Chapter 8
Branded
Marjory and I stood before the desk like a pair of teenagers who have incurred the wrath of our high school principal. The Grand Inquisitor who is Rankin Teller surveyed us across the oak and was running true to form in what he said. "You can't accuse me of arranging this whole affair," he said sarcastically. "Nobody seems to know what went wrong with it, but the pilot and that Arab chap, Hamid, both went down with the ship so maybe we'll never know." He laughed. "But I'm grateful for the two of you being dropped into my lap, so to speak. Welcome home!"
I don't know where Rankin gets his ideas but Marjory's neck was encircled by a collar to which her wrists were fastened so that she must hold her elbows out to either side and provide anyone interested in her anatomy with a perfect view. For me, he got a beastly sort of yoke which clamped my neck and held my wrists out to either side by means of metal circlets I knew I'd never get out of. Both us girls had total freedom except for our hands which were safely disposed of.
"You really are a gift from the skies," he chuckled. "We were all getting a bit bored. But now, by way of a diversion, I'm going to have you sort of mingle with my guests and let them have a good look at everything you've got. Particularly those whip marks which you can tell me about some other time. Gosh, Marjory, you're all the colors of the rainbow, and you, Celie, my gal, have got the best caned rump I've ever seen. Do you get the idea?"
"Don't be a bastard," said Marjory angrily. "Surely you can't send two naked girls out among your guests in this condition. We're so helpless we couldn't swap a fly."
"But you do look good, sweetheart. Look at Celie now, isn't she sweet with her arms out to either side and those pretty little wrists safely locked at each end of the yoke. And at how her fingers keep reaching for something that isn't there."
"I said you were a bastard and I'll say it again."
"Okay, I'm a bastard. But just the same I think the way I've got you fixed, Marjory, is just as cute. I like the effect, it's as though you're offering yourself to anyone who wants to look. And that collar sets off your neck a real treat. Would you like to be whipped again?"
"No, I wouldn't. Don't be such a beast."
Rankin then turned his attention to me. "Celie, girl, you're a sight for sore eyes. You wear that there yoke like you was born with it. I'd say that you two will give my guests four of the best tits they've ever seen. And two pretty good cunts, too." Rankin's voice hardened, "But look, kids, you won't insult the guests and you won't demand that they affect your release. You'll be good little girls and display yourselves nicely. If a guy wants to cop a feel, you won't kick him in the nuts. Break any rules and you're pelts will get marked up damned sight worse than now. Get with it, girls, and earn your keep."
Maybe a girl never gets used to nakedness. I knew it was twice as bad for Marjory as for me. We were like a pair of shy virgins as we obeyed the command we could not contest and stepped out into the sunlight. My hands instinctive went to work to try and cover myself but could not reach either my breasts or pussy. Rankin's yoke thing made me feel like a pretty little girl wantonly displaying herself. I said a hearty, "Oh, shit!" beneath my breath as I stepped bravely forward to become a plaything for a bunch of strange men. Marjory was still cursing Rankin Teller with bitter venom.
It had all happened too quickly to properly comprehend. Rankin had yanked us out of the sea only an hour ago and here we were already put to work on his ship. If we hadn't already had experience with his erotic notions, the experience would have been traumatic. As it was we knew it simply as the luck of the draw, certainly a lot better than drowning along with poor Hamid and his airplane. When I thought of Hamid, I wanted to cry but forced back the tears rather than parade around with wet cheeks my fingers could not reach.
The guests hailed us with joy. I think they were genuinely bored and remembered me from the time I'd been Rankin's prisoner previously. Marjory and I got felt and fingered, and turned this way and that with exclamations of delight as our wounds were examined with awe, while several of the females expressed the hope that Rankin would have us whipped again for their enjoyment. Many expressed the idea that we should be lashed to the riggings, tied to the mast, or dunking us in the water at the end of a rope. It was all great fun.
One of the female guests, a young woman named Lenore, was unexpectedly frank in confiding to us her pleasure in seeing us in our present fix. She had refused Rankin the favors he demanded and had been told to think it over unless she wanted to be hung by her thumbs and given an exhibition whipping to amuse the guests. This ordeal had been scheduled for the following day and she now hoped our appearance would alter her fate. I knew all about this, for I remembered my own case. I would have liked to throw my arms around the poor dear and give comfort but I couldn't throw my arms around anything.
There was no time in which to mourn Shalima, or the regal presence of the man who had bought me at auction. I was pushed and pulled and taken to one side to listen to confidences of sympathy or envy, and asked to explain what it was like to be a slave girl and be thus nakedly exposed and made helpless. I did my best with my answers for goodness knows I needed all the friends I could get. But it was noticeable that none offered me help, or freedom.
Rankin was pretty much a man of his word. Marjory and I spent the night, each with one ankle encircled by a metal band and by a length of chain attached to the mast. We pointed out that there was no need to fasten us because we would go to sleep where ever we could, and there was no way we could possibly escape this ship. But he happily laughed away our protests and happily snapped on padlocks to the chains around our ankles. We were told the only good girls were ones who were under restraint.
It pleased our owner to share a festive breakfast with him in his cabin. Marjory and I were safely clothed in handcuffs which Rankin had locked in front so we could feed ourselves. After that damned yoke and collar, it was pretty much like being absolutely free. The trouble with Rankin is that, when he wants to, he can be so damned charming that he melts a girl's inhibitions and makes it that much more of a shock when he gets back to normal. When breakfast was over and done with and we could drink no more coffee, we were given an inkling of our day. "The boys and girls have seen those handcuffs aplenty," Rankin informed, "so what I'm going to do is tie them pretty hands behind your back."
"You mean we don't have to wear those horrible things you locked us in yesterday?"
"That's right, love. Stick out your hands. When I got them unlocked, you cross them behind your back and stand that way until I get around to fixing you real proper." He chuckled, "You don't have to thank me, I'm just happy to be of service."
We could cheerfully have murdered him but were too dispirited to make a messy. As the rings of steel fell away from our wrists, we rubbed and massaged briefly before crossing them behind our back. The first bit of cord told us all too clearly we weren't going to be doing much with our hands. "That's one thing I dearly love to do," Rankin told us as though confiding a secret, "and that's tie a girl's arms behind her back. It not only looks real cute but it fixes her so there ain't no way she's going to cause you trouble." There were more laughs at our expense. "Wouldn't be surprised if the day comes when girls is born with hands tied behind their backs. It's the most natural and beautiful thing in the world. And don't you forget it. When you walk out today among the boys and gals, I want you to look real proud."
We kept a discrete silence while we stood nakedly hating the man who was cleverly twisting and looping his cord around our wrists. I knew it was no use complaining so I put up with the unkind bit of the ropes.
"I'm a sporting guy," Rankin told us. "You gals are welcome to try and get your hands loose from this here tie. And if you manage it, I'm gonna give you a prize, and that prize is credit for ten strokes anytime you earn yourself a whipping. But get this straight, girlies, there ain't no one of the guests is gonna untie those hands of yours, and if I hear of you asking anyone to do it, you're gonna wish you kept your mouth shut." Rankin paused dramatically. "How'd it be I gag you both so you don't get into trouble?"
I might have known the simple binding of my hands behind my back would not be enough to satisfy Rankin eroticism. "You don't need to gag us, we'll won't ask anyone about getting free," I told him. "Please don't gag us, it's horrible to be gagged."
I could just as well kept quiet, and Marjory's pleas also fell upon deaf ears. Rankin, like a small boy with a new toy, fumbled around in a draw to produce the objects we were going to wear. I expect they cost a lot of money because they certainly looked expensive and were beautifully fashioned, except what went into our mouths was an imitation phallus of soft rubber. There was a leather band that went over our lips, buckled tight behind our necks and held the copy of the male organ tight within our mouths. It would evidently be a silent day.
"Damn it, you look prettier than ever," Rankin said with feeling. "I've a good mind to keep you like that with your mouth filled all the time. Like I told you, girls are made to tie up. I've got a quite a collection of gags and I'll try them out on you from time to time. But these here will do you fine for today. Run along and do your mingling and give them all a real charge the same as I'm getting."
Rankin caught my head in his hands and planted a brotherly sort of kiss squarely on my forehead before pushing me out into the sunlight. He did the same for Marjory. Then he patted our bare bottoms before leaving us to wander where we pleased. I turned to consult darling Marjory and discovered I couldn't say a word. I tugged at my wrists but that wasn't any help. My onetime mistress and I looked at each other in desolation as we stepped down the stairway to the deck.
We were an instant success. With the additional attraction of the leather band across our lips, it became a really big deal to ask us questions we couldn't answer. "Each has got a mouthful of rubber cock," informed one of the boys. "Should be real good training for them. Come here, sweetie, and let me feel you up."
It was hateful to be so damned obedient. Everyone wanted to have a good look at our bodies, bound hands and gag. But I think it was the gag that attracted them the most. There is something psychological about knowing that a girl's mouth is filled with a replica of a penis and she can't push it out. Something for both the girl wearing it and the man looking at her. Symbolic oral sex, I guess.
As we were fingered and passed around with our nipples getting plenty of attention, and one fellow even plucking a few pubic hairs, it was generally agreed that once again Rankin had come up with delightful entertainment. Marjory and I were wondering if we would ever be allowed to sit quietly in a deck chair to enjoy the waves. But our group was joined by a couple of giggling women who had picked up the news of a quite different entertainment. It appeared the Lenore Watson was to be suspended naked by her thumbs.
I have said Rankin kept his word. Quite evidently his promise of punishment to the charming blonde was actually going to happen. Guests crowded the center deck, lining up along the rails or mounting the stairs for a better view. It was not long before the girl about to be punished was escorted into view by a pair of seamen who controlled her struggled by simply lifting her off the deck to plant her dead center on the stage. She was left to stand alone, gazing around without hope of help. After a minute she was joined by the ship's master who quite obviously wanted to make a speech.
Rankin was a quite happy man. The first thing he did was to take possession of Lenore's lovely hair and shake to tell her clearly who was boss. Lenore was not bound and was clothed in a light summer dress. Rankin soon dispelled any notions she might have had about mercy. "Lenore here," he said loudly, "has been a real foolish girl." He looked around with pride. "All I asked her to do was lay down and spread her legs and the silly bitch slapped my face. And told me to get lost." He paused dramatically. "Now there ain't no one slaps Rankin Teller and gets away with it. I'm a reasonable man but after she tried to kick me where it hurts, I explained that I'd give her overnight to change her mind. If she didn't give an apology and come around with a good performance, I'd have her hung up by her thumbs. And that's where we are right now, ladies and gentlemen."
From the beginning it was obvious Lenore was resigned to the inevitable. No doubt she had witnessed many such horrors on this ship. All she did was look Rankin Teller in the eye and, in a clear voice, say very simply, "Please don't do this to me."
Rankin appeared not to hear. He stepped back a few paces from the frightened girl, who in this moment of her travail was displaying unexpected courage. His tone was cheerful, "Now, sweetheart, what we all want from you is to get out of them there clothes. You look a lot better without them than with them. And when we hang you up the way we're going to, you don't want to be bothered with no clothes, you'll be glad you got rid of them." Rankin chuckled at his fatherly advice. "And, of course, kiddo, there's the little matter of marking up your pretty sun-tanned skin. Clothes wouldn't be no help there at all."
Lenore was standing straight and tense. But now she swiveled slowly around the circle of those who watched and once again the simplicity of her words touched my heart. "Won't any of you help me? Won't you stop Mr. Teller punishing me like this ... Please!"
There was no response, only a stony silence. I longed to offer comfort and aid but was totally helpless. As I saw Lenore droop in defeat and watched breathlessly as she reached for the fastening of her dress, Rankin turned and left for the steps to his cabin. He sat on the steps to watch the cruelty to come.
Lenore now stood alone on what I could only think of as center stage. And when the dress she wore fell away and was kicked aside to reveal her lovely slenderness in panties and bra, she paused once more to gaze around the circle of avid eyes before shrugging hopelessly and rendering herself totally nude. She was very beautiful.
A pair of women guests had been briefed in the function they must now perform. Once carried the only instrument they would need, a two foot length of hardwood with metal rings at each end and below each a small leather noose. Each grasped a pathetically slender wrist and inserted the thumb within the prepared noose of soft leather by which Rankin hoped to avoid permanent injury. They positioned the yellow bands below the knuckle of the thumb and drew it tight, which at the same time a male crewman lowered ropes from the rigging above, each with a hook to fit the rings. With a slowness that was cruel, the ropes tightened to rise the imprisoned thumbs until she was compelled to stand on tip toes and left that way as the women walked away. But they quickly returned, one with a long yellow cane, the other with a single thonged whip, which was of a quality somewhere between cruelty and kindness. It would hurt more than the youthful slenderness seemed designed to bear. The stage was set.
Lenore was now completely helpless. The yellow cane sliced the air with a vicious whine to place a scarlet imprint across the curved contours of a feminine bottom not yet marked. The shock was obvious but the girl did no scream. Lenore jerked and did a small dance on tip toes that told of the pain. But the dance was quickly over as the punished thumbs took weight abandoned by the toes. Quickly she sought to place her toes firmly on the deck again.
When the woman with the whip drew back her arm to deliver a cruel cut around a youthful waist, it drew a scream from lips which had wished to be silent. When the cane cut the second time, Lenore leaped and kicked in disbelief that so much pain could be delivered by a slender cane.
I suppose the whipping and canning of Lenore followed pretty much the pattern of all other such inflictions upon female flesh. She jumped and jerked and tugged in a way which I am sure was all too pleasing to those who watched, and certainly to Rankin Teller. The poor girl, here and there, repeated over and over her plea, "Stop! Oh, please stop! Please, not so hard!" But the cuts continued and even harder if anything. I could well believe the two of those girls had been whipped and knew what they were doing from sad experience. I hoped they would be whipped again for what they were doing to this innocent girl.
I suppose Lenore's whipping was not all that cruel, or too long. It was not the main event and we all knew it but a prelude to the real punishment to come. The whip mistresses tucked their cane and whip beneath their arm regretfully and retreated to leave behind a sobbing girl who forgot her nakedness in her absorption in pain. She stood in taut constriction with hands that could not dry her tears.
The ropes then tightened and quite suddenly Lenore's reaching toes could no longer touch the deck. She gasped, her eyes widened, and a wail of disbelief escaped her lips. The ropes were snubbed and there she hung, gently swaying against the motion of the ship.
It was wickedly simple and in its way a thing of beauty. The punished thumbs could not move but the fingers betrayed what the thumbs could not. Lenore possessed delightful breasts but these were no partly flattened because of the stress on her suspended body. Her belly had become concave while her rib cage was accentuated in a manner to change the whole contour of her nakedness. From time to time she looked up at the noosed thumbs which delivered an agony she could scarcely bear, and I felt certain she was doubting the reality of all this. The scorch still burning her skin where the whip and cane had kissed lingered on, adding to her suffering. I wanted to help but if I do so, I would be the only one prompted by mercy and undoubtedly punished for it. Rankin and the guests were absorbed with the scene, silent and watching as if they couldn't tear themselves away from such beauty.
I, too, stood there and watched. Eventually the crowd became fluid, coming and going as the mood took them, and to counter boredom, Rankin had directed that from time to time the suspended girl would be raised or lower, from the top of the spar or hovering with her toes just an inch from the wooden deck. From her wails of anguish, it was easy to tell that the higher the suspension, the more terrifying it was to this tortured girl. I am sure the poor dear often believed she faced a fall in addition to permanent damage to her thumbs. These variations kept the passengers amused throughout the day, a day in which Marjory and I eventually delivered ourselves for their attentions. I suppose both Marjory and I were wondering if the fate Lenore suffered now would be ours in days to come. It was hard to believe the suspended loveliness was simply entertainment.
Just before dinner Lenore was lowered and released. She sank to the floor with arms outstretched. Lenore's nakedness had not imposed upon those thumbs the stress of someone weighing more pounds. In that, she should thank her stars that she was a slender, slight girl. Rankin insisted that she join us all in the dinning lounge and delegated the two whip mistresses to attend her needs at the table. The girl was dazed and grateful for attention. She made no protests to those who chose to lift an arm and examine the thumbs by which she had been punished. When dinner was over, the same two whip mistresses took charge of Marjory and I, unstrapping our gags and pulling the hated phallus from our mouth, before sitting us down and feeding us like a couple of babies. Our hands were not released from behind our backs. I suppose it could be considered a successful day on the Rankin's Pride.
It was another uncomfortable night. I was curious as to why we were not heavily ironed and locked in the brig but I asked no questions. The brig was not a pleasant place. Marjory and I got dumped on the floor of an empty store room with our necks encircled with a brutal iron collar and chain running to a ringbolt in the wall. We actually had quite a lot of freedom since the tether was lengthy. Yet we could do nothing with it since the door was stoutly locked. We sat together and mourned our fate until we fell asleep.
Breakfast was another state affair in the captain's cabin, and I'm ashamed to say we enjoyed it considerably even though I was certain Rankin was chuckling deep inside over things he knew and we did not. We were not even handcuffed and I was pretty sure we were being tested to see if we actually would run or jump over board. We did neither of these things but ate and drank our coffee like good little girls. We even got ourselves a kind word.
"You're becoming properly trained little girls. All today you'll have to wear is handcuffs behind your back. And a beautiful clip on each of your pretty tits." He laughed at the flash of alarm on our faces. "Don't worry none, gals, I wouldn't have you lose them tits for anything in the world. The main attraction today is going to be little smart ass who got hung up yesterday. I'll think up something to make it interesting."
Marjory and I were actually grateful for our handcuffs. Girls in our situation become thankful for anything that doesn't hurt too much. And I will say this about handcuffs, if you don't struggle, they won't bit.
When Rankin had adjusted the steel bands around our wrists satisfactory around our wrists, we stood still remembering the promised butterflies. "I'll bet you gals can't hardly wait," Rankin mused. "You're going to fall in love with these pretty little things that clip your tits. But not hard enough to do you no real harm. Take a look."
They were truly butterflies and, unless you turned them over, seemed pretty and innocent and almost to be desired. Marjory and I had not enjoyed having our nipples pinched and would actually been grateful for the butterflies had we believed them innocent. Then Rankin turned on over and we saw the brutal spring and serrated jaws which opened when the two wings were compressed by thumb and finger. We shivered in dismay at the thought of that cold metal biting into our tender nipples.
"Honey, you're going a real proud of these," he told us. "And there ain't nobody going to take them off. You'll make all the other gals jealous. Now, stand quite still while I show you how they work."
We stood quite still while Rankin had his fun. He grabbed a breast, compressed the butterfly wings and positioned the open jaws around my left nipple. Every so slowly he allowed the two wings to close and the metal spikes to bit my flesh. By this time I was panting in apprehension and pain. Once more Rankin admonished me to hold still my anguished flesh. Once more I gasped and Rankin stood back, pleased as punch, and beaming proudly of his work. And I have to admit that when I looked in a mirror the butterfly wings were as pleasing a bit of costume jewelry as I had ever worn. They burned. I watched the same thing done to Marjory and despite the shame and pain of wearing the pretty things were indeed attractive. Once more we got our bottom slapped and were sent upon our way.
Flogging, and brandings, and being stretched upon the rack are horrors so dramatic the one may speak of them over and over. And I suppose they carry for days the marks they inflict. But there was nothing dramatic about the butterflies. They might well been the real thing that just happened to alight upon our breasts. Their wings even fluttered as we walked and our breasts bounced. Everyone admired them but no one took them off or ever asked us if they hurt. It was taken as only right and proper that we should be in pain.
I suppose we would have felt very sorry for ourselves if it had not been for Lenore. Lenore wore a leather collar so wide as to tilt her chin and so tight as to seem to constrict her neck. At the back was the usual ring. The poor girl's wrists had been crossed and tightly bound, and the end of the rope used through the ring of her collar to pull her tied hands up and up and her neck back and back in a stress which carefully avoided anything fatal but which made her far more helpless than the usual strictures. If this was not enough, an iron anklet was locked fast around her right ankle and from it a three foot length of heavy chain attached her to an iron ball of frighten size and weight enough to compel any girl to stick around. Moving would be slow and very hard. I suppose even this might not have been too bad until she told us, her words distorted by the tight collar, that she had to walk three times around the deck during the day or receive other strips to add to the collection on back and bottom. Telling us of this, her voice became a wail, "I can't move the damned thing, it's so heavy. I certainly can't walk with it. All I can do is pull it a couple of inches at a time. What am I going to do!"
Marjory and I had no answer. I didn't know what I would do in her plight. It seemed no girl on the Rankin's Pride was ever free of the threat of leather thongs biting at her skin.
If he had possessed hands, we could have helped tug the ball and maybe completed the assignment. But we had no hands, all we had were rings of steel around our wrists and butterflies upon our breasts. We kept the poor girl company until a group of passengers crowded around and one of the men laughingly picked up the ball and told poor Lenore to follow where he led. We watched as they went on round number one of the ship, and wondering if what we saw might not earn the poor girl another punishment. But such thoughts were soon distracted by girls who insisted on flicking our butterflies to see how much they hurt. We longed to kick at them but a vision of our nakedness hanging by our thumbs acted as a deterrent. We suffered as we must.
That night was the worst yet. The ship's carpenter provided a couple of stout planks which extended out beyond the rail, each one well secured to the deck but protruded above the seething water to a length of at least twelve feet. At the far end of each was a single handcuff. In demonstration of the safety of the plank, Rankin stood straddling us on either side as we obeyed his order to crawl out far enough for him to lock the waiting steel cuff around extended wrist. The plank bend alarmingly under the double weight but resumed its normal condition when Rankin left. Marjory was locked on the other plank as I was. The watcher all made comments on how long it would be before we fell and either hung agonizingly from one wrist or fell into the waves below. Since we were not ready to try to sleep, Marjory and I found it easier to sit astride our plank with our one shackled hand stretched behind and our other clutching the wood. When everyone left and we were quite alone, Marjory told me, "We can survive, Celie dear, if we just keep our head. Don't get excited, don't get to feeling you're going to fall. We don't have to fall. Remember that and hold on."
It would have been wonderful to hold her in my arms or to have her hold me as a terrible loneliness descended with the night. Many hours later I abandoned the sitting posture and inched myself to lay on my belly and clutch the wood with free hand. I had no idea if that handcuff would hold my weight and made up my mind never to put it to the test.
Sleep did not come easily. I was quivering with a terrible fear as I gazed below at the dark depths. I had no doubt of frightful monsters and watching eyes. No doubt of huge sharks waiting for us to fall, no doubt of anything except survival. Should I fall, I was certain, and hung suspended by one wrist, I would not be able to work my way back onto the plank and would hang over the water like shark bait. I was positive I could never sleep.
We both slept in tiny catnaps interspersed by the horror that awaited us. I got little comfort from the thought of falling and being rescued by the cruel cut of metal around my wrist. But here and there, between nightmares, I fell asleep and when I awoke was surprised to find myself still on the plank. It seemed an eternity before we were freed, handcuffed and ushered to Rankin's office.
Ours had become a world in which we lived from hour to hour and were convinced we would never be free.
The guests were a sensation-loving lot who had to be constantly entertained with something painful to a girl. The old of them was little more than thirty and most of the girls were a lot younger. Playing the perfect host, Rankin decided not to allow them to become bored with Marjory and me, but to alter the punishment of our bodies with the punishment of others. Apparently everyone understood that on these occasions, every female would pull a number from a hat and the unfortunate maiden who pulled the wrong number was suppose to gracefully accept her fate.
Marjory and I learned the details of this pleasant game while eating breakfast with our master. It appeared we were to have a peaceful, if handcuffed, day, with the choice of watching some tearful maiden get her bottom caned, or simply catching up on the sleep we missed. Rankin told us that the plank with its handcuff drove a good many females into hysterics or a state of shock. He complimented us on our performance and suggested that we would like to try the same thing at another time. Marjory and I kept a discrete silence. It was wonderful to know that nothing would be done to us today. We wore our handcuffs jauntily as though proud of them, mingling happily with the boys and girls who were discussing the fortunate of the draw. A portion of the deck had been cleared and a smirking crew member was busy positioning the props of Rankin's latest notion. So far there was an office desk and a black board. There was a swivel chair behind the desk but the other seat was a hardwood kitchen chair and a wooden stool. That it was suppose to be a school room was obvious.
Even Marjory and I, used as we were to punishment upon punishment, could feel the rustle of sensation, the breathless hush of hazard, as the hat made its way around the circle and every female present knew her pretty skin at risk. One of them was going to have a bad, bad day. And about half way through the draw there was a squeal of excited horror as a youthful female displayed the fateful number. I doubt if the poor girl, who wasn't a day over eighteen, found much comfort from her boyfriend's kiss of fond farewell. Her name was Juno Stanley, and she marched bravely out to meet her fate in the person of Rankin Teller.
In his chosen role, Rankin then produced an academic gown of black with a bit of red trim. Motioning to his victim, he said, "Might as well get them clothes off, honey. They'll just get in the way."
The girl had been wearing a very brief string bikini, one of the only girls to be wearing anything. She untied the strings with trembling fingers and let the two tiny scraps of cloth fall to the deck. Rankin pushed a pair of black high heels across the desk to her and she slowly put them on. The heels made a tapping sound as she walked on the hardwood deck.
Juno was a scared girl, all could see that clearly, but she bravely faced her fate. She was quite beautiful, with the loveliest long legs made all the more lovely by the shape of the muscles induced by the very high heels. Juno stood there, blushing furiously, with one forearm shielding her breasts and the other hand cupping her pubic bush. At that moment Juno Stanley was the perfect picture of innocent.
"I guess you get the idea, honey. You're the pupil and I'm the teacher. Let your arms fall limp at your sides. I am going to touch one single part of you with this pointer, which ain't gonna hurt none, and then I want you to go to the blackboard and write down all the names you can think of, including the crude ones. By the way, sweetheart, you'll call me 'Sir'. Ready?"
"Yes, Sir." Juno looked very sweet and very frightened. The gowned master extended his yellow cane to lightly touch the left nipple of a quivering nudity. "There you are, honey, this is your first taste. Get busy with that there chalk."
Juno was almost one complete blush. And when her fingers found the chalk, they were trembling so hard that the word "Nipple" which she tried to write was hardly readable. Before she could use the duster to erase it and try again, Rankin issued stern reproof, "That ain't good, honey. You ain't gonna tell us you ain't ever learned to write?"
"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm nervous. May I try again?"
"After you've been punished for making that damned awful mess. Come here and hold out your left hand. Palm up."
Horrified, the poor girl who stood there naked holding the bit of chalk shivered and dropped the chalk to shatter upon the deck. Her voice was a quiver of disbelief, "But we just started, Sir. You're going to use that cane upon the palm of my hand, aren't you? And that will get me so upset I won't be able to write anything properly."
"That's just a bridge you can cross when you come to it. Right now just extend your arm."
Juno shrugged and slowly held out her left arm with its taut palm open and turned up. Rankin was in his element and went through all the damned fool motions of measuring distance and tapping the small, young hand waiting to be hurt. Then, quite suddenly, the cane cut the air to impact hard upon the palm.
The audience was silent in awe. For a second Juno stood perfectly still in shock before tucking her wounded hand in her armpit. "Ohhhhhh!" she cried as she steadied herself with her uninjured hand against the desk. Obviously the pain was far worse than she had anticipated or ever dreamed. Juno was strangely beautiful as she remained her motionless in the center of a breathless silence. Rankin had no doubt used this punishment before and stood as a naked girl slowly sobbed her way back into awareness. "You done fine, honey," he said cheerfully. "Don't hurt all that bad, does it?"
"It's terrible!"
"Whatever you say, sweetheart. Now get up to that blackboard. Here's a fresh piece of chalk. You write down all them names ... "
Juno took the chalk in her uninjured hand and slowly managed a descent "NIPPLE." She stood unhappily looking at the make-believe headmaster, but, finding no mercy in his eyes, turned back to the blackboard and wrote down the word "TIT."
"I told you you could do it, honey. Write them all down and that way you won't get the cane."
"I don't know any more." The young voice faltered. "If you want to be polite, you call it a nipple. And if you want to be vulgar, you call it a tit."
"Honey, you sure is a disappointment. I ain't gonna be hard on you so give me the names of this pretty thing." The cane lightly tapped Juno's breast.
The poor girl obediently wrote "BREAST." Then she added "BOOB." Once more she turned to admit she had exhausted her knowledge of descriptive words.
The headmaster took her statement bravely, visible bracing himself against such innocence. "I gave you a break once, sweetheart, but I can't give you a break twice running. This time hold out your right arm."
"But then I won't be able to write at all!" If I can't write with either hand, I know you'll be real mad at me. Give me a break."
"How many breaks do you want?" Juno shifted from one foot to the other, her young eyes riveted on the yellow cane. "You'll have to forgive me," she explained, "but I just don't know all these names people use. Couldn't you let me have one more try?"
"Okay. You don't seem to know nothing about your tits and boobs, so let's go down to something everybody has an interest in. It's got more names than you can shake a stick at. Clean off that blackboard and get ready to write." This time the cane prodded the young lips beneath the pubic hair. "Give this one all you've got, honey," he encouraged. '"Cause if you don't, you're going to be hurting."
Poor Juno had evidently been well brought up. Her vocabulary of four letter words was decidedly limited. She started off with "VAGINA", and, after a good deal of foot shuffling, "CUNT." She was obviously shamed and was close to exhausting her stock of blushes.
"I want to be real helpful, honey," Rankin said. "How about 'TWAT', and 'SNATCH.' Try them out for size."
The poor girl obediently wrote down the two words with distaste. She then searched the intent ring of faces for inspiration. But after a lengthy silence, Rankin said with regret, "There ain't no way out of this, honey, you'd best hold out that hand and let's go back to business."
I expect by this time the agony of the first stroke had reduced to enough so Juno could find the courage to extend her uninjured hand. It was a swift and wicked slash to make her squeal in anguish and fall to her knees, holding each hand beneath an armpit. Her lovely head was bowed and her shinning yellow hair fell forward to the floor. Once more I saw her as an artist's dream of innocence in agony.
If the silence had been tense before, it was doubly so now. I could see no where for Rankin or his victim to go. It was pretty certain Juno could not hold out her hand again. Rankin's use of the cane had been hard. At his brisk command, poor Juno struggled to her feet and held her injured hands before her face in a sort of wonder that they were still there. But she faced the headmaster and said quite simply, "Sorry, I can't hold the chalk. And I can't possibly hold out my hands again." She shrugged her shoulders and returned her hands to her armpits. "I expect I'm a terrible disappointment."
"I should have explained to you right at the start, honey, that if you back out of this little game we're playing, the alternative is to be strung up by your thumbs like Lenore yesterday. Would you prefer that?"
Juno was wiser that she knew. Instinctively she threw her arms around a startled headmaster and sobbed her heart out on his gown. There was a choked admission uttered into a black gown that she had never known there would be such things like this or she wouldn't have signed on for the trip.
I am sure the poor dear girl was totally innocent of guile. She had just run into something that was too much for her. And after expending about a half pint of tears on Rankin's gown, she suddenly turned and fled back to her boyfriend who accepted her back into his arms but who's features displayed extreme embarrassment. I don't know what would have come of the scene had not a single woman stepped out of the audience to come face to face with Rankin Teller, who was far from pleased. This woman was close to thirty, and I don't recall her having any boyfriend among the guests. Her voice matched Rankin's own, "Look, Mr. Teller, that poor kid can't take it. We got an unlucky draw. What say we leave her where she is and I take her place? I've already got my clothes off."
Rankin eyed her with interest in the sense of accepting an challenge. He came up with a lame, "You think you can take it?"
"What do you think?" The tone was flippant. The girl was laughing without dismay at the agonies that await. I had to wonder about her. I have heard of girls who enjoy being hurt by men but I'd never really believed it. But there was something about Rita that matched the mood of the pretty play Rankin had designed. Rita pushed her advantage with the curt demand, "Well, do you want a girl who can take it or another pretty little pussy who doesn't want to play?"
Rankin grinned and ordered her to pick up the chalk. "You can bet your ass I'm going to make you a very sorry girl," he growled.
I watched as Rita stepped forward, a muscular and mature female body of good proportions and nice firm breasts. "Do you want me to go on writing or do you want to cane me first?" she inquired. "Please don't be bashful, we all know you're an asshole. Might as well behave like one."
Rankin was breathing heavily. This girl was a fresh experience. Gruffly he told her to go ahead and write down every dirty word she knew for her sexual organs between her legs. With a shrug of amusement, Rita picked up the discarded chalk and turned to the blackboard where she wrote down more descriptive names than I had ever heard of. I think she was ahead of Rankin when she turned and asked flippantly, "How's that for starters?"
In this sort of erotic play, Rankin was often a good sport, secure in love of female flesh. He clapped and offered, "You did good kid. You got some in there I never heard of. Now let's see how you do with your pretty little ass." His yellow cane tapped a firm curved cheek suggestively.
Rita was well aware of playing a game she could not win but it pleased her to make things as difficult for Rankin Teller as she could. Once more she came up with more four letter words than I had ever heard of. There was admiration in Rankin's voice. "You're really something," he told Rita. "I expect you've got just as many answers for any part of your body. But I can always get the best of you in the matter of attitude. You're a real smart ass. And that's something I don't tolerate in a pupil in this here school. Let's start out with your hands. What do you say to six cuts on each as a reward for insolence?"
I gasped in a sort of fascination and disbelief. A girl might very well be caned six times on each open palm by a female or some man not striking as hard as he could. But certainly not Rankin hitting as hard as he could. Beside his strength, a girl melted into helplessness. My heart went out to Rita as she laughed in Rankin's face and held out not her left hand but her right. "Go ahead," she invited politely. "Do you want to cut the whole six all at once or shall we alternate hands?"
It seemed to me like a death wise. I might have endured one or two on each palm but most certainly not six. But here was this lovely creature positively asking for it. Her palm held out made me cringe.
Rankin did not bother to answer but abruptly swung his cane to impact it in a swift and sure stroke across the flesh of a girl who dared look him in the eye. Rita's arm remained outstretched and only the slightest flinch of her eyes told of the pain. The palm even remained wide open.
When number two cut hard and fast it was just the same. Rita's eyes were glowing with a supernatural light, her lovely breasts rose and fell a little faster, but her hand was still there as was the smile upon her face. Rankin struck again.
I realized we were not simply watching the caning of a girl's hand, what we beheld was a matching of wills under the stimulus of an eroticism greater than I had ever known. I remembered often becoming horny under the first lash of a whip or cut of a cane. But that heat quickly dissolved under continued blows. Rita had now received her sixth stroke across the open palm but did not lower her arm. Instead she asked, in the sweetest tones, "May I now drop my hand, Sir?"
"Of course you can, you silly bitch, that's the deal, ain't it?"
I could sense the agony and guess the pain. Rita's control was perfect but I sensed in her a force most girls do not have. Smiling, she extended her uninjured hand to invite the venom of Rankin's cane. Everyone present was breathless in admiration and poor Juno was staring bug-eyed at what she must have thought was a miracle. Perhaps it was.
Rankin should have been pleased to possess so marvelous a subject but I could sense his anger at being deprived of the spotlight. No doubt he would break the spirit of this beautiful woman if he could.
He was going through the measuring of the distance with the cane while Rita's smile continued to mock him. Breathing heavily, he cut her swift and hard.
There was agony in the girl's eyes but her control remained perfect and, even thought that blow had driven her arm down several inches, she returned it to level instantly. I saw Rankin purse his lips and slash again. His gown flapped about him. For his next blow he put all his strength of his arm into the downswing. She displayed only the slightest wince before once more sweetly inquiring if she could lower her arm. Rita openly stared at Rankin Teller, as if waiting to hear whatever words of wisdom he would care to impart.
The school room charade had run its course to resume it now, after Rita's superb performance would be anti-climactic. A couple of crewmen took away all trace of it to leave the two stars of this drama facing each other across a small open space. Rita was really beautiful as she stood in both agony and defiance to try and stare down the man who had hurt her. But Rankin Teller returned stare for stare, his angry eyes matching those of the girl he had punished.
"You're a smart assed bitch," he said heavily. "And you're not going to get away with it. You're the most insolent female I've ever come across."
"Thank you," she replied sweetly. "How'd it be I tie you across a stool and see if your ass is as tough as your hands?"
"As you wish, Sir."
"Don't try getting ahead of me. I'm going to tie you so you can't even twitch. And then I'll lay a good, hard hundred across your rump. How's that grab you, girlie?"
A cane in the hands of a strong man can wound a girl's bottom terribly. I think if Rankin had been satisfied to name a more reasonable number, say twenty or even thirty, everything might have gone as he wished. But everyone present knew that a hundred such strokes across the bottom curves Rita displayed meant an injury far beyond the fun and games the guests enjoyed. A hundred slashes with the cane was cruel indeed.
It began with the golden haired Juno who broke from her boyfriend's arms to enter the arena. Even though they had suffered only one stroke each, her hands were limb against her hips as were those of the other caned beauty. Rita turned at the interruption of Rankin's sadism.
"You mustn't do that," Juno cried. "You mustn't punish her anymore, she's had enough. And, anyway, it's my fault for running away. I draw the piece of paper and have to pay the price. Tie me over your stool and cane my bottom instead of Rita's." She paused, breathless and panting, before adding, "Do you want me to drape myself over the stool?"
"Well, I'll be damned," Rankin exclaimed. "Sure, honey, if that's the way you want it. Your pretty little ass is every bit as good as Rita's for marking up."
"You shouldn't do this, Juno," Rita said softly. "A hundred strokes the way this guy gives them is too much for any girl. You'll be seriously hurt. Leave this to me. I'll probably live through it."
Rankin was enjoying all this noble sacrificing of female flesh. But his pleasure was interrupted now by Juno's boyfriend who had been silent up to now. "Look, Captain, couldn't we call this quits? I don't want Juno caned any more than she's already been, and I don't think any of us want to see Rita slashed with a hundred. Can't you think up something entertaining that doesn't leave us all feeling guilty?"
"Maybe you got a point, Wilbur," Rankin conceded reluctantly. "Okay, I'll cut that hundred down to fifty. This gal Rita will probably enjoy every strip."
"I can agree to twenty-five, but that's the limit," said Wilbur with surprising fortitude. "I'm sure Juno will offer to take half of those if you would be willing to spread the caning around a bit. But for Pete's sake don't hit the poor girl so damned hard."
Rankin stood his ground. "Look, fellow, you telling me how to run my ship?"
"I'm telling you how to avoid killing a guest." Rita did for Wilbur what she had done for Juno. "Look," she said reasonably, "I expect I'm half to blame for this whole damned thing. I was just too willing. I don't mind being whipped a little, it's stimulating and makes me as horny as all get out. But I was scared of that hundred. Thanks for cutting it down to fifty. I expect that's bad enough but I'll probably live."
"I'll be damned if this don't beat anything I ever did see." Rankin regained his good humor and probably realized Wilbur had gotten him out of a bad situation. By way of making his contribution to the general good will, he added, "I'll go you one better and cut it down to forty. And instead of that there cane, I've got a lighter one the gal probably won't like much but it won't do her no harm." Rankin's eyes swept the assembly as his voice boomed, "That okay by you folk?"
Rankin made a swift trip to his cabin and returned with rope and a new cane. True the cane was lighter as he had promised, but I had to wonder if it would hurt more or less. My experience was that every cane hurt more than a girl could bare. We all watched Rankin select some lengths of cord then knee beside lowered head of shinning hair he had to thrust aside in order to find the willing wrists. He bound those wrists with his usual expertise. There were four legs to the stool, and two of them would get girlish wrists while the other pair were to hold feet. Poor Rita's hands were limp but he was no longer concerned with them. The fingertips touched the deck but the cord was wound and twisted again and again to secure the slender wrists hard and fast against the leg of the stool. When the bindings were complete on both wrists, he patted the upturned bottom, then turned his attention to the ankles at the end of those long, muscular and very shapely legs. Each ankle was lashed to a stool leg tightly. Rita was left with her bottom sticking up in the air and no means of moving or protecting it.
Standing back, Rankin studied the effect for a moment then took two lengths of rope and bound each elbow to the stool leg. Rita could wiggled her bottom, but that was an action she wisely did not practice. It would have been too inviting.
Knees were also bound to the legs with tight ropes cutting into the flesh. Rankin's promise of immobility was now true. I feared that the only possible movement on Rita's part might be to throw her body sideways and tip the stool over. I've never been tied over a stool like that, but I was sure she would not want to endanger herself with such an action.
I saw Rita's muscles strive against the ropes but there was no response. She was beautifully secured for the punishment to come. She could not even look up at us because her hair again hid her face.
Rankin resumed his command with gusto. Lovingly his hands caressed the sweet curves of Rita's bottom. As was to be expected, his finger penetrated deep with her asshole to bring a gasp from the bound girl. Lovingly he picked up the slender cane.
The new instrument sang its own song as it cut through the air to seek the feminine flesh which could not move. It's impact was different from the first one, but whether it hurt more or less was something Rita would have to tell us later. Even though it had left a rapidly reddening mark, Rita did not scream. At that moment Rankin was probably as happy as any man could ever be. And his circle of guests were too intent upon the bound girl to give voice to descent or make a protest on her behalf. Rita had had all the help she was going to get. I stole a glance at the lovely Juno but her eyes were as bright in anticipation as anyone in the circle. Rankin rose his arm once more to deliver the stroke which would etch one more scarlet line across the soft curves. I suspected he was giving the strokes everything he had.
Rankin probably thought forty lashes with the cane was mere child's play but when he reached the count of six, he paused dramatically and, as though there was a strange communion between the two, Rita's voice came from beneath the fall of lovely hair with bell-like clarity.
"Thank you, Mr. Teller. I am sure I deserve this. Please don't stop."
Rita was incredible. I wished we could see her face but after all this was as much a punishment as entertainment for bored people. In restored good humor, Rankin leaned across the upturned bottom and turned the stool partly so that all could enjoy visual pleasure from his work. He stepped back and began the awful motions of the second half dozen cuttings of this girl. I longed to go away and scream but remained in pure fascination at what was taking place. Marjory was just the same. Later we might be ashamed but for now the eroticism of the punished flesh held us enthralled.
Six more strokes! And once again from beneath the long hair the clear feminine voice assailed us all. "Thank you, Mr. Teller. You are whipping me beautifully. Please don't stop."
Rita could not move. I knew from personal knowledge how she was straining at the cords which held her tight. She was not trying to get loose so much as she was finding an outlet for agonized skin by thus simulation her efforts to escape. I was not sure she even wanted to escape. This girl was incredible!
I envied her with all my heart for I knew she was not gagged and I knew also in her condition I'd be screaming my head off and promising everything in return for a halt to the pain.
Rankin said casually, "Well, sweetheart, that's a dozen you've had and I do appreciate what you've had to say. Try the next six and see what you have to say about them." Once more he turned the stool and the cane flashed yellow in the sunlight.
Once more it was the same and Rita did not break. With the end of each half dozen she came up with some glowing tribute to the man who had given her such pain. I knew now that she was mocking Rankin Teller as though daring him to do his worse. I was pretty sure that had not the guests expressed their sympathy the poor girl might have found herself hung up by her thumbs at the end of forty strokes. Or perhaps strung up by her heels to display her beauty in a painful exposure. But Rankin didn't want to anger his guests too much and cast the cane aside at the end of forty. He began the task of untying the maiden who had offered him nothing but thanks and gratitude for punishment she did not deserve. Rita's bottom was scarlet and purple. She had been well and truly caned and I wondered how she was ever going to sit down.
Rankin knew about women, none of us could deceive him. And none of us were entirely immune to his charm, cruel as it might be. Having removed all the ropes, he tenderly raised the girl, holding her head against his shoulder with one hand while he used the other to explore the surface of the flesh he had just thrashed. Rita took that, too, and spoke loud enough for all of us to hear. "You're a wonderful Master. Thank you for caning me. Is there anything else I can do to give you pleasure?"
If Rankin had been the ordinary horny male, he would have laid her on the deck and taken her. But Rankin could get all the sex he might desire in the privacy of his quarters where a girl could be spread-eagle on his bed or hung by her wrists in the two postures I had discovered he preferred. What he did now raised a question mark in all our minds. He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, turned Rita around and locked her wrists in steel behind her back. Then he patted a wounded bottom and sent her to find companionship where ever it might be.
Before the crowd dissolved he made an announcement involving Marjory and me. We were called up to stand beside him while he explained. "Folks, there here girls don't mean nothing to any of you. They're the prisoners of the Rankin's Pride and we do what we please with them. They're having a rest today and they've been watching Rita get marked up the same as the rest of you. But tomorrow each of them is going to be branded with the letters of my initials. You're all invited to the party." He slapped Marjory playfully on her bottom and pinched my nipple so hard I cried out. Then he sent us to find Rita.
Our minds were in turmoil. To be branded on bare skin with the initials of a man we had come to loath was a fate we would rather not have to face. But on the Rankin's Pride there was no escape for any girl. I feared by this time the next day I would carry "Rankin Teller" somewhere on my body, and would carry it for the rest of my life. I trembled and had trouble standing.
"The son of a bitch, I didn't think he'd do it!" Marjory muttered. "If he wants us branded, it means he's going to keep us around and there'll be no rescue. It's going to happen and we might as well get used to the idea. Let's go to the bar and get drunk. After all, it is our day to howl."
The guest always welcomed us at the bar. If our hands were cuffed behind our backs, there were many who would feed drinks to these naked girls. Today our hands were joined in front and we could lift our own glasses. Rita was already there and even though she had no hands, her needs were being attended to with admiration by all. She was willing to display her wounds, both the hands and the very discolored and sore bottom she dared not sit down upon. She laughed at the exclamations they evoked. "I'm a natural born submissive," she explained. "I know I don't look and act like one but I've gone through three husbands who simply couldn't believe I was the way I am. They couldn't whip me, they couldn't buy a pair of handcuffs, and they all refused to turn our basement into a dungeon in which I would be imprisoned when I was naughty." She sighed. "Maybe one of these days I'll find a guy who's really into it. I wonder if I could marry Rankin Teller?"
Marjory and I both knew of the wonderful eroticism of being punished by The Male. But neither of us were in Rita's class. Marjory could control herself far better than I, but in the end both of us could be broken under the male rod, whether it was one to penetrate our sheaths or one to beat our bodies. Marjory suggested that Rita go ahead and propose marriage to Rankin because some girl had to marry him sometime. We were certain he would not bestow such a favor on either of us.
It would have been a pleasant afternoon had it not been for our sentence. Marjory and I tried to be casual about the branding to those who asked about it. The promise of such agony was obvious to all and need not be spoken aloud. When it gave guests pleasure, we discussed our feelings. Many seemed avidly interested in how we were approaching such an ordeal.
It was probably the pleasantest day since we had been hauled to safety from the sea. That night there was something new. At the appropriate time we were taken to the ship's brig and ironed with ever chain or bit of metal the damned place possessed. The weight of the shackles and chains was a punishment. But for me the brig has always been a place of pure terror in the incredible degree of helplessness it overwhelms a girl with.
Marjory and I slept together as best we could, hugging and touching to the limit allowed. The crewman who chained us there and brought us food laughed in genuine enjoyment at our sad reactions to this imprisonment. Most girls never discover what it's like to be the slave girl of a man and I don't suggest they ever try it.
I could understand the guests becoming bored with the handful of girls on board who would drop to the floor and spread their legs at a command. The little diversions Rankin provided were welcome changes from plain and simple screwing. After breakfast the next day, we were to become the next diversion presented by the Rankin's Pride.
Marjory and I found ourselves upon the same stage that yesterday had provided a school room. But now the props were horrible in their simplicity. There was a pile of ropes and cords, a heavy timber structure obviously designed to hold two girls, and a smoking brazier of glowing coals with two wicked irons by which our skin would soon be marked. Each had a wooden handle. Knowing the uselessness of struggling, we stood erect as our arms were gathered behind our back, the hands placed palm to palm, and the wrists bound with tight ropes. Immediately our elbows were pushed together and bound with thin cord that cut in incredibly and would have been a punishment all by itself. But today it was merely part of the restriction to hold us for the real punishment. I was then positioned astride one of the strange timbers. Rankin gasp my hair in one hand and my tied wrists with the other to pull my head hard down and raise my bound arms so high I had to bend more than double. I was then pushed forward until the back of my neck came up against a vertical beam. My arms were then tied to that beam forcing my head against the beam on which I sat and holding my head and arms solidly immobile. It was horrible, I could not move. My limited vision beheld everything upside down.
This would have been enough but Rankin used more rope to bind my knees together then my ankles. Then he lashed my lower legs from the knees to ankles to the beam. I found myself in a position somewhat like that of Rita the previous day, my bottom sticking up in the air and all I could do was wiggle that bottom. Marjory was treated in the same way. We were both panting hard from the unnatural position when Rankin loving caressed our bottom and told us we could rest a while before feeling the burn of red-hot irons.
I will never know if the awful binding by which we were secured might not have given us something else to think about beside the coming brands. The guests used the rest period to feel and finger our tightly bound bodies. With gasping breaths we tried to answer their questions as to what it felt like and were we scared. They scattered when Rankin returned. The first thing he did was take an iron from the fire and hold it for our inspection.
I could easily feel the heat from that glowing metal as he explained that we were being marked with the same crude instruments as were used on cattle on ranches. "These irons are crafted to give the simulation of a script rather than the heavy imprint of headlines." He tone was that of a person being extremely kind. Marjory and I said nothing. What the hell was there to say!
We soon knew where our flesh would feel the iron, as if the position did not so inform. Surprisingly it was not to be directly upon our bottoms as I had supposed. Instead we were to get the letters branded upon our thighs just below our hips on the outside of our legs. Rankin drew a circle upon our hips, one on each side. It was then we learned we would get the letter "R" upon one side, and the letter "T" upon the other. In short, we would be branded twice. I was trying hard not to think about it, or the fear racing through my mind, when the first brand was pressed hard upon my skin. I could not move but I could certainly scream and that I did, loud and long. Even after the hot iron was withdrawn the agony continued in unbelievable pain. Someone put a cold cloth against the burned skin and immediately the pain abated. Perhaps Rankin had a touch of kindness someplace.
I was still crying when I heard Marjory scream and knew that the first letter had been branded into her flesh.
My second brand came unexpectedly soon and I screamed myself into unconsciousness. I must have been left bound while Marjory received her second brand, and a while after that too. Marjory told me that guests were allowed to come up and examine the freshly branded flesh while our bodies were still held immobile and in perfect position for viewing.
I had never felt so helpless in my life. The exclamations from viewers told us a good job had been done and the irons had left their imprint exactly as they should. I did not care. I longed only to be untied.
The ropes were taken off only when everyone who wanted to had been satisfied with their look. The cords and ropes so deeply embedded were cut away. I almost collapsed but Rankin's strong hands supported me. I recall his voice telling me I was a wonderful girl and now I had permission to go to the bar where a few drinks would help me cope with the pain.
Almost as an afterthought, Rankin locked our handcuffs back upon our wrists.
The summons to the Captain's stateroom came just as we were starting to feel better under the influence of a cocktail and friendly voices. The crew member urged us to actually run so that we were panting when we stood in humble nudity before Rankin's desk to behold an troubled and angry man.
"Look," he said, "I'm going to leave with you. That Arab chap and his servants didn't die. We fished them out of the water while you were too busy worrying about yourselves. We had them in the brig all the time until his nibs, you call him Hamid, don't you, arranged a pretty fair ransom. In the middle of the night we gave him the long boat and sent him on his way. But I'll be damned if that asshole didn't get the wires humming all over the world. My radio man is picking up enough message to tell me this ship is going to be boarded and searched. Damn! I have to get rid of the two best girls I ever had. Shit!"
I could swear it was the same dingy. And the same handcuffs tight on my wrists behind my back. When we protested before being lowered to the awaiting ocean, Rankin cheerfully told that by a freak of fortune we were at the same position as when he had cast me adrift that first time where the story started. There was no time to argue. Our tiny craft was lowered and cast loose beside the huge ship. We looked up at the faces leaning over the rail as our hands tugged at the steel cuffs. With frightening speed the huge bulk of Rankin's ship slipped by. In our tiny boat we watched Rankin's Pride recede until it was a tiny dot on the horizon.
"If he's right in his calculations, we'll come adrift on Palm Island," Marjory consoled doubtfully. "It doesn't seem possible now but that's what happened to you, darling."
We slumped on our seats to thankfully take stock of the food and water provided. We examined each other's bonds and brands. We gazed overboard for the inevitable sharks and discussed the possibility of survival.
"He didn't need to handcuffs us this way," I complained bitterly.
"What's the difference?" Marjory offered. "If we had our hands there's nothing we could do with them. Except to hold each other. We're going to miss that when night time comes."
"Hamid is sure to find us," I said with a confidence I did not feel. "He'll have ships searching everywhere. He could find us in an hour."
"You can have your beloved Hamid," Marjory said disgustedly. "I'm still wearing the marks that son of a bitch put on me. Let's make ourselves as comfortable as we can and pray Palm Island really lies ahead. Cheer up, Celie, we're going to make it. I know we'll make it."
Marjory was wonderful but I was thinking more and more of Hamid and his search. I don't know why but I could almost feel his arms in a growing confidence which kept the menace of the ocean at bay. I looked at my mistress and loved her longingly. I am such a silly girl with my divided loyalties.
I wondered how long it would take a brand to heal.