by J. D. Jensen
Chapter 9
The darkness of early night had come quickly upon the courtyard. After the bathing and oiling of the slaves, they were allowed their freedom to wander amongst the quiet shrubbery and the playing fountains. The heat of the day was slow to disperse, but the servant boys had generously watered the lush green vegetation in the shadows. A moist, delightfully perfumed haze hung over the deceptive paradise.
Nassara had eaten, not with relish but enough to stave off the pangs of hunger, and alone she stepped lightly on the warm flagstones, wondering what the night would bring, thinking of where Zheeno might be at that moment, as she looked up at the bright stars.
There was an air of anxious expectancy amongst the slave girls that evening, their idle chatter more subdued than usual. They fretted, unable to define the nature of their uneasiness. The cover of nightfall seemed to conceal some malignant undercurrent. Sharpened instincts made them aware that darkness brings other things beyond sleep.
Then as she turned onto a narrow pathway beside one of the stone statues, a hand that was warm and tender reached out suddenly and grasped her shoulder. Instantly she thrilled to the touch, knowing instinctively who it was.
‘Oh, Zheeno,’ she gasped, turning abruptly, all caution briefly lost as she opened her arms to him. He emerged from behind the thick foliage of the shrub, his muscled arms embracing her.
‘It is good to hold you again, Nassara,’ he whispered. ‘How my body has ached for yours.’
They clung to each other, tears meandering down her cheeks, her body shaking with soundless sobbing. There were so many words she wanted to say, but so little time, she knew.
‘Shhhh…’ he breathed soothingly in her ear. ‘I cannot stay long. Ahmood will soon return to our quarters and will see my absence. But I needed to feel you against me again, and see your beautiful eyes sparkling in the moonlight.’
‘Oh, dear Zheeno, how I wish my eyes could truly sparkle for you, but they are dulled by sadness that gnaws at my belly. How much I yearn to be with you.’
‘I too, but not now; I came to tell you that I shall escape.’
The unexpected words filled her with a surge of hope, and then panic. Did he mean to leave her in this place on her own, all purpose of existence finally extinguished?
‘Will you come with me?’ His eyes were momentarily fearful that she would lack the courage or the willingness, but such doubt was misconceived, her reply coming without a second of delay.
‘Yes, Zheeno, of course I will come,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘But how?’
‘The risk will be great. I cannot promise you otherwise. If we are unsuccessful and caught, we shall be…’ Quickly she put her fingers to his lips, stopping his words.
‘Zheeno, I will go wherever you go, no matter what they do to us. If we can escape from this hell let us try, so long as we are together.’
‘I have a plan, but now I must be quick. I cannot tell you much. I have learned things from the fat servant who tends me. I think he may help me. He hates the masters who have taken his manhood from him. I have learned much since we’ve been in this evil place. I have seen how it will be possible for us to escape.’ His eager words tumbled out, almost too loudly for the silent shadows. ‘I need a little more time to plan, but when I am ready I shall come for you.’
‘I shall fear nothing if you are by my side,’ she whispered. ‘If we die, we shall die together. Now take care, Zheeno, I beg you not to get caught. Babbushan says the whip-boys know of a forbidden relationship between two slaves, and Ahmood looks with an evil eye at me. We must not to be seen together. Go now, in the knowledge that my love for you is until death itself.’
‘Shhhh… talk not of death, only hope. Think only of that and we shall succeed.’
They listened for any sound of approaching footsteps, and then he was gone, moving swiftly into the shadows with an awkward gait, holding his evil chains taut between his ankles and crotch, so that no telltale sound should betray him.
The oil lamps were dimmed in the dormitory, the slave girls lying quietly on the plush cushions, preparing for night yet still restless and uneasy.
Although the whip-boys and attendants had departed, Nassara had not heard the bolts being drawn from the other side of the closed doors. Perhaps they were soon to be opened again.
‘What were you doing, Nassara, in the courtyard?’ Belithza asked. ‘Why did you not keep close to us?’
Nassara did not answer immediately, her mind still filled with anxious excitement. ‘I just needed to be alone for a few minutes, Belithza,’ she eventually said.
For some moments the two girls lay together in silence.
‘They did not draw the bolts on the doors tonight,’ Belithza mentioned absently. ‘Maybe they want us to open them and try to escape, so then they can flog us without mercy.’
‘Perhaps you are right, Belithza,’ Nassara conceded, although she sensed something different, and even as she dwelled on this the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard beyond the heavy doors and she felt her blood run cold. Grim intuition told her that the time for her purpose here had come. The doors were flung open and first the whip-boys entered with Ahmood at their head. Then came several servants with lanterns that cast swaying pools of light around the silent slaves, making them stir nervously.
Beyond them Nassara could see four silent figures dressed in silk robes, their jewels sparkling. The masters walked casually amongst the slaves, who sat up fearfully, not knowing what else they should do, not daring to look up at the lofty faces of their observers.
‘So it is to be now,’ Belithza muttered under her breath, seeing the bulky shape of one of the masters looming towards her. ‘I shall hate him with all my heart as he defiles my body.’
‘Have courage,’ Nassara hissed urgently, her breasts heaving with each nervous intake of breath. Her heart was pounding, knowing the figure slowly approaching her was Sulliman-Mahadji. She did not look up, her eyes instead focussed on the gold braid of his slippers. She could feel his eyes scrutinising her. Ahmood was standing nearby, and she could almost feel his tension at being in his master’s presence, fearful at his own worthiness. But it was not Ahmood who gave the command, spoken almost kindly, in a quiet tone that conveyed no sense of urgency or cruelty.
‘Arribaja, Nassara.’
With scarcely a moment’s delay, even though her heart leapt at the command, she got to her feet. Briefly, but not meaning them to, her eyes met Sulliman-Mahadji’s, feeling strangely composed beneath his gaze.
‘Ojos achicoloha!’ Ahmood shouted, his cheeks flushed at such impertinence. ‘Sclavina! Humble your eyes for the master, you unworthy slave!’
Nassara quickly lowered her chin, and stood in as servile a manner as she could, trying to correct her impetuousness. For one moment she thought Ahmood would strike her, but he must have noticed his master’s benevolent expression.
Sulliman-Mahadji reached out, and very lightly fingered the gold chain that ran down from her nearest breast, letting his finger slide up to the nipple. All the while he peered intently into her eyes. Yet she knew she must not dare return his look, lowering hers to the floor as he continued his tactile examination.
She smelt the strangeness of his richly scented garments, saw the dark hairs on his arms and, oddly, noticed the softness of his hands and neatly trimmed fingernails. Her skin tingled as his inquisitive fingers brushed her lower belly, sliding beneath the taut length of chain before briefly alighting on the soft lips of her sex.
‘You will come now, Nassara.’ His eyes glinted as he spoke. ‘Do not fear me. Be happy in your duty.’ He drew back, letting his hand slip gently away.
Nassara understood many of the words that came from his lips, words softly clear, a strangely mellifluous tone to her ear, reminding her of the silkiness of his garments. Remembering what Babbushan said, she wondered fleetingly what chosen manner
of pleasure would be her duty. How should she prepare her body for this dutiful coupling and make her body relax? What if her flesh were so unyielding that the master could not gain entrance to her, or that her unwilling body became like stone?
Ahmood crouched down in front of her, and she felt the tugging of the rings at her sex as he fumbled to attach the leash. ‘Abbaijsh!’ He commanded, having completed the fastening, giving an irritable little tug at her, making her instantly grimace and drop to her knees. ‘Maharamba!’
She was aware that the other slaves had been ushered out, behind their respective whip-boys, harnessed by leashes. Nassara was last, but unlike the other masters, who walked haughtily in front of their selected slaves, Sulliman-Mahadji strolled close behind her.
As her limbs hurried to adjust to her humiliating propulsion, she could instinctively feel his eyes looking down at the rolling cheeks of her rump, her shame burning within. Out into the courtyard and the coolness of the night air Ahmood led her, Sulliman-Mahadji still behind.
They passed through the inner gates, into the forbidden precincts of the palace. Here the stonework underfoot was as smooth as plated silver and as cold as ice. The ornately decorated surface shone with a strangely luminous fluorescence. There were huge white columns of stone towering up to the high ceiling, and pedestals on which ornate, glittering lamps were set. There were polished statues too, that stood in silent rows, large urns and other decorative objects, the like of which she had never seen before.
The procession moved more swiftly now, goaded on by the whip-boys. The masters in front seemed to walk with greater haste, as if their intentions were soon to reach the place of realisation. A constant but discordant rhythm of jangling chains, bells and leashes accompanied them. There was a sense of uneasy urgency permeating the stonework as the procession continued deeper into the palace interior.
Guards were holding open huge doors for them to pass through, and they swung closed behind them with an ominous thud, bolts sliding home. Now the interior seemed more intimate and subdued. The chamber was smaller and the vaulted ceilings lower. There were fine rugs on the floor, and Nassara’s hands and feet were grateful for the comforting softness of the woven texture.
Suddenly Ahmood turned sharply, tugging painfully at Nassara’s leash, making her follow. They turned into an arched corridor branching off from the chamber, separated from the other slaves, and passed through another door into a smaller room. He stopped abruptly, looking disdainfully down his nose at her, almost daring her to move from the servile posture.
They were in a richly decorated place, filled with glittering objects and adornments of finery. From the glow of the suspended lamps she could see the profusion of rugs and plush cushions lying in thick abundance all around. Elaborately embroidered drapes hung everywhere, and in the middle, surrounded by shrouds of gold-threaded and gossamer veils, was a raised mound of plump satin pillows.
‘Arribaja,’ Ahmood commanded, his usually harsh tone oddly hushed, as if the awesome richness of the place had stifled his customary arrogance, uncomfortable in the intimacy of the chamber. ‘Sclavina.’
Nassara stood up, glad to ease herself from the straining discomfort of the debasing posture, being careful still to lower her eyes. Her heart was racing, her nostrils drawing in the rich mixture of aromas – perfumed scents and the oil lamps and musky incense.
Ahmood unfastened her leash before bowing and departing, making his exit silently. Sulliman-Mahadji stood motionless behind her, and she could feel his closeness. Then his hand touched her shoulder and the silk folds of his garments brushed against her legs and buttocks. She felt the loose sleeves envelop her and a hardness against her thigh. His breath, which smelt of scented spice, was hot against her neck, and he kissed her ear, his nostrils inhaling her oiled aroma.
‘Be not afraid, Nassara,’ he whispered. ‘Your body is so smooth and warm, but inside I can feel the icy lifelessness of your soul.’
Nassara understood his words; her body rigid within his embrace, but her heart thudded all the more. ‘Yes, master, I will try,’ she managed to say, fighting her tremor.
‘Nassara,’ he went on, ‘there is much more you must do beyond what I demand of you. Much more. You must bring me pleasures freely, not with your mind soured and full of unwilling thoughts that want only to shut out your master’s face.’
‘Yes, master, I will do as you say,’ she said, not entirely understanding his words, a surge of shame and misery running through her. She must think of Zheeno, she told herself, trying to bring a vision of his face to her mind. But for now, at least, its frontiers were closed beyond the swirling images and dark senses of its immediate domain.
‘I will be patient, Nassara,’ he said. ‘This night it will be sufficient to know your body, and for you to know mine, so that when next you come here your flesh and spirit may swiftly melt with mine.’
Nassara realised they were not alone. Waiting patiently and submissively in the shadows, fearful to emerge prematurely before the master’s summons, a small figure moved forward, as if knowing instinctively it was the moment. One of the servant girls hurried to Nassara’s side, her face timid and bashful, and gently she took Nassara’s hand and led her to the central mound of cushions. The master remained motionless, watching.
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.
