.  The Delivery Note, she realised.  Slave girls were mere merchandise.

            The clerk made a tick against a number on the list, then she saw him turn the pages of a large book.  The factory’s register of slave girls?  Each page had a number.  She saw that the page on which he stopped, several entries had been crossed out.  Were they, she wondered, girls who had previously had her factory number, and if so what had happened to them?

            “You factory number 356!” said the clerk.  “356! say it!”

            Jane repeated slowly in Turkish: “356”.

            “My factory number is 356,” corrected the clerk.  “Say it!”

            “My factory number is 356,” repeated Jane.

            “Sir!”  The Turk’s whip cracked menacingly close to her skin.

            “My factory number is 356, Sir!” she said quickly.

            The clerk seemed satisfied.  He turned to the huge half naked Turk, who looked among a long line of collars.  Finally, he picked one out and brought it over to the clerk.  The clerk showed it to her.  He pointed to the large Arabic numbers engraved prominently on the front of the collar: 356.  Then he pointed to some Arabic writing engraved at the side of the collar.

            “I am the property of Azzat Bey,” he read out for Jane’s benefit.  At last Jane thought, she knew the name of her owner.  She wondered what he was like: Azzat Bey!  In fact, she would never know, for he scarcely ever bothered to visit this factory, leaving it all to her overseers - requiring only that it was profitable.

            The clerk made her repeat it.

            “I am the property of Azzat Bey.  My factory number is 356, Sir!”

            Three times she had to say it, slowly and carefully, like a religious creed.  It was a performance that impressed the fact of her slavery onto her mind, as it was intended to do, as it had done for so many other slave girls before her.

            The clerk nodded to the Turk.  Jane felt the cold iron collar being fitted round her neck and adjusted.  Then the lead pellet was dropped in and squeezed tight.

            The clerk handed her a little pile of three brass bowls that fitted into each other.  Each had a different coloured stripe.  The top one, with a red stripe, had a lid.

            He pointed to the bottom one with a blue stripe.

            “For water!”

            He pointed at the next one with a green stripe.

            “For food!”

            He pointed at the top one with the red stripe and the lid.

            “For your wastes!”

            Then he handed her two simple cotton tunics.  She saw that they were similar to the tunics they had had to wear on board the Pasha’s steamer, clean but not new, and instead of being made of silk they were of coarse cotton.  The numbers 356 had been embroidered in large numbers on the right breast and a sort of sign on the left breast.  She guessed it was the emblem of Azzat Bey’s factories.

            Now the clerk consulted several lists on his desk.  Then he wrote her number on one of them and made a note in the large book opposite her number.

            “Workshop Six!”  he said.

            She was ordered to go and stand facing the wall in a corner with two other girls who had also previously been allocated to workshop six.

            She had been separated from her only friend, Yaila.  It was a moment of deep and utter despair.

            She stood there, naked and ignored, facing the wall, too frightened to speak, to miserable to think.  The processing of the twenty new girls was almost completed.  The clerk closed his book.  There were now several groups of naked girls standing around the room, each facing the wall, and each allocated to a different workshop number, each waiting to be collected by their Workshop Overseer.

            And then she was joined by the last girl to be processed.  Thank Heavens, it was Yaila!

 

 

 

            The new girls for Workshop Six stood disconsolate and naked as the various other overseers came to collect their girls.  They were all fierce looking Turks who clearly would stand no nonsense from their new labourers.  It was therefore with some astonishment that Jane and her party saw a young teenage Turkish boy with soft beardless cheeks and silky hair come to collect them.

            He collected a list from the clerk and checked it against the numbers on the girl’s collars.

            She was grateful when he told them to put on one of the two tunics which they had been issued.  A garment of any kind was better that having to stand around naked.  But her delight was cut short when she saw that the Arabic numbers 356 were emblazoned right across the back of the tunic, as well as on the right breast.  Clearly her factory number was going to be her principal identification in future.  The tunic was very short, only coming down to her thighs.

            Still carrying one tunic and the pile of little bowls, the girls were led by the boy out of the courtyard and into one of the large gloomy looking buildings.  They followed him up a stone staircase to a door with an Arabic numeral six painted on it.  The boy knocked on the door and called out something.  There was a noise of keys in locks, and the door was slowly opened.

            Clearly security was also tight inside the factory, even though the unfortunate girl workers had had their owner’s collar riveted round their necks.  The huge Turk, their overseer, who stood awaiting them in the hallway, seemed half drunk.  He was large and gross with big moustaches.  The thought of being under his orders appalled Jane.

            “And what little sluts have you brought me this time?” he asked the boy with a slurred voice.

            “Just the usual Christian bitches, Mushir.”

            “Hands on head!”  Obediently Jane assumed the same submissive position as in front of the clerk.  She wondered what would happen next.

            “Here’s good one, eh?” sneered  Mushir, peering at Jane and apparently admiring her looks.  “See if she’s still a virgin.”

            Jane realised she must not move.  She felt the boy lift up the front of the tiny skirt of her tunic.

            “Bend your knees!” the boy ordered.  Terrified she felt his fingers penetrating her, slowly and carefully.  Then the boy stood back.

            “No!”

            “So, were you married, or did one of our brave Kurds take your virginity?” Mushir asked her.

            Jane looked blank.

            “Well, little slut, lost your tongue?”

            “Please Sir, I only speak a little Turkish,” Jane came out with the phrases that Yaila had taught her.  “I was brought up abroad.  My friend here can translate for me.”

            “Ha! Ha!  A foreign born Armenian bitch!” cried the drunken Turk.  “A little bird that flew into the Sultan’s trap.  The Sultan, may Allah pour his blessings upon him, will be pleased to know there is one less Armenian bitch to plot against him from the safety of a foreign country - and to produce more Armenian traitors.  And you have a pretty friend to speak for you?  I shall have to see how you perform coupled together on a mat for my amusement!”

            He turned to Yaila.  “Well?  Why is she not a virgin?  Warn her to tell the truth.  I want to know who took her virginity!”

            Yaila translated this for Jane.

            “Tell him that my virginity was taken, taken ...”  Jane was thinking wildly what to say.  It was essential to hide the fact that she was English.  She decided on a half truth.  “Tell him that my virginity was taken by my husband-to-be on the eve of my wedding, just before he was killed by the Kurds.”

            “Excellent!” cried the Turk.  “A Christian dog killed on his wedding day!”  He turned to Yaila.  “And is the bitch pregnant?”

            Jane shook her head.

            “Good!” exclaimed Mushir, her future overseer.  “Another Armenian bitch who, instead of producing Armenian whelps who would plot against our glorious Sultan, will instead soon be producing the offspring of a good healthy Moslem!”

            Jane was horrified when Yaila translated this for her.  But her thoughts were diverted away to more immediate matters, as Mushir went over to the wall where a sort of tennis racquet was hanging from a hook.  But it was a strange looking tennis racquet, with a flexible cane handle and a stiff brown piece of leather where the strings should have been.  He picked it up and swished it through the air, before bringing it down with a crash onto a cushion lying on the floor.

            “Meet your friend, The Corrector!”  He grinned at the terrified girls.  “He likes to embrace and feel pretty young girls.  I’m sure you’ll soon learn to love his little kisses!”  He brought The Corrector down again with a crash onto the cushion.  “One little mistake at your loom, and you’ll get three little kisses from The Corrector.”

            He brought the paddle down three times onto the cushion, each time the girls gave a little shudder.

            “You will all quickly become expert carpet weavers, just as the others in Workshop Six have done.”

            There was a pause as he let his words sink in, and as Yaila whispered a brief translation to Jane.

            “Now,” he resumed with a rather drunken leer, “all you girls will belong to Mushir’s team.  You will be proud to belong to his team!  You all love your overseer, Mushir!”

            There was a dead silence as the girls listened open-mouthed.  Yaila did not even bother to translate for Jane.  The gist of his words were quite clear.

            “Well, well, I see I must loosen your stupid tongues!”  He pointed at Yaila.  “You’re the prettiest except for the girl who does not understand.  So we’ll let The Corrector give you a few little kisses.”

            Yaila was made to bend over a chair.  Already trembling, she then started to blush, as the boy lifted up her absurdly short skirt, and then went round the front of her to grip her hands.  As the other three girls watched spellbound and shocked, Mushir brought The Corrector down across her bared buttocks.  Yaila cried out.  A reddish blush began to spread across where The Corrector had, as Mushir put it, kissed her.  Mushir paused and then brought it down again.  Again Yaila cried out.  The reddish hue spread.  Again The Corrector embraced her ...

            “Stand up!”

            Yaila stood up.  There were tears in her eyes.  She rubbed her buttocks to ease the pain.

            “And now kiss The Corrector and thank him for his kisses - unless of course, you would like another kiss.”

            “No, no!”  Yaila prettily kissed The Corrector.  “Thank you for your kisses.”

            Mushir turned to the other girls.  “As I was saying, you are all proud to be in Mushir’s team, I think?”

            “We are all proud to be in Mr Mushir’s team!” they chorused.

            “Again!  Louder!”  He brought The Corrector down hard on the cushion again.

            “We are all proud to be in Mr Mushir’s team!” they screamed.  Jane was shouting as loud as any of them.

            “And you all love your overseer Mushir?”

            “We all love our overseer, Mr Mushir,” they shouted.

            “I want to hear each of you say so in turn.  And whose property you are, and your factory number.  You’ve been taught to say that.  Now say it!”

            One by one each of the girls said her degrading ritual.  Even Jane managed to stammer it out slowly in bad Turkish.

            “I am the property of Azzat Bey.  My factory number is 356.  I am proud to be in Mr Mushir’s team.  I love my overseer, Mr Mushir.”

            “Very good!  I’m glad to see you Armenian sluts can you use your brains,” said their overseer.  The effort of giving Yaila her beating had apparently slightly sobered him up.  “Now listen carefully.  And you,” he pointed at Yaila, “translate for our foreign-born friend.”

            He came and stood behind Jane, put his hand round her body and squeezed one of her nipples.  She tried to shrink back away from his hateful hand, but immediately felt his body pressing against hers from behind.  She stood very still as he punctuated each sentence with another squeeze of her nipples.

            “You will all work, eat, drink, sleep and relieve yourselves chained by your ankle to your loom.  Every morning, with the rest of the girls in my team you will be released and marched out into the courtyard for half an hour’s military drill.  I was a sergeant in the army, a drill sergeant, and I know how a dose of strict drill every day instills obedience in a girl.  My girls are the smartest squad in the factory - thanks to The Corrector.  One mistake at drill and you will feel his embraces.  The rest if the day you will work at your looms.  If I, or my assistant,” he pointed at the boy, “see the slightest sign of slackness, or the slightest mistake in copying the pattern, then once again you will feel The Corrector’s kisses.  My girls turn out more perfect carpets per loom than any other Workshop.  Is that understood?”

            “Yes, Sir,” they chorused.  Yaila had translated Mushir’s speech sentence by sentence.  Jane was as terrified as the others.

            “I want you all to be quite clear about the rules in Workshop Six.”  Mushir let go of the trembling Jane and picked up The Corrector.  He brought it down with another crash against the cushion.  “You will only sleep with my permission, and when I order you to do so!”  Down came The Corrector again.  “You will only eat and drink with my permission and when I order you to do so!”  Another crash.  He waited whilst Yaila translated.  “You will only relieve yourselves  if I order you to do so!”

            Another crash.

            “Now I will chain each of you to her loom, and you will start to learn how to make the most beautiful carpets in all Turkey.”  With that he opened the door into Workshop six.

            A new life had started for Jane.

 

 

 

            It was three months later, two days after the delivery of a fresh batch of girls, that a well dressed young man, wearing a frock coat and a gleaming red fez, came into Workshop Six.  He was followed by an obsequious and proud Mushir.  Mushir was clearly keen to show off his charges to the factory owner’s favourite young nephew, Azziz Bey.  It was the first time for over a year that a member of Azzat Bey’s family had actually come to inspect the factory, and its work force, from which so much of their fortune had derived.  Mushir was determined to impress this young man with his efficiency, and his domination over the slave girls in his charge.

            Each girl was wearing a spotlessly clean tunic, with her factory number freshly embroidered by herself on the right breast and across her back.  During the previous two days each had been made to polish the heavy metal chain, that linked her ankle to her loom, until it shone like silver.  She had been made to polish her metal collar so that every number, and the name of her proprietor, sparkled.  Mushir had been an exacting task master and several of the girls, including Jane, had suffered the kisses of The Corrector to encourage them to greater efforts.

            The floor around each girl’s loom had been cleaned and polished.  The carpets being woven on each girl’s loom had been closely inspected for the slightest deviation from the pattern.  Little strips of brightly coloured wool had been arranged in a perfect rainbow pattern by the side of the loom.  Each girl had had to polish her three bowls, all now empty and shining.

            Each girl had brushed her hair until it glistened, Jane’s honey coloured hair standing out from the rest.  Each girl had been washed all over and then had her body hair carefully shaved off.

            After three months at her loom, interspersed with Mushir’s daily drilling in the courtyard, Jane and the other girls who had joined Workshop Six with her were looking sleek and fit.

            At first Jane had wept every night when, still shackled to her loom, she unrolled her thin mattress to sleep.  The memory of the Pasha was still very vivid, even if that of William and of her life in England was beginning to fade.  England all seemed so irrelevant now that she was a slave, whereas her very slavery made her think more and more about the Pasha.

            At first she had found her work at the loom, and the daily strict military drill, most of it carried out at the double, dreadfully exhausting.  It had only been the constant terror of a beating that had kept her going.

            Soon, however, she began to take pride in her work as she was entrusted with copying more and more intricate designs.  She began to take a pride in the smartness of Workshop Six’s squad and their superiority of those of other workshops, as Mushir put them through ever more complicated drills.  Each day his routine was different.  The slightest mistake or hesitation was immediately punished by the dreaded Corrector, which Mushir held in his hand as he put them through their paces each morning in the courtyard, and as he later walked up and down the workshop checking their work.

            It was not long before Jane realised that Mushir was one of those Turks whose interests lay more with young boys than with women.  She remembered that Phileda had said it was considered quite normal in the Moslem world.  His young assistant was clearly the main recipient of his favours.  Nevertheless he often liked a change of scenery, as he put it.

            A change of scenery usually meant a girl whom he deemed was ready to conceive being unshackled from her loom and taken into his small private room at the end of the workshop.  The door would be left open and the other girls would look at each other in horror as they heard first the slow and regular swishing of The Corrector, and the girl’s cries as she was given a thrashing to prepare her.  Then they would hear more cries as Mushir and his boy assistant both enjoyed her, planting their seed deep inside her. Then would come another set of cries as the poor girl was again embraced by The Corrector, to encourage conception.  It was terrifying for the girls still chained to their looms outside.  It was appalling for the girl who was being forcibly fertilised.

            On other occasions, however, a change of scenery merely meant that a couple of girls would be taken into Mushir’s room to entertain him and his boy during their love making, or sometimes to assist them.

            In the case of Jane, it meant being coupled with Yaila.  With their collars linked by a chain several feet long they would have to pretend to be lovers, taking it in turn to be the boy or the girl.  As Mushir watched from his bed, threatening them with The Corrector held by the boy, the two of them would have to go through the full gambit of an exhibition of lesbian love, from coy little kisses at first, to what soon became, despite their reluctance and shyness, a full scale performance.

            Suddenly, as she knelt by her loom, working at the complicated pattern, she felt the eyes of the well dressed young man, Azziz Bey fall on her.  She glanced up at him, appealingly, a little smile on her lips.  “Tell her to stop working and stand up,” she heard the young man say to Mushir.  Her Turkish was getting quite good.

            He walked round her and she felt his walking stick lifting up the back of her ridiculously short tunic.  She did not dare look round.  She wondered why he was not more interested, as Mushir had told them he would be, in her standard of work, in her productivity, in the return his uncle was getting in his investment in purchasing her.

            A moment later, she felt the front of her tunic being lifted by the walking stick.  Under it she was quite naked.  Again she did not dare look down, but she felt ashamed and degraded.

            “Not bad!” came the young man’s voice, “not bad at all.  Have her sent to the board room.”

 

 

 

            Two hours later Jane and Yaila were kneeling in a line of some twenty girl on a raised stage behind a curtain drawn across the luxurious board room of Azzat Bey’s carpet factory.  They had joined the other girls who had come from various other workshops in the factory.  Jane thought how pretty and graceful they all were, but to her surprise she saw that some were clearly pregnant.

            They were all still wearing their short factory tunics, emblazoned with their factory numbers.  They were told to kneel in line on all fours, and to keep quiet.

            After a long wait Jane heard the noise of a door being opened from beyond the curtain.  She heard men’s voices and much animated conversation and laughter, the clinking of glasses as they enjoyed refreshments.  She heard the noise of the door being opened again and the scraping of a chair, as if a late comer had joined the meeting.

            Then came the banging of a hammer, and again the scraping of a chair as if someone was rising to address the meeting.  She heard a man’s voice, the voice of the young man who had ordered her to be sent here for some mysterious reason - the voice of her owner’s nephew Azziz Bey.  She found that she understood the gist of what he was saying.

            “My brothers in Islam,” he began, “my future partners and investors in Azziz Enterprises!  Thank you for coming here to finalise our plans.”

            Jane realised that he was being heard in silence and with respect.

            “As we all know,” he went on, “with the increasing prosperity of inland Asiatic Turkey, there is an ever increasing need for entertainment, even in remoter towns such as this one.  Merchants, landowners, officers and officials are all willing to spend large sums to celebrate family anniversaries, weddings, the circumcision of their sons, promotion, the award of a decoration from our beloved Sultan, may the Blessings of Allah be upon him, or a simple business success.

            “But there is a lack of facilities for such entertainments.  What is required is good food, music, dancing girls and the availability of girls for entertainment of a more private nature.  This is what we aim to supply.  The food, the cooking and the music is no problem, even Egyptian dancing girls can be hired.  What has been missing is the essential ingredient - a large number of well trained pretty slave girls to serve the food and drink, and to serve the guests in any other way that they may wish.”

            “Yes, yes,” interrupted an impatient voice, “we all know that.  But what can you do about it?”

            “My friends!” came the voice of the young man again.  “You may not have realised that the renowned Azzat Bey has been building up a large stock of slave girls, mainly Armenians, here in his factory.  They have enabled him to undercut his rivals who still use the traditional expensive labour.  He buys the girls wholesale from the slave dealers who in turn acquire these girls cheaply from the Kurdish tribesman, and others involved in helping our Beloved Sultan in reducing the increasing numbers of these disloyal Christian dogs.”

            “Ah!” came several voices.

            “The supply of girls has been excellent and regular.  The prices have been low.  Now, you may think that only the ugliest, the fattest and the plainest peasant girls would end up as slaves in a carpet factory.  But that is not necessarily so, as I have discovered.  For instance, have a good look at these!”

            He clapped his hands.

            The curtain was drawn back.

            Jane saw that she was being looked at by half a dozen well dressed Turkish gentlemen, presumably all affluent businessmen.  She had followed enough of the young man’s speech to realise that she was going to be appraised as an investment, and that it was a chance, perhaps a unique chance, to get away from the grind of Workshop Six, away from Mushir and from the factory itself.

            She saw the other girls rise up from their knees, displaying their bodies. They parted their knees, they placed their hands on their heads and they looked straight ahead, as befitted a slave girl in the presence of a man, and Jane hastily followed suit, very conscious now that her tunic scarcely came down to her thighs.

            “I have picked out twenty of the prettiest girls, but we will need only a dozen initially, so I’ll leave it to you to decide which of these girls to take.  They are all well educated girls from good families.”

            “What price does your uncle want for these sluts?” called one of the men.

            “Well,” answered Azziz Bey, “the supply of Armenian and other slave girls for use as work slaves is very good at present.  My uncle is receiving regular consignments from his suppliers - indeed, has opened up new workshops to increase production.  He is not, therefore, short of girls for his factory.”

            There was an interested murmur from the other men.

            “However,” he went on, “you must remember that each of these girls represents a considerable investment for him.  Each has been trained as an expert carpet weaver.”

            “So,” interjected a man, “what would we have to pay for them?”

            “My uncle has said,” replied the young man, “that he would prefer for us to rent the girls from him for six months, at a nominal fee, until we see if our new enterprise is successful.”

            “But that’s a wonderful offer!” said the man enthusiastically.  There were nods and smiles of approval from around the table.

            “Yes indeed.  It’s an offer we cannot refuse!  If the whole enterprise has to be abandoned, or if a girl proves to be unsuitable, then we can return her to the factory at any time.”

            There were nods of agreement from around the table.

            “However, my uncle also recognises that training these raw girls as pleasure slaves will also represent a considerable investment by us too.  He has therefore agreed to give us an option for six months to buy each girl at the price he paid for her.”

            “That seems a very fair arrangement,” said one of the men.

            Jane and the other girls had been listening to all this with a mixture of delight and shock: delight that they might never see the factory again, and shock at the callous way their future was being discussed as if they were mere animals.

            “And what happens if, after we have bought a girl, she loses her attractiveness and is of no use to us?” asked one man.

            “Well,” replied Azziz Bey with a smile, “we must face up to it that once a girl has lost her freshness, we will in any case have to dispose of her.  However, don’t forget she is still a trained carpet weaver.  I am sure that we would still get a fair price for her from my uncle.  Alternatively, of course, many brothels of the lower type might be only too happy to acquire a trained pleasure slave, and so might a white slave breeding farm, particularly if she was a very European looking girl with blonde hair and blue eyes.”  He pointed to Jane.  “That slave, for instance, will have a considerable residual value as a breeding slave until she is forty or more - provided she is not barren, of course.”

            Jane was horrified.  Was this to be her fate?  A pleasure slave working for Azziz Enterprises for a few years, followed by either being returned to the factory or being sold off to a brothel - followed by several years of intensive breeding and then ... the bullet?

            “But we won’t want them to appear at banquets in those collars,” objected a man.

            “Don’t worry, my uncle has no objection to us re-collaring them with our own collars, provided we give his managers a receipt for each girl showing both her tattooed number and the factory number engraved on her present collar.  They will retain her present collar ready to be put back on her, until we decide to buy her ... you might like these collars which I’ve had specially designed for our use.”

            He picked up several collars from a bag on the floor and passed them round.  They were very wide, made of flexible stainless steel mesh with the emblem of Azziz Enterprises prominent of the front and back.

            “From a security point of view, you will see that the emblem of Azziz Enterprises is sufficiently prominent to deter a girl from thinking that she can easily escape.  You will also see that they are unusually wide.  This will force the girl to raise her chin and not slouch.  A girl with her chin raised, keeps her shoulders back, her back straight and walks gracefully on her toes.”

            There was general appreciation of this.  The meeting was going very much in favour of Azziz Bey’s plans.

            “Now I suggest we have a closer look at these girls, and decide which ones we want.  We can always come back for more, now that we’ve discovered a source of supply.”

            The young man was studying a list which he held in his hand.  “356,” he called out.  “Kindly step down.”

            Jane, rather shyly in the presence of so many men, rose to her feet.  The young man’s polite tone surprised her.  Since she had been enslaved she had always been treated like dirt.  She walked across the room toward the table at which the men were sitting.  She saw there was a rubber mat on the floor in front of the table.

            “Stand on the mat, please,” said the young man pleasantly.  He turned to his colleagues.  “The rubber mat is just in case any of them lose control of themselves under the emotional strain of being inspected!”

            Jane stood on the mat in the same position of submission that she had learnt in the factory, making a very pretty picture.

            “Have a good look a this pretty little creature,” she heard Azziz Bey say.  “Surely she is wasted as a work slave?  But I must admit that the work at the loom certainly seems to make a girl more graceful.  I understand that this girl comes from an overseer who has also given her half an hour’s rigorous military drill every day.  It certainly seems to have made her very submissive and slim, thus making our task of training her as a pleasure slave all the easier.”

            “Who’s going to train these sluts?” asked another man.

            “The Manager of our enterprise previously ran a high class brothel in Constantinople, where they used Greek girls, and provided private banquets.  So he is an expert at the service we aim to supply and at training girls.  He’s brought his own black eunuch to take care of the girls, both when they’re performing at a banquet, and when they’re locked up again in our store house.  The store house also has a large area where the girls can practise serving at banquets, and several smaller rooms for more intimate training.”

            “And what happens if exhibitions of a rather unusual nature are required at a particular banquet?” asked a man.  “This sort of thing can be very popular here in Anatolia!”

            “And we intend to make it a speciality of the house!” said Azziz Bey.  “There will be a graduated scale of extra charges for Special Entertainments, starting with one or two girls together, up to a daisy chain of half a dozen girls kneeling behind each other in a circle.”

            “And how about the girls performing with Mongolian wrestlers  or black dwarfs?  There’s usually a great demand, and you can charge considerably extra,” said a man who had hitherto been silent.

            “I have already discussed this with our manager,” Azziz Bey replied.  “He plans to have several girls trained up to perform with different men.  It takes a little time to train a girl to put on a satisfactory performance.  She must, of course, appear highly reluctant to perform - and there is usually no difficulty about that! - and yet the act must be brought forcibly to an obvious climax.  At the same time the guests must be allowed to choose from several girls the one they wish to see being taken by the Mongolian or dwarf concerned.  But, as you say, it must be put on in a tasteful and aesthetic way, with the girl reluctant and shy, and the man eager and fierce.”

            Jane heard the girls on the stage behind her catch their breath in horror at what they were hearing.  She herself couldn’t believe it.  But was it not better than being incarcerated in this awful factory and being used for breeding?  Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!

            “Now, number 356.”  Azziz Bey turned to the trembling figure of Jane standing uneasily on the rubber mat.  “Would you be so kind as to take off your tunic?”

            Even after being addressed with such politeness, she could not bring herself to bare her body before all these men.  But she did dare to disobey him.  How extraordinary was the contrast between his charming politeness, and the appalling and pitiless way he had just spoken of using them to put on what he had described as Special Entertainments.

            Her tunic fell to her ankles and she stepped out of it with a careful dainty gesture.  She must convince these men, these awful men, that she was suitable for their dreadful purpose.  She resumed her position of submission, very conscious that her nakedness now made it even more degrading.

            “Very pretty, gentlemen, I think you will agree.  Now turn round, please, number 356.”

            Jane turned and faced the low stage on which the remainder of the girls were kneeling.  She had kept her hands flat on her head.  Blushing again, she parted her legs and bent her knees.

            “A good shaped back!” came one voice.

            “And buttocks that are crying out for the whip,” said another.  “What are we going to do if the guests want to whip the girls?”

            “It will be a standard optional extra.  We shall, of course, provide the whips and ensure that they are kept well-oiled and flexible so that no great harm is done.”

            Jane could not help giving a quiver of fear - a quiver that greatly enhanced her chance of being selected!

            “Now be so kind as to run round the room.”  Jane ran round and round, her hands still on her head.  She was very conscious of her swinging breasts, and glad of the amount of military drill that Mushir had made her do at the double.  She knew that she made a graceful and delicious figure as she ran, apparently effortlessly, round and round.

            “Thank you very much,” came the same polite voice.  “You may go and pick up your tunic and rejoin your friends.”

            Gratefully, even if she had not yet received permission to put the tunic on again, Jane knelt down beside Yaila.

            “You were beautiful!” whispered Yaila.  “They are bound to choose you.  You are lucky having blonde hair and blue eyes.  I don’t expect they will pay much attention to me.”

            “Of course they’ll choose you,” whispered Jane.  “You’re much more beautiful than me.”

            One of the men looked up sharply at them as if he had heard them whispering - they did not dare speak again.

            “Number 278!” called out Azziz Bey.  “Would you be so kind as to step down here?”  Again the strange politeness to girls used only to harsh words of commands.

            Jane saw that this girl was heavily pregnant.  She noticed that this made the rather jaded men sitting at the table sit up and take an increased interest in her.  When the girl was told to strip off her tunic, and particularly when she started to run round the room, the men were eyeing her keenly.  Several seemed to be noting down her number.  Jane had heard that Turkish men found the sight of pregnant girls highly erotic.  How different from Europe, she thought.

            And so it went on, with each girl being called down in turn to be looked at.  Finally all had been inspected and all were back kneeling in line again, naked.  The men conferred amongst themselves, looking at the notes they had made about each girl.

            Azziz Bey stood up and called to the girls.

            “Now, would you please all put on your tunics again so that we can see your numbers and all run round the room again, one behind the other.”

            A few moments later they were all running round again, their hands on their heads, making a pretty picture of young womanhood.  One by one they were eliminated until only thirteen remained, the other seven being sent back weeping to their workshop.  Clearly the men were having difficulty deciding the final girl to be discarded.

            “I’m sure it’s going to be me,” whispered the girl behind Jane, and hardly were the words out of her mouth when her number was called out and she was ordered back to her workshop.

            “No!  Please take me too, please!” she cried as she flung herself on her knees in front of the table.  “I promise I’ll give your clients great pleasure.  Please don’t send me back to be raped in the workshop!”

            “Alright!” laughed the young man, “You will all start your training tomorrow and the girl who graduates bottom of the class will be sent back to the factory.”

            The smiles on the happy faces of the girls who had been selected suddenly vanished.  To be sent back to the factory just when they thought they had escaped from it forever!  A terrible Sword of Damocles now hung over all of them.  Each was looking round, judging which was the likeliest not to make the grade, each resolved to strive her utmost during her training to ensure that she was not going to be the girl to be sent back, not to be the unlucky thirteenth girl.

            Young Azziz Bey was smiling to himself.

 

 

 

            “Now I want to see you all offering fruit to the guest,” said the Manager, pointing to his black assistant playing the role of a guest, seated behind a low table.

            “Jane! you start.”

            Now it was Jane, no longer number 356.  Her hated ugly factory collar had gone, and with it that degrading name.  Instead, she now wore one of the beautiful stainless steel mesh collars emblazoned with the crest of Azziz Enterprises.  All the girls were now called by their Christian names.  It was part of the young Chairman’s way of getting the best out of his white slave girls.  He knew that it would later also heighten the excitement for guests - knowing that the girls so submissively waiting on them were hated Christians.

            Obediently Jane rose to her feet from the line of kneeling girls.  Although the training she had undergone had been very similar to that that she had seen in Hamid Effendi’s training school for slave girls in Malik, there was none of the coercion here that was used in Hamid’s establishment.  There the girls had been trained by fear of the whip.  Here, it was fear of being the girl who would be sent back to the dreadful life of a factory slave, fear of being the thirteenth girl.

            Jane ran forward lightly and gracefully on her toes.  How right Azziz Bey had been, she thought, in telling his fellow directors that by making a girl keep her chin up, his specially designed high collars would enhance her posture and her natural grace.

            Belled slave bangles jangled on her wrist and ankles.  She was carrying a silver tray, pretending it was laden with fruit.  Delicious fruit that as a mere serving girl she would not be allowed to touch.

            Delicately she knelt down before the table.  The Manager was watching her every movement from the side.  His black eunuch assistant, Naja, was equally carefully watching her from behind the table.  He was very different from the terrifying black eunuchs who had guarded, supervised and terrorised the Christian girls in the Pasha’s harem.

            Naja was really more like a nursemaid in whom the girls all confided their thoughts and secret fears.  Why should he bother to threaten them with his whip, if fear of being sent back to the factory was more effective?  He was, however, like the black eunuchs in the Pasha’s harem, responsible for the girls’ personal hygiene, clothes and appearance.

            Jane raised the tray humbly up before him.  It was a gesture of submission and servility that she had to practise over and over again in the last two weeks.  The training was half over.  In two weeks time they would have to pass out before Azziz Bey and his fellow directors.

            Jane balanced the tray in one hand.  With the other she went through the motions of slipping her loose silken gown down over her shoulders to her waist and holding up her breasts, one at a time, and placing them alongside the fruit on the tray.  She was only pretending to slip down her dress, because in fact the girls were all naked, in order not to spoil their beautiful new transparent silk dresses.

            “Fruit, Master?” she asked in a husky voice, full of trembling desire.

            “Yes, that looked quite good from here,” said the Manager.  “You must use your shoulders more to thrust your breasts forward so that they lie perfectly still amongst the fruit you are offering.  They must seem to be just another fruit.”  He turned to the Negro.  “What do you think?”

            “She must use her eyes more, the guest will be busy talking to his neighbours.  She must gently attract has attention.  One moment her eyes should be demurely lowered like those of an innocent little girl, the next she should flash them wildly in his direction like the passionate creature she wants him to believe she is.”

            “There you are, Jane,” said the Manager kindly.  “You must try a lot  harder if you want to keep your place in the team.  This is the most elementary of the tests you will be put.”

            “Yes, Sir,” said Jane contritely.  “I will try harder, Sir, I really will!”

            “I’m sure you will,” said the Manager.  “Now go back to your place.”

            “Next, Yaila!” he called.

 

            “Would you like to whip me Master?” whispered the girl in a teasing voice.

            She lay on her belly across the feet of the Manager.  She wriggled her little bottom provocatively.  “Does my big strong Master want to punish his naughty little slave girl?”

            Still wriggling, she looked up at the man seductively.  Jane wondered how any man could keep his hands off the girl.  She wondered if she herself could be so deliciously exciting as this girl, when it was her turn in a few minutes time.  They had been told that only girls who could persuade a guest to whip them, and thereby earn more money for Azziz Enterprises, would be allowed any sweets, little cakes, or even any of the delicious fruits, savouries and sweetmeats that they would have to offer to the guests.  As they were normally only fed on cold tasteless porridge they would soon be desperate to be beaten.

            The girl rolled over on to her back, throwing her head back and raising her belly in a beautiful arch.

            “Or would my Master like to whip something else?”  she asked with a little innocent air, before rolling over again onto her belly.

            “Would my Master like me to fetch the whip in my teeth, like a little dog?” she asked temptingly.

            He nodded.  On all fours, wiggling her buttocks as she went, she crawled over to the wall and picked up a soft little whip of velvet cord with her mouth.  She had been careful to turn sideways on so that the Manager could see her pick up the whip with her teeth.  Now she slowly crawled back to him with whip in her mouth, her eyes fixed on him adoringly.  Silently, she dropped the whip at his feet.  She half turned, still on all fours, and dropped her head to the floor, her back straight and her knees apart.

 

            The two expensively hired Egyptian belly dancers were performing beautifully.  Each was giving a delightful parody of the sexual act.  The musicians were slowly increasing the tempo of the music, ready to break into a fast jerking crescendo as the two plump women approached their climax.  Their numerous bangles, and the lines of coins sewn onto their revealing belts, jingling in time to the music.

            Jane and the other girls were watching them attentively, trying to remember each little gesture and movement.  Over the last couple of weeks several of them had become quite adept at this way of rousing a man’s baser instincts.  Jane herself was now surprisingly good.  They had all been practising hard, ever since the Manager had told them that a girl was much less likely to be sent back to the factory if she could save Azziz Enterprises the cost of a professional dancer.

            The music became faster and faster.  The watching girls began to move uneasily.  The two women reached a crescendo simultaneously and, as the music suddenly stopped, sank exhausted to the floor with a gesture of servile humility that Jane was determined to copy.

            The Manager turned to the line of kneeling girls.

            “Let’s see how well you can copy these two experts,” he said.  “Jane, you start!”

            The music started up again, now slow and sinuous.

            Jane stepped delicately out into the centre of the room.  She raised her arms above her head so that the backs of the palms of her hands were touching.  She could feel her breasts being pulled taut.  Her feet were apart and her body was on display.  She began to rotate her hips slowly, and as she did so she felt herself suddenly beginning to be aroused.  Embarrassed, she turned away from the Manager, but experienced as he was in such matters, he had already noticed her body’s reaction.

            “Good Jane!  Good!  Don’t fight it, let it come slowly and gradually.  It’s what the guests will want to see.  Just remember what you’re trying to imitate, and what you’re trying to make the guests think about as they watch you.”

            Blushing with embarrassment, the insides of her thighs now glistening with moisture, her belly still shaking in time to the music which was slowly becoming faster, she turned towards him, as if he was the guest for whom she was dancing.

            “Now concentrate on your belly.  Keep it moving!”

            The music was becoming much faster.  “Now start simulating a climax.  That’s it.  Go on! ... Go on!”

            Was it simulated or real?  Jane hardly knew, as the music suddenly stopped and she dropped exhausted to the floor, just remembering in time to make the same servile gesture with her hands and body towards the guests that she had seen the two Egyptian women make.

            “That’s better!  Next girl!”

            The music started again.

 

            The blindfolded youth lay back in the bath.  This was a lesson in touching.

            “Now put your hands down under the water, Jane.”

            Moments later, the youth moaned with delight.

            “Good!  Now as you lean forward let your nipples just happen to touch his cheeks.”

            Jane saw to her embarrassment that the boy’s manhood had become erect.  “Good!  Just remember that bathing a man is a wonderful opportunity for a slave girl to show off her prowess and skill.”

            Moments later, the blindfolded boy stood up.  Jane picked up the thick Turkish towel and began to rub him down.

            “No, no!  He’s not got a hide like a  hippopotamus.  Imagine you are rubbing a peach.  Gently and carefully!  Make each touch of your hand through the towel an exquisite sensation.”

            The youth’s manhood became erect again.

 

            “Now we will practise the special act we call ‘a slave girl dreams of her Master’,” said the Manager.  Jane’s heart fell.  She hated this.  “Remember that for this you will be dressed as a harem slave girl in transparent trousers, a revealing bolero, little cap and slippers.  You must pretend that your beloved Master is away, leaving you desperately frustrated.  You are simply longing for his touch and you have slipped away from the supervision of his eunuchs.  Now let’s see each perform.”

            When it was Jane’s turn, she closed her eyes as she’d been taught, and slowly began to run her hands over her body.  But in her case she really was dreaming of an absent Master - the Pasha - and really was longing for his touch.  Perhaps it was for this reason that she performed this particular act so well - even if she did feel humiliated and degraded as she brought herself almost to a climax.  Then, as usual, just as she was about to climax, she was interrupted by Naja playing the part of a harem eunuch, running in with his whip and screaming with simulated rage.

            “Oh, you naughty little slave girl!  Just you wait until the Master hears about this!”

            In real life, Jane thought, I can’t see Mansour or Ali or any of the other of the Pasha’s black eunuchs letting a white slave girl out of their sight long enough to become as aroused as this.  But, she had to admit, it must be an exciting and erotic spectacle to watch.

 

            “Now Jane,” said the Manager admonishingly, “watch how much better Yaila is at using her cushion than you are.”

            Yaila was stretching herself back over the big leather cushion as if offering herself to an unseen man, then, following the routine they had all been taught, she curled up on it like a little girl.  A few moments later she was kneeling provocatively across it, her hips wriggling entrancingly.

            “A slave girl,” the Manager said to the watching class, “must know how best to use a cushion to show off her body to her Master.”

 

            Now it was the Manager who was seated on the cushion, playing the part of a guest at a banquet.  He clicked his fingers imperiously.

            Obediently Jane, who was standing behind him with a silver jug in her hands, came forward.  She bent down over him.  One breast touched his shoulder, apparently accidentally.

            “Sherbet, Sir?” she murmured softly in his ear.  “Would the Master like a little sherbet, or something else, Sir?”

            “Only fair, Jane,” said the Manager.  “You must remember that you are offering yourself, your body to the guest, as well as merely sherbet.  I want to hear your voice much huskier.  I want to hear you trembling with passion and desire.  Now, do it again!”

 

            It was lecture time.

            The class of girls were sitting on the floor, their backs resting against the wall, listening carefully to what the Manager was saying.

            “Now girls, I don’t want you to think that all that matters is for you to behave well whilst serving the guests at the banquet,  or to put on a convincing display in one of the Special Acts that the host may have ordered.  All that is very important, but there is another matter in which you must also do well if you do not want to be sent back to your factory workshop.”

            The girls stirred uneasily.

            “You must remember that the guests have been roused to a high level of excitement by your provocativeness and your nakedness, as well as by the Special Entertainments.  The host will therefore be expected to have arranged for his guests to ease their tensions.  So today and tomorrow we will be practising satisfying a man who has been aroused already.”

            The Manager paused.  He saw that he had the girl’s full attention.

            “Basically, there are two alternatives.  First a man will remain in the banqueting room.  He may remain sitting on a chair, or lying back on a cushion deep in discussions with his fellow guests, and merely snap his fingers at you to please him.  Whatever he happens to be wearing, it will then be your task use the tip of your tongue and the tips of your fingers on the most sensitive parts of his body.  He may pay little or no attention.  That is not your concern.  Your task is not to bring him to a climax, but rather to give him prolonged pleasure.  He may push you away for a time, and then pull you back by your hair.  You are there simply to give him pleasure.  He may order you to kneel facing away from him, so that he can penetrate you whilst still sitting, or play with your body whilst still chatting to his neighbours.  Depending on the degree of licentiousness that the host allows, he may even order you to lie at his feet and offer yourself to him as a Christian slave girl, offering herself to her Moslem conqueror.”

            There was a little gasp of shock from the listening young women.

            “Alternatively, the host may have provided alcoves off the banqueting room, to which a guest may take you.  Or more likely, he may instruct myself or Naja to have you sent to one of the alcoves to await him, probably chained to the wall.  We shall be practising shortly, and all tomorrow, what you should then do to please him.

            “Whenever you are near a client, you must make him feel that you are crying out for his touch.  You must therefore be aroused and be seen by him to be aroused.  It is not something that can be simulated, since your state can at any time be instantly checked by the client raising your dress and using his fingers.  We are therefore going to practise becoming aroused.  This must be purely a mental process in this case, for under no circumstances do I ever want to see any of you touching yourselves in the banqueting room.  I want complete decorum at all times!”

            He looked down the line of blushing young women.

            “Now, kneel down on all fours, as if you were at the feet of a strong and powerful man.  Close your eyes.  Thrust back your buttocks, think what a helpless slave you are.  Think of yourself as being in the complete power of this dominant and commanding man.  Think! ... You fear this man! ... You tremble at his very voice! ... And as you reflect on your enforced submissiveness to him, your juices will begin to flow ... they are now beginning to flow!”

            He paused.  He walked slowly behind the line of kneeling woman, sniffing and bending forward occasionally to check the state of heat of one or other of the girls.

            “Remember, you are merely a frivolous and helpless young woman.  You feel servile towards this forceful and assertive male.  You long to be made to serve him ... You fear him ... You are kneeling at his feet ...”

            The Manager’s voice continued as he walked up and down, until he was satisfied that each of his charges, simply by her own mental processes, had reached the desired state of arousal.

 

            The two girls separated reluctantly and stood up, looking highly embarrassed.

            “Quite good,” said the Manager, “but remember next time that you’re supposed to be two innocent young ladies, coyly exploring each others bodies.  That is the charming sight that the host will have paid extra for you to put on in front of his guests.  There is no need to rush things, take your time and you’ll find nature will take over quite naturally.”

            He turned back to the watching class.

            “Now Zuki, we’ll try you this time again with Jane.  You two haven’t performed together for several days, let’s see how you get on together again.  Yes, I know that neither of you like doing this - so much the better!  That’s why you will please the guests, they want to see how a reluctant pair of girls perform under the threat of punishment.”

            Jane shivered with disgust.  She had never liked the sloe-eyed Zuki, and the fact that Zuki was pregnant did not help matters.  She realised that her long jet black hair and slightly olive complexion, together with her swollen belly, must make a vivid contrast to her own honey coloured hair, peaches and cream complexion and slim waist.  She hated these exhibitions, as they called them, but at least the Mongolian wrestlers and black dwarfs had not yet arrived.

            “Now, remember I want to see you behave like two well brought up and refined young girls, gradually becoming more excited by each other.”

            He clapped his hands.

            The two girls strolled across the room in their long transparent dresses, wearing large hats, long gloves and smart European shoes.  Each carried a large sun parasol.  Were it not for their transparent dresses, through which the lines of their bodies gleamed entrancingly, they might have been fashionable young European women out for a stroll, with Zuki soon expecting an interesting event.

            Passing, they hesitantly recognised each other, and mimed polite conversation.  Then one of them bent forward as if to whisper something in the ear of the other.  The other looked shocked for a moment, and then bent forward as if to whisper something equally naughty.  Then they both laughed, and then looked coyly at each other with lowered eyes.

            Their hands somehow seemed to touch for an instant.  Then slowly and hesitantly Zuki began to run her fingernails up Jane’s arm.  Jane gasped with pleasure, throwing her shoulders back and her breasts forward.  Again Zuki ran her fingernails up Jane’s arm but this time took it across to her breast.  Jane bent forward and gave Zuki a little kiss, and then stood quite still as Zuki ran her hand slowly across her breast.  She started to slide Jane’s dress down off her shoulders ...

            The Manager smiled.  Nature was taking its course!  He knew that once two girls had reached this stage, then no matter how reluctant they might have been initially, nature would soon take over.

            He also always left it to nature to decide which of the girls would turn out to be the more active one in a particular pairing, and which the more passive partner, as the girls’ emotions became more and more aroused.  It was, indeed, always interesting to see just what would happen with a particular pair of girls who had not recently been coupled together, particularly if, as with this pair, they were both genuinely shy and reluctant.  And this was just what the host and his guests would pay well to see!

            He clapped his hands to call a halt to stop what the girls were now doing to each other.  It would be a pity not to keep the climax for the real exhibition in front of real guests.  Just as with the previous couple’s exhibition, scarlet with shame, their bosoms rising and falling rapidly with frustrated desire, Jane and Zuki separated.

            If anyone in Upper Handley had ever imagined that the respectable Miss Jane Dudley would shortly be practising a lesbian exhibition in front of eleven other girls, a Turk and a black eunuch, they would have died of shock!

            And if they’d also known that she was still obsessed with the memory of an arrogant Turkish Pasha, that she secretly longed to come under his control again, and that she felt that only as this Pasha’s helpless slave would she ever achieve real happiness, then they would have regarded her as stark staring mad!

 

 

 

            The examinations were about to begin, the Directors of Azziz Enterprises chatting amongst themselves as the girls waited, tense with dread.

            “Suppose a guest at one of their banquets want to buy one of the slave girls,” one man enquired.

            “We have another dozen slave girls from the factory starting their training tomorrow,” the young Azziz Bey replied, “so we could afford to let one or two go, provided the price is right, just as we can afford to send any girl who proves unsuitable back to the factory.”

            The assembled slave girls, made up, painted, looking beautiful in their new gauzy silk dresses, shivered when they heard these words.  Another dozen girls starting tomorrow!  Soon, these would be ready to step into the first group’s shoes, increasing the risk of them being sent back to the factory.

            “Sales of our girls could well become a major contribution to our profitability,” continued Azziz Bey, smiling as he looked across at the frightened looking girls.  “I think we should authorise our Manager to accept offers for girls we think we can spare without reducing the standard of our service, always provided we are well compensated for our lost investment in a trained girl.  Bearing in mind that we shall have to pay the factory the cost price of each girl, we should not sell a girl for less than, say, ten times her original cost to the factory.”

            There was some discussion of Azziz Bey’s proposals.

            “May I now take it,” he finally had asked, “that we authorise our Manager to accept offers along the lines I have outlined?”

            There were murmurs of approval.

            “Very well, now let us get down to business.  We are here to test the first class to complete their training course.  The Manager will call out the name of each girl.  Put yourselves in the shoes of a guest at one of our future banquets, and mark each girl out of ten for your opinion of how pleasing and attractive she is in each test.  Now let me describe the particular tests to which our young ladies will be submitted.”

            This was the first that the girls knew about just how they were going to be tested.  Azziz Bey had selected three different tests: Offering Fruit, Begging to be Whipped, and Performing as a Couple.  To speed up the test, three girls would be tried out simultaneously for the first two tests, and two simultaneously for the third.

            But Azziz Bey deliberately introduced certain changes into each of the tests from the way that the girls had been practising them.  Only now did the Manager explain these to the anxiously awaiting girls.

            For the first test they also had to assist a Director, taking the part of one of the guests at the banquet, to relieve himself by passing water into a special cup.

            They had not been instructed in this, and it was intended as a way of checking on intelligence, and initiative in reacting in unexpected requests from guests.  The Manager simply told them that having offered the fruit in the way they had practised, they were then to put the tray down and come round the low table in front of the man concerned, their breasts still bare, and deftly loosen his clothes as he continued to talk to his neighbours.  They would then be expected gently to ease his manhood into the special cup and hold it into position until they were waved away.

            Jane had never dreamt that she would ever have to do anything like this.  Her English prudery nearly overcame her desperate desire to pass the tests with flying colours.  Luckily for her she was not amongst the two girls called forward first.  The real Armenian girls had a more robust attitude to what they regarded as only a natural function!  By the time it was her turn, Jane was beginning to get over her initial shock and was planning how she might earn extra points, both from the man concerned and the others judging her.

            When she was called, the Manager, much to her delight, pointed to a man of about forty with a pointed beard and penetrating eyes.  He was sufficiently like the Pasha for her to be able to pretend to herself it was the Pasha himself and she felt that the offering of fruit, and the bearing of her breasts, went off very well.  Still making herself believe that she was really serving the Pasha, she very gently opened his clothes as he pretended to be occupied with his discussions with his neighbours ...

            She nearly committed the unforgivable mistake of choking and retching at the critical moment as she held up the cup, but managed to regain control of herself.  Then with a stroke of genius that earned her high marks, she lifted the cup as if adoring it, and placed a little kiss upon the rim.

            The second test was rather more painful.  When they had practised begging for a whipping, a harmless whip of velvet cord had been used - it only stung mildly and left no mark.  Now they were to assume that the host of the banquet had paid extra for his guests to use a real bamboo cane.

            Jane was terrified by the thought of the cane, but she forced herself to beg for it - a very realistic situation, as the Manager had said.  As she brought the dreaded cane in her teeth and laid it at the feet of the Director who was going to thrash her, she very nearly got up and ran from the room.  A cane!  Mushir, her workshop overseer, had used his milder Corrector.  The black eunuch in the waggon had used the relatively mild dog whip.  The only time in her whole life that she had been caned had been when Ali had thrashed her in front of the Pasha on board the steamer, and what a terrible experience that had been!

            Somehow she forced herself to beg to be caned, and her request was graciously granted.  Somehow she managed to remain looking as entrancing as she had practised while the awful man gave her the twelve strokes, making her offer her buttocks and the front of her soft thighs alternately to his cane.  She could see from the gleam in the man’s eye, and in those of the watchers, that she was giving intense pleasure.  Surely she must be earning good marks?  Fortunately, as she soon realised, after the first two hard strokes, intended to frighten the girls yet to come, the remainder were quite mild.  The Directors saw no point in spoiling their own goods.

            A variation to the third test, the coupling, was totally unexpected by all the girls.  During their training they had been shown the latest design of rubber manhoods, imported from Europe, something which had certainly shocked Jane.  But no explanation had been given about their possible use.

            The Manager had also explained that half the attraction of a Coupling Exhibition lay in the fact that the girls were not supposed to have ever performed together before, or at least not recently.  Therefore no one, not even themselves, could be sure which girl would be taking the male role, and which the passive female role.  The first notion for the guests was to watch the girls sort this basic fact out for themselves as they became increasingly aroused, and for the men to see whether they had been right in their bets as to which girl would take which role.  If both girls were equally coy and passively orientated, then the spectacle was all the more interesting!

            To add to the interest and uncertainty about this test, and indeed in future banquets, not only had the girls in each selected pair never performed together during their training, but also each girl was to have one to the rubber manhoods strapped round her thighs under her dress.

            Jane found the whole thing quite repulsive enough without these little extra touches of eroticism.  She was paired with Sarah, a tall striking girl.  She could feel her own erect rubber manhood pushing against the silk of her dress.  Between her legs she could feel the weight of the swollen artificial testicles, which had been carefully filled with warm milk -  a strange feeling indeed.

            Soon it was their turn to perform.  They started the routine they had learnt so well during their training, beginning with the almost casual touching of hands.  Both were still uncertain as to which should play the male role.  It was something that had to come out naturally as part of the act.  Both girls were intensely feminine and both, if they had to take part in this unnatural display, preferred to play the passive role.  Both knew that it was vital that they earned good marks, and therefore one of them must soon take the initiative.

            Slowly as they coyly touched each other, then as each shyly stroked the other, Jane began to feel an unusual aggressiveness.  Always before she had played the passive role, the softly feminine part, but suddenly faced with an even more feminine and even softer partner, she found herself naturally taking the more active role.

            She found herself sliding Sarah’s dress off her shoulders and down over her hips.  She found herself pressing her artificial manhood against Sarah’s soft body.  She found herself quite naturally unfastening the panting Sarah’s artificial manhood, and letting it drop to the floor.  A moment later they were embracing each other tightly, lips against lips, breast against breast, manhood against lower belly.  She could feel her own belly pressing against the base of the artificial manhood.

            Both girls were now highly aroused.

            During their training sessions, the Manager had stopped them before they reached this stage, but now in their test they were to go all the way.  Sarah slowly pulled Jane down to the floor.  Jane lifted up her dress to bare her artificial manhood, now between Sarah’s raised legs.  She experienced a feeling of great power.  Sarah was ready to receive her, and gently Jane penetrated her.  Both girls were giving little cries of ecstasy.  Then, as if driven by some strange instinct, Jane lowered her hand and squeezed the artificial testicles, driving a jet of warm milk deep into Sarah.  Sarah gave a series of violent convulsions which in turn set off Jane.

            Half a minute later both lay exhausted in each others arms, before being ordered to make way for the next pair.

 

            At last the tests were over.

            Jane was still scarlet in the face, partly as a result of her strenuous efforts to earn good marks in the various tests, partly from the sheer overwhelming humiliation and deep embarrassment at having to behave in such shameful ways in front of a group of strange men.

            At last the young Chairman rose to his feet.  He looked around the table.

            “We are pleased, very pleased with what we have seen, and  we congratulate our Manager on the results achieved by his training.  The girls appear eager to please and their performances were aesthetically attractive.  We feel that there could be a large market for our services.”

            He paused, the listening slave girls were hanging on his every word.

            “Now we come to the question of which girl we feel to be the least pleasing, therefore to be the one we shall send back to work in the factory.”  Again he paused.  Each of the young women was holding her breath.  Each felt that she was ageing ten years.

            “Because of the high standard achieved by all girls we have decided to postpone our decision until we have had reports back from our clients on the performance of our girls during the first two months of operations.  With another dozen young women completing their training in a month’s time, I am sure that all the girls in this class will be trying desperately to keep their place in our team!”

            He sat down. 

            He saw that the initial smiles of relief on the young woman’s faces was giving way to anxious looks as they realised that the Sword of Damocles was still hanging over their heads.

 

 

 

            Azziz Enterprises had now been functioning for four months.

            It had been an instant success, much to the delight of the young chairman, Azziz Bey, and his fellow directors and investors.  The demand for its services at banquets and celebrations had grown rapidly.  Its reputation had spread, and clients in other towns were now clamouring for a team to be sent to serve and perform at their banquets and feasts.

            Two further classes of slave girls from Azzat Bey’s large carpet factory had been selected and completed their training.  Several girls had been sent back to the factory - more ‘pour encourager less autres’ than because they had proved to be glaringly unsuitable.  The effect of this on the remaining girls had been electric.  Each went to the banquets determined more than ever to please the host and his guests as well as their own manager and Naja, the black eunuch.  They were more than ever willing to comply with every demand, and indeed seemed to be a happy little team.

            So popular was the enterprise that the number of bookings had to be restricted to keep the girls fresh and keen.  And additional windfalls had resulted from accepting offers from wealthy Turks keen to buy for their harem a Christian slave girl who had caught their eye whilst serving at a banquet.  With her silken golden hair and blue eyes, Jane had been the object of many such enquiries, but so far the price asked for her had frightened off the would-be buyers.

            Jane had longed to try and escape back to the Pasha, but had found it impossible.  Nor had she been able to find out anything about him, except that she was now a long way from Malik.  They were not allowed any paper or writing materials, and Jane was in despair as to how to get a message to him.

            She had often been chosen by the guests at banquets to perform in the various extra entertainments and guessed that she must have produced a considerable amount of extra income.  However, although the Manager encouraged her with praise he was always careful to keep her on her toes by saying that the directors were still considering returning her to the factory.  She frequently had to serve a guest in a more intimate way, both in an alcove and kneeling at his feet.

 

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            Perhaps as a result of their popularity with all-male banquets, Azziz Enterprises were also sometimes hired to serve at certain discreet all-female celebrations.  These were given by the wives or widows of rich men to their women friends, or for the wives of their husband’s friends.

            The Christian slave girls hated these occasions.  It was bad enough to be degraded in front of men, but to be displayed in front of free Moslem women was too much!  This was a view that Jane shared wholeheartedly, but of course there was nothing that she could do.  Any lack of enthusiasm to serve these usually rather plump ladies would result in the Manager reminding them of the prospect of an immediate return to the dreaded factory.

            At such functions the girls were more modestly dressed, anyway initially, and had to behave with more circumspection, again initially.  However, many of these Turkish ladies had spent all their lives in the harem, and this had usually made them highly frustrated, a feeling which they often eased by treating their own female slaves with sadistic cruelty.  Thus they enjoyed watching pretty young Christian girls being shamed and degraded as much as their menfolk did.  They would appraise the performance of the girl from a personal and more expert standpoint - much to the embarrassment of the young women concerned, who soon learnt that whereas a convincing simulation of a climax might often fool men, it seldom fooled women.

            At such all-female banquets many of the women would remain veiled, partly to hide their enjoyment and partly because their hostess’s menfolk might also look in to see a particularly piquant act.  To have to serve veiled women, and perform before them, was, Jane found, a strange feeling.  To be assessed by men was one thing, but to be judged by a veiled woman as to your suitability to give her pleasure, or to amuse her by putting on a Special Act, was far worse.

            Inevitably, these all-female banquets resulted in some of the girls being bought as personal pleasure slaves by rich women.  This was regarded with horror by the slaves of Azziz Enterprises.  To be bought by a man was a natural and rather exciting affair, but to be bought by an older women for her personal use was a dreadful fate.  There was, therefore, an uneasy atmosphere on these occasions.

            It was at one such banquet that Jane was taken aside by the Manager and told that the guest of honour had selected her to perform in front of the other guests.  Jane had seen her, a veiled, beautifully and expensively dressed woman wearing jewels worth a fortune.  All that could be seen of her face were her glittering and heavily painted eyes over her long white veil.

            “You will perform with her personal white page boy,” said the Manager.

            “You mean flirt with a boy dressed as a woman, like we do with our own boy eunuchs?” asked Jane.

            “No! It amuses his Mistress to have him dressed in European clothes as a young man of fashion, so for this he will appear as a respectable young European boy.  You will pretend that you love each other, and have at last managed to be alone together.  You will shyly and tentatively hold hands.  This will slowly lead to kisses being exchanged.  You will fondle each other and slowly undress each other, then let nature take its course.”

            “Oh!  But if he is a eunuch ...”

            The Manager smiled.  “He would hardly be his Mistress’s body slave if he were unable to satisfy her, if not with his manhood, then with his tongue!  But I doubt if his Mistress will allow things to get as far as that!  She would be far too jealous.  In any case that’s not what these women want to watch.  They want to see a European couple flirting - something that scarcely exists in Turkey.  So you must improvise - but make it exciting and realistic.”

 

            Half an hour later, dressed in a pretty garden party dress with flowers in her hair, Jane sat in front of the guests, in a simulated English garden bower.

            She was anxiously looking around, awaiting, it seemed, the arrival of her swain.  She did not seem to notice the well dressed and extraordinary good looking youth who quietly crept up behind her and playfully put his hands over her eyes.  The guest sighed at this little sign of innocent love - something that had never happened in their more brutal lives.

            Jane jumped up.  “You!” she cried in English.

            Jane’s real astonishment delighted the guests.  They felt that she was acting beautifully.  They didn’t realise that standing in front of her was Hyacinth!

            She almost forgot where she was, and what she was supposed to be doing.  She just stood there, her mouth wide open, her heart pounding.

            “Darling,” said Hyacinth in Turkish.  “Moon of my delight!  At last we are alone!”

            Then in English he whispered: “Act you fool, act!  You’re supposed to be in love with me.”

            “Darling!  My love!” said Jane in her simple Turkish, reaching out tentatively for the boy’s hand.  “What are you doing here?” she whispered in English.

            The two young things played their parts delightfully.  Hands touched hands.  Eyes gazed into eyes.  Sweet nothings were whispered lovingly into ears.  Kisses were planted on shoulders.  Lips touched lips.  Hands ran up and down.

            From Hyacinth’s whispers Jane learnt that the Pasha’s wife, Lalla Zora, was the veiled guest of honour, and that she was visiting her wealthy widowed sister, the hostess of the banquet.  She had thought that she had recognised Jane, and that she had told Hyacinth to check and had proposed this particular act so that he could do so.

            “Act well, and she might buy you,” whispered Hyacinth as he slipped Jane’s dress down over her shoulders.

            “To be given to the Pasha?” whispered Jane, wildly excited.

            “Or she might keep you for herself!”

            “Oh!”

            “But I think she prefers boys - even if they have been castrated,” whispered Hyacinth bitterly.  “So I think it more likely that she wants you for her cage of white girls.”

            “Oh no!”

            “Shush!” whispered Hyacinth.  “We must concentrate on our act.”

 

            It was the next day and strange things began to happen to Jane.

            First she was gagged and blindfolded, and her wrists were chained back to her upper arms, forcing her elbows out behind her.  Then she was led along a passage and into what seemed to be a courtyard.

            There was a smell of boiling pitch or tar, mixed with rubber.  She felt herself being fastened by the neck to a wooden post.

            Suddenly she screamed behind her gag as she felt a hot sticky liquid being poured onto her shoulders.  At first it seemed to be burning her as it ran down and all over her body.

            She felt things, long soft things, being carefully stuck into the liquid, particularly on her arms, down her back and legs, on her backside and belly, and around her breasts.

            The liquid seemed to be gradually cooling and solidifying.  Then more of the burning hot liquid was poured all over her body, and more of the long soft things were stuck into it.

            Her blindfold was removed.  In front of her was a long mirror.  She screamed behind her gag as she looked at what they had done to her body.

            It had been coated in thick rubberised jet black tar!

            The thick, but slightly flexible black coating covered her entire body, except for her head, her nipples, and the vividly pink curve of her beauty lips - all of which contrasted startlingly with the blackness of the rest of her body.

            And embedded into the tar were the ends of numerous long and brilliantly coloured bird feathers, covering her from neck to toes.  The big feathers attached to her arms and folded elbows gave the impression of folded wings.  Spreading out from her backside was a large display of beautiful peacock feathers.  Another display of smaller feathers outlined her bare beauty lips.  The effect was quite extraordinary.  She had indeed been tarred and feathered.

            The Manager and Naja were standing back, admiring their handiwork.  Never before had Azziz Enterprises taken such trouble to meet the strange whims of a client.  But then they were being paid very handsomely indeed.

            “This will last some time, and when it does eventually start to peel off, they she can always be put into the specially made elasticised bird suit that we are supplying with the girl,” said Naja as he stepped forward.  In his hand he held a feathered bird’s head mask.  He slipped it over poor Jane’s head.  It had two little peep-holes in front of her eyes.  It fitted tightly round her chin making speech difficult.  He unfastened her now largely superfluous gag.

            Through the little eye holes, Jane saw that the impression of a pretty feathered bird was now complete.  She wanted to speak, but Naja raised his whip menacingly as she tried to ask what was happening to her.

            Terrified, she lapsed into silence again.

            “We will now teach you to chirp like a bird,” said the Manager, “and to utter certain simple phrases in Turkish.  You will learn them like a parrot does - by imitation and constant repetition.  You will be beaten if you ever so much as try to even whisper anything else - or if you ask any questions.  And you will to be taught to flutter your wings like a real bird.”

            Jane gave a horrified gasp.

            Then she saw the Manager point to a large bird’s cage in the corner of the room.  It had a little perch in the middle.

            “And this is your travelling cage,” he said.

 

 

 

            Lalla Zora waited in her boudoir, gloating, like a plump painted spider in its lair.

            It was the day following her return to Malik.  It had been a terrible journey - several times Lalla Zora had had Jane taken out of the cage to give her intimate pleasure in the seclusion of her hotel bedroom or carriage.  Clearly she found the feel of the soft feathers and of the hard but flexible black tar, coupled with the bareness of Jane’s breasts and beauty lips, all highly stimulating.

            But now they were back, and the Pasha, having tactfully kept out of sight long enough to allow his wife time to recover from the journey and make herself beautiful, was on his way.

            Jane sat on her little swinging perch in the cage.  Under the feathers, her wrists had been fastened back, loosely, to her upper arms, giving the appearance of the wings of a songbird.  Her face was hidden behind the bird mask.  Otherwise, she was naked under her feathers and black tar.

            Suddenly there was a hush from the chattering ladies who attended on Lalla Zora.

            The Pasha must have entered the room!

            Jane’s heart began to race with excitement.  Behind her mask her eyes flashed towards him, before quickly being lowered like those of a humble slave girl.  She could not resist taking another quick glance.  At last!  How she had longed for this moment!  But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined it like this!

            That furtive glance showed him to be as devastatingly attractive as ever.  He seemed even more debonair and self-confident than she remembered him.

            Now he was being charming to his wife.  He listened to her account of her journey attentitively.  No one would ever have thought that he was the owner of some twenty five adoring slave girls, most of them Christian and some of them kidnapped European women, all locked up in his harem under the strict discipline and constant surveillance of his black eunuchs.

            There was a slight pause.

            He had turned towards the pretty gilded cage!

            “And what is this new toy?” he laughed.  “Does it sing like a bird as well as look like one?”

            Jane longed to call out to him.  But she did not dare do so.  She was far too frightened of the woman who was still her Mistress.

            Lalla Zora clapped her hands.

            “Sing little bird!  Sing for your Master!” she cried.

            Obediently Jane shook her elbows, like a bird fluttering its wings, her brightly coloured feathers lifting and falling to give delightful glimpses of her full breasts, on which pretty little designs had been carefully painted.  She drew in her breath and then, just as the Manager of Azziz Enterprises had made her practise, she launched into the warbling of a songbird.

            “Delightful!” cried the Pasha.  “What a delightful idea.  I must try it in my harem!  What a sight - twenty five chirping songbirds each in a little cage hanging from the ceiling!”

            Jane, embarrassed under her bird mask, was still warbling away.

            “And if this one is half as pretty as her figure, she will make a delightful addition to my harem.  What a delightful present you have brought me, my dear.”

            “Not so fast, my dear husband,” smiled Lalla Zora.  “This little bird is indeed extremely beautiful, but she is my slave - not yours!  I have bought her for myself.  I love watching her in my cage as I lie half asleep.  I love being woken in the mornings by her little chirps.  She is a perfect partner for my favourite love-bird.”

            “Bah!” said the Pasha, disdainfully.  “What a waste of a slave girl.”

            “Not at all!” laughed his wife.  “I have taught her all sorts of tricks to amuse my visiting lady friends.  Look!”

            She snapped her fingers.  “I love Zaid Pasha!  I love Zaid Pasha!  I love Zaid Pasha!” cried Jane, sounding just like a parrot imitating a little girl.

            “Surely I know that voice!” shouted the Pasha with sudden passion.  “Tell her to take off that mask!”

            “All in good time,” whispered Lalla Zora lovingly.  “I thought you had come to pay attention to me, not to some chit of a slave girl whom I’ve trained to perform to amuse you!”

            “I’m sorry,” said the Pasha turning back to Lalla Zora.  “It was just that for a moment I thought I recognised her voice.”

            “Did you really?  How extraordinary.”  The Turkish woman smiled, snapping her fingers again.

            “Jane loves her Master!  Jane loves her Master!  Jane loves her Master!” came the little lisping cries from her cage.

            “It is Jane!  But it can’t be!  She was killed by bandits when that damn fool of a future husband of hers refused my offer of an escort.”

            “This little slave begs to please her Master!” lisped the voice from the cage.

            “It is Jane!  Let me get that mask off her!”

            He strode toward the cage and turned the handle of the little door, but it was padlocked.  He turned back towards his wife - a little key dangled from her hand.

            “All in good time, my dear.”  She dangled the key tantalisingly.  “You can have her - on conditions.”

            “Conditions!  Damn your conditions!  I want to see her face!”

            He tried to put his hand into the cage to pull off the mask, but the bars were too close together.

            Lalla Zora waved the key again in front of the madly impatient Pasha, and then jerked it away out of his reach.  She snapped her fingers again.

            “Would my Master like to see his slave?” came the voice from behind the mask.  Then the human bird raised herself slightly on her perch, and parted her legs, as if offering herself.  The Pasha drew in his breath.

            “The first condition,” said Lalla Zora in a quiet and unconcerned voice, “is that I keep Hyacinth.  You say now you only lent him to me.  You know very well you gave him to me and I want to keep him.”

            “The second condition,” continued the Pasha’s wife, “is that I can keep a little harem of page boys - just like you keep a harem of slave girls!”

            “What!” cried the Pasha.  “That’s absurd!”

            “My sister, the one I have just been visiting, has four white slave boys.  I want four boys too!”

            “But she’s a widow.  She has no husband to restrain her lust!”

            “And I will make sure that I, too, become a widow soon, if I don’t get my way,” smiled Lalla Zora enigmatically.

            The Pasha gave her a long look.  There was a sudden silence.

            She went up to the cage.  Deftly, she unlocked the little door and reached inside.  She slipped the bird mask off Jane’s face and then she quickly locked the door again.

            “See!”  She turned to the Pasha.  “It’s a fair deal!  You get your little English girl, I get my little English boy, and several more to keep him company - and to keep me warm at night when you are too busy in your harem!”

            There was a long silence, broken only by the Pasha’s heavy breathing.

            “Alright!  You can have your damn boys.  I want to see that girl locked up in my harem.  I want her to feel, deep in her soul, that she is now my slave and is in my power for ever!”

            Listening to this violent outburst, Jane found herself shivering with fear, and yet also shivering with excitement.  Yes!  Yes!  Yes, deep in her soul, she wanted to feel that she was his slave, completely and utterly in his power for ever!  And whatever he decided to do with her, she must accept.

            “Yes, my dear,” laughed Lalla Zora, “she is now highly trained.  Your black eunuchs will find that she will find an apt pupil.  And I will personally make sure that she runs to your harem, begging to be admitted!”

            Leaving the door of the cage still locked, she opened another section on the side of the cage.  The bars behind it were set wider apart.

            “Put your hands through these bars.  Feel her breasts under the feathers.”

            Angrilly the Pasha strode to the cage.  He felt Jane’s breasts, eagerly.

            “There is another condition,” added Lalla Zora.

            “Well?”  The Pasha tone’s was one of suppressed fury.

            “It is that ... that ...”  Lalla Zora waved her women out of the room.  “That, you let me please you, now!”

            “What!  With that girl here, in her cage!”

            “As you always say, my dear, these Christians are only animals.  Surely the presence of a mere animal would not upset the performance of the famous Zaid Pasha?”  She laughed prettily.  “Alright!  I will draw the curtain round the cage so that she cannot see.  Look!”

            She unlocked the little door, and replaced the bird mask over Jane’s face and then she drew a curtain across the sides of the cage.  Then she turned to the Pasha, and started to unfasten the top of her sumptuous dress.

            “The little bird’s chirps will stimulate you even more!” she murmured.

            She put her arms around the Pasha’s neck.  “And whilst you are waiting for her to join your harem, and whilst I build up mine, I will have her write the story of how she became your slave.  A chapter a day!  You will find it fascinating reading.  The life of a Turkish slave girl - through the eyes of an innocent young English girl!”

            She pulled the Pasha down onto her bed.

            She snapped her fingers.

            Jane started to sing, to sing like a little bird, to sing for her Master, to sing to overcome the terrible jealousy that was building up in her mind as she listened to the Pasha’s ardent love-making, to sing of her excitement at soon having to run to her Master’s harem and report to his black eunuchs, to be branded and collared, and to be put amongst his troop of slave girls, all vying amongst themselves to catch his eye and give him pleasure.

            And meanwhile to write down the story of her love ...