A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  Chapter 11

  When the cell door opened again Nassara expected it would be after the next sunrise, but it was still dark, except for the solitary lantern that swayed with its flickering yellow pool of light dancing on the stone floor of the corridor.

  Ahmood’s stern face could be seen in the dim light, fear flooding instantly within her. Was it time for her and for poor Zheeno?

  ‘Arribaja!’ He commanded. ‘Esclavina! The master desires you to go to him, slave. Get up quickly!’

  Stiffly she got to her feet, steadying herself as best she could with her hands against the wall, trying to stop the heavy collar from unbalancing her or grating against her neck and shoulders. She stumbled from the cell. One of the warrior guards held the lantern, his eyes sweeping over her nakedness as she stood while Ahmood unlocked and removed the collar, and then attached the leash between her legs.

  How richly sweet was the scent of lush vegetation in the night air. The courtyard was silent and forbidding in dark shadow as she scuttled on her hands and feet, hurrying to keep up with Ahmood’s agitated pace. The leash snagged indelicately and painfully at her flesh, and every so often he would tug with malicious jerks, making her go faster.

  The heavy doors swung open into the inner domain of the masters’ quarters, and quickly closed again behind them. Deeper into the now familiar interior they went, as all the while Nassara tried to gather her thoughts, wondering what purpose the master had now for her. Eventually they turned into his familiar chamber, and he was there, waiting in his simple white robe, his body perfectly upright and motionless.

  ‘I see you, Nassara.’ His voice was quiet, his expression strangely pensive with no hint of anger as he looked down at her.

  ‘I see you, master.’ She was still on all fours, Ahmood still holding her leash, but loosely now. She bowed her head, her nose touching the floor in servility.

  ‘Stand before me,’ he went on. ‘Let me see how your tears make furrows of misery down your cheeks.’

  Nassara got quickly to her feet and Ahmood unfastened the leash. Then, with as much dignity and grace as she could muster, she walked steadily the few paces to where Sulliman-Mahadji stood, his eyes never leaving her face for an instant.

  ‘What words do you have for me, Nassara? What thoughts have come to your mind, shut in that dark cell, the collar of shame hard upon your shoulders? Did not the regrets of your disobedience and disloyalty rise up before your blind eyes, and dance before them with each passing minute of the darkness?’

  Sulliman-Mahadji looked intently into her face, which she kept downcast, eyes lowered. A glimmer of hope began to dawn in her mind. The wrath of the master seemed, perhaps, to have passed. Did he not appear calm as she stood before him? There seemed no trace of anger in his demeanour.

  ‘Master,’ she began carefully, ‘I… I have no words for you, except to beg for your mercy for Zheeno. Not to beg for me… flay me without mercy if it be your wish… but I beg the life of my… your slave, Zheeno.’

  Sulliman-Mahadji did not reply at once, his features again becoming stern, as if perhaps she had gone too far, her words disrespectful and not those he desired to hear.

  ‘Why do you think I should have mercy for one who has betrayed his own master?’ he eventually asked. ‘This slave has shown defiance, so why should he not pay with his life?’ He watched her closely, demanding an answer.

  ‘It was I who was the cause of Zheeno’s defiance, master, not he,’ she said meekly. ‘I am the one with blame. I made him lust for me.’ She struggled to find the words, knowing it would be her only chance, but suddenly Sulliman-Mahadji reached out and seized the twin chains of gold that hung from her breasts. Clutching the slender trains firmly in his fist he pulled, not too roughly, but enough to make her gasp and lose her balance. She staggered against him, her breasts nudging the silky gloss of his robes, his face close to hers, his breath hot on her brow.

  ‘So, my disobedient slave girl, who prefers the miserable flesh of a humble slave to the noble flesh of her master, should the punishment be only for you, is that what you say? This Zheeno slave had no choosing in your coupling; shall I believe this? You had lust for him, whereas he had none for you? You, your master’s ungrateful property, and he, his master’s weak but blameless property? All this I should believe? Should then my anger be only for you, my slave?’

  She stammered hastily, not having words enough to answer, repeating only what she had pleaded before, desperate in her fumbling appeal. ‘Oh master, yes, it is I with blame as you say, your ungrateful slave. Punish me, but I beg, not Zheeno. I will do anything, I will serve faithfully and do all you desire of me, my merciful master…’

  ‘But Nassara, you are my slave to perform what I demand of you whether I am merciful or not.’ Was he cruelly mocking her? ‘And you are to be faithful to me as your duty; a duty you shall perform wholeheartedly and with care and willingness, whether I grant you some favour or whether I grant you none.’

  His voice was icy calm, scarcely concealing his sly superiority, eyes twinkling with a malignant mischief. He was playing with her, but she could sense that there was, after all, some slender trace of compassion there, and she must use her own wiles and cunning to take best advantage of it. It must not be allowed to slip away. Like a warrior’s arrow she must aim true and wing speedily to the mark.

  Summoning up every last residue of her feminine resources, casting aside any final threads of innocence and purity that once might have made her hesitate, she knew exactly what to do. For now she must be resolute and cunning in the performance of her plan, which only a dozen moons past would have seemed sinful in such explicit application.

  Making her anger and hate recede into her depths, she looked up suddenly and directly into his eyes, making her own become pleading beacons of light, full of innocence and contrition, swimming with hurt, appealing tears, such that only stone itself could resist. ‘I beg you, my dear master, I will be loyal,’ she whispered. ‘This I swear to you. I will make my body only want yours. I will give pleasure willingly, and give my body and my spirit to you. But I beg again, spare Zheeno’s life. Then I am yours in mind and body… forever.’

  Not giving him time to utter a single word, she slid down against his robes to her knees. Grovelling there, she quickly put her lips to his feet and kissed them, both in turn, her tongue licking between his toes, alternating back and forth and then up to his ankles. Then, placing her hands around his legs, pulling herself against him, she nuzzled his shins with her lips, his dark, musky hairs filling her nostrils as she worked feverishly upon him.

  ‘Oh, my master…’ she broke off to look up at him, deceitful tears sparkling in her eyes, ‘let me, your humble slave, pleasure you. Let me have your hard manliness in my mouth, which is hungry for you even that the whip marks on my skin are paining me; the pain is a mark of my shame and my ungratefulness. I beg for another chance, master, if that be your will.’ She panted the words with tumbling desperation, hoping she had chosen them well, and then knew by the almost imperceptible quiver of his body that his lustful sap was rising. When she reached up with one deliberately inquisitive hand beneath his robe she felt his hardening shank, and before he could react or speak she ducked her head quickly beneath the rich folds of his garment, her mouth busily seeking his semi-thrusting flesh. Her hands slid up behind his thighs until her fingers could grasp his taut buttocks. Her fingertips pushed into the cleft, clasping him enough to force his loins towards her, and she took his rising rigidity into her.

  Oh, what a temptress shall I be, like a sly vixen in the night. I shall devour you, my master, even that your flesh is like putrid carrion meat in my mouth… she thought as she went about her deceitful task, working as if willingly upon him.

  She heard him gasp as her lips began to glide and pump over his fully risen shank. Closing her mind to all but the purpose of her endeavours she sucked greedily, knowing how skilful he
r performance must be, not wavering for an instant and not allowing a chink of dangerous doubt to creep into his thoughts. Pausing every so often to let her tongue caress the smooth velvet head of his shaft, or to lick and nibble gently at his low-hung sack, she made herself moan softly, as if her actions gave pleasure to her, too.

  He cast aside his white garment and stood naked and she felt the trauma of his lust, his hands resting in her long dark hair, twirling her silky locks tightly in his fingers. She worked faster, sensing a new rigidity of his stance, knowing his seed would soon flush into her.

  Finally he groaned, seduced by her artful mouth, as the spurting bolt of his lust exploded into her, and her fingertips felt the quiver of his buttocks in their final convulsion. Closing her eyes against the turgid vulgarity of his spending she sucked as if greedily at the spent creamy spume. Her lips and tongue busily vacuumed the last vestiges of his wetness, every trace sliding down until she made him dry like a puppy at its empty dish, and she knew instinctively that her arrow had struck home upon its mark.

  She fell to his feet again and lay there sobbing; sobbing tears of a grateful, repentant slave. One dainty hand clasped still the master’s ankle in one final plea of forgiveness, not even despising herself as she held him in her servility.

  Sulliman-Mahadji looked down at the naked form of his beautiful slave. If mercy, or affection, had existed in the mind of so powerful a master, then surely now would be that moment it would show itself. He sighed, slowly reaching down to take a thick lock of her hair, and with a gentle tug he pulled her up, making her rise and stand before him, her breasts glistening in the lamplight, her swimming eyes downcast in pathetic humility, anxious for redemption.

  ‘My sweet slave, how well you have pleased me this night,’ he said. ‘A night which began with such sadness at setting eyes upon your disobedient face, yet now I see how you seek your master’s forgiveness.’

  ‘Merciful master, I am unworthy of you,’ she responded, looking beseechingly into his eyes, ‘but now I desire to be as you wish me to be.’

  For some moments he studied her face. ‘Go now, my redeemed slave, back to your cell,’ he told her. ‘This night think more of your promises, and I shall think more of mercy.’

  For a moment she blinked at him, her face dropping, fearful that she had not succeeded in her quest. But there was a softening of his features, and his smile reassuring. Perhaps a pardoned slave could not expect such speedy and total redemption, and as if confirming this he said quietly to her, ‘Nassara, this Zheeno will not be put to death, this I assure you. I shall beg of my father, my master the sultan, and he will grant his son this wish. But there must be punishment. Slaves must see that transgressions cannot escape the wrath of their masters. Oh no, Nassara, you and Zheeno cannot be free of punishment, but yours will not be that harsh punishment you were sentenced to.’

  He paused, looking severe again even though there was regret behind their piercing blackness. ‘Go now. Tomorrow you will face punishment. My heart will cry out silently for you, my beautiful slave, but it will be over soon, even before the sun is high. Then your sweet flesh will be gently healed, and before long you will come to me again.’

  ‘And what punishment, master… for Zheeno?’ she asked falteringly, barely wanting to hear the answer, the master’s chilling words making her fearful again.

  Sulliman-Mahadji smiled, but his smile was more distant now, as if perhaps anger still lingered there. ‘I will sleep now, Nassara, contented that the mercy you begged of me shall be granted, and when I wake I shall decide what deserving punishment shall replace what was decreed before. I shall go to the sultan, my father, and bow respectfully and tell him that I have been merciful. He will be angry that his eldest blood-son shows such weakness for slaves…’ for a moment he looked away, as if his mind were elsewhere, before continuing again, ‘…but then I will flatter him and tell him stories that make him laugh; stories even about you, my sweet Nassara, and as he eats from the dishes before him I shall tell him what other punishments there will be for his slaves. If he is unsatisfied still with his son’s generosity of mercy, then I will flatter him some more, with the cunning that only a son can know of his father’s weaknesses. I will remind him that within five sunrises more there will be a fresh delivery of young slaves, and that their flesh will be fair, their bodies lithe.’

  A distant hum of activity came to Nassara’s ears from beyond the cell door. She was stiff and cold and aching from the awkwardness of her crouching position. The collar hung like a lead weight about her shoulders.

  Despite the first gladdening thought that came to her mind – that of knowing Zheeno was to be spared – she felt the first awakening pangs of anxiety, and wondered where he was.

  Feeling around the cell floor with her hand, she located the small jug of tepid water and drank thirstily, but even before she finished footsteps approached outside. She braced herself, her heart racing with apprehension. As the door creaked open she shielded her eyes, blinking from the harsh glare as daylight flooded in.

  ‘Arribaja,’ Ahmood commanded, although not with his usual ferocious voice of disdain. If pity had been within the scope of his emotions, then that might have been the look upon his face this day. ‘Get up, slave.’

  As she stood unsteadily he fastened two lengths of chain to her collar, which two hovering whip-boys grabbed and led her stumbling from the squalid cell outside into the glaring heat of the sun, and she saw immediately that the remaining slaves had been assembled in their customary position in the courtyard, as if awaiting her arrival. All the fat men, including Babbushan, were standing solemnly in line, and so too were a number of guards and palace servants, their eyes turning at once towards her as she was led out into their midst.

  With a growing sense of dread Nassara desperately glanced around for Zheeno, but he was nowhere to be seen. The headman, Mustaf-Kalig, was there, his silent presence as menacing as ever. He gazed out over the assembly, not looking directly at Nassara, as if perhaps there was time enough for her.

  So now was the moment, Nassara told herself, bracing herself, trying to make her pulse calm itself, her nostrils taking in the lush sweetness of the scented courtyard, imagining butterflies and bees flitting and buzzing in the foliage.

  But where was her master, and where was Zheeno?

  Although she could not quite identify what it was, there was something out of place in the courtyard, beside the quietly cascading fountain, near to where the inner gates led into the precincts of the palace. A large but unobtrusive bowl had been set down upon the flagstones, and two small implements lay in it. One resembled a wickedly hooked knife; its blade keen and purposeful in its repose, and beside it was a larger implement like the pincers of a giant beetle.

  Before Nassara could contemplate the nature of the unfamiliar objects there was a discordant clanking from behind her. She turned her head as far as her collar permitted, and there was Zheeno.

  Like her he was still collared and chained, his chains held by two warrior guards who strode quickly, one on either side of him, making him keep to their urgent pace. Still hobbled in his stooping posture by the chains between his legs, he could do little more than shuffle awkwardly with the cumbersome collar pressing down upon his shoulders. Yet somehow he bore himself with brave dignity, his handsome features set in a grim mask of determination, and when he glanced at Nassara she thought there might be a hint of a reassuring smile at the corners of his lips.

  But there was more to the manner of his bondage. His collar was different to hers, heavier, thicker and wider, and with a series of rounded slots set between its two hinged jaws. His arms were bent up, his wrists trapped within two of the slots. Why was her collar now different to his? Her wrists were free, whereas his were held in vicelike holes. What devilish act of punishment had been contrived? Had mercy not been granted by her master?

  And where was he now? She looked around desperately.
Perhaps he waited somewhere in the cool shadows. Might he not have rescinded Zheeno’s sentence of death after all? Perhaps he watched from some latticed window overlooking the courtyard. Her eyes scanned the darkened awnings along the main building, but the glare of the sun made it impossible to see clearly. The whip-boys held the chains to her collar taut, as if perhaps expecting resistance from her.

  The headman clapped his hands suddenly, casting a stare in Nassara’s direction with cold, empty eyes, and then at Zheeno. Nassara glanced sideways at Zheeno, too. How much she wanted to whisper to him that the master had granted mercy, but if mercy had been granted, what punishment was now awaiting them?

  Mustaf-Kalig began to speak, the words sounding threatening and harsh, giving warning again to the assembled slaves. Disobedience, disloyalty, lack of respect; all these dissenting wrongs would be severely punished, he said, the ways of masters never to be questioned or defied, the lives of slaves at the absolute discretion of them. Examples must be made…

  ‘This slave by the name of Zheeno, see how he stands there in his shame. Yet how merciful has the master been since the deserving sentence of death was passed on him. Our master, in his generosity, now allows this slave to live, but he has another purpose for him…’

  Mustaf-Kalig paused. Apart from the buzz of insects and the tumbling play of the fountains the courtyard was silent, as if to allow the troubled thoughts of slaves to reflect upon his words. Looking around, he went on.

  ‘The slave, Zheeno, will be taken to another place far from here. He will serve as one who prepares the bodies of other young slaves, to anoint them with oils and lotions and massage their flesh, but he shall never again know of the joys of such flesh, joys that he ungratefully chose to waste upon the undeserving flesh of another disloyal slave…’

  Nassara felt eyes turn upon her, but her ears were listening intently for the headman to complete his pronouncement, grimly holding her breath so not to miss a word. She was confused by what she understood, but it did seem the master had been sincere in his promise to spare Zheeno from death. Although her heart grieved to know he was to be taken from her to some distant place, he would at least be alive. But still the headman went on, his lips curled with disdain.