A Cruel Passing of Innocence (20 page)

Indicating Nassara should sit on the cushions, and then to lay back in the curved hollow of its centre, the girl gestured for Nassara to spread herself, arms and legs open, exposing the fullness of her reposing body.

‘Be not stiff, young mistress,' she instructed. ‘Let your body be relaxed, like when you sleep. Be eager for him, or he beat me and you if he get angered.'

With that she moved back to the man and began to disrobe him, carefully lifting off his outer garment in the practiced manner of one accustomed to the duty. He stood silently, a casual smile on his lips, not taking his eyes from Nassara who, uncertain where to look, feared rebuke if she looked at him, yet fearing to look away.

The last garment fell away from his body and he stood naked, his thrusting manhood standing out before him unashamedly. He moved to the bed, his dark, muscled chest covered with black hair, his arms hanging at his sides. He towered over Nassara, looking down at her, his masculinity displayed in all its provocative magnificence.

The servant girl left bearing the master's robes, and they were alone. Again she felt her heart racing, her mouth was dry, and her eyes were drawn to the rampant thrust of him. Her own body seemed so delicate for such a harsh bolt of flesh.

With arrogant grace he knelt on the cushions beside her. His thighs were muscled, as was his toned torso. For a while he stroked her skin as she lay there, holding her breath with nervous expectation. Her heart fluttered, her body feeling oddly chilled. This strange new sensation confused her mind, making her tingle with feelings that were neither unpleasant nor wanted, but somehow remote, as if she might have been somewhere else entirely.

His dark fingers worked gently on her, gliding along the soft white flesh of her inner thighs, moving then slowly upwards over her tummy. Reaching further across her he ran his fingers onto each of her breasts in turn, first kneading one, then the other, sometimes dallying a while to circle around her nipples and gently playing with the rings and chains.

‘Sit up, girl,' he said. ‘Lift your eyes. See your master's rod of hardness. See how it lifts with desire for your body. See it quiver with tension before your virgin eyes. Be joyful that you have such youthful beauty for my flesh to enjoy.'

The moment had come, her purpose to be fulfilled. A twinge of shame and guilt gripped her, but she fought to quell it, making herself forget the images of impurity, thinking only of survival and Zheeno.

The master's eyes were beads of black intensity, watching as she shifted to him, rising from the soft pillows, ready to engage him, her face scarcely a hand's length from the rounded extremity of his erect shank, her anxious eyes focussed on it. Quelling another surge of revulsion, her mouth as dry as desert sand, she forced herself to tilt her head towards the waiting protrusion, opening her lips. Craning her head still further she moved forward onto him, feeling his smooth head nudge and push into her. For a second the unfamiliarity and shocking texture made her freeze, and for one dreadful moment she feared she'd gag and anger him. But she resisted, fighting to keep her lips tightly about him, letting her mouth adapt slowly to the unfamiliarity and to such unwelcome presence within her innocent sanctuary.

He moved a hand to the back of her head and gently but firmly pulled her closer, so that she had no alternative but to take his harsh length fully into her mouth, her lips stretched around the swollen length as it drove deeper.

‘Hold it there,' he urged, his voice strained. ‘Keep firmly upon me, like so… good, Nassara.' Then holding her head firmly with both his hands he began to thrust in and out of her, feeling how the delicate warmth of her mouth accommodated his girth, giving delicious resistance to it as he pumped. Soon, after some initial indelicate fumbling she adapted well to the alternating motion of his thrusts, and he began to feel good in her novice embrace, making the rhythm of her head synchronise with his hips.

‘There… good, beautiful slave,' he grunted. ‘I see how your lips delight to have your master's flesh between them.'

His fingers gripped her hair, controlling the alternating motion of her head. Each time he thrust into her he pulled her towards him, her mouth filling with him, the pressure hard at the back of her head. Her nostrils fought to draw in sufficient air, flaring at the effort. At each withdrawal she relaxed a little bit. Sometimes, as the rounded head of his column briefly paused at the perimeters of her lips she would feel his eyes intensely on her flushed face, seeking what emotions lay beyond. Before he thrust into her again she would gasp for breath and look up at him, and see his smile, as though he was pleased with her efforts. Already she was no longer a novice receptacle for his desires, knowing more of her duties with every passing moment, and knowing that she must make haste to comply with each new fateful twist of his bidding.

How glad she was that Zheeno could not see her now, as closing her eyes again he came down and filled her. She felt his massive occupation linger there, as though waiting for the active vacuum pressure to begin its work. Stealing herself now to make ready the inner muscles of her mouth and throat, so as to perform the task, she breathed in deeply, feeling her lungs fill with fresh air, as if it might have been her last breath of purity.

But he spoke softly still, encouraging her. ‘My spear is there, Nassara, erect for you, ready for your tongue of passion to explore, ready for you to suck.'

The plugged confines of her mouth, filled again by its waiting burden, seemed to her no less perversely bolted than her rear passage had so recently been, and it seemed that slaves' flesh was to be offered for breaching at whim by vulgar, heartless creatures. Yet the master's words were said quietly, and with such deceptive kindness that there was confusion in her mind. She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes as if seeking reassurance that such kindliness of tone must surely deny the true nature of words that came so shockingly. For a second of weakness, her hatred momentarily smothered by a veil of self-pitying sadness, she held his gaze with an expression that entreated him to bring her more slowly and gently to his ways.

But the black beads of Sulliman-Mahadji's eyes only glinted mischievously back at her, devoid of concessions, unyielding to appeals of humanity. ‘Make your lips slide swiftly along the shaft, my slave, and draw my rich fluid into you, then suck hard and diligently.'

For some minutes Nassara adapted herself to the task, clumsily at first, then with greater harmony of her flesh with his; first tongue, then lips; making as though to busy herself hungrily. Then she drew upon him from her lungs and swallowed, even though her mouth seemed obstinately dry.

He grasped both her hands, making her put one on either side of his thighs, so as to steady her own inclining torso, her balance and her rhythm now determined by his thrusting hips. Her arm muscles strained at the awkwardness of such unfamiliar movement, her neck and spine arched as she fought to retain the proper distance to better perform her task. From time to time the chains of her slavery snagged painfully at her nipples and at the delicate folds of her sex.

Abruptly he withdrew, such that she remained rigidly in that same posture, surprised at the interruption and retreat. Her flushed, sweating face waited expectantly, her mouth open from the unaccustomed emptiness, gulping with urgent pants for air. With puzzled eyes looking up at him, she prayed it was not her who had given cause to the halting of his pleasure. Had she been inadequate in her performance? Was there not more to come? After all, there had been no explosive burst, and he had not shuddered as she remembered her stepfather had, nor had she felt the vileness of the master's seed in her throat. So why had he stopped?

He smiled down at her again, as if understanding her puzzlement. Then pushing her down onto the cushions again, he reached down and spread her legs wide apart, so that her pubic flush yawned open for him. The chains and bells that hung there gave an insipid little trill before resting again in their new repose. Then bending low over her he inclined his head until his nose hovered just above her shaven portals. She heard him sniffing deeply at her scent.

‘Nassara, how sweet is your smell,' he murmured. ‘You are like a freshly plucked berry from a Legunhya-syrup tree. So rich and succulent, even though you sweat with fear of me.' He released his breath slowly as he spoke, unhurried to free his lungs of such sweet fullness, before again allowing his nostrils to draw greedily in. Looking down at him she saw how his nose flared in the eagerness of his inhaling.

Then she felt his tongue, gliding against her neatly sculpted slit, nudging the tiny gold rings, his lips nibbling her. Then taking some chain between his lips he tugged gently, so that the bell tinkled momentarily. At his first touch her heart had chilled at such unaccustomed contact, but she forced herself not to pull away, managing to stifle the shudder that threatened to seize her.

But at least he was gentle; sometimes content to linger, at others to delve deep, firmly parting her flesh as he inquisitively foraged into her tight channel. Once or twice he paused in his intrusiveness, to lap around the delicate walls of that depth of flesh already conquered. Then he would go deeper again, then withdrawing suddenly to glide around the outer perimeters of her sex.

He drew back slightly and looked up across Nassara's belly, between her breasts, his eyes glinting in the dimmed light of the oil lamps. She looked back at him, anxious again, not knowing what was expected of her now, wondering whether she was to remain passive in her reclining posture, allowing him to roam freely with his tongue and lips.

She thought it strange he should desire such oral pursuits. Were these not the humble tasks of slaves to perform upon their masters? This place, she reflected ruefully, abounded with such contrasting extremes of perversity.

He smiled wickedly at her before dipping his tongue into her afresh. Then she felt him reach with his hand and thrust his fingers – fingers together to form a wedge – deep between her buttocks, ploughing inside where once the bolt of silver had lodged. Gasping at the suddenness of the penetration her thighs quivered, his fingers wedging ever deeper into her anal depths, causing her to stir and moan, but not from any want of pleasure, only from shock and uncertainty. But her reaction seemed to find favour with his lust.

‘See, Nassara, masters too can pleasure their slaves,' he murmured. ‘Does not your flesh flutter at the touch of my tongue, and my fingers that visit your cushioned depths make you happy to have a master who returns the pleasure given by his slave?'

He dipped his head again and repeated the action, his fingers rotating indelicately in her passage, making her quiver and moan again. ‘Is that not good, slave girl? Why do you not reply?'

‘Oh yes, master, yes!' she gasped hastily, realising her imprudent silence, forcing her body not to shy away from his intrusions.

‘Then now I shall take you,' he vowed. ‘Now that I have readied you with the seeping moisture of our joined passion, now you are primed for me like ripened fruit.'

So now her moment was come, and she prepared herself for him, settling back into the cushions, as though eager to make his entrance swift and cosy, not letting him see the distaste in her expression.

Kneeling between her open thighs, he looked down at the plateau of her tummy and the repose of her breasts. Then leaning suddenly over her he seized her thighs, forcing her knees back against those mouth-watering breasts and held them there, her sex vulnerable to him.

He paused for a moment, watching for any last rebellion, then pulled her lower body up and back onto him, grunting as he thrust inside her, causing a stunted tinkle of protest by her chains and bells.

She gasped again, feeling his hands grope her breasts, feeling the snagging pain to her ringed nipples. For a second Zheeno's smiling face seemed to dance before her eyes, but it was quickly the hazy image of her stepfather's face that stared down at her in the raptures of his instruction. Then it was only the reality of the contorted features of the master as he pumped into her, his eyes glazed with such intensity of lust.

Soon she felt his burst and heard his shuddering sigh, before he rolled away, panting, and all she could think of as she gazed up at the ceiling through tear-filled eyes was her beloved Zheeno.

The moon was high when Nassara was led back to her quarters, exhausted and despondent, her mind swirling with tumbled thoughts and smouldering resentment.

The muscles of her legs and arms ached from the merciless haste with which Ahmood had forced her to move, tugging constantly at her leash. She could hear the subdued crying of Belithza and Safarah as she stood while Ahmood squatted between her legs to unfasten the leash. He leered up at her before getting to his feet, gesturing for her to lie down upon the welcome cushions.

The doors slammed shut and the bolts were drawn. The dormitory was silent, and from time to time the glistening bodies of her naked companions stirred fitfully in the uneasy semidarkness. She looked over at Belithza, who lay nearby, her eyes closed and her tearstained features shining in the dim light of the oil lamps. ‘Belithza, are you awake?' she asked.

‘Nassara, why are we to suffer so?' her friend gasped. ‘What demons brought us to this place?' The girl opened her eyes, staring vacantly at Nassara. ‘My master, I see his cruel eyes now as they feast on my body. I feel his hands crawling all over me, and where his teeth bite at the buds of my breasts, and where his lips suck them, and I feel…'