Chapter 11
Time is relative.
Moto felt that she had been perched on the horse for eternity. There was no time, no space, just an eternity of pain.
The tropical night was black, black as hell itself. The lights in the house had gone out. She was alone in her suffering. Alone but for the clouds of mosquitoes that came to feast on her helpless body. She squirmed, changing position as much as possible, not to relieve the pain, but to move the core of the pain to a slightly different spot.
Something moved in the darkness, a paler shape. A wild animal? She squirmed even more, trying to discern what it was. The shape approached. “Drink this, my child.”
Pottery touched her lips. Water! She realised how thirsty she was. She drank greedily. She was sure the voice had spoken English. Was she hallucinating? “I am not allowed to take you down before dawn. This will help to dull the pain a bit. I will bring you more later, but at dawn you must be seen to be suffering the full effects of the horse. If my master finds out I gave you this I will take your place. For several days.”
The woman vanished. Mosquitoes whined around her. Was the pain duller? Was she finally becoming accustomed to the discomfort?
Eternity continued, broken once more by the strange woman, another drink of the cool water.
A bird was waking in the darkness. The pain was back in its full intensity. She moaned softly. Another bird joined the first, then another, and another. There was a glimmer of light in the sky. Dawn! The voice had said she could be released at dawn!
The sun exploded above the horizon. Please, please, let them take her off this thing!
The old man appeared, followed by the Somali, now wearing a white robe, open at the front to reveal her breasts. Moto screamed as his fingers touched her tortured cunt. “Look,” he said to the Somali, “look how wet the wood is. She is a true slut.” The girl smiled, the contented smile of the well fucked.
“Take her down!”
He turned his back and walked inside.
The two male slaves appeared, followed by an old woman. She wore a cloth around her hips, slung low. Moto screamed as the men took her arms and lifted her off the horse. She screamed shrilly as the pain intensified, blood rushing into bruised flesh. She collapsed as they put her down, her legs refusing to support her.
The woman bent over her, offering her a cup. “It is over, sweetling. Drink this. It will help.” Moto drank greedily. She was terribly thirsty, and hoped that the water would ease the pain as it had before. The woman shook her head. “No, it does not contain the potion. He will want to see your suffering.”
Moto burst into tears. The woman cradled her in her arms. “Let it out, sweetling. The tears will help. A slave’s lot is hard, but it is better than the life you had in England.”
Moto nestled her face between the woman’s sagging breasts. Her skin was lined, leathery, as was her face. Her dark blonde hair was shot with grey, her body lean and muscular. Moto looked up at her, realising the woman was beautiful! “How do you come to speak English? I thought I was dreaming last night.”
The woman smiled at her. “Mainly because I am English. Elizabeth Carter, at your service, ma’am. For almost forty years the slave known as Bess.”
She helped Moto to her feet. “Come! A nice hot bath will take away some of the pain, and the itch from all those bites.”
Moto staggered to her feet. “How did you come to be a slave? Forty years?”
There was a trace of West Country in the woman’s voice. “I was the daughter of a fisherman, who fell in love with a dashing black prince who came to our village. I ran away with him. Little did I know that he was scouting the area for his slave raiding companions. He was my first love, I was a silly girl, and I willingly became his slave.” She smiled wistfully. “He is still my only love. I live for his touch, for the touch of his hand, the blessing of his smile, the joy of his manhood inside me.”
Moto was amazed. This woman had willingly become a slave, to the man who had owned her for forty years. She clearly loved him. Did she not feel jealous of the girls he took to his bed? The woman’s skin might be seamed like old leather, scarred form the whip, but her body was lithe and firm beneath it. She must be over fifty, perhaps even sixty. Most women at that age were old crones.
“Please ma’am, Bess, can you untie my hands?” Bess shook her head. “Only the master can order that.”
It was cool inside the house, fragrant with flowers. The bath was huge, more of a pool. Wisps of steam rose from the water. Two naked boys squatted nearby, ready to serve as needed. Bess helped her down into the water. She cried out as the water touched her tortured pussy, but found that after a moment the pain did fade to some extent. She lay in the water, the warmth and the healing oils soothing away the tension and stiffness, Bess supporting her.
The woman stroked her skin, fondling her breasts. “You are lovely! Salim was wise to cover your skin. I was a fisherman’s daughter, always nut brown and gamin. Always in trouble. Lost my maidenhead early, to a cousin. When the master rode into the village he seemed like something out of a fairy tale.” She smiled wistfully. “I climbed a tree to get into the window of his room in the inn. He found me in his bed, hot and ready for him.” Her hands roamed Moto’s body. “If I could set the clock back I would do it again.”
Moto liked the feel of the woman’s touch, but was uncomfortable with the feelings they aroused. “Bess? Surely it is wrong for you to touch me like that? Sinful?” In answer Bess closed her lips around a coral nipple, sucking it to erection. “Have you never made love to another woman, sweetling?”
Moto shook her head, “that is unnatural, surely, a mortal sin, like buggery?” Bess’ face creased in a wide smile. It was a face used to laughter, Moto thought. “It is one of the great pleasures for a slave. As for buggery, have you not been buggered? Did it feel like a mortal sin? Salim is a man who appreciates a tight bottom, whether on a girl or a boy.”
Moto coloured. “My husband buggered me on our wedding night, and Salim on the day he captured us.” Her blush deepened. “It is not unpleasant.”
Bess led her from the bath, helping her up the steps. For the next hour the woman massaged her, the fragrant oil soothing the myriad mosquito bites. Her hands roamed over every inch of the redhead’s body. Moto gave a contented little sigh as an oiled finger found and penetrated her anus. Her nipples were teased to full erection, even her clitoris, bruised as it was, welcomed the feather touch of Bess’ knowing fingers. The older woman kissed her nipples, tempting the to full erection. “The rings will suit those lovely nipples. As will the ring through this morsel.” She paused to softly kiss the bruised clit. “I’m not so sure about the ring through your nose, but the master knows best.”
“Oh God! I had forgotten about that. Surely he could not be so cruel?” She sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I am taking you to him now. In a few minutes you will be ringed.”
The Qadi was sitting in a cushioned chair. To one side was a grotesquely muscled man, his skin a strange shade of yellow. His massive torso was balanced on ridiculously short, bowed legs. Beside him was a small table with neatly arranged implements, and a glowing brazier.
Prudence’s heart sank when she heard the bells. She, too, had heard tales of saintly missionaries buying slaves their freedom. Freedom! This was freedom, she thought. The last thing she wanted was to regain the supposed freedom of being Miss Prudence Curran. She did not want to be bound, enslaved by convention, by modesty, by all the rules that governed the life of a young lady. It was unthinkable that she could go back to a society where it was considered extremely daring for a young man to touch his lips to the back of her hand. How could she accept that, when she knew the pleasure of having his male hardness deep in her throat?
