A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  On the first of these morning assemblies the slaves were waiting in their habitual position, and it seemed the previous plugging session had not alone been sufficient for the purpose. Several servants – one for each slave, just as before – appeared with their white porcelain bowls and silver bolts and chains, and commenced their duties of insertion.

  ‘Again they defile us,’ Belithza whispered to Nassara, almost too loudly. ‘Why do they insert these despicable plugs into us?’ Nassara did not answer, keeping her own council, understanding Belithza’s struggle to arrive at the terrible realisation. ‘It is… it is like these metal bolts are to… to stretch our flesh… to widen us to…’ her words tailed off into silence, and still Nassara did not reply.

  Then the fat men came, taking up position behind the slaves, standing beside the kneeling servants, but to the slaves’ relief this assembly was of short duration, and over the subsequent two days they became progressively shorter.

  Although the metal shanks became progressively thicker in girth, flesh that was already primed adapted more easily to the entry of the slippery shafts, and the slaves’ discomfort was tolerable now, as if increasingly conditioned to the pressure of such frequent intrusions.

  On the morning of the final assembly for that perversity of purpose, the slaves were lined up as usual in the hot sun and the young attendants greased them in readiness for their bolting.

  Nassara heard Belithza grunt, knowing that her fat man had completed his first task upon her. Then Nassara involuntarily jerked forward as Babbushan deftly bolted her, all resistance gone as the shaft slid easily into her. Now they had only to wait rigidly in the sun.

  Scarcely moving her head, Nassara discretely glanced at the four male slaves in front of her. Zheeno’s wounds were healing well, although the welts and the periphery of yellowed bruising remained across his flesh, but the lotions and soothing balms massaged into him had done much to reduce them.

  As ever her heart went out to him. Her own humility was one thing, a burden she could endure, but the hateful debasing of Zheeno’s masculinity was something else. Anger rose within her like a dangerous poison, and she felt his own helpless shame.

  After each assembly all slaves were led below into the gloom of the cellars, glad to be out of the heat. There the fat men and their assistants tended to their masters’ possessions, massaging them with fragrant oils and potions, bathing their bodies with cool sponges and finally anointing them with scented spirits that made their flesh tingle, soothing away the stress of weary muscle and sore tissue.

  Babbushan, with his usual kindly but stern demeanour, was working on Nassara’s shoulders. She lay compliantly on her front, his huge hands massaging firmly but with agile consideration, carefully ensuring that his fingers did not snag against the twin lines of chain that wound from her thighs to her front.

  Achoochi was by his side, and Babbushan made the boy work the healing balm into her buttocks, instructing him to descend deep into the still tender passage, scolding the boy whenever he seemed timid in his endeavours, as if too shy to proceed far enough into that once forbidden place.

  Relaxing with the familiarity of her attendants, her mind now conditioned to the intrusiveness of fingers in her flesh, Nassara turned her head towards Babbushan, and trying to find words for her many questions, she feared to breach the boundaries of his friendship. ‘Babbushan… this metal you put in me… is it for the masters?’

  ‘All that happens here, all you see here is for the masters, Nassara,’ he answered. ‘Everyone’s purpose in this palace is for the masters. We are honoured in our duty, and you, Nassara, must feel the honour to have been chosen to serve.’

  ‘I understand this, but what reason is there for the metal you insert in us?’ Nassara ventured anxiously, not wanting to anger him, perhaps not wanting him to confirm her suspicions. She felt his hands work more brusquely upon her flesh, no longer as gentle as before, but still she went on. ‘Is it for the master to… to enter me there, to make my flesh wider for his entry?’

  Still Babbushan did not reply and she felt tension, even in the tips of Achoochi’s fingers, as though himself knowing the rising of Babbushan’s irritation. But she persisted obstinately. ‘Does the master not want to enter me in the natural place of men’s hardened flesh, where my stepfather instructed me… between my legs?’

  ‘I have told you many times, slave girl,’ Babbushan warned, ‘do not question things here. Await whatever shall come to you, and however the masters’ shall make it come to you. That is their pleasure. Yours is to endure… willingly and humbly.’

  ‘Yes, Babbushan, I will,’ she said bravely. ‘I am glad for your guidance, but I need to know the master’s ways so I might please him more when he comes for me; so I may prepare my body for his.’

  ‘Silence!’ Babbushan hissed, making Achoochi’s fingers jerk away from her as if even he was alarmed by the outburst. Then immediately Babbushan’s tone softened, and bending low, his mouth close to her ear, he spoke in quiet, paternal tones. ‘The masters are not as ordinary men. Masters have desires for many pleasures. Your duty is to wait for whatever pleasures the master desires… or the masters… or the masters’ friends. Each master has different tastes, and those tastes may differ each time you lie to receive him.’

  Nassara stirred restlessly beneath his hands, wanting to understand more yet fearing to anger him again. ‘But I still do not understand…’

  Babbushan sighed, pushing harshly down on her. ‘Slaves must be alert and quick to learn, Nassara,’ he chided her impatiently. ‘Be quick to understand my words. The master might wish to enter you at any place of his choosing; first in one place, then in another. Take our own glorious master, Sulliman-Mahadji… he enjoys all places of pleasure.’

  Nassara looked up suddenly with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘All places, Babbushan?’ she asked timidly. ‘Which places do you speak of?’

  He looked down pityingly at the beautiful face taunted by confusion and innocence, and then he stopped massaging her and held up three podgy fingers. ‘In these many places, Nassara, shall he want to enter you,’ he stated quietly. ‘In the place where your stepfather has been, in the place where Achoochi’s fingers work now, and in the place from which your many questions come…’

  ‘From where my questions come…?’

  Understanding came slowly and uneasily, the shocking implications seeping reluctantly into the remaining recesses of purity in her mind, gradually overwhelming them with abhorrent images, obscene in their detail. Could such perversities be really so, she wondered, trying to dispel such bizarre acts of intrusion?

  Yet Babbushan spoke truthfully, she knew; was he not her friend, insofar as this could be so? She looked up at him again, seeing the sadness lurking in that strange, bloated face. Quelling a surge of revulsion and fear she knew she must digest these matters calmly. Her stepfather, as an ordinary man so far beneath the masters’ exalted status, had told her nothing of such acts, instructing her in but one place, yet surely this one alone served for the habitual coupling of men and women? Must she now wonder how it would be to receive the master’s hardened shank between her virgin lips as they close reluctantly around its girth? What manner of thrusting movements would cause his seed to issue forth, to spoil the purity of her taste buds? And how should she consume the seed that came upon them with such a vile infusing rush of fluid? Would it be like soured goat’s milk that would make her gag and want to spit out into the dust? Or should it be like the sweet sap of nectar from a ripe Mangoshini fruit, so making tolerable her swallowing disdain?

  These notions refused to settle easily within her. What active function would be required of her, beyond that of being a passive human receptacle for the master’s thrusting penetration? Must her lips and teeth and lungs contribute to his entry?

  She had once seen her elder brother in solitary pleasuring of his shank. Secretly, spying childlike
on him through the hayloft door, she watched him. Amused at first, then perplexed in her illicit curiosity, she observed how he rubbed himself to a frenzy. Then, watching wide-eyed and fascinated, she saw how the creamy burst seeped between his fingers, hearing how he sighed with satisfaction, as if released from some strange tension within.

  This manly need she had known already too, for Zheeno, in the dreadful hold of the ship. She wanted then to gift him, in his time of need, that same man’s strangeness of pleasure of which she had already learned. She did so with no sense of revulsion in her giving; only fondness with complicit passion, all the while knowing that one day she would desire his same burst to come within her. Yet, in her miserable outlook, she could only contemplate the impure burst of evil masters in their lusting for slaves conditioned by whips and cruel captivity.

  But now, it seemed, there were other places for lust to be released, and she supposed Zheeno, in his inherent male desires of nature’s bequest, might wish to enter her in those other ways too. She tried to visualise his beauty and the naked hardness of his flesh before her face, two lovers ready in mutual passion, he wanting to slip his cock between her lips. How then would she take him? Would he be warm and pleasing to the hollows of her cheeks? How would the gushing texture of his seed taste when it burst into her? It would never be like the vile seed of masters, she told herself. Even though the lustful springs of sap, fermenting deep in the loins of men, must surely issue with the same originating composition of substance, whether from masters or slaves. But she had no doubt that Zheeno’s would be wholesome, pure and hot with passion, and somehow desirable to the tender lining of her throat – not coming upon it like the sick of dogs.

  But there was still confusion in her mind about the precise purpose of the male slaves. She thought of Zheeno with anxiety, and despite Babbushan’s irritation at any mention of him, she resolved to ask again.

  Babbushan had been massaging her in silence, the oppressive gloom of the cellars hanging over the steamy, scented atmosphere. Achoochi had finished his ministrations between her buttocks, and was now softly anointing her feet, his fingers gently manipulating every toe in turn, the sensation not unpleasing to her. Babbushan was working on the hard muscles of her belly, kneading her oiled flesh with firm circling motions, her torso rolling gently from side to side as he worked.

  ‘Babbushan… there is much I need to know,’ she whispered, almost pleading. ‘I beg you…’ He did not waiver but his eyes met hers, and she knew instinctively that her curiosity could come between them. Whilst fearing to make his irritation rise, she persisted with the question that pressed upon her lips, continuing hesitantly. ‘So much I understand already, but what of the male slaves? I do not understand their purpose here.’ She saw the flash of anger in his eyes and he slapped her thigh, the sharp clap loud and echoing starkly in the chamber. It frightened her, as much as it did Achoochi, who instantly drew back from her feet.

  ‘I have counselled you before, Nassara,’ the fat man stated. ‘Do not concern yourself with what is not yours to know. Look to yourself, girl, and to your survival. Be attentive to what the masters require of you. Only this, and no more.’

  But Nassara was not to be silenced, needing to know, her voice clear but timid in the echoing silence. ‘Tell me at least, Babbushan, that the young men are not here for the same masters’ purpose as we slave girls; for man to soil; for masters to use to quench their lusts. Tell me there is some other purpose.’

  She feared he would hit her again. Achoochi also drew back again, seeing his servant master’s thunderous face. But although Babbushan was silent for some moments, seething in her disobedient persistence, at last his expression softened again, resigned to respond to the courageous determination of the girl beneath his hands.

  ‘No, Nassara, I cannot tell you that there is another purpose,’ he told her, ‘for there is none. Your young man has been chosen, like the others, like you, to serve the many desires of the masters. We slaves and servants must accept the strangeness of the masters’ ways. Masters are not like us, nor even, perhaps, like the many men that walk in this city beyond these palace walls, who glance up enviously, wondering at the fine luxury inside, the gold and silver and silk and rich spices, imagining what the masters do each day, knowing not that masters are not like ordinary men, having endless time to sample all manner of pleasures.’

  He paused while Achoochi poured more lotion around her shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts, before continuing.

  ‘The idle time allows the masters such abundance of pleasures in which to indulge. The more pleasures they discover, the more pleasures they seek. No sooner does each new pleasure come upon them than they quickly tire of it, wanting ever-newer things to lust for. Lust requires always-newer avenues for its release, and the places that nature intended for lust’s release are not enough. Not even the bodies of beautiful slave girls can provide sufficient opportunities for the masters’ desires.

  ‘At first the masters were satisfied with each new opportunity that the female body offered, adapting to every new lustful indulgence, sometimes in front, sometimes behind, and at others where the eyes of slave girls closely see the approach of the masters’ erect flesh. But their carnal appetites are such that soon the masters yearned for more… more than even luscious slave girls could offer.’

  Nassara opened her eyes, hearing his words, scarcely daring to understand what they were telling her.

  ‘When slave girls had no more to offer…’ Babbushan paused to look searchingly into her eyes again, before adding, ‘…the masters’ greedy pleasure seeking turned to other slaves… untried slaves… slaves with other features, and with manly forms.’

  He continued massaging her in silence, pressing into the firm contours of her flesh, his expression uncomfortable with the knowledge he had imparted.

  Nassara’s mind laboured obstinately, as if such impurities were loathed to poison her beyond what already existed there, but the final vestiges of innocence were slowly being suffocated. The unclean images danced shockingly before her eyes. Now there could be no further sanctuary of doubt within her, knowing that the male slaves had been bolted for the same potential defilement as she had been. Yet how could masters think of male slaves in a lustful way? It was intolerable to picture the evil image of Zheeno being so defiled. She shuddered inwardly.

  Now there were few remaining delusions. Soon the masters’ lust would claim her complicity, and so too would it claim Zheeno’s. But knowing the manner of her coming ordeal, could she imagine his just as well? And would her love for him be enough to overcome her revulsion for his shameful soiling – even that he suffered it unwillingly?

  But then love flooded her, displacing such guilty thoughts, knowing that no matter what her heart would always be strong for him. But there were other perplexities for her still to ponder. Thinking of Babbushan’s words, she wondered how slaves must strive constantly to achieve the masters’ pleasures. In their pursuit of duty, would slaves succeed each time in such false complicity? Must their faces be always bright and eager with pretended lust and deceitful ardour? Can false passion be feigned by skilful practices of efficient slaves, and revulsion overcome? Would masks of fakery be uncovered, and if so, turn the masters’ lusting pleasure into sadistic punishment and vengeful cruelty?

  So many unpleasing notions came upon Nassara’s restless mind. In absence of desire and passion for the master’s flesh, how was she to know what sensual writhing her compliant body must adopt? Should she let herself drift to a lower plain of consciousness, until she could dwell upon an image of Zheeno at the very moment of the master’s lusting violation of her, and so detach her mind from her body? Then, how shall she know even how the master will take her? Would his repugnant flesh come into the portals of her mouth, or between her legs, or yet from behind? Or might he not indulge himself in each place in turn before choosing the final receptacle of his bursting spill? Was the seed of m
asters more potent than the seed of ordinary men? She knew already men’s productive limitations. Was the bull in the field not depleted for a while, needing time again to regenerate its potency before returning to other cows?

  Disturbing her thoughts, Babbushan muttered something to Achoochi. Tapping Nassara’s belly to indicate a change of his ministrations upon her, the fat man took hold of her thighs. Without the slightest effort he slid her towards him, until her legs overlapped the edge of the trestle. Immediately Achoochi lifted one calf, pulling it to him, and placing her foot squarely against his chest its sole felt the warmth and vitality within his body.

  ‘Press foot hard against me, mistress,’ he ordered. ‘I make nice, good feeling for you and make muscle firm.’ He smiled, his dark eyes darting shyly over her. Then he began to work upon the lean muscles of her leg, pushing both hands along her calf, his fingers gliding smoothly but firmly down over her knee, and then pressing onwards to her thigh.

  Babbushan finished his own task and stood back. ‘Nassara, I have told you much this day, more than is good for you or me. I beg you one last time; take heed of what I tell you. Forget about this male slave, or at least think of his safety. To be with him, even in your thoughts, is full of danger to you both. You and he are only for the masters’ pleasure, not each other’s.’ He stopped for a second, looking down sternly. ‘Be warned, slave girl. Babbushan tells you these things in friendship. Be content that the masters have chosen you. Soon you will get used to their ways. Soon your body will not rebel against the masters. Then you will survive, and with survival you have hope, Nassara. Many slave girls have come here before you. Some have been taken by to other better places, to live a life and never to want for food or comfort or any bodily thing. Think on these things.’

  Nassara smiled wanly at him. ‘Thank you, Babbushan, for your wisdom,’ she said. ‘At least I am prepared now. My body will not pull back from the masters, however they might take me. My face will show neither anger, nor hatred. But…’ She did not finish, turning her head sadly away, letting Achoochi work upon her other leg.