A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  Watching him go she was apprehensive, seeing his quick backward glance at her and his fleeting reassuring smile that plucked at her heart. Somehow she sensed they would meet again soon.

  At the top of the steps were two heavy doors, with bolts on the outside. Beyond was a high-ceilinged chamber that was large and airy, with several arched, latticed windows set into the far wall, looking out over the courtyard. Nassara realised this was the girls’ quarters, and her spirits were momentarily uplifted at the sight of such comfort and richness.

  Heaped on the stone floors was a profusion of cushions and rugs. Placed on a few low tables along the walls were several silver platters of fruit and some kind of seed cake, with pitchers of water. It was a mouth-watering display, alone enough to bring smiles of surprise and delight to some of the girls. Subdued chattering broke out amongst them as their eyes feasted on the offerings. This, Nassara thought, was an alien but deceptive place, so full of wickedness but with some traces of humanity, albeit traces that served no other purpose than to deceive and delude the innocence of the unsuspecting. Despite the light atmosphere of the chamber she shivered; what spirits of past slave girls, she wondered, danced in the shadows when night fell?

  Looking around she spied, at the other end of the chamber, set high in the wall near the ceiling, was a closely latticed grille that concealed a dark, mysterious space, and knew it was a place from where the guards or masters could observe the chamber’s occupants below.

  Chapter 4

  Ahmood was the name of the leader of the whip-boys, the girls quickly learned. He stood before them with an arrogant sneer, his head held high as if he was a master. His charges stood meek and naked in the courtyard, heads bowed appropriately, the group of male slaves at the front of the assembly and the girls, as before, behind.

  After rising from their sleep, gently woken by the girl attendants, the female slaves ate well, marvelling at the succulent fruits and sweet cakes most of them had never seen before. Afterwards Ahmood and some of the other whip-boys rudely entered the chamber, ushering the girls impatiently out into the courtyard, where the sun had not yet risen above the high roof of the building.

  ‘Abbaijsh!’ he commanded sharply, his eyes daring any of his charges to be slow in their obedience. Instantly the slaves dropped to the flagstones and knelt subserviently low as before. Once again the whip-boys slowly walked around, and whenever one was dissatisfied with the posture of a slave he would approach the culprit from behind. Then crouching, he would slide the black switch between the slave’s legs and flick it up, instantly making her position herself correctly.

  Whenever a male slave’s posture needed correction, the whip-boy, crouching silently behind, would slide his whip in the slave’s anal crease, then by jiggling it from side to side its tip would tease the hanging genital sack, causing an instant upward thrust of buttocks.

  Nassara’s stressed muscles ached with tension, and she wondered if this ritual of humility would be a daily exercise in the process of adapting to the masters’ domination. And what of these masters? Where were they?

  But her thoughts wandered back to her village, feeling always the stab of pain that came to her heart. Above all her mind was drawn to that day, which now seemed so long ago yet which was so easily recalled. Her stepfather had come to her, saying quietly and without emotion that the time had come for her to learn the ways of men’s needs, and how a woman must provide willingly and with eager heart and skill. She would be better to learn sooner rather than later of these things, he assured her.

  With a little inward shudder she recalled the searing pain and shock of his gnarled flesh stabbing into her as he grunted like a boar in the field. That face she once so loved and respected twisted into lustful, grimacing expressions of uncaring selfishness, until she no longer recognised them as belonging to him.

  Not wanting to feel revulsion festering within she had accepted his words, observing the silent acquiescence of her mother, whose face of stone turned away from her, denying her all maternal succour and protection. It was as if a daughter were nothing more than a young calf of the stables, ready for its purpose.

  Afterwards she sat hunched in one corner of the bed against the wall, tightly clasping the blanket around her trembling, shocked body. She listened in a haze of confusion and shame, her complexion drained, while he explained in a strange voice how this symbolic act had been but a paternal duty. Burning with disgust and pity she listened to a voice that before she would have trusted unto death itself. It was a gift to her, he said; a gift of knowledge by which she would avoid a loss of her innocence to some unworthy stranger.

  The same tears of confusion that stung her eyes that day stung her eyes now. Despite the contempt that had brewed within her with every passing second, she remembered her own contemptible utterance, when she dutifully whispered her thanks to him, muttering her unquestioning obedience and loyalty.

  Later, when she sat at the table, the numbness and shock still freshly upon her, her desperate eyes turned towards her mother to seek maternal wisdom and reassurance. But she was sullen and unspeaking, only pulling her shawl tighter as if to signify the end of her maternal role, unable to look at her daughter.

  Although her mind resisted the images, Nassara could remember the start of it all as clearly as if it had been but a few sunsets ago. She was sitting by the window humming contentedly to herself, weaving fresh flowers into her hat of straw, breathing in the fragrant freshness of the fields outside, when a shadow crept into the room.

  ‘Remove your clothes,’ he ordered, his words gruff. ‘Make yourself naked.’

  It had taken several moments for his words to sink in, such that he had to repeat his command, his voice rising with impatience. Then when she’d slowly complied, blushing and standing before him, tear-dewed eyes downcast and filled with shame at her state of nakedness, he pointed for her to lie down.

  She obeyed, her frightened eyes averted, not daring to look at what he was about. Wincing as his hands roughly grasped her upper legs, forcing them apart, she felt the approach of his hardness buffeting between her thighs, in the moment before the shocking reality of its actual thrusting violation of her. Then he grunted and pushed mercilessly against the gossamer barrier of her innocent portals, not heeding her cry of pain and shock.

  ‘No, please, I am hurting,’ she pleaded timidly in her desolation. ‘Please… please stop your duty.’

  Much later bitterness grew in poisonous waves, and she felt the soreness of the aftermath in her loins. Her silent tears meandered, and she could recall, even now, that lonely feeling of despair at the knowledge of such a cruel passing of her sweet innocence.

  From that day Nassara could never stand the earthy odour of him whenever he came near. Nor could she forgive her mother. Yet even in her misery and hurt she continued with her life, diligently performing her chores, eating at the same table as her parents and her brothers. But now there was a solemn coldness between them, and a silence from faces that no more looked upon one another with fondness.

  But all of this was nothing compared to the betrayal that was still to come. Had she really been worth only that pouch of gold? Was it for greed that he’d indulged her with his duty? And even then, within such confusion and misery, despite her physical revulsion for him and what he’d done, she knew he had raised her as his own, through famine and other scourges that had sometimes come upon their meagre lives. Had he not always put food in her mouth, even when there was insufficient for his? Had she not learned of life from him? For all this, she must forgive him.

  The sun was hot on her naked back, causing sweat to glisten on her skin, and her thoughts came back to the present.

  The tall headman in blue robes and gold-embroidered red cap approached the front of the assembly. Hovering behind him was two of the muscular guards, silent and menacing. If any slave held any remaining intentions of resistance, then these figures surely exting
uished such notions.

  Ahmood and the other whip-boys bowed to him respectfully. Nodding, as if in approval, he studied the slaves, then began to walk slowly behind them. Starting with the young men he stopped behind every one of them in turn, looking down on their prostrated bodies, studying them briefly, bending to observe a profile of a face, stooping to peer beneath the buttocks or between legs. Occasionally he would signal to Ahmood, who in turn would gesture to one of the whip-boys, who would beckon the slave to follow.

  The first selected male slave hurried to get up, but as he rose the whip-boy lashed out with his whip across his shoulders, cowering him to the ground again. The whip-boy, his eyes boring fiercely into the confused face of the slave, beckoned him again, but this time he yanked roughly at the slave’s straggly hair, pulling him forward. Understanding dawned swiftly on the slave, and crawling on all fours he quickly followed the whip-boy into the unknown precincts of the palace.

  Nassara wondered where he was being taken, immediately fearing for Zheeno, her heart sinking at the thought of him being taken from her. The headman picked out two more male slaves, and they scuttled away to join the first, chaperoned as before by one of the whip-boys, and then the headman stopped behind Zheeno.

  Nassara held her breath, willing him to pass by. Zheeno remained as still as any statue, his knees apart and his lean buttocks taut, then after a moment or two the headman passed on to the next straining form, and Nassara breathed a sigh of relief.

  Soon only a handful of male slaves remained kneeling, and the headman moved to the slave girls. The first to be picked was the unfortunate girl who had received the worst of the thrashings, and clearly frightened at leaving her companions, she cast desperate glances in their direction before scuttling away on all fours, her ravaged buttocks rolling from side to side as she went.

  The headman stopped behind Belithza, who was beside Nassara. He squatted down, and placing a hand on each buttock he pressed them yet further apart, opening the valley further so he could study the puckered entrance of her anal passage. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he stood up and grunted before moving on to Nassara.

  Keeping her forehead to the ground and looking back between her knees, she could see his gold-buckled satin slippers, tensing under his silent scrutiny.

  The headman stooped slowly down and Nassara was aware of him studying her intimately, and fearing that her gaze might meet with his in the course of his inspection, she closed them tight.

  Feeling again the tremor of fear in her aching muscles, she forced herself to dip her spine yet more and to thrust herself out more, as though to facilitate the headman’s inquisitive inspection of her, despite willing him to move on.

  Eventually he did and stood behind the black girl beside her, Ugimba. He grumbled something to Ahmood, who hovered silently behind his master, ready for his bidding, and he growled at Ugimba, tapping her on the legs with his black whip.

  ‘Arribaja! Arribaja!’

  Knowing his command, Ugimba scrambled to her feet, trembling under the man’s gaze, her eyes wide with fear, in her anxiety forgetting the lessons of posture. Her head was too high, not downcast in servility, and before she realised it Ahmood flicked his switch against her tummy and with his free hand yanked her head down by the hair. She squealed with shock and pain, but hastened to adopt the position required and stood trembling, her breasts quivering in the trauma of her fearful isolation.

  The headman moved to her front and eyed her breasts appreciatively, a sly smile upon his lips. He reached out with one hand, and as if momentarily unable to decide which to fondle, his fingers hovered uncertainly between them. Then he grasped one, harshly squeezing into its softness, his fingers clamping the swollen sphere, kneading, cupping and prodding with apparent approval. Then he pinched the pert nub between thumb and forefinger, manipulating it with circling movements that made it swell and harden.

  All the while Ugimba stood submissively staring at the ground, her gleaming ebony body still gripped by the trauma of her fear. The headman’s face was twisted in a sneering, lustful smirk as he mauled her, looking down at her as though daring her to react. But then he seemed to tire of his cruel indulgence, and curtly pointed for her to drop to her knees again, which she gladly did, immediately resuming her subservient position.

  He moved on, and within a few minutes two more girls had been selected and made to scuttle away on all fours. Now only a few male and female slaves remained, and the headman clapped his hands dismissively before moving away with his black guards, leaving the whip-boys to order the slaves to rise and follow them.

  ‘Arribaja!’ they snapped. ‘Arribaja! Aprezza!’

  Nassara watched Zheeno and his four companions being quickly ushered down the same steps that led to the underground chamber of the steaming pool, as Belithza whispered to her. ‘We are still together, Nassara – you and me and Ugimba. There are only five of us girl slaves now.’

  They followed a little distance behind the male slaves, the whip-boys herding them. At the bottom of the steps they were led away beyond the pool, along a dark passageway that eventually opened up into a low chamber. The atmosphere was cool but strangely oppressive, and there was a faint smoky smell of burning embers. Lanterns on iron poles hung out from the gloomy stone walls. There was a muffled, echoing silence, apart from the idle flapping of the whip-boys’ sandals on the stone floor, and the whispering scuffle of the slaves’ naked feet. Nassara felt a growing, nagging apprehension, not knowing what fresh ordeal awaited them beyond the gloom.

  Eyes more accustomed to the glare of the sun peered blindly ahead, trying to make out the sinister shapes that seemed to hover expectantly near the end of the long chamber. Nostrils sniffed at the musty burning odour that seemed to pervade the place.

  They came to the end, where the low chamber divided into several cells, and Nassara saw that Zheeno and his male companions had been herded into the furthest cells. Ahmood impatiently signalled the girls, waving his whip towards the remaining two tiny chambers. Ugimba, ahead of Nassara, was the first to step hesitantly into the one indicated, and Nassara followed with Belithza behind. The two other girls were ushered into the adjoining cell.

  Nassara blinked to adjust her eyes to the new brighter source of light. Set against the walls was three wooden trestles, like cots, only bolted at each end were two iron rods that extended outward. The tips of the rods were raised above the trestles, and set at a wide angle apart from each other, like two skeletal arms protruding from the frame. At the extremity of each arm a curved prong jutted up to form a rounded, supporting brace, and there was a leather strap for each. Attached to the trestle itself, at the head, was an assortment of thick leather straps bolted to each side, and from the two central slits near the outer end.

  In the shadows, waiting for the girls’ arrival, were Babbushan and two other obese men.

  Ugimba immediately shrunk back with fear, but Ahmood pushed her forward. One of the fat men took her by the arm, propelling her towards the furthest trestle.

  Babbushan moved to Nassara, guiding her firmly to the middle of the three trestles. ‘The pain will quickly be over,’ he said ominously. ‘It will be nothing. Bear it well, and after this there will be no more pain for you.’

  Anxiety gripped her again as he made her lie back on the trestle, and immediately the boy attendant who had assisted him before appeared at her side. His brown body glistened in the yellow light of the lantern as he pushed her down and began to fasten the strap around her throat. At the same moment she felt Babbushan lift her feet and place them into each forked brace of the two arms of iron. Then folding the straps across her ankles he fastened each one in turn, so they were secured aloft and apart.

  ‘What will you do?’ she whispered apprehensively, her eyes pleading with Babbushan. But he did not reply, instead patting her thigh reassuringly before moving down to drape the waist strap across her lower belly. He pull
ed it very tight so she was at once bonded to the trestle, entirely unable to move.

  The boy was meanwhile working on her wrists, strapping them to the side of the frame. Although the strap around her throat still permitted her to turn her head to the side, she stared resolutely up at the shadowy ceiling above with an air of dignified resignation, tears gathering in her eyes.

  There was activity around her legs, and dipping her chin ever so slightly she could see Babbushan standing near her feet. His massive arms were folded as he closely watched every movement of the attendant, who was now between her legs. The youth carried a bowl, which had some kind of implement in it, his dark eyes studying her exposed crotch, not with lust, but with the intensity of a novice sculptor about to set to work upon his subject.

  ‘This servant, his name is Achoochi,’ Babbushan said. ‘He will not harm you, Nassara.’

  Briefly the youth’s eyes flickered to hers, almost shyly, before returning to the object of his scrutiny, and Nassara felt the shock of cold liquid being sponged onto her, over her pubic coppice, then into the tight opening between the twin lips. She gasped, her body giving a little jerk as the soapy wetness spread and trickled over her flesh.

  ‘Be calm, Nassara, Achoochi will cause no pain. His fingers work lightly and with skill. Fear nothing. You have my word.’ Babbushan spoke reassuringly, but she trembled nonetheless, keeping her lips firmly sealed, not letting them utter the slightest gasp.

  Bending carefully over her and taking a sharp implement from the bowl, the attendant began to shave her pubic curls. Starting at the top of the triangular growth he moved deftly across its upper fuzzy line, clearing it in a few confident strokes, before working downwards. Engrossed in his work his fingers moved deftly and quickly, but with care, every so often wiping away the lather deposits with a cloth, before applying more soap solution with the sponge.