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Chapter 2 |
Irritated at his sudden spike of fear, Sandren straightened his shoulders. He was Sakhari, the emir's chosen. The Macouni wouldn't dare lay a hand on him; in fact, if they had any wits at all, they would see how valuable he was and escort him home. He turned and walked away, assuming they would join him. Although ill-equipped to find his way home, Sandren was accustomed to having every need met by someone. He had no reason to expect this would not continue. He made it as far as the edge of the encampment before the first Macouni was upon him. The ornate burnoose, so useful as blanket, cloak, protection, status symbol, quickly became a fatal hindrance. His pursuer grabbed the trailing edge and yanked Sandren off his feet. Fortunately, he fell easily and was right back up, his mind screaming in outrage. Sandren began to run. At that, it became a game for the Macouni. They were like a wolf pack, one pursuing the frightened boy as the other three held back. Then another would take up the chase, all the time laughing with the others, who were shouting encouragement to each other. They came near enough to grab him, then fell back. Up close, the Macouni were repulsive to Sandren. Their tribe was squat and heavily muscled, with skin burned by the sun and reddish-gold hair that felt loose to their shoulders. Loincloths barely covered their private parts and the sight of that much bare skin was as terrifying to Sandren as their yells and calls. He was running only to avoid them and suddenly realized they had boxed him in. Their hands were on him before he could reach the stand of slender trees. His scream was one of sheer horror, as though being touched was worse than death. Sandren twisted and kicked and bit, but the Macounis' iron grip never loosened. His commands were ignored and his struggles became more frantic as they waded into the river with him. With a desert dweller's fear of deep water, the boy thrashed violently. One Macouni's comment elicited laughter in the others, then, with each holding a limb; they tossed him out into the dark, cold water. He sank quickly, tangled in waterlogged cloth. ~*~ He awoke with a start, surprised to be alive at all. He carefully took stock: the smell of cooking fires, the sound of lashes and cries from the slave yards, and the feel of wet burnoose barely covering his feet. He was inside a shelter, a roof blocking his view of the sky. Was he in that hovel, he who was to live in the palace? Outraged, Sandren sat up. "How dare you," he began. But the Macouni, with deft hands that belied their size, yanked him upright, stripped off his sopping burnoose and threw it in the corner beside the hearth. "Our prize has awoken," one called to the others. Sandren blanched at the smell of cheap palm wine and their loud, rough voices. He pulled away but they effortlessly twisted his arms up between his shoulders, leaving Sandren gasping in pain. "Take your hands from me," he shouted. The first real tendril of fear crept up his spine. His demands had always been met and his body never violated, never abused. "I am Sakhari, I am the.…" "You are ours," the biggest Macouni interrupted and the others roared with laughter. At a response to his gesture, two Macouni dragged the struggling boy over to the crude wooden table. One stood at the head of the table and held Sandren's arms outstretched, a second, at the foot of the table, pressed his ankles down hard. Thus was the Sakhari boy exposed in a most shameful way. Gasping in shock, he was in turn icy cold, then fiery hot. Naked! He dared not look at himself. Fury and fear possessed him at his nudity and at the unworthy eyes of the Macouni upon him. For a moment, Sandren's mind simply refused to work, whiting out in fear, then his anger re-emerged. He screamed at the Macouni, calling down curses upon their heads and those of their children's children. To dare to touch a Sakhari should be unthinkable for these vermin! Even as he strained against their grip, he could neither close his legs nor pull his arms down to cover his chest. He was completely, shamefully open to their close scrutiny. They were oblivious to his voice, staring instead at his slender, pale form. Sandren bit his tongue to keep from crying out, divorcing his mind from the physical sensations visited upon his body, seeking escape. Loosing Sandren's hair from its braid, one of his captors stroked it and twisted it round his fingers, exclaiming over its smooth texture, so different from their own coarse curls. The hair on his head, as much as the lack of much hair elsewhere, fascinated them. Sandren forgot his vow of silence and yelled and whipped his head back and forth to free himself of their intrusive fingers. His captors had no intention of ending their exploration. One simply pressed his big, dirty hand over Sandren's mouth, thus stopping his protests and holding his head immobile. The most bold of the Macouni rubbed the boy's bare chest, passing over pale, flat nipples down to the smooth belly and back. "Like fine Faruzi silk," he told the others and stroked Sandren's chest again. His thick fingers tried but failed to grasp the tiny teats. "Too small for man or woman," he murmured. Sandren's gorge rose. "Sakhari, you wish to know what real men feel like?" He took Sandren's hand, guided it to his companion's chest and rubbed the captive fingers against large, fat nipples that protruded there like berries. The boy's shout was muffled but horror was clear in his eyes. He tried to pull away, but the Macouni's hold was fierce. He continued to rub Sandren's small hand across the soft, swollen teats and hard nipples until the other man thrust against the table, to the laughter of all. Sandren shuddered. Touching another, a Macouni, was an abomination too terrible to contemplate. His meager meal threatened to make its way back up his throat. When it was his turn, the third Macouni leaned over the slim torso and buried his nose in Sandren's armpit. He took a deep breath and the boy shrieked when his tongue snaked out to lick it, slow and hard. Another gently pulled what little hair grew there. Both pits were stroked and nuzzled and tormented until curiosity was satisfied. A few touches occasionally strayed to his hair, throat, chest. A heavy hand on the boy's belly prevented him from twisting away, even a little, and spoiling their fun. No amount of stifled pleading from Sandren reached the ears of the Macouni, nor would they have cared. They continued as though he was nothing but a chirping bird. His skin crawled with revulsion, but he refused to allow traitorous tears to leak from his eyes. He was not weak, he was Sakhari. When their hands slid down his slender flanks to the center of his body, Sandren's voice froze in abject dread against the gag of the Macouni's calloused hand. A heavy, musky scent perfumed the air as the forced exploration took on a new intensity. At first, the Macouni simply stared at Sandren's circumcised cock, so unlike their own. One touched the soft pink head gingerly, pushing the slight cock around so that it lay first on one side, then the other. Sandren gasped in horror; no one had ever touched him there. Even when making water, he wrapped his own hand in linen. The Macouni continued his examination, grabbing Sandren's cock roughly, causing him to convulse. This reaction pleased the Macouni and he fondled it a little more gently. Gripping the base, he pushed up from the bottom to give some semblance of foreskin, then jerked it up and down as though he thought to change its length. "So soft, so little," he observed, "would need help to poke it anywhere." "A Sakhari's body is a temple, too precious for common use. It serves only the mind and has no needs of its own." Sandren could hear the priests' voices in his head and clung to them as his sanity wavered. The one nearest Sandren's knees lifted his own loincloth. Rare feelings of terror, vulnerability, helplessness, threatened to overwhelm Sandren. A strangled gasp escaped the boy's throat and his vision darkened. For a moment, merciful blackness descended and Sandren welcomed it with all his heart. The man's long, fat cock, half-hard, rested on low-hanging, heavy balls, surrounded by thick red hair. He pulled back his foreskin and rested his length on the boy's hip. The contrast was a source of great amusement to the Macouni. Sandren closed his eyes and shuddered in sheer revulsion, having never seen another male member, much less felt one, before. It laid hot and heavy, burning his skin, its wet tip occasionally touching his own shrinking member. He struggled to displace it but in vain. The other two combed through pale, fine hair at Sandren's groin, and weighed and rolled his tight balls in their thick fingers. "More," the Macouni holding the boy's ankles to the table grunted. He lifted his arms, raising Sandren's body up off the table. If the boy had thought he could be no more exposed, he was utterly wrong and stopped mid-breath. Reason returned and Sandren thrashed violently, frantically, but the grip on his legs was too tight and with all his weight on his shoulders, he had no leverage to roll off the table. The hand against his lips was removed and moved to his hips, holding them up and still. Sandren struggled harder now, outraged cries punctuating his demands to be set free. That, however, served only to excite his captors. For an eternity, they stared down at the boy's writhing body, moving in close enough that their heavy breath ghosted across his skin. "So pretty," one observed. Then the touching began again. They ran their hands up and down his pale, slender thighs, over shrunken testicles, under the pink, hairless ass, pinching, patting, stroking. Sandren was completely at their mercy. "I wish to have him under me," the leader chuckled. "What a ride he will give. Turn him over." In one coordinated move, the Macouni flipped their captive onto his belly. The one restraining the boy's arms brought his wrists together and held them effortlessly in one huge paw. With the other, he reached under his loincloth and adjusted himself with a groan, awaiting his turn to see, to touch, to taste the Sakhari's center. The boy's round, hairless buttocks were enthralling to the hirsute Macouni. Soft pats at first, then more insistent groping at the pink nether cheeks, down to inner thighs and back. Big hands parted Sandren's firm buttocks to expose his last secret place. He was held open in that manner for several long minutes, while the Macouni, silent except for harsh panting, gazed upon his clean, puckered entrance, pulsing in time to his pounding heart. The Macouni leader, fully erect now and ready to be the first to pierce that tender bud, trailed a wet finger trailed down the boy's cleft, teasing his entrance to watch it clench, then moving on, only to return to torment. He pushed gently, not really entering, just testing, and moaned with delight. "It will hold so tight, I will ache afterward," he sighed, eyes closed. The others laughed and drew closer still to the table. "But what a pleasure it will be," added another. "Never again will he be this tight." They fondled their lengthening members with groans and lewd laughter and thrust into their hands. Sandren shook in utter terror and no small amount of fury. He might survive the shame that others (but not he himself, he would assure the priests) had seen his naked body, but he must remain pure for the emir. For the Sakhari. For his own sanity. Rage lent renewed strength to his struggles and he succeeded in wrenching one ankle free from the Macouni too excited to retain his grip. The boy twisted, almost turning over, taking advantage of their momentary surprise. Lashing out, he connected one hard kick with flesh. His leg was quickly re-captured and painfully twisted and held to the table. "No." A voice like thunder disoriented the boy and he nearly fell to the floor when the Macouni released their grip.
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