by J. D. Jensen
Zheeno was locked away in isolation, but his wound was healing well. As soon as he was strong enough he would be transported to another palace far from this place. Once more he implored her to think only of serving her master, all other paths being futile and fraught with danger.
‘Be only content, Nassara, that the master favours you,’ he urged, ‘and was merciful to you and to the slave Zheeno. The master will not be lenient again. This I know, and beg you to understand. You have saved Zheeno, now you must think only of yourself.’ Then he shook his head in despair, turning away from her.
It must have been after the fourth sunset since her flogging, that Sulliman-Mahadji summoned her. She stood calmly before him, her body glistening in its freshly oiled perfection. He moved slowly around her, looking down at her buttocks, his eyes lingering on the livid welts, which failed to mar the shapely firmness of her flesh.
‘The dark scars of the serpents’ tails still cross your flesh and leave their thin furrows upon your velvet skin, Nassara,’ he murmured. ‘But they heal well, and soon the memories will be like the distant dreams of a restless night. Now you can begin again, here. Begin as we shall go on, Nassara, and I will give you happiness here.’
For some seconds she was silent, fighting her internal rage, and when she spoke her tone was one of barely concealed loathing. ‘I hear you, master, but happiness shall not come to me again. From sunrise to sunset my thoughts will be of your cruelty to Zheeno.’
For a moment anger flickered in his eyes. ‘I showed him mercy, slave girl. I let him live. I send him to a place where he will find easy duties, where he will be fed and kept well, not like a whipped dog of the desert with an empty belly and only dust to rest his body on. Do not spit your poisonous ingratitude, slave. Let your heart be gladdened in my mercy.’
Then he calmed himself, smiling at her with what might have been commiseration. He put his hand on her naked shoulder, making her shudder inwardly at the chill of his touch. ‘Forget him, Nassara. Now there is only your master and you, my faithful slave, whose beauty I shall worship. In time I may make you more than a slave. I may make you a mistress of my chamber. Not a slave, no more with chains to wear or the whip to endure. What say you, Nassara? Are my words not pleasing to you?’
Nassara looked directly into his eyes, the sinews of her neck taut, her chin thrust forward. ‘I will do as you, my master, commands,’ she vowed. ‘When my task is not performed well you may beat me, and when you beat me I shall feel the pain of my flesh. But my spirit will feel free with every lash that cuts into me, and I will think of Zheeno, and what cruelty you did him.’
For one moment she thought Sulliman-Mahadji might strike out with his hand and hit her, but he did not; only his face set in a fierce mask of contained anger. But then, as if forgiving her, he gave a deep sigh and spoke softly and dismissively. ‘Nassara, your body still pains from its flogging and your mind still grieves, but there will be healing soon in both your flesh and spirit, then we will talk again of these promises I make you for the future.’ Then adding, as if it had been an afterthought, ‘If your promises were indeed truly made…?’
For a moment Sulliman-Mahadji had an absent look in his eyes, before returning his gaze to her once more. He reached out and ran his hand gently over her breasts, circling them slowly, sometimes squeezing, unable to resist the feel of them, their pertness, their smooth, velvety texture. Then sliding his fingers beneath the gold chain he pinched one of her nipples between finger and thumb, and pinching the nub tightly he drew it out so that she was pulled towards him, making her step forward against his body, his eyes brightly intense. ‘I desire you now, my beautiful slave, even before your flesh and mind are healed, even that you are still cold in your heart, not wanting to come willingly yet. But in time you will, Nassara. In time you will.’
She felt the urgency of his stiffened flesh against her. Slowly, never taking his eyes from her, he led her to the raised pile of cushions and pushed her forward onto them.
‘Kneel there, my slave,’ he ordered. ‘Kneel and let your master know again of your sweet depths. Let me enter between the ripe, curved peaches of your punished flesh; flesh that is made yet more desirable by the marks of the freshly brushed serpents’ tails upon it.’
Her body was instantly seized as if by a cold trauma, his words chilling her, revulsion and hatred surging again through her veins. Closing her eyes against the images she made herself settle into that familiar kneeling posture. Bending forward she held her buttock cheeks towards him, knowing how to offer them, tensed and thrusting for his entry.
At first she felt his hands glide lustfully over the spread of her flesh, his fingertips feeling the raised furrows of her welts, caressing them as if in awe of such damaged beauty. His breath was hot upon her skin at the base of her spine, and then between her rift.
Not waiting he came into her, in the place that had been so cruelly conditioned for the purpose. As he thrust deep she closed her eyes tight, fighting the tears of shame and misery and feeling the impure hardness of his shank reaching down into the void within her.
With a frantic, alternating rhythm his loins pumped down hard against her rump, worrying her tender flesh, before drawing quickly back out again, the head of his cock almost vacating the outer reaches of her rear passage. Each time he thrust into her those twin bells of gold between her legs jingled with a subdued acknowledgement of the force of each repeated penetration.
For some while he moved in her, grunting from time to time, reminding her of a hog on her father’s farm those many dozens of sunsets past. Her loathing seethed within her, yet still she held herself unflinchingly, with proud defiance, the straining muscles of her legs and arms taut with the tensed discomfort of such unnatural poise.
At last he withdrew, panting at his sudden departure, releasing a hateful vacuum from her recesses. Still in her vulnerable kneeling posture she turned her head to look round at him, a slave awaiting its next instruction, her face empty of expression except that of scarcely concealed contempt.
Seeming not to notice he pushed her down onto the cushions, making her turn to lie on her back. Then he was over her, straddled above her, one knee on either side of her breasts.
‘Take me between your lips, Nassara,’ he ordered, ‘for I am ready to release my passion for you, and for you to suck out every thread of it. My greedy eyes will look down at you and watch the busy motion of your lips, your cheeks, and your throat while my passion spume is swallowed down. Take me now, Nassara, I command it.’
Then raising up on his haunches his stiffened penis reached out towards her, an obscene, pulsing tremor to its trunk, spearing expectantly above her face, awaiting her acquiescence. She looked up at him, silent, never taking her eyes from his, then slowly but with a strangely graceful dignity, she craned her head up and took his flesh into her mouth, but even as she worked for him with her tongue and lips her gaze did not leave his face, as though wanting him to see the cold disdain and hatred in hers.
‘Aaah, slave girl,’ he gasped, ‘I can no longer wait!’ His body quivered above her and he gasped in his final ecstasy, and only then did she close her eyes as the impure bolt of his lust erupted into her.
When she had completed her duty, feeling him sag onto her in his spent aftermath, all that remained within her was the putrid residue that lingered in her gullet. She looked at him again with quiet defiance, her eyes bright and calm as she lay back on the silk cushions, awaiting his command. Eventually he got up from her and dressed silently in his robes, scarcely glancing back at her.
Forcing her chilled body to remain completely still she watched him all the while, no longer fearing him, knowing her own potency and how even, perhaps, this stricken master might yet become but a weak, unresisting slave of her beguiling beauty. How he would lust for her, wanting more from her each time.
For a moment she basked in her resolve. Never would she grant him more than
those same mechanical motions, not returning the slightest token of his passion. How she would let her body conform to his every desire, adapting instantly to his bidding, but with distant perfunctory. She would shape and bend her body to his every whim and command, but as rigidly as some long dead carcass. Each time her lips must work upon him it would be with such vacant emotion that his frustration would soon boil fiercely within him and torment his pleasure. All the while her eyes would hold him in their stony gaze, and when he tired of her unwilling compliance, and so in anger punish her, still she would refuse any passion. Her hatred and bitterness would burn within, more than the burning of a thousand serpents’ tails.
Not moving from where she lay on the cushions, her legs parted almost provocatively, and the ripeness of her breasts glistening under the oil lamps, she asked in a flat, but dutiful tone, ‘Shall the master require more of me this night?’
Sulliman-Mahadji came slowly over to her. For a moment he hesitated, then turned away, moving to where a gilded chest was set upon the floor. Taking out from it some small object that glinted in the half-light, he held the trinket for a moment or two, letting it swing back and forth on its slender golden chain to better catch the light, and to allow her eyes to dwell upon it. Then he turned to her.
‘Even that I see how you suffer still,’ he said, ‘not ready yet to fulfil your promise to me, not ready to give yourself willingly or return my passion, this gift I give you as a token of our future. Remember my gift well, my sweet slave girl.’
He held it nearer for her but she scarcely looked at it, her face remaining blank and unresponsive. For a moment she thought of Safarah and Jammina, and how their faces would surely light up at such a fine offering, and how they would be grateful to their masters for a gift as exquisite as this. She looked away, pretending to adjust her own golden chains of slavery about her body, slowly rising from the cushions. But he went on nonetheless, although not having failed to notice the flagrant obstinacy of her indifference.
‘Wear it, my proud slave. In the quiet hours of the remaining night the jewel will remind you of your devoted master, of his passion for you. Go now and sleep, and wake with fresh spirit when the sun rises again.’
When finally she emerged into the moonlight it was cool, even though the flagstones of the courtyard retained some residual heat from the day and warmed her hands and feet as she moved.
As usual Ahmood led her by the leash, and once the heavy doors had thudded shut behind them only her chains and bells disturbed the silence. The pendant, which Sulliman-Mahadji had placed around her neck, swung to and fro beneath her. Another adornment of her slavery was how she thought of it, and not even its sparkling magnificence could dispel her revulsion at wearing it. Oh, how she could not wait to tear it from her unclean body, but she dare not discard it. Even in her defiance she could not risk such an act of symbolic contempt. She would wear the hateful ornament, but when next she was summoned to him she would show yet greater loathing.
Crossing the courtyard towards the steps that led up to the dormitory, she inhaled gratefully the fragrant air; fresh night air that contrasted with the musty atmosphere of the master’s chambers. She shuddered at lingering images, her throat still dry and her bottom throbbing dully. Keeping to Ahmood’s pace, carefully synchronising the momentum of her hands and feet, she moved over the flagstones, glad of the exposure to the cool night air.
It was so peaceful in the shadows. Even Ahmood seemed subdued, walking casually, for once not abrupt in his handling of his charge. Perhaps he was tired from having to await the completion of his master’s pleasures. The leash hung slack from his hand, his whip dangling loosely too.
A small movement in the shadows caught her eye; some dark shape; a trick of the moonlight perhaps, yet something nonetheless. A swooping bat, or a bird of the night? There was only Ahmood and her in the courtyard. No guard accompanied them; neither escort nor lanterns were required beneath such a bright moon.
Then before she had time to realise the nature of the shadowy movement there came a brief sound; not loud, but furtive. A fleeting silhouette seemed to separate itself from the dark background of the shrubbery, rising suddenly beside her like a stealthy spectre of the night. Yet there was something vaguely familiar in its ghostly apparition as it came further out onto the winding pathway, materialising between her and Ahmood.
There was a sudden gasp and the quickly stifled utterance of Ahmood’s cry, and then the sound of a heavy object striking human bone. Again the object thumped down upon its victim. There was a grunt and a moaning sigh. Then a body slumped to the ground and lay motionless just beyond a silvery pool of moonlight.
Everything happened so quickly that Nassara could scarcely draw breath. She felt something being thrown around her shoulders; a large cloak, rough like sacking. A hand firmly grasped her arm, pulling her into the shadows.
‘Come quickly, we have little time. How long I have waited here for you, fearing you might never come back from that place of devils.’ The voice was like the sweet breath of divine spirits whispered in her ear.
‘Zheeno!’ she gasped, her love at once flooding through her like a wave of brilliant light, all lingering confusion turning immediately to overwhelming hope and joy.
‘Shhh… we must be silent as the night and our feet must fly on the wings of luck…’
Zheeno was dressed in a robe that seemed as black as the shadows around them. A bag was slung over his shoulders. Under the garment she could see he had no chains any more, and he held a large metal tool. He moved quickly, his hands deftly working to unfasten the leash between her legs. ‘Be still, my Nassara, while I cut away your chains.’
‘How did you…?’ she began breathlessly, but stopped at once, realising this was scarcely the time for questions. From what she could see of his earnest expression he was tense and anxious not to linger for a moment longer.
The leash was removed, and letting it fall to the ground beside the slumped form of Ahmood, Zheeno quickly stood up, his eyes bright with eager determination. Now she felt the tool biting at the ring of one nipple, and then at the other, and the gold chains dropped away.
‘Take hold of your bells, Nassara,’ he urged, ‘and keep them steady while I cut.’ He was on his knees again, working at the rings between her thighs, and as the tool bit into the gold so did the briefly resisting rings tug painfully against her delicate labia, until at last the chains fell away completely and she was free of her adornments of slavery.
Zheeno swept up the fallen trains of gold, dropping them into the bag together with the two small bells. These he quickly stuffed with lint to stifle any further telltale noise.
‘These chains of your slavery are made of gold,’ he explained, ‘and we may have need of them to barter for our freedom.’ Then laying the heavy cutting tool on the ground he took something from the bag, and a fearsome blade – one that seemed familiar to her – curved in the moonlight. And she remembered then, a brief surge of shock and sadness, and love, engulfing her. What a hateful knife of cruelty, she thought, looking lovingly at Zheeno.
His eyes looked into hers, and then quickly he kissed her on the forehead, making her heart leap, emotion brimming in her eyes. ‘Come, we must flee this place,’ he hissed. ‘Follow me closely. Keep to the shadows. It is not far, but there is danger still. We must be as silent as we are swift.’
She looked down at where Ahmood lay, a fleeting numbness touching her heart. ‘Is he…?’
‘He breaths still, but…’ Zheeno did not finish, gesturing for her to follow.
Almost holding her breath, her heart racing, she followed silently behind him, glancing fearfully around all the while as they weaved in and out of the shrubbery, around the silent stone statues, and the fountains, and through the ornate archways she knew so well. Finally they reached the other side of the courtyard and a wall loomed before them. They seemed to have come to a dead end.
&n
bsp; Zheeno motioned for her to keep completely still, and they stood holding their breath, listening for any sound of pursuit. But there was none.
The opening in the wall was so small, and Nassara had not seen it before, the grille hanging loosely ajar as though already awaiting them.
‘I will help you. Stand like so, with your foot in my hands…’ He locked his fingers together to form a stirrup, she quickly placed her foot in it, and hoisting herself up to the grille, she squeezed herself through.
It was dark inside, the atmosphere foreboding. The place, wherever it was, smelt dank and musty, as if unused for years. Very gingerly, her heart in her mouth, Nassara reached out with her toes, feeling her way cautiously to the cold ground below.
Zheeno grunted with the strain of pulling himself through behind her, his shoulders almost too broad for the opening. Then he jumped down onto the stone floor, as if he already knew the layout of the place.
‘Where are we, Zheeno?’ she began hesitantly, but he put his fingers quickly to her lips, whispering urgently to her.
‘We are near the chamber they put me in,’ he told her. ‘I found a way out into a long corridor. For days I have been going out after nightfall, wandering freely near to where the fat men live. I have found a way to get onto a ledge along the outer wall, and made a rope so we can climb down. Nassara, before sunrise we can be far from here.’
She gripped his arm, feeling her emotions swamped by a mixture of love and rising excitement – and fear. There was so much to ask him, so much to know. Yet she would trust him unhesitatingly and follow blindly, whether to freedom or to certain recapture and death. There was no going back, for Zheeno or for her. Together they would share their fate, whatever it might be.
For a moment she thought of Zheeno’s dreadful wound, almost fearful of asking him. Yet he seemed himself again, so full of energy and courageous determination. His manly frame was upright and strong again, no longer cowed by chains or cruel disfigurement, and his love for her seemed as powerful as ever. She hugged him tightly, pulling her body close to his, feeling his warmth engulf her as his arms folded around her.