Emily Taylor: The Slave Girl

By Vi Grim

After successfully crossing the Sahara to Khartoum, Emily is sold to Abdullah, a dodgy wheeler-dealer and slave trader. As the elevator jerks its way up to his seedy, thirteenth floor penthouse apartment she has a strong feeling of impending doom.
She should have run away when she had the chance...

This is a short book covering a brief, but dark period in Emily's childhood.

Suitable for readers 14 years to Adult

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vi Grim
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301074723

Vi Grim

Vi Grim I based in Auckland, New Zealand but works away most of the time trying to keep his large family in house and home. He returns occasionally to touch base with wife and kids and do battle with the job list stuck to the fridge door. Inspiration for his stories comes from drawings by his children. Many of his colourful characters and based on the larger than life people he meets as he travels the globe in his work as a superyacht captain.

Book preview

Emily Taylor Book 2

The Slave Girl

©2010 Vi Grim.

Revised Edition 6 October 2014

Published by Vi Grim

Cover photo©Dreamtime

Inside cover illustration ©Lulu

All Rights Reserved Worldwide

Warning: Contains swearing and oblique sexual reference

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Also published by Vi Grim

Emily Taylor Book 1- Abducted

Emily Taylor Book 3 – The Apprentice

Emily Taylor Book 4 – The Teenage Mum

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1.

Cockadoddledo.

It's dark when I wake up. I soak up Zula’s warm for a precious minute, then another, and another. I feel safe here in his arms; no one can get me.

Cockadoddledo.

Day is near. I must go. I don't want to. I want to stay here forever.

I must run. I must escape. Giving Zula a squeeze and a gentle kiss, I extract myself from his arms and slip away into the darkness, pussy footing from shadow to shadow. There's not much time; it'll be light soon.

I stand on someone, they grunt and stir. I scarper, running my fastest, tripping over fallen palms as I crash through the bushes.

Whoa, stop! Get your act together girl!

I stop. I'm acting like an idiot; I’ll never escape charging around like a mad hippo. I need to be cunning, to tread lightly and stealthily, like a fox. I stay dead still for a minute, breathing deeply to stop puffing. All is quiet.

Cockadoddledo.

It’s right next to me. I jump out of my skin.

Gathering my wits, I tippy-toe towards the loom of the city lights.

In the murky light of dawn, I find a rough track. After the cool, soft sand, the stones are sharp on my feet. I run, trying to put some distance between the camp and me. I must hide, but haven’t gone far enough yet; they'll find me. I keep running. Just a bit further and I’ll be free.

I hear hooves approaching. A Desert Rider is coming at the gallop, a dark shadow in the half-light. I duck and dodge, running zigzag so he can't get me.

Strong hands pluck me off my feet and I'm on my way back to camp, shivering as the morning air cools my sweat.

Bollocks!

It’s like snakes and ladders. Just as I reach up to climb the ladder, I stand on a snake and I’m slippy-sliding down its scaly skin towards a life of slavery.

Plonking me down next to a roaring fire, the Desert Rider dismounts and washes and bandages my bleeding knees. He doesn't say anything; he just smiles sadly at me, gives me an affectionate pat on the back and is gone.

Zula hands me a cup of hot tea and some dry bread and throws a couple of branches on the fire. He sits down beside me and pokes at the fire with a stick, sending showers of sparks chasing skywards.

Warm tears run down my cheeks, tasting salty on my lips.

Zula pulls me close, gently stroking my hair. 'Shhhh,’ he says. 'We did it, we crossed the desert. Whatever happens now, no one can take that from us.'

He's right, he always is. It doesn’t help me any. He’s okay, he’s got the caravan; he’s not being sold like a can of baked beans.

2.

At dawn an open-back truck roars into our campsite. It dodges between tents and sleeping camels and shudders to a halt in a cloud of dust. Guarded by scruffy, slouching soldiers; teenage girls, all chocolate skin and long legs, jump down and stand in a nervous group.

Honking madly, a beat up Mercedes bounces across the rough ground and stops beside them. A couple of thugs in desert camouflage jump out onto the red sand, waving stubby guns around menacingly. The bullet-ridden back door creaks open and a big man extracts himself and stands swaying in front of us like a grizzly bear. He wears a red and white Arab headdress and an