A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  Tears of despair came fleetingly to her eyes, but words would not follow, not at first. ‘I must know if it is true,’ she eventually managed. ‘What happens to Zheeno; to the male slaves. I ask only this…’

  Looking at her, not pausing in his work, he nodded gravely. ‘These things are true, Nassara. I have tried to tell you before, but your mind was closed to it. Did not all slaves alike suffer the same deed of preparation? Were not the bolts of silver inserted into all of you, for your masters to enter where once those bolts lodged? What other purpose did those cold shanks of metal serve in the preparation of all the masters’ slaves, male and female alike?’ He stopped briefly, looking sadly into her face as if willing her to understand. But he continued, oblivious to the anxious expression on Achoochi’s face.

  ‘And there is more, Nassara, of which you know the truth already. Have not your sweet lips already sucked your master’s erect flesh? So then have the lips of young men sucked the same, and they must suck willingly and eagerly. If not the masters will be sure to flay the skin from their hides.’ He fell silent, casting a stern warning look at Achoochi, who quickly lowered his eyes, busying himself with the lotion.

  Then, with sudden irritation, signalling the end forever of such seditious talk, Babbushan slapped Nassara’s leg, dismissing her and turning his back as if his displeasure might have nearly flowed beyond the brink of friendship.

  Nassara no longer counted the days precisely. Several sunrises came and went, and during daylight hours in the sunny courtyard the female slaves would wile away their time, sitting and talking to each other or idly walking in the shade of the shrubbery.

  The daily routine didn’t vary. Just after dawn food would be laid out and again in the afternoon. In the late afternoon the slaves – both male and female – would be taken down to the cellars to bathe in the steaming pool, before the ritual of the anointing and oiling of their bodies and the close pubic shaving for the females. In the pool Nassara would see Zheeno, and he would immediately seek out her eyes and smile, always tenderly.

  But she noticed with concern there was a change in him. Gone was his quiet confidence. No longer did he seem to radiate that same air of hopeful determination, replaced by an air of guilt or shame. How much she wanted to go to him and reassure him. After all, did she not bear the same emotional scars? Was not her own body defiled at the hands of their tormentors? Did not those lustful couplings between master and slave mock the very purity of embrace, which in other places should come freely and from loving, willing hearts?

  At sunset, their bodies glistening and their muscles supple from the fat men’s work upon them, the slaves would silently wait in their dormitories, anxious but resigned to approaching duties, when they heard the abrupt sliding of the bolts on the heavy doors their hearts would chill with dread.

  In the familiarity of their nightly duties Jammina and Safarah seemed almost conditioned to the summons, as if to them their defilement was a necessary burden, easily born in an otherwise acceptable environment of rich finery, comfort, and adornments of gold… albeit golden chains of slavery.

  Nassara had noticed how even Belithza displayed fewer signs of dissent, as if she too had realised that complicity was the essence of survival. Gone were her tears, although she remained cold and distant. When she was returned to the dormitory late in the quiet night she quickly settled on her cushions, sleeping peacefully, as if resigned to her status.

  Only Ugimba seemed to retain the same degree of misery about her. She talked little, afraid perhaps to unburden her torment. Nassara had seen the marks on her body, fresh each morning, and it was clear that the headman, Mustaf-Kalig, was crueler than other masters.

  And Nassara pondered that Sulliman-Mahadji seemed to treat her, his slave, with increasing gentleness… even affection. Not that such benevolence had exempted her from the need to perform her tasks with any less devotion. His passion for her was, if anything, greater each time, and so intense that for those few moments he seemed even to shed his veil of superiority, muttering soothing words to her, as if wanting her to be a free and willing lover, not just one pretending eagerness only to avoid the threat of punishment.

  Whenever he chose to fuck her he would lie with her afterwards, panting quietly, his muscular arms embracing her. If he chose to enter her mouth he would smile almost affectionately at her while she worked on his swollen shank. On one occasion, he forewent his habitual sequence of proclivities, unleashing his passionate burst almost immediately into her mouth, and at the very moment his spurting fluid assaulted her taste buds he cried out her name, and even as she swallowed the creamy threads of his eruption, fighting the dangerous urge to gag and eject the flood, he held her head tightly, his fingers grasping the sleek locks of her hair with an intensity that surprised her.

  Then, as if realising suddenly he had shown too much to a humble slave, he pushed her away, fearful that he had revealed his emotions, betraying his mask of superiority. Ahmood came quickly, clearly fearful his charge had offended his master, but as her leash was being attached she briefly saw the master looking fondly at her as he lay there still, exhausted from his pleasure.

  Yet although she knew this potent effect she seemed to exercise over her master, she must dismiss any feeling of elation, and as she shrugged away these troubling thoughts a fleeting movement caught her eye.

  Then suddenly beside her was Zheeno, appearing as if like magic from out of nowhere and taking her into his arms. For a second her coldness remained, and her guilt. Then she snuggled into his embrace, her tears falling upon the strong shoulders of her man.

  ‘Oh, Zheeno, what shameful things I have to tell you,’ she whispered. ‘I am no longer pure for you. The master’s seed has soiled my body, and he torments me still by wanting more from me. Help me, Zheeno, I beg you.’

  ‘Shhh… my little butterfly,’ he comforted. ‘Stop your tears. Soon now we shall go from this evil place. My plan and my secret preparations are nearly ready, but I must speak to you of other, bad things…’

  He faltered and she sensed his distress. She looked up into his eyes, searching them for the cause, yet knowing the nature of it and how it must trouble him. He turned his head away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny, before shyly continuing.

  ‘Nassara, I too feel shame, that same shame as you…’ he began, meeting her eyes again as though with sudden resolve to unburden himself, speaking hesitantly and anxiously, seeking any sign of shock or revulsion in her features. ‘How do I dare hold you in my arms? I have even greater shame than you, a terrible shame; I have been fouled by another man…’ He stopped abruptly, sudden anger brimming in his eyes, but she put her hand quickly to his lips.

  ‘Quiet now, my poor Zheeno. Say no more. I know of these things. They are not of our making… not yours… not mine. Are we not mere slaves? What could we do to resist these unclean acts? Put these thoughts aside, Zheeno. We shall not judge each other or speak about these things again. There’s no need for shame. If we are unclean now we are unclean for each other, but when we come together our bodies will wash away our mutual soiling, cleansed by the act of our love, made pure again. This I feel, Zheeno.’

  For a moment she thought there were tears in his eyes, and she reached up and kissed him. For some while the slaves embraced with an intensity of passion, oblivious to the dangers of the silent courtyard around them, and despite his humbling shackles, she felt him hard against her and he pulled her gently back into the cover of a bush.

  ‘Oh Nassara, how I need you and want you,’ he breathed.

  She reached down and caressed his hardening penis, wanting him and feeling the rising of his lust. Within her, where unwelcome flesh had been before, she felt now the willing gathering of her own youthful dew, no longer barren with unyielding drought, like some infertile desert that cried out against intrusion.

  ‘Zheeno, cleanse me,’ she begged. ‘Let me have your loving flesh inside me, e
ven if it is just once, then I shall remember it forever. I shall carry your loving seed in me, like sweet honey nectar made by you. Then I can think of you even when the master takes me, pumping his impure fluid into me. Then I shall not feel its poison, so strong will be that beautiful honey from my bee.’

  ‘Oh yes, beautiful Nassara, my butterfly…’ he panted in her ear, and cupping her buttocks, almost roughly such was his rampant passion, he lifted her slightly onto him, his powerful legs effortless taking her weight, and penetrated her with a gasp of delight. She too gave a delicious sigh as she settled. Her body seemed to quiver as he held her tightly against him, his thrusting shank so far into her that it might have been a hardy pivot on which her body balanced so snugly, adjusting itself to his.

  His spine arched back and although the taut golden chains dragged on her nipples, he worshipped the perfection of her breasts. Yet paradise came briefly in that deceptive courtyard of paradise. So lost in each other were the young lovers that neither heard the approach of urgent footsteps, and too late Nassara turned.

  There, standing triumphantly on the path, was Ahmood and a whip-boy. But Zheeno was still unaware, his eyes closed in ecstatic concentration. Then feeling the sudden stiffening of Nassara he too turned, and opened his eyes upon the terrible spectre.

  ‘I see you, you disobedient slaves who defy the master.’ Ahmood’s fiercely gleeful eyes glinted menacingly. His whip was raised, ready to strike out, but his demeanour was dangerously calm, like a cobra about to strike.

  Slowly Zheeno lowered his lovely Nassara to the ground, kissing her lightly on her forehead – as if it were their last ever kiss.

  The two ranks of remaining slaves were prostrated in their humility and fear, assembled in the courtyard before the headman, Mustaf-Kalig. The morning sun had not yet risen above the east wall, but the early heat already made the slaves begin to sweat as they waited, mindful of the patrolling whip-boys.

  Where Nassara stood, however, in front of the assembly, the sunlight was already upon her, and she had to squint against the harshness of the glare. The thick collar, consisting of two horizontal wooden splats that were hinged at one end and bolted at the other, was heavy and rough around her neck. The heavy chain attached to the collar hung down, before curving up again to where the other end was attached to the collar around Zheeno’s neck. The two slaves stood a few feet apart, facing the assembly. Furtively they exchanged glances that seemed, in that fleeting instant of their eyes meeting, so full of sorrow and departed hope.

  Mustaf-Kalig strolled to where they stood, and Nassara felt his cold eyes upon her, making her heart thump. With the tight restriction of the collar she could scarcely bow her head in the downcast posture of humility required of respectful slaves. Somehow she resigned herself to whatever dreadful fate awaited them.

  She could see how Zheeno had already suffered, both at the brutal handling of the guards during the night, then subsequently by herding whips. Welts and bruises were evident on his legs and thighs, and his face was puffy from where a guard had lashed out with a fist, even though neither of them offered the slightest resistance when escorted away from the courtyard.

  She had been thrown into a small cell, where not a single chink of light penetrated. She cowered in the oppressive blackness all night, alone and left to contemplate what cruelty surely awaited them after sunrise. Then at some point, probably just before dawn, the cell door suddenly burst open. Nassara blinked in the sudden glare of the lantern, unable to see who stood behind it, preparing herself for hostile blows of clubs, or fists, or whips.

  But a familiar voice spoke from beyond the lantern. ‘Oh, disobedient slave of mine. I see you, Nassara, in your misery. Why did you defy me? Could you not have learned to be my faithful slave?’ Sulliman-Mahadji’s tone was one of disappointment and regret, not anger.

  Nassara looked up at his dark silhouette. She could just make out the fierce eyes, glittering in the lamplight like polished stones. Shaking her head sullenly she stifled the urge to scream the truth, that she loved Zheeno and could never love one such as he, Sulliman-Mahadji.

  ‘Still you defy me, girl!’ he snapped. ‘What answer do you give?’

  ‘None,’ she said bravely, ‘other than to beg you to punish me, but not Zheeno. If you have any mercy… it was me who tempted him.’

  For a moment he was silent, then with simmering anger he spoke again. ‘Mercy, slave, is for those who deserve mercy. This male slave… Zheeno… is the property of the master of all men, the sultan. This slave defied his most supreme master. There is only one punishment for that, and you shall know its might soon enough. I have pity for you, Nassara, but you must learn your lesson with a harshness that you have brought upon your own sweet shoulders, and upon his, even to his last breath.’

  With that the lantern withdrew abruptly, the cell door slammed shut with a fearsome finality, and the blackness enveloped her more intensely than before. Nassara wept bitterly again in that lonely darkness, cold despair folding around her like a damp cloak.

  When the cell door had opened again the warming light of day crept in, awakening her instantly from the fitful snatch of sleep she finally fell into. Reality flooded her groggy mind at once, her cramped body aching with stiffness. Two warrior guards stood back from the threshold of the cell and she saw Ahmood was there, with Babbushan beside him, carrying a cumbersome wooden object she could not at once identify.

  Babbushan seemed sad as he gestured for her to get up and vacate the cell. He collared her, Ahmood helping to place the wicked contraption across her shoulders and clamp its hinged jaws shut around her slender neck.

  She summoned what dignity remained to her, trying not to stumble under the collar’s awkward weight. Making herself as upright as she could, Ahmood pushed her before him with the tip of his whip, jabbing it between her shoulder blades. Babbushan moved hastily at her side, trying to keep up, silent and glancing sadly at her from time to time. Just before they got to the assembly place he whispered to her.

  ‘Be brave, Nassara. Think only of survival. Forget your slave lover. Repent, then perhaps the master might spare you.’

  Then turning away he took his place amongst the other assembled servants as Zheeno was brought out and his collar shackled to hers.

  The sun was so harsh in her eyes, but she was glad she could not see her prostrated companions clearly.

  ‘Ojos arribaja ashajha… eyes up, slaves!’ Ahmood called impatiently, for the benefit of the prostrated captives.

  Mustaf-Kalig was speaking now, his words, as ever, not easy for Nassara to understand, and she wished she had Belithza beside her to help. He was speaking slowly, making certain that all the slaves would know the severity of his words, and comprehension came slowly to Nassara, grappling with his meaning, and as it did she felt numb and sick, desperately hoping she had misunderstood… knowing she had not.

  ‘No, I beg—!’ she cried out helplessly, but her cries were cut short by the lash of Ahmood’s whip across her buttocks, and she gasped, having to catch her breath in agony.

  As though taking delight in Nassara’s outburst of despair, Mustaf-Kalig moved close to the shackled pair and stood in front of Zheeno. But it was Nassara’s face he peered into with such wicked intent.

  ‘This male slave…’ Mustaf-Kalig was slow and deliberate in the repeating of his words, ‘after sunrise of the next day, to give him time to think upon his treachery, will be flayed by the brush whip of serpent’s tails until his skin hangs from him like torn rags, but still the whip shall flay him more until his disobedient heart stops beating! Then his body will be dragged to the gates of the city, and there the dogs and wolves will scavenge on his flesh, and the rats gnaw at his bones!’

  Nassara cried out again, her eyes pleading for his mercy. ‘No, master, not Zheeno,’ she begged. ‘Beat me to death, but—’

  Ahmood’s whip swept down again in quick succession, instantly
snuffing out her pitiful imploring.

  Mustaf-Kalig snorted with suppressed amusement. ‘And as for you, slave girl,’ he went on, ‘at the same moment your disobedient lover is flayed to death, you will be taken and hung by your ankles, your legs parted wide. Then the whip of serpent’s tails shall flay you also upon your buttocks, until your mind is blacked out with the sleep of pain, so that even your screams will be silenced. And as you are both flayed – you unto the sleep of pain, this treacherous slave unto the perpetual sleep of death – all other slaves and servants of this palace shall watch and hear your pathetic screaming agonies, and learn that loyalty to masters shall be above all other considerations. There shall be no mercy for treachery!’

  He was finished, and without a moment of delay the guards and whip-boys herded Zheeno and Nassara away, and from over his shoulder, straining his neck painfully against the cumbersome collar, Zheeno called back to Nassara. ‘I love you, my butterfly! Be brave… think of yourself now—’

  But the whip-boys cut him short, swiping their cruel lashes down hard across his back, making him scurry faster, away somewhere down through a door to another part of the cellars.

  Nassara was taken back to the same cramped cell as before. Babbushan threw her a blanket just before the door slammed closed upon her, bringing instant darkness again.

  She settled down in her dreadful misery to contemplate Zheeno’s fate. In her awkward posture she squatted uncomfortably in the corner, keeping the stinging flank of her buttocks, where Ahmood’s whip had caught her, away from the rough stone floor and walls. She wept, the mantle of sheer despair and hopeless misery suffocating her with unremitting potency.