A Cruel Passing of Innocence (15 page)

During the night, in the semi-darkness, Nassara knew for certain that she saw the watching figure of the master, Sulliman-Mahadji, behind the grille high up in the wall. She had instinctively felt his intense eyes upon her, and it was this, more than anything, which disturbed her thoughts, resisting her desire to sleep.

The oil lamps were always dimmed each night, the flickering light scarcely sufficient to see the features of the slumbering slave girls, enough only to bathe their naked bodies in a soft, golden glow. Perhaps the master had the eyes of a cat, waiting slyly, observing its prey, biding its time.

But even though she craved sleep it was already too late. The hated sound of sliding bolts from the other side of the heavy doors heralded the start of another uncertain day. Ahmood threw the doors open, and immediately the whip-boys were amongst the sleeping girls, goading them to wake with ugly guttural commands, loud and rude upon ears that were still drowsy. The whip-boys prodded and kicked their reluctant charges, whips raised, always eager to strike down.

‘Arribaja! Prezza! Prezza!
Ashami!'

The attendants scuttled in with platters of food and pitchers of fresh juices, busying themselves under Ahmood's watchful eye. Achoochi was there, and gave Nassara a furtive glance before quickly averting his eyes again, a timid trace of a smile on his lips, being careful to avoid Ahmood's gaze.

Soon all five slave girls were being ushered down the stairway, Ahmood as usual striding arrogantly in the lead. Ugimba, stooped and wincing at each twinge of pain, came last in the procession. Nassara was just ahead of her, ready with words or gestures of encouragement each time her companion lagged behind too much.

Jammina walked side by side with Safarah, who murmured quietly to herself, walking with almost mechanical steps. Belithza was in front, ever eager to catch some new phrase or word, listening for every sound and voice, knowing that knowledge might be the very essence of survival.

Into the hazy peacefulness of the courtyard they were taken, and Nassara was surprised to see that Zheeno and his three remaining male companions were already prostrated on the flagstones, their shoulders and dipped backs already glistening with sweat as they strained forward in the unnatural posture of debasement.

Her heart missed a beat as the ominous presence of the headman came into view. He watched the girls' arrival, his emotionless eyes following them with mild curiosity as they went to their positions behind the line of male slaves. Nassara thought that Ugimba seemed to be the object of his particular attention, as if it were her whipped flesh that crystallised his lustful interest.

‘Abbaijsh!' Ahmood growled. ‘Ashami abbaijsh!'

The girls knew the familiar order, dreading the humbling posture and the discomfort that would come. Praying their unnatural position would not be for long this time, and feeling already the heat of the sun, Nassara knelt quickly, preparing her limbs for the straining posture she must adopt. The waiting and not knowing the purpose of the wait were the worst. But idle contemplation was a pointless anxiety, and a draining toll upon her resources of mental strength.

As they settled into position the tinkling of golden trinkets fell gradually silent. Nassara tried to let her mind float above the courtyard, imagining she was a butterfly, rising to hover above the lush greenery. She imagined that her insect wings could take her up to the sky, to fly across the rooftop of this prison and to flee its paradise garden to another place… perhaps to a paradise of dreams, and not one of sad reality.

Zheeno was in front of her, and daring to glance up she could see the ravages of the previous day's beating, so obviously adding to his misery. But even in his humbling posture and the dreadful state of his buttocks, she felt a warm glow of love for him. Wanting to reach out and gently touch his punished flesh she almost moved her fingers towards him. How she wanted to soothe his thrusting buttocks, both so cruelly lined with livid welts.

Her eyes descending to where the ringed pouch of his manliness hung limply between his legs, she remembered how he had hardened for her in that hellish ship. How she had marvelled at the rising texture of his arousal, remembering too how her own body had seemed to come alive, her tummy fluttering despite the wretched misery of that disgusting hold.

How much she wanted to be in his embrace again, and to lay with him amongst the lush foliage of some imaginary field of paradise a dozen sunsets' march away from this place. She imagined guiding his risen shaft into her, almost feeling him there, warm and comfortable in the mutual passion of that first wondrous coupling. His lifeblood would infuse her with his strength as her flesh enveloped his, holding him to her, their young bodies owning the other. She could almost hear their own laughter and the rustling of their twinned nakedness in the grass, and picture the shimmering, pulsating halo above them as their spirits danced together in the sunlight.

Even now she felt her body stir for him, imagining his muscled arms folding around her, and their entwined bodies writhing together in mutual, blissful ecstasy. Skin tight against skin, their loins would join as one, attached by a cord of everlasting, crushing love.

But the stone of the courtyard was hard beneath her hands and knees, and it was not easy to divorce her mind from the discomfort of her straining body. Trying to lose herself to vivid fantasy she willed her thoughts to wander from unjust reality. She was a butterfly again and he was the noble bee, rising together on their fragile wings above the courtyard. There they could hover awhile, looking down at their tormentors before flying beyond the cruel palace walls… and away to paradise.

Reality, however, soon smothered fantasy, and lumbering footsteps were all about them. Straining to see from the corner of her eye, Nassara caught a glimpse of Babbushan and a number of the other fat men gathering. Behind them in single file walked several attendants, their faces cast down as if somehow knowing the purpose of their summons. In outstretched hands each attendant carried a white porcelain bowl, containing some kind of short shaft of silver. Inserted into the uppermost end of each shaft was a ring attached to a slender length of chain. The objects rattled ominously in their white receptacles.

The headman was at his usual place, standing motionless and aloof in front of the assembled slaves. With a curt nod he signalled at Ahmood, and instantly the young attendants scurried to take up position, each behind one of the prostrated slaves and still holding their bowls in front of them. Quickly they knelt down, barely an arm's length behind the proffered rumps before them.

When Ahmood's face was turned away Nassara took an imprudent chance, whispering urgently to Belithza. ‘What new torture do they prepare for us?' But Belithza only shook her head, hissing anxiously under her breath that she did not know.

Just in front of Nassara was a pair of dusty feet, scarcely a hand's length away from her forehead. Four girl attendants were kneeling there, motionless, one behind each prostrated male slave. Behind her, Nassara could hear the quiet shuffling of hasty movement, and she knew instinctively that the boy attendants were taking up their positions directly behind each of the slave girls. Sensing it was Achoochi close behind her she strained to look back between her legs, and there he was.

Walking slowly behind and between the lines the fat men moved, flexing their fingers as if readying themselves for whatever task was ahead, and ever mindful of Ahmood's roving eye, Nassara watched furtively as one of them took up position beside the servant girl just ahead of her.

‘Kaach-achari!' Ahmood called out. ‘Aventi!'

Whatever order it was, an immediate flurry of movement came from in front and behind them. It was difficult for her to see clearly, but the fat men appeared to be taking the ringed silver shafts from out of the bowls, and the one directly ahead of her bent over the thrusting backside of the male slave prostrated before him.

But before Nassara could understand what was happening, Babbushan came behind her. He muttered something to Achoochi, the attendant's timid voice answering briefly in reply, and immediately Nassara caught the muffled sound of scraping metal. The silver shaft was being withdrawn from the bowl Achoochi held, and stifling a little gasp of shock she felt the icy touch of Babbushan's podgy fingers touching her left buttock.

‘Keep yourself still, Nassara,' he warned. ‘I must open you. Do not resist my work. There will be no pain.' His fingers began to move down between her buttocks, and his other hand touched her right flank, quickly following. She heard him grunt as he bent forward, feeling his way with both hands, exerting pressure, prising her buttocks further apart. On her left cheek she felt another hand, its fingers thick with greasy balm. ‘I tell you again, slave girl; hold still lest Ahmood comes with his whip. Do as I command.'

Achoochi pushed his greasy fingers deep into her anus, and despite Babbushan's warning the shock of such defilement made Nassara jerk forward, gasping, pulling away from the unexpected intrusion. Although she fought to retain her posture she could not help her buttocks flinching, contracting inward in protest at the impure entry into her forbidden depths.

‘Keep your posture, girl,' Babbushan urged. ‘The lotion Achoochi puts inside you will make easy the instrument's passage. Think of other thoughts and soon its presence inside you will be forgotten.' His hands were still clamped on her flanks, his grip stopping her from any sideways movement, firmly holding her flesh apart.

‘W-what…?' Nassara began to ask in a croaky whisper, turning her head to him. ‘What are you putting…?'

Babbushan hissed at her into silence, his fingers tightening more on her flesh. ‘Be silent, girl! Ask no questions. It is the masters' will. Speak no words or Ahmood will hear and he will lash you. Then your discomfort will be twice suffered. The masters' will shall be done to you, whip or no whip.'

Nassara forced herself to become calm and still again, even though her lips quivered in humiliation and frustration. Tears formed in her eyes, her breath coming in little pants of silent protest as she resigned herself for the inevitability of whatever foul intrusion would soon come to her opened flesh.

Babbushan grunted impatiently again and Achoochi worked the grease into her, his nimble fingertips reaching deep into the well of her tight passage, moving around the puckered entrance. It seemed to her that the very core of her lower body was being invaded by chilled impurity, feeling its unnatural expansion of her well. Yet she knew instinctively that there was still more defilement to come. This intrusion was but a prelude to a more hostile plugging that her mind feared to contemplate; she had seen the glinting implements in the bowls.

Through her tears she saw movement directly in front of her. The male slave there gasped suddenly, his buttocks immediately pulling away from the object the fat man was trying to insert in his lubricated rear. Cursing the slave the fat man, at first thwarted in his task, reached down and yanked the chain hanging between the young man's legs and kicked his feet in warning. There was another gasp and the slave struggled back into the required humbling posture, his legs and thighs trembling.

The fat man placed the ring-tagged shaft against the exposed entrance, and with an obscene wiggling motion that defied the natural resistance of the slave's unwilling flesh, he drove the rounded end of the silver shank deep inside him until only the blunt end with the toggle-ring was visible.

It seemed to Nassara's disbelieving eye that such improper penetration had wedged the young man's flesh asunder, the shaft driven into him like a plump spear. She heard him groan and saw the servant girl reach out and grasp the chain, arranging it so it hung down between the gaping rift of his buttocks, jangling against the other thicker chains that hung from his sack and the ringed base of his manhood.

The fat man's task was done, and mumbling some words of meagre comfort to the slave he patted him on one buttock before standing straight again, and moved to the next slave… Zheeno.

But Nassara had no time to reflect upon the grossness of what was to come to Zheeno, because her turn came sooner… and it was shocking. Despite Babbushan's reassuring words, the suddenness of the entry of the rounded nub of the metal shank made her jerk forward again as it penetrated, the metal sliding easily into the lubricated path already laid for its coming. The smooth head of metal invaded the tiny puckered well with scarcely more than gently defiant resistance. Babbushan manoeuvred the foul implement onwards and deeper into her forbidden passage, quickly finding the angle of its path. She shuddered and gasped, struggling to keep her posture rigid, grimly fighting her anger and dreadful humility. The loathsome instrument sank further into her, parting the nimbus extremity of her velvety flesh as the increasing circumference of the shaft penetrated deeper. She gasped aloud but the procedure went on, Babbushan breathing heavily as he worked the instrument, concentrating intently upon the meandering act of its propulsion.

‘There, my poor Nassara, it is not so bad,' he encouraged soothingly as he worked. ‘This master's manly symbol of his future pleasure; it is only preparing you for him, to make your place ripened and moulded to his girth, to make it more pleasurable for him when he comes for you.'

Even in Nassara's numbed mind the strangely impure words floated confusingly, before eventually settling in the innocent recesses of her brain, the images coming to her no longer as hazy shapes, but stark and clear.