Archive-name: Slaves/ladypira.txt
Archive-author: Brush Strokes
Archive-title: Lady and the Pirate of the Sands, The


	The column was finished, about to be overrun.  Queen Victoria's finest
were meeting defeat at the hands of a horde of desert tribesman, the Barbers.
Looking out from under the wagon under which she lay for protection, Ivy 
could not believe this was happening to her.  Just last month, she had left
London on a passenger ship bound for Cairo.  When the ship experienced engine
problems, she, the Duchess of Kensingworth, was transferred to a coal scow.
Although she was given the captain's cabin, the journey to Rome was wretched.
Once in the famous Italian city, the conditions went from bad to worse.

	Aside from having to wait a week for a ship bound for Cairo, Ivy
was forced to stay in inferior lodgings.  The hotel had no sweets and did not
even provide servants quarters.  Her maid, Melissa, was staying in exactly the
same caliber room as she.  On top of this indignity, the weather was abysmally
hot.  Every day she would spend the hours of eleven to three lounging around 
her hotel room wearing only her bodice.  There was really nothing else to be 
done to combat the heat.

	Dressed only in a minimum of undergarments, she knew full well
why Colonel Bradford Stanley had been so intent on marrying her.
Her breasts were quite shapely and her skin, with its natural paleness, was
soft and satiny to the touch.  Running her fingers across her own stomach,
she thought of her few romantic encounters with her husband before he had left
for the frontier.  They had been rushed affairs, with all the formality of his
military training.  They had all the pleasure of his military training, too; at
least for her they did.  Ivy found it much more pleasurable pleasing 
herself sexually.  On such occasions, she could fantasize about a man who gave
her the proper amount of attention.  The saving grace of her husband's attempts
at "lovemaking" was having the security of sleeping next to him afterwards.  
A man lying next to you at night was very reassuring.

	If you excluded his lack-of-ability in bed, Bradford was a fine 
husband.  He was the only one of Ivy's suitors who was considered to be of 
the proper stature.  Having come from a moderately wealthy family, with a 
social status well above their financial means, she had found it hard to find 
a man she liked and whom her father approved.  Her looks assured that there 
were ample courters, while her lack of a sufficient dowry gave few of them the
proper titles.  In fact, there was only one:  Lord Bradford Stanley, colonel 
in the expeditionary force to the Sudan.

	From Rome, she caught a ship to Cairo and, from this city she referred
to as the cesspool of the empire, Ivy made plans to meet her husband at
Khartoum.  A well-guarded caravan including two companies of British regulars,
was heading out towards the famous city, where Gordon had made his final stand.
With all the protection there would be no problem with being attacked by the
natives.  They would never dare move on a column of the size Ivy travelled
in.

	This is what Captain Piper had told Ivy, her maid, and several other
wives of officers who were venturing out to meet their husbands.  It was rather
ironic when a Barber marksman had signalled the attack on the column by 
shooting the overconfident captain between the eyes.

	Without its leader, the column was easily crushed.  The men fought
bravely but were outmatched by the overwhelming numbers of desert tribesmen.
Now Ivy stood tied up in a line of women, formerly English citizens, now
pronounced slaves by the leader of the barbarous Barbers.  At least he thought
that.  She was an English woman and would teach him a thing or to.

	Having given up all hope of ever seeing her husband again, Ivy was
overjoyed to hear a bugle playing the cavalry charge.  From the east, a horde 
of riders was descending on the disorganized Barbers.  Spread out looting the
caravan, they were caught off-guard.  The group of riders smashed through the
meager resistance at the edge of the caravan and was soon engaged in a 
ferocious melee.

	The rescue force consisted of men riding camels with the exception of
their leader, who rode a huge white stallion.  With his face masked to keep out
the desert sand, he made a fierce looking warrior.  Dodging swords, spears, and
bullets, he moved through the Barbers, introducing them to his
English-style lance, topped by fine English steel.  From the way the entire 
rescue party fought, they had to be English.  Although they were dressed in
desert garb, they used English weapons and tactics.  Soon the Barbers where 
routed.

	Ivy's rescuers secured the area and then turned to appraising what
was left of the column.  If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that
the relief force was partaking in looting, just in a more organized fashion
than the Barbers.  No, they were just collecting the rifles and ammunition 
so they did not fall into the hands of the tribesmen.

	Several riders stood guard over the only survivors from the caravan, 
the women.  In all the excitement they had forgotten to untie them.  Knowing 
that they were a military unit, Ivy realized that this oversight would be dealt
with once the area was considered to be safe.

	After making sure all was in order, the leader of the column rode over 
to the women.  He was  still wearing the mask, which covered all of his face 
save his eyes.  Saying something in Arabic, he motioned to one of the men 
standing guard over them.  The designated man jumped from his camel and walked 
over to the women.  He was going to untie them.  Their extremely brief 
stint as slaves would be over.  This would be a story that would shock the tea 
club back in London.

	Instead of untying them, he checked their bonds and made sure they were
tight.  All of the women, including Ivy, let out a gasp.  "What are you 
doing?"  Ivy demanded.  "We are citizens of the Empire."

	Once again the leader spoke in Arabic.  The man who had just checked
their bonds walked over to his camel and got his riding crop .  Walking back to
the now terrified Ivy, he grabbed her by the hair and forced her down to her
knees, pressing her face into the host sand.  She could feel him using the 
hand which held the crop to lift up her dress and petticoats.  To her dismay, 
he did not stop at her bloomers.  He pulled them down too.

	With her face pressed into the sand, she could not even scream.  Her
bare backside was exposed to all the marauding band of supposed rescuers, and,
even more degrading than this, all of the ladies who accompanied the column
were witness to this shame.  Pain filled her entire body as the crop was laid
across her buttocks three times.  Pulled to her feet by her hair, she gasped 
for air as she was returned to the line of female captives.  Her face was 
covered with a mixture of the dessert's fine white sand and shame.

	While the column and the Barbers who initially attacked it, were 
being picked clean by the pseudo-rescue party, Ivy stood with her head hung 
low.  She managed to wipe her face off on the shoulder of her dress but did 
not look up.  She did not want to make eye contact with the other English 
women.  Having experienced a disgrace worse than she could have ever imagined, 
she did not want their pity or looks of horror.  She was now a tainted woman. 

	Feeling like she was being constantly stared at, she looked up for a 
moment and caught the leader looking down at her.  He quickly looked away and
directed a group of his men to check one of the wagons.  It had to be her 
imagination.  After a few more minutes of waiting, she glanced up again.  He 
was definitely staring at her.  With this, Ivy's predicament went from bad 
to worse.  On top of all the other degradations and misfortunes which had 
befallen her, she was now the object of some barbarian's attention.  As an 
English lady, she would rather die than become his play thing.

	As the would be rescuers prepared to leave, one of them rode over
to the party of women and reined his camel.  Addressing them, he said, in
English, ``Captive English citizens, when we get to our base you shall be held 
and ransom arrangements shall be made for all of you whose loved ones can 
afford to pay.  All others will be made slaves of the Raj Shomire also know as 
the Pirate of the Sands."  With this remark he gestured towards the band's 
leader, still a top his white stallion.  This was none other than the Pirate 
of the Sands, whom Ivy had heard stories of even back in England.  The man 
continued,  ``So long as you behave like good English ladies, but with the 
respect of an Arab woman, no one shall be harmed."  He directed this last 
comment towards Ivy.  Staring at the ground, she could feel the other woman's 
eyes turn to her.  What did she care?  At least she had spoken up like a good 
citizen of the realm.

	The English speaking man rode over to Melissa, her maid, took out his
sword and cut the ropes which attached her to the line of female captives.
Since the terrified servants hands were still tied, she had no way to protest
when he hoisted her up and threw her over the front of his saddle.  It was
some recompense to think that at least they would not have to walk.

	One by one, other riders came over and took the woman of there choice
to carry.  With Melissa hoisted up first and the some what dowdy, Mrs. 
Wadstone last, it seemed to Ivy that it was a kind of beauty contest, with
the highest ranking man taking the prettiest woman.  What surprised her was
that, no one had chosen her.  Melissa was a red haired beauty, in a common
sort of way.  Still, Ivy felt that with her blonde hair and pretty face,
she should have been either the first or second woman carried away.  

	To her dismay she realized that she had been deliberately excluded from
the competition.  The pirate leader, the highest ranking member of the band, 
road over to her and dismounted.  Ivy stood up straight, holding her head 
high. She was going to show him that it took more than a simple beating to 
break her spirit.  Something in his eyes said he already knew this.

	First, he lifted up her dress and removed her numerous layers of 
under-clothes.  He then took a leather harness and fastened it so that it 
wrapped around her waist while a second strap slid between her legs.  Standing 
there riggedly, she refused to look down and give him the satisfaction of even 
being remotely curious.  She would take what ever humiliation he decided
to rein on her and he would pay dearly at the hands of her husband.  Colonel
Bradford would track him to the far ends of the Earth and see that he payed for
his barbarous behavior.

	Ivy was not quite sure, but the harness felt like some kind of
chastity belt.  When she was lead over to the horse and thrown across the 
saddle, its purpose became clear.  Taking a strap from the saddle, he fastened 
it to the contraption which ran between her legs and about her waist.  She was 
securely attaching to the saddle.  Lying there on her belly, legs on one side 
of the horse, head and torso on the other, Ivy could feel the piece of harness 
which ran between her legs rub gently over the most private areas of her 
body.  

	Whipping his horse with the reins, getting it to follow the others, 
he also playfully slapped Ivy on the rump.  As they road the purpose of the 
strap which ran between her legs became all too clear.  With each step the 
horse took the strap between her legs massaged her.  No matter how hard she 
tried, her body could not ignore it.  She could tell she was lubricating and 
was actually worried that there was so much liquid that it would seep through 
her dress.  Never before had she been this excited.

	Further along in the ride, she still resisted the pleasure
she felt between her legs.  After all, she was an English lady.
The impetuous pirate grew weary of holding the reins and with one hand
forced Ivy's mouth open, while placing them between her teeth with the
other.  After being whipped once, she knew enough not to let them drop.
So with the taste of leather in her mouth, they travelled on getting farther
away from the routes commonly taken by English columns.

	The trip was long, and her captor grew restless.  Removing the bun
in which she usually kept her hair, the rakish pirate, started running his 
fingers through her silky curls.  His touch was surprisingly gentle as he 
lightly rub her scalp.  His hands wandered from her hair to her back and began
to gently massage here too.  He was touching her just as she wished her 
husband would.  This, combined with the the rubbing of the harness between her 
legs, was too much for Ivy to bare.   She could no longer hold back.

	Biting as hard as she could on the reins while forcing
her body to become ridged, she let the orgasm run through her body.  She tried
to display as little movement as possible.  To him, she wanted it to look like
a cramp or a momentary tightening of her muscles.  Somehow the adverse
conditions made it that much more powerful, causing to forget what she was
doing and drop the reins.  Realizing what she had done, she could only pray 
that he did not notice what had really happened.

	Picking up the reins he gave her a sharp slap on the rump and forced
them back into her mouth.  By night fall and a dozen orgasms latter, they
reached the camp.  During her latest climaxes, she'd held on to the reins
and she thought that she had better control of her body this time.  As before
it was extremely powerful, if not the most powerful she had ever had.

	Once in the camp the English speaking Arab interviewed all the women
separately.  He asked Ivy,  ``What is your name, your rank if any and your
husbands name?"  

	Knowing he could always beat the truth out of her, she replied, ``My 
name is Lady Ivy Stanley, wife of Lord Bradford Stanley, Colonel in a regiment 
stationed at Khartoum."  She was wily enough not to tell him the military unit 
her husband belonged to, since this could have given away the cities strength.

	With a wry smile he asked, ``What do you think you are worth to your
husband."

	``What?" Ivy demanded.

	``You heard me.  What would he be willing to pay for your safe return?"
This was the cruelest thing to do to an English woman.  They are such a proud 
race and not likely to under-value themselves greatly in order to save there 
husband some money.  She begrudgingly told him what she considered to be a 
reasonable amount.

	He also inquired what she knew of the other women she travelled with.  
By doing this he could potentially catch any of them if they lied about there 
husbands rank or what he could pay for his loved one's ransom.  The Pirate of 
the Sand was a sly character.  The questions he had his henchman ask where 
most revealing.  Ivy was glad she had initially told the truth.

	As Ivy was lead from the tent she was interviewed in, she saw
Melissa and the other two maids, who had been in the column, being lead to the
far end of camp.  They had no husband to pay their ransom.  Although Ivy
had offered to let Bradford pay Melissa's too, she had been told that such 
arrangements were not allowed.  What this really meant, was that the band of 
ruffians needed a few women to keep as slaves.  At least they had the common 
sense not to chose an English lady.  No proper woman of the realm would ever 
stop struggling against being imprisoned as a harem girl.

	Ivy was lead to a tent where several of the other women sat 
huddled together on the floor.  Several of them wept openly.  These where the
ones whose dresses had been torn open in the back.  Each had several lash marks
across her back.  They had not told the truth about their husband's financial
status and had tasted the whip.

	Later that night, they all gathered in a large tent.  The women where
told that they where going to be allowed to partake in the victory feast. 
All the men lay around a low table being waited on by numerous slave girls. The
newly captured females, minus three, where tucked away in corner, suitably out 
of the way.  They were quiet during the meal all too ashamed to speak.  Being
whipped and held for ransom took the spirit out of most of the women.

	Both of the other maids were included amongst the scantily clad slaves
serving the meal.  Melissa was no where to be seen.  The two maids were also 
wearing the same revealing silks accompanied by bangles on their ankles as the 
slave girls.  Their ears had also been pieced and 
from them dangled large brass hoops.  Ivy wondered what it felt like to have a 
man control your body.  Control it so must that he violated it by piecing your 
ears with a needle, forcing you to wear earring as a constant reminder of you 
servitude.  It must of been horrible for them.  Still, to Ivy's surprise, the 
former maids seemed to smile contentedly as they went about their work.  

	Ivy was getting worried about her former maid, Melissa.
Having just gotten up the courage to ask where her servant was, a small
gong was sounded by the English speaking pirate.  The entire tent quieted
down.  Turning to the men, he spoke to them briefly in Arabic and afterwards
they all cheered loudly.  He then looked over at the English captives and said
in their language, ``Tonight you will be entertained in the fashion of the
desert.  The dance will be performed by someone who should look very familiar
to you."

	It was just then that Ivy noticed he carried in one hand,
a thin silver chain.  He reeled in the chain which stretched out of the tent's
entranceway.  To the English ladies surprise and dismay attached to the other 
end was Melissa Ivy's former maid.  She was dressed in a flowing veiled 
outfit.  In her hands she held small cymbals and about her neck ran a thin 
collar attached to the silver chain.  She was no longer the domestic servant 
who had so faithfully served Ivy in London.  From the way she held her body, 
she was with out a doubt an animal, a slave. 

	Several of the men picked up instruments and began to play. Melissa 
accompanied them with her hand chimes and the the natural rhythm of her body. 
Dancing playfully around her chain and in circles about the man who held it
she seemed to be trying to seduce him.  Slowly, she began to remove each
veil, letting it slide slowly down her shapely body.  The music sped up as
each layer was removed.  Her body became frenzied, as she dance around the
beaming English speaking Arab, pelvis thrusting in a depraved manner.  With
the last veil, she seemed to climax.  Standing in front of the man who held
her chain, she mouthed the word master and then fell to her knees.  She 
crossed her hands in front of her, an obvious sign of submission.  Exhausted
she lay at his feet.

	All the men let out a cheer, as the Arab who had arranged the 
entertainment swept Melissa into his arms and triumphantly left the tent.
What was to happen next could only be assumed. Following this the music started
again.  This time three women entered and began to dance.  Their movements 
were more refined than Melissa's had been.  They had probably been properly 
trained to perform this vile ritual.  Despite their lack of Melissa's raw 
animal enthusiasm, their bodies still conveyed the same vile message.

	Ivy could stand no more.  This was an insult, something no citizen 
of the realm should stand for.  Rising slowly to her feet she
yelled, in as lady like a voice as possible,  ``This must stop!".
The entire tent became silent and deadly still.  

	Motioning to several of his men the pirate leader said something, which
although in a foreign language, whose intent was clear.  Running for the 
entranceway Ivy was tripped up by none other than Lady Wadstone's former 
maid, now a slave girl.  Staring at her fellow English woman in disbelief, she 
was grabbed and carried away by four men. 

	Taken to an ornate tent at the other side of the compound, a scimitar 
was used to cut her clothes from her body.  Following this indignity,  she was 
forced to stand naked in the center of the tent while her hands were shackled. 
A chain was attached to the shackles which ran up through a pulley in the 
ceiling.  The chain was then pulled taunt, forcing her hands up over her head. 
Completely exposed in the middle of the room, she could not even fall to the 
ground and cover herself. ``If only Bradford would come."  She could only 
pray.

	The four men left her. She waited and waited.  This was almost as
tortuous as the indignity of being bound and left completely exposed.  Finally
the leader of the sand pirates entered the tent.  At dinner he had sat at
the other side of the tent from her.  Even from that distance she was able
to make out that he was probably not an Arab.  When he walked into the tent, 
without the benefit of his mask, there was a definitely Aryan look about him.  
Blonde and blue eyes, he was definitely not one of them.  Maybe he could be 
reasoned with.

	``Please," she said trying to bring tears to her eyes,  ``Don't hurt
me."  She had been unsuccessfully in her attempt at using her
proud English citizen act in order to show the band of ruffians how to treat 
behave.  Left with no alternative, she was resorting to her last line of 
defense, behaving like a helpless woman, which she was. 

	He smiled and laughed cruelly. ``If you dance for me.  I will no kill 
you."  As he spoke he fingered the whip which lay coiled in his belt.  It 
was ready to strike.

	From his accent he was obviously an Englishman.  Why wouldn't he 
listen to reason?  How could someone from the Mother Country, be such a 
barbarian?  Ivy could not bring herself to dance for him.  She would rather 
die first.  ``No." she replied holding her head high, waiting for the
blow to fall across her exposed back.  

	``Have it your way.", he gloated.  ``You entertained me numerous times
as we rode, I can't see why you won't do it again.  Dancing is even less 
personal than that."  

	Closing her eyes she tried to imagine he just was not there
and that this was all just a bad dream.  He had noticed how much she
enjoyed the harness, how humiliating.

	With the first sting of the whip on her ankles, she was forced to 
acknowledge his presence.  He brought the whip down again and she tried to 
move her feet out of the way.  By careful concentrating on where the whip 
would fall she could avoid it.  Suddenly, she realized that he had her moving 
to a certain beat and her feet following a set pattern.  

	Never before had a man controlled her so.  First on the horse, the
fierce warrior had subtly taken over the most private act her body could
experience.  That was something her husband had never taken the time to do.
Now, he made her body move to a natural rhythm, a slave rhythm.  It was 
stirring, causing the same arousment she felt with the harness gentling 
massaging her between the legs.  She was his instrument and he
played her masterfully or more fittingly put, like a master.  

	He stopped nipping at her ankles with the whip and she kept dancing.
Soon her upper body was moving to the rhythm he had established.  After
staring a her, what seemed to be desirously, he turned and walked towards
the entrance way of the tent. 

	Without thinking what she was really saying, Ivy sobbed, ``Master, 
what did I do wrong?"  She was shocked by what she had just said, but she was 
also torn up inside because she had tried to dance seductively and he had
just walked away.  Wasn't her dancing good enough to please him?

	Instead of leaving the tent, he stopped near the entrance to take the
end of the chain which attached to her shackles from where it was
fastened to the wall.   Keeping it taunt he approached her.  Wrapping his
arms about her, he kissed her savagely.  It was tortuous.  She couldn't throw
her arms about him and return his embrace.  She couldn't even fall at his feet
and prove her obedience, prove her love for him.

	The chain was still in his hands.  It pressed against her back.  It cut
her but she didn't care.  She just wanted to be held by him.  She just wanted
to please him.

	``Since I have allowed you pleasure so many times, don't you feel it 
is about time you  reciprocated, my pretty lady?"

	``Yes," she begged, squirming with desire.

	After raising her several inches off the floor with the chain, he 
lifted his robe.  Dangling above the ground, he lowered her.  As her body slid 
along his she could feel him enter her.  She had no choice.  He had penetrated 
her; he owned her.  

	Wrapping her legs around him she clung to him.  He released the chain 
and held her.  With her shackled hands clinging about his neck, she could feel 
his powerful shoulder muscles ripple with each trust into her body.  He had to 
be an incredibly strong man to lift her off the floor with one hand, but then 
again he had to be an incredibly strong man to so easily subdue an English 
lady.  Something in her eyes had known this ever since she first caught sight 
of him charging head long into battle against the Barbers.  

	As he thrust deeper into Ivy than she ever imagined 
possible, she was driven into a frenzy.  Tearing at the back of his neck
with her nails and biting at his shoulder, he was forced to throw her to
the ground.  Dodging her multitude of female weaponry he rolled her on her
stomach and took her from behind.  This allowed him to easily avoid her
nails and teeth.  Ivy was left to claw at the soft carpet on which she
was pinned.  He pounded her, properly introducing her to an English lance
like her husband would never wield.

	Her assault on him only increased the intensity of his love making.
He counter attack against her lasted so much longer than all time her husband
has used her combined.  Finally his whole body went rigid and he stifled
a scream.  After filing her completely, his body seemed drained of strength as 
he lay down next to her.  Ivy rolled over and tenderly licked at the scratches 
she left on the back of his neck and kissed the teeth marks she had left in 
his shoulder.  Gently rubbing her back with just the tips of his fingers, he 
asked, ``Will you dance for the men tonight, my sweet?"

	``Yes, please master.", she said wanting to show them what a strong
man her master was.  He had tamed her so easily.  

	With a smile he asked, ``What is your name, your rank if any and your
husbands name?"  So he had been the one to phrased the questions asked of her
earlier.

	Not hesitating for an instance she responded, ``Ivy, if the name
pleases you, I am but a slave, and I have no husband for as I said before,
I am but a slave."

	Holding her closely he kissed her, first on her eyes, then her nose
and finally on the lips.  Maintaining the embrace she could feel his body
fill once again with desire.  Lying on fully on her back, she spread her legs 
welcoming him.  Not hesitating for an instant, he took the invitation.

	Later that evening Ivy danced for the men.  She danced for the
other English ladies, who were completely appalled.  What did she care? 
She was never going to return to their ``civilized'' world.  Here she would be
happy and receive something they could only dream of, true love.  

	At the end of her dance she fell at her master's feet with her hands
crossed in submission.  She could tell from the applause that she had 
performed better than Melissa.  As she started kissing her master's feet, he
picked her up and carried her back to his own tent.  What happened next 
could only be assumed by all the horrified English ladies.  As the ladies lay 
down to sleep, they where kept awake by the throaty sounds of a woman 
being pleased.  The slave girls' cries of pleasure filled the night air.
Was it Ivy, was it Martha or one of the other maids?  The English ladies 
could only grit their teeth in dismay at the sorry state the former
English women had fallen prey to.  Then again, they could have gritted their
teeth in envy.

	After the ransom was collected, the English ladies were escorted to
a designated meeting point where they were to be picked up by a British
cavalry unit.  During the journey they all agreed to say that Duchess 
of Kensingworth had died in the initial attack on the caravan.  This was far
from the truth.  She had died the night she married Bradford and was reborn
when she was first fastened to her master's saddle.

	Several months later a rumor circulated from Khartoum to London to
Bombay, that the Sand Pirate had been killed in a mutiny lead by his own men.
At roughly the same time a long deserted castle on an island halfway
between Italy and Africa was being restored by a strange band of men.  Some 
wealthy English man had bought the castle from the King of Naples.  It came
with the royal title of count.  Here on the serene island, the count and his 
wife lived out there days ruling the pleasant natives of the island and taking 
an occasional trip to any country in Europe, save one where the countess's
face was too well known.

	The countess was renown for her radiant personality and for throwing
the most entertaining dinner and parties.  Any noble noble who was lucky 
enough to be invited for a visit was pleased to partake in the many beautiful
serving women provided by the noble host and hostess.  Women of a caliber
never before seen so close to Europe.  There was a certain Arabian flavor to 
each such occasion.  In private the countess was secretly known for her 
ability to dance and to please her one master.
 

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