Pam-Ann (16 page)

In what Pam was sure Traske
considered an act of leniency, he had declared that in view of her
good record Christine should receive only eighty strokes rather
than the full hundred. As participants in what had happened, Pam
and Daisy were required to be present, standing at either side of
Drake near the bar. Unlike most of the others, whose faces were
alight with anticipation even before the woman was bound to the
post, he looked far from pleased.

Pam concentrated on not looking
in his direction but could not avoid thinking about their last
encounter. She had been surprised when Drake had not begun
immediately questioning her but instead had seen to her hurts.
Though the anaesthetic had helped ease the throb, she had remained
aware of Drake’s touch and the prickle of excitement it was
creating. Damn that drug. It had brought back the memories again,
or more accurately this time, the lack of them. Rick had never
eased her pain. Sometimes he had held her afterwards, even those
times she had told him she did not want to be touched, and at
others, when she had wanted it desperately, he had left her alone
to suffer her unfulfilled longing for his comfort. Why had she ever
loved him? He was a bastard.

Despite her resolve, she glanced
at Drake. He had kissed her and she had kissed him.
His hands had set her aflame and her rapid breaths had drawn
the scent of his masculinity deep into her nostrils, making
her
head spin with impossible excitement. And then, when she
had been on the brink of begging him to take her, he had stepped
back and given her a lazy, lopsided grin and a corny line about
discovering how she tasted. She had felt no steadier on her feet
when she had left the office than when she had entered it. Once
more the question filled her mind – what the hell was in that Venus
Dust?

All through dinner Christine
stood naked at the post. All
of the conversation
Pam overheard was about the overseer and by the t
ime the
meal was over the air was crackling with tension and expectation.
Christine was trembling and hanging her head. Her ordeal was
prolonged by the arrival of Jerry Morgan on stage, who treated the
audience to what he clearly thought were some choice witticisms and
biting sarcasm at the bound overseer’s expense. He reminded the
crowd that the flogging was to be in two stages – first twenty
strokes with the thin cane to Christine’s breasts in what he called
a ‘pretty novel way’, followed by sixty to her back and buttocks
with the ox-hide whip. Her trembling grew worse as he spoke of the
whip.

“And don’t forget, gentlemen and
ladies, you each have a ticket for the sweepstakes. We all know the
thin cane splits skin much quicker than a thick one and I guarantee
the bosun will draw blood with the ox-hide, so keep an eye on your
numbers. I’ll be counting the strokes out loud and I’ll announce
the moment it happens. The lucky winners will each receive a magnum
of champagne generously donated by Commodore Traske on behalf of
the
Empire Star Line
. So make sure you call out if your
number comes up.”

A smatter of applause followed.
Pam shuddered. They had made it a game. Beside her, Drake shifted
his feet and his frown deepened.

Even when the MC’s inane patter
ended, Christine’s suspense did not, as a slave girl was brought to
the stage to receive the standard dozen cane strokes for a routine
transgression. At least she was spared Jerry Morgan’s wit. Pam felt
the ache in her buttocks more acutely and her anus gave a little
nip as each stroke smacked down. Since Drake’s soothing treatment,
Christine’s replacement had only allowed her one more application
of ointment.

A hush fell as the caned girl
was led away and all attention focused on Christine. All except
Persephone Peake’s. She rose from her seat beside the Commodore and
walked elegantly and seductively towards Drake, the big diamond in
her nipple clip flashing. Elbowing Pam aside, she slipped her arm
through his.

“Isn’t it exciting, Rafael?”

“You’re a bitch, ’Sephone. You
set her up for your own amusement.”

She pouted. “Oh, don’t be a
sourpuss. You know the only fun I have is when I’m flying.”

“It’s not fun,” he said, tight
lipped. “It’s pain and torture as far as she’s concerned. You may
take pleasure in it but she won’t.” He looked as if he would have
said more but the bosun and his mate stepped towards the helplessly
bound woman.

Pam watched dry-mouthed as they
turned Christine upside down on the post, bound her with thickly
padded straps above her knees, bent her legs back and fastened her
wrists to her ankles with leather cuffs. Her long hair had been
pinned up and the anguish on her inverted face was plain to see as
the bosun took the thin cane in his hand. She was fastened with her
breasts at about the height of his waist, their rounded undersides
uppermost - soft, defenceless targets for the wickedly slender
implement that he lifted high. There would be no warm up, any more
than there had been for Pam. Christine would take her punishment
cold.

She bore the first strokes
almost silently. The only sound in the saloon was the sharp
wick-wick of the cane biting into the yielding flesh of her tits.
At the seventh blow she gave a low moan and a jerk, but then barely
moved under four more before at last she could stand it no longer.
Her cries were shrill but still half-stifled, and drowned out by
the applause when Jerry Morgan announced blood had been drawn at
fifteen and a young woman leapt to her feet, heedless of the mad
jiggling of her bare right breast as she waved her
winning t
icket aloft. Pam had stopped looking by then.
She did not need to. She knew how the cane was marking Christine’s
flesh; the instant whitening of her skin where the whippy rod
struck and rebounded, changing at once to fiery scarlet, and soon
to crimson and then a deeper
, fiercer red
.
Pam had forced herself to keep her eyes open and see it happen as
she had stood bound before the mirror
. She had
never experienced anything like the caning the helpless overseer
was taking, but she knew the flaring sting that came with every
blow, and the wicked, scorching thud that sank into the flesh,
deep, intense and even more delicious. She had loved it. She had
loved Rick.
A different kind of pain stabbed her heart.

Pam shook herself. They had
Christine on her feet and were fastening her against the post, arms
stretched above her head. Her back and rearward jutting buttocks
looked pale and vulnerable, and glistened with sweat under the
bright lights surrounding the stage. The ox-hide whip made Pam
shudder. Long, stiff and tapering, it was made of layers of thin
strands tightly plaited over something she was horribly afraid was
a steel rod
. She had seen the intricate imprints a
far less wicked implement could make on soft, delicate skin – her
own skin. How much worse it must be for the tormented woman bound
to the post.

As the bosun
began to ply the whip, Pam looked
away again and tried to
ignore the hand Persephone was stroking back and forth between her
sore bottom and thighs. She jumped at the first blow, the crack and
thud of its impact so close together they melded into one.
Christine fought hard but the battle between soft flesh and stiff
leather was one she was never going to win. As her anguished cries
grew louder and her writhing in her leather straps more tortuous,
some of the passengers grew restive and even the bosun and his
mate, taking turns to mete out the punishment, seemed glad to
reduce the severity of the blows. Persephone’s groping became
faster, more adventurous and harder to ignore. His face like a
thundercloud, Drake reached across and pushed Pam out of
her reach
.

The minutes passed like hours
before the whipping finally stopped. One glimpse of the ragged mess
it had made of the woman’s upper back and buttocks was enough. Pam
turned away, throat tightening. Drake stared straight ahead, his
mouth a grim line. Persephone’s face was flushed and her eyes
sparkled. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly and the nipple covered
by her silken gown was thrusting hard against the thin
material.

Incredibly, Christine stayed on
her feet when she was released and, with two slave girls supporting
her, managed to stagger away to the dispensary without having to be
carried. Pam felt sorry for her. The woman had flogged her backside
but she could understand why, and she had spent less than four days
on the airship, let alone twenty years.

“That was interesting,
darling.”

Drake pulled free of
Persephone’s arm. “Interesting.” The word was quiet, neutral, but
the anger he was holding back was plain to see.

Persephone appeared not to
notice, or not to care. She giggled.

“I’d like to see you take a
punishment like that,” he said more hotly. “It might teach you the
real cost of your frivolous behaviour.”

“Oh, are you offering, darling?”
She laid a hand on his sleeve, giggling again. “That could be
interesting too. Shall we go to my stateroom now?”

Drake shrugged her off.
“No.”

Her glossy lips pouted. “Oh,
spoilsport! You’ve disappointed me, Rafael. I suppose I’ll just
have to have these two naughty slave girls instead.”

He swung on her. “No, ’Sephone,
you won’t. They’re off duty and they’re staying that way. You’ll
leave them alone, and me too, you hear?”

Pam waited for the blonde’s
anger but she only gave him a hurt look. There was something
between them, or there had been once.

“I ought to be jealous,”
Persephone said. “Someone has finally got past that thick armour of
yours and into your heart. You’ve taken a real fancy to this one,
haven’t you?”

“Get to the slave quarters,”
Drake told Pam and Daisy, and gave the blonde the stern look that
was so familiar to Pam. “You’ll have to find someone else to
torment tonight.”

Persephone gave her feline smile
and shot out her arm to stop a passing slave girl, a full-breasted,
dark-haired beauty. “Go to cabin seven now, darling, and your pussy
had better be very pink and very wet by the time I get there.” She
screwed up her face, stuck out her tongue at Drake like a petulant
schoolgirl, turned and stalked away.

He gave a small shake of his
head. “Get moving, you two. I’ve got to get to the dispensary.”

* * * * *

“We’re gaining on her,” someone
in the crowd called excitedly.

It was unnecessary. Everyone
could see the
Empire’s Triumph
was
catching
up to
the enormous airship ahead of her. The line between
slave and free had blurred in the excitement of the chase.
Passengers, crew and slave girls mingled indiscriminately at the
windows of the forward observation lounge in the same eager
anticipation.

Pam was there with the rest, her
troubles momentarily forgotten amid the distraction, and only
half-aware of her stiff nipples rubbing on the coats of the two men
in front as she stood on tiptoe to look over their shoulders. The
deck had been vibrating for several minutes and, with the airship
ahead for comparison, for the first time she had the sense that the
Empire’s Triumph
was really moving through the sky. The four
down-swept funnels, jutting rearwards close to the other vessel’s
stern, were belching clouds of black smoke. Big propellers mounted
on pylons on the boat shaped hull beneath its vast superstructure
whirled in a blur as it strained to put on more speed. Like
Christine’s struggle against the whip, it proved to be an unequal
one.

“It’s the
Spirit of
Liberty
,” someone said as the gap between the airships closed.
The name was written in large letters on its side beneath the words
American Airship Corp.
in even larger ones. Half the
passengers of the
Empire’s Triumph
were Americans, as well
as many of its crew and slave girls, but this was about Company
rivalries, not national ones. Everyone wanted their airship to
win.

“I hear the First Officer is at
the helm and the Commodore has ordered full speed ahead.”

As if to confirm the unknown
speaker’s words, the vibration under Pam’s feet increased. A body
behind pressed closer, heightening the hurt of the welts carved
across her buttocks, but she did not yield her position. She
glanced around and saw it was Lord Brinley, but all of his
attention was on the
Spirit of Liberty
as they began drawing
level with it. It was half a mile away, yet still almost filled the
port side windows with its massive bulk as they overtook it. Soon
afterwards they left it behind. The thrumming of the deck eased to
its normal level.

“With Rafael Drake at the helm
there was never any doubt.” Persephone’s voice came from somewhere
on Pam’s left and held a note of admiration. What did the blonde
mean to Drake and he to her?

“If any slave girl isn’t back at
her post in one minute she’ll have a sore backside before we’ve
landed.” Talbot, the second officer, stood in the doorway, but he
was grinning and the passengers’ laughter was good-humoured as the
girls scampered back to their duties.

They passed another airship, the
Empire’s Destiny
a man watching it through binoculars said,
outward bound for London. Pam thought of the black phenomenon that
could be waiting to pluck some unfortunate from its decks somewhere
out over the Atlantic. Had she been good enough to satisfy Drake?
Would he keep her or send her to the pool to be sold like a
chattel? Painfully aware of the irony of wanting to continue as a
sex-toy for wealthy travellers, she still hoped desperately to be
kept.

She recalled Persephone’s
comment of the previous night. Had Drake – Rafael the blonde called
him – really taken a liking to her? But why would he? He had a
reputation for doing everything by the book, yet he had bent the
rules several times to help ease her suffering. And he had kissed
her. Her lips tightened at the memory, joined immediately by her
pussy. Silently cursing, Pam pushed the feeling away, but she could
not quite suppress the recollection of taking his rigid, up-curved
cock into her mouth. She swore silently. He was just another man,
and she had had enough of men. She remembered her tongue flicking
against Eve’s swollen clitoris. She had had enough of women too.
Trust him, Rafael had said.