Executrix Khalidah

"Concentrate. Keep still. Don't move" Beverly silently recited, as the antique razor's glittering blade slid across her face and over her neck, then continued downward, pausing briefly at the first of the leather bands which bound her above and below her breasts, tighter almost than she imagined possible, to the gymnastic horse along which she was stretched.

When my aunt Barbara passed away, the loss of that connection to our family's storied past saddened me more than I expected. Suddenly I was keenly aware of my curiosity about her eccentricities; "Angie" I promised myself, "don't let any more family drift away."

Shafts of pain shot through Bev's body as Barbara twisted the steel clamps biting each of her breasts before removing them completely, awakening every nerve in her engorged nipples.

Born into a well-to-do family just as World War II began, Barbara Wentworth knew her father only as a very young girl. Her mother, still quite young herself, returned to college when the war ended, throwing herself into life with abandon, juggling schoolwork with whatever attention to her daughter she could spare, enthusiastically embracing political activity: women's rights, antiwar protest, and sexual emancipation. While Barbara undoubtedly suffered some benign neglect, she spent her teenage years immersed in a rich, stimulating environment, growing to adulthood among some of the most influential, even notorious, movers and shakers of the 'fifties and 'sixties. Eventually her mother met my grandfather and had one more child, my father. The relationship did not last, hence Ginny and I carry the Wentworth name.

Bev gasped as Barbara touched the razor's edge to her left nipple. "Don't move" she commanded. Bev felt a wave of trust and admiration for the beautifully leather-clad woman who towered over her naked, helpless body, holding her life in her hands.

Aunt Barbara never seemed to be lonesome or unhappy though she didn't marry or have children of her own. She bought a spacious apartment in the middle of town before prices became astronomical, soon settling into the full, busy life of a well-off urbanite. My older sister Ginny joked disrespectfully about the business she suspected "Grande Dame" Barbara conducted from that convenient location, punishing wealthy men, and sometimes women, for a substantial fee, but when aunt Barbara visited us, I was awed, intimidated by her supreme confidence and dominating personality. Ginny was more self-assured but immature; her suspicious resentment of Barbara, never very well hidden, occasionally erupted into nasty spats – I remember one particularly vividly.

The knife continued downward, jumping the second leather band on its course to Beverly's dense little pubic forest, obscenely pressed upward by a thick leather-covered pillow under her buttocks, her legs pulled down and firmly secured to the horse on either side. With a few deft strokes Barbara dispatched the furry tangle, then creamed and shaved the freshly exposed mons, making it glow with new color. Bev shivered as the cool air touched her there, breathlessly anticipating Barbara's next move.

Our family felt the usual business-neighborly obligation to have a December party, though it was becoming more and more difficult for us to put on a good show. I still enjoyed these events, but Ginny, by then a senior in high school, was upset over our social descent. Mom even bargained for the tree that year, to Ginny's acute embarrassment. It was carefully placed to cover a tatty spot in the living room carpet, accommodating our large collection of decorations with difficulty, seeming overwhelmed and gaudy. Guests filled the room, but Daddy wasn't yet home; he was meeting with solicitors to close out his latest business failure, mom gamely holding down the fort.

"Pleasure me well, smart ass college cunt" Barbara demanded, as she straddled Bev's face, choking her momentarily. The coarse language sounded shocking, but Bev knew where it came from. She worked her tongue fervently into Barbara's vagina, amazed at her delicious clean flavor, doing her very best to reciprocate Barbara's friendship.

Aunt Barbara stood next to the fireplace, chatting with a small group of guests as she casually rearranged objects on the mantlepiece. I loved watching Barbara from a distance – if only I could be like that in my autumn years, I imagined. She was tall, especially in the high heels she managed so well, and nicely proportioned – not too slender but staunchly, elegantly robust. She exercised religiously all her life, before that became trendy, and it showed; her designer pants flowed over her still shapely bottom, her tailored jacket perfectly smoothing the transition downward from her angular shoulders. She swiveled to answer a question, launching her resonant contralto grandly over an unfortunate lull in the hubbub; her description of our father as pathetically inept, hopelessly incompetent, which was more or less true, sailed over the room just as daddy walked in.

"Smart ass college cunt" Barbara chuckled, as she read through the creamy colored leaves of notepaper covered with Bev's tidy handwriting. The little package bound in a pink bow with a single red rose handed her by the doorman that morning had to wait for several clients to be accommodated; finally Barbara had a chance to look at it. Though Bev wrote it, Barbara didn't think the description really fitted her, but Barbara's niece Virginia, older sister of Bev's college roommate Angela, that was another matter entirely. Barbara smiled; the hunch to leave a dim light glowing in her dungeon, and the door slightly ajar, was spot-on. Bev took the bait and Barbara caught her, bringing the lights up full.

The lull turned out not to be so momentary, awkward silence descending on the assembled company like an embarrassing smell. Barbara strode gracefully across the room to greet her half-brother with a kiss. "You heartless, arrogant bitch!" Ginny screamed, deeply hurt and loyal to a fault. She and ran out of the house crying, slamming the front door behind her, Mom quickly slipping out after her to make sure she didn't run away completely. Barbara seemed quite unfazed, certainly not insulted, but it took several long minutes for the evening to right itself, barely escaping a complete capsize.

Bev lamely apologized for her intrusion, but Barbara's bet was won, hands down. Gazing at the leather horse, the tilted cross, the ropes, straps, whips, floggers and other paraphernalia cascading from the walls, Bev admitted that she was fascinated by BDSM. She had never experimented for real, she said, but she fantasized about it frequently, and knew a little from the internet. Recalling her younger niece Angela's bemoaning the superiority of Bev's writing , Barbara suggested that she send her a BDSM fantasy before her next visit.

My parents' embarrassment was acute, so we didn't see a lot of Barbara after that, but she continued to hover in the shadows. Her generosity enabled the two of us to go to university in spite of our financial straits, the assistance kept secret from me until after I finished, several years after Ginny. In my junior year I roomed with Beverly Greene.

Barbara's body undulated sensuously over Bev's face, as Bev struggled to satisfy her and breathe at the same time, her whole body aching with arousal, her nipples tingling with anticipation. With her arms securely bound beneath the horse, her tongue was her only means to pleasure, delving deeply, circling around and over Barbara's clit. Barbara came quickly, and Bev recalled apprehensively the next part of her fantasy, in which she screamed as Barbara began punishing her for snooping, whipping her breasts and newly naked twat without mercy. She would need to be gagged, she was sure, or she would make far too much noise even for Barbara's solidly built pre-war apartment.

Junior year is tough, usually the busiest and hardest year, so Bev and I didn't have much spare time to get to know each other. Bev was a stronger intellect than I, immersing herself in political science and far eastern studies just as China moved to the center of the world stage. Though I had always found aunt Barbara's sharp wit intimidating I thought Bev might enjoy her as an intellectual equal, so I arranged an invitation. I was not mistaken – Barbara and Bev hit it off immediately, their lively verbal intercourse soon making my eyes glaze over. Barbara was a good hostess and steered the conversation almost imperceptibly back into my depth. From there the evening passed pleasantly; Barbara's meal was delicious, and Bev soon received an invitation to return solo. Though Bev and I were almost frantically busy the whole year, she managed to find time to visit my aunt regularly. She also seemed to become inexplicably clumsy, something I hadn't previously noticed, explaining away odd bruises as bicycle accidents.

"My God, this girl is tough" Barbara muttered as Bev mewled and murfed through the leather panel gag which now fastened her even more tightly to the horse. Breasts dancing and bobbing with each blow, she struggled helplessly against the leather straps as Barbara hit her again and again, the smack of the flogger echoing around the room. Oh, the bitter radiating pain as the leather strips caught her engorged nipples, the exquisite shock of the flogger striking her between her upthrust hips. Barbara usually tried to stop just before a client safe-ed out, but she was starting to worry about injuring Bev, and she'd certainly administered enough punishment for the crime. There would be more opportunities, she was sure.

After college Bev and I fell out of touch. I knew she had continued her friendship with aunt Barbara to the very end, so I expected to see her at the funeral, and wasn't surprised that she would also be attending the reading of her will. Catching up with each other I learned that Bev had finished graduate school and lined up a good job, but it depended on funding which wasn't yet approved, so she was temporarily at loose ends. I was happy for her success, and jealous as well. I enjoyed the social whirl of the working world but bounced from one entry-level job to another, hoping for advancement that never seemed to come. Ginny wasn't in a great place either, rebounding from her college infatuation. She had hoped it would lead to marriage, but he became increasingly involved in various start-up ventures and found less and less time for her, Ginny eventually dumping him in self-defense. So we were all ready for some change, some adventure, as we sat waiting for aunt Barbara's will to be read.

Most of Barbara's estate was earmarked for various liberal causes, which was no reason for resentment, as she had already been generous, Ginny and I both thankful to finish college debt-free. The surprise was the nature of her bequest to us. The three of us were given a two month trip through India – there was no choice in the matter, the money could only be used that way, or it too went to charity. India was a surprise too, given Bev's greater interest in points further east, but Barbara had enjoyed a trip there with an early flame, and wanted us to experience something from her own past. Perhaps she wanted to broaden our horizons – China was becoming almost old hat, western feeling and secular, at least in the places most people were familiar with, while the middle east retained its exotic mystery. Then again, perhaps Barbara wanted us to observe the extremes of wealth and poverty, so overt there, not swept under the carpet as in much of the rest of the world.

The risks made us a little uneasy, but it was risky when aunt Barbara traveled, and she didn't let that stop her. Tourism in the middle east was still robust in spite of the insurgence of religious fanaticism and the plethora of corrupt, ineffectual governments. Most of India would present no problem, but we particularly wanted to spend time in Kashmir, about which aunt Barbara had written glowingly. In fact, Barbara laid out a detailed itinerary for us, acknowledging that political and geographical circumstances might require adjustments. We were able to follow her plan almost exactly and had a wonderful time, always imagining and discussing what aunt Barbara herself might have experienced wherever we went. Our trip was a little more hurried, hers took nearly half a year.

I'll spare you the travelogue. My lasting impression was one of striking contrasts, the sultry outdoor heat and dust against the air-conditioned chill of cinemas and hotel lobbies, the tediousness of traffic compared to the relative comfort of trains, even if they were often late, the glare of the daytime in the south against the darkness of the early morning mist in the north. And everywhere, color. Beautiful, colorful costumes, gaudy decorations on buildings, trucks and cars, smiling faces surrounded by abject poverty. Our allowance was sufficient to stay in first-class hotels when we really wanted, but aunt Barbara's instructions urged us to explore more modest accommodations when it appeared safe to do so, and especially to travel by train, overnight for longer journeys. It was great fun to share three bunks, one above another, with Ginny and Bev, even though it wasn't very private – it felt a lot like being back in college.

Bev was good company, much more fun, more relaxed, than I remembered from college, but she could also be weird, occasionally making the oddest remarks. She had an eye for beauty, whether it be a person, a flower, or a building, frequently pointing out sights I would have missed. She often seemed to be mentally undressing the handsome, colorfully dressed men and women around us, sometimes describing her fantasies, which irritated Ginny no end. Mostly, though, her friendship with Ginny seemed to grow stronger. We got to know one another as only traveling companions can.

We agreed to avoid any romantic engagements with people we met, and our relative lack of privacy from each other meant that sexual tension was always a bit in the air. I noticed Bev looking at Ginny rather oddly from time to time, and occasionally at me also, sometimes giving me a little shiver of erotic excitement. But our travels and the ever-changing sights kept us busy and excited enough by themselves. And there was shopping. We loved the gaily colored clothing for sale in the markets and found that we could easily wear the same size clothes, making evening dress-ups and exchanges a regular part of our routine. We didn't make a deliberate show of nudity, but we were hardly prudes. I was surprised the first time I saw Bev's completely hairless pussy. I knew that my sister trimmed hers into a crisp triangle; she had told me recently how much she missed having her boyfriend help her with that, but Bev's smooth furrowed mound was a new concept for me. I didn't bring it up, but it was impossible to predict what Bev might say from one moment to the next, and the next evening she popped a question I wasn't prepared for.

"Have you thought about shaving your beaver, Angie?"

Well, no, I hadn't really. "Why?"

"Just wondering. If you ever decide to, ask me – you don't want to be itchy."

Just then Ginny walked in, interrupting our peculiarly intimate moment.

"Just telling your sister about pubic shaving. You have to deal with that, even though you don't do the whole thing, no?"

Ginny frowned, and I expected her to close off the conversation, but instead the two of them went on to discuss the intimate matter in some detail, the ins and outs of close shaving vs. waxing, and other matters of hygiene. Too much information, I thought, ruefully contemplating my uncultivated bush.

We spent the last week in Srinagar, staying on a picturesque houseboat on Lake Dahl. It was obvious why aunt Barbara wanted us to do this – it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Though the facilities were rudimentary our bedroom was opulently decorated, and our cook made us memorable Kashmiri dishes. Morning mist gave way to clear, bright days and cool breezy evenings. The short shikara rides to shore, as well as longer ones on the lake, were sometimes mysterious, always magical. The atmosphere fueled Bev's imagination alarmingly.

"Angie, have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a slave?"

"What?" I responded, nonplussed. Ginny looked annoyed. Thoughts of young women, even girls, suffering a miserable existence at the hands of profiteers or fanatics revolted me. But she kept on.

"I've heard that slavers operate in this area, and women traveling, especially western women, should be especially careful. But I've always wondered..."

"Bev, shut up – you're creeping me out," Ginny declared firmly, ending the conversation. Fortunately only a few days of our itinerary remained, since I couldn't get the thought of kidnapping out of my mind. Every group of men, every grim-looking vehicle took on an ominous significance as we made our way back to everyday life.

And nothing happened. We arrived for our international flight safely, our only problem the rather large amount of luggage we had accumulated, in spite of regular visits to Federal Express. Our flight home, involving several connections, was smooth, long and tiring, and eventually the bump of wheels on the runway signaled arrival at our final destination, or so I thought.

***********

Bev's car was waiting for us at the airport, thoughtfully left by a friend of hers so we would have an easier time with our luggage. Bev was excited about her new job. She hadn't slept much on the long flight back, so she was exhausted and asked me to drive, then curled up in the back seat. The sun was setting in light clouds as I drove out of the airport, the huge red orb resting heavily on the horizon. Before long it was completely dark. Ginny fell into a quiet trance, thinking, I supposed, of boyfriends and the lusty romance she once had.

The power of Bev's car gave me a thrill once I got used to it, and traffic was light. I drove fast, reveling in the sheer joy of being, enjoying the secure feeling of being back in my own country, Bev's strange questions far from my mind. Rather than all of us trying to get home right away, we had decided to stay that night at Bev's apartment and sort out the rest the next day. I slowed to take the exit to Bev's when suddenly the dreaded flashing lights split the darkness. Shit, I thought, what lousy luck, a speeding ticket on the first night back. I pulled over and watched the officer walk toward my side of the car, starting to roll down the window as he approached. Ginny noticed something odd and cried out, but it was too late – suffocating gas rushed into the car and I lost consciousness almost instantly.

I woke up in a small cell, barely more than a cage. It was not especially forbidding looking; actually, it was surprisingly comfortable in spite of its size. The bars were of gleaming stainless steel, quite fine, with considerable space between them, though not enough to permit escape. The floor was smooth and neatly tiled in a curious middle-eastern pattern, pretty but meaningless to me, and there was a toilet with a modicum of privacy, along with a small shower, which I anticipated using with some relief, my thirty-hour clothes feeling pretty rank. Adjoining cells contained Ginny and Bev. Ginny's cell was much larger than Bev's and mine, I observed with the lifelong envy of a younger sister.

Bev and Ginny had been awake for some time, I guessed by their quiet conversation, which was interrupted by the appearance of a woman dressed in a severe black wool abaya. All that could be seen of her were the fine, rounded features of her olive-colored face and the friendly, inviting smile it bore. She explained to us that, as we were probably aware, there had been problems with slavers kidnapping women in the area where we had been traveling, indeed, anywhere that unrest and lawlessness created such opportunities. We had been targeted; the authorities had thwarted an attempt on us just before we left. Smarting at their frustration, the kidnappers contacted accomplices in our own country who captured and returned us, anticipating an attractive price for three nubile western women.