“Abhad—this woman—!” Nykobe was groping. “Whip her yourself.” Khalief’s voice was sardonic.
Caroline, panting, watched the rebel go again to his drawer. This time he turned holding the black snake of a whip. Without thinking, she advanced to wrest it from him, but was snubbed short by her collar. In frustrated fury she followed impulse. She picked up the strip of rug and heaved with all the strength of her fettered hands . . .
The feet of Nicholas Nykobe followed the rug.
The massive bulk of their owner sat on the floor with a thud. The whip flew from his hand. Caroline picked it up. There was a terrible silence.
Trudy giggled. Within seconds the room was an uproar of hilarity. The man on the floor laughed loudest. Only Caroline remained sober. Dragging her chain until it was taut upon her neck, she proffered the whip to Khalief Abhad. “You whip me, master. I belong to you.” She returned to the post and flattened her nakedness against it, her handcuffed wrists above her head.
“The key to her collar, Nykobe: let me have it.” She stood, trembling, as the metal band was taken from her neck. She turned to see Abhad pick Trudy up and toss her at the man who had risen from the floor. “Take this child and the Governorship of the Province.” Khalief’s voice was fierce. “Is that enough?”
Nicholas Nykobe held mischievous nudity possessively. His words were firm. “It is enough, lord.”
The President of Zindawba picked up his thrashed Mistress and carried her out to the car.