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.. on... on... I was beginning to tire again. The effort was too much. I was a soft, well-bred woman unused to making such hideous effort. How could I be expected to make it? It was unreasonable. Unfair. I wanted to shout and screech the unfairness. Did they not know I was a Lady of Barbaria? Had rights? Should be treated with respect? I wanted to leap up and hurl myself on that woman. Strangle her. At whatever the cost. Yet I was chained helpless. The futility of such a thing was obvious. Perhaps my mind was becoming deranged for even contemplating such a thing. That footstep again; the click of heel... Then once more the agonising bite of the whip. Blazing like a redhot poker over my defenceless back. The tip slicing excruciatingly into my right breast. I screamed, convulsed with pain. Then I heard the whip crack again. The Overseer had given it to poor Helen. How she shrieked! The Overseer’s threats were hammering into us. Sobbing, I forced my aching muscles to renewed effort. How. Grabbing a glass of wine, she had poured for herself just before her shower, off the mantle along with her book she sat back in her chair facing the flames. Reaching beside her she picked up her glasses. Placing them on her face the flames reflected off the lenses as she read her book and sipped her wine. “…and as Roxanne placed her quivering hand upon Bryson’s massive chest…” she read aloud and dropped her book to her breast, closing her eyes. “Mark!” she sighed and a tear rolled down her cheek. Placing the book down and dropping her now empty glass to the carpet below, her eyes fluttered rapidly as images flashed through her brain. A strong gust of wind blew through the opened doors and across the room. The curtains danced wildly in the wind and the fire extinguished. “I miss you,” she cried out with more tears rolling down her cheeks. In the cold air a warm sensation hit her as a pair of hands landed atop her shoulders and caressed her working their way to her neck. Again.
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