The Forbidden Tablets free porn video

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

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A huge trove of clay tablets was recently found buried at the site of an ancient village in the Arabian desert. Archeologists and anthropologists were ecstatic to find such an intact record of tribal history. All but eight of those tablets have been translated and published for use in universities. Eight of the tablets, however, were deemed to be unsuitable for study. They are known as The Forbidden Tablets or The Forbidden Story because the eight, taken together, are all part of one story.

The following is a translation of the story found on those eight tablets. Perhaps after reading this you will understand why those who found the tablets kept this particular story hidden.

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Tablet One

I don’t know when I first started hating Amira. I feel as if I have hated her all of my life. My time has gone completely around the circle of time almost twice and my hatred for her has been with me while both the tip of the shadow and the night sands measured my life. I became a maiden shortly after the twelfth hour of my life was proclaimed by the dawn of my second day of years. My years can now see the approach of a new dawn where the shadow will once again appear on the wheel and still I hate Amira more than anything else in my life.

Not that there is all that much to hate in my life. I am, after all, one of the Royal Princesses. I am third in line to the throne of Queen Zara– actually second now that Malika, heir to the throne, has disgraced herself.

She was found in the bed of a Nubian by the palace guards. Being in someone’s bed was not a disgrace. The Queen and her daughters may choose whomever they wish to bed. If a child results and she is a female, she is raised with the princesses. If the child is a male, he is trained to lead the army. The army is absolutely loyal, but that is to be expected. There is no threat that a mere man might rise up against the Queen. The men may have power and weapons, but only a woman may sit on the throne of the Thamud people.

The problem with this particular Nubian is that he was a known assassin and Malika, named as a Queen from her birth, was not seeking a child. Under the threat of a very painful death, the Nubian confessed all. He shook in his chains as he screamed out that Amira was paying for the death of her mother, Queen Zara.

In many of the tribes, such treachery would have resulted in an immediate death sentence, but Life does not belong to us. We cannot take life except as needed in battle. Queen Zara decreed that Malika, meaning queen, is now named Zienab, flower of the desert. That name has been written in her skin across her breasts along with our word for traitor. And she has been given to the Nubian as a wife along with a significant dowry and a warning to never come into Thamud lands again.

Zienab was, in reality, the Nubian’s punishment. If he does not care for her or divorces her, the Queen will hear of it and send for him. Regardless of his actions at that point, the Queen’s men will report that he attacked them or attempted to flee or whatever and they were forced to kill him. Our laws forbid the taking of life, but there are always ways around the laws of our people.

Changing Malika’s name was not a mere whim of the Queen. Names are very important in our culture. The Queen’s firstborn daughter is always named Malika, Queen. The next female child is named Amira, Princess. The third is named whatever the Queen feels is correct when she first holds her. Queen Zara must have been thinking of the flowers of the field when she held me because she called me Nawra, bloom or flower.

Tablet Two

There was a great sickness when Zara was a young girl. Many of her sisters died. Then her mother died and she became Queen. She has ruled now for many, many years, but her life has gone around the circle at least four times. She is starting to show the wear of time.

The years are also showing on this Bloom, but unlike the desert flowers which appear in one day and are gone the next, the Flower that is me is very durable... and patient. I can wait until the circle of time finally ends for Queen Zara. And by the time that occurs, the Princess will also have been disgraced and eliminated.

Malika was a fool to use her body to attempt to buy her mother’s death. Bedding such an evil and powerful man made her intentions obvious. She was easily discovered and disgraced. No one notices– or at least no one cares– that I bed older men... men without power... men without strength... men who have nothing to give me... ... except jewels and trinkets.

Jewels and trinkets, however, can be turned into gold coins. And gold coins can buy anything. It has taken a long time... and many gold coins... to put my plan into action. Men– and even in some cases women– were bribed to bribe a second man who paid a third man to do some little favor for me.

The first favor, of course, was to lure Malika to the Nubian’s bed. The despicable assassin was quite willing to accidentally meet her and then slowly draw her under his spell. “I just need to use a different knife,” he replied with a laugh when he was well-paid in advance for his work.

A second favor was from a palace servant who put seven Bedouin coins I had given her in the bottom of Amira’s personal chest. I haven’t seen the bottom of my bed chest for years, neither has Amira, but seven coins are the symbol of a covenant treaty for the Bedouins. The seven gold coins in her chest would be proof of her plotting with the Bedouins against the Queen.

Another favor was purchased from the tribal shaman. It is known that he is a weak and corrupt man, but when he goes into his trances, he can speak of the future with great certainty. And what he says is almost always right. A vision is a powerful thing. The vision itself can bring about what it foretells. If the Shaman begins to see bad things for the tribe or weakness in the Queen, it could bring about what he claims to see.

The lecherous old goat wanted more than money. He said it was foretold that he would receive a Queen’s daughter in his bed before he died. So he was sent a written promise from Amira that she would bed him the day the Queen fell.

The final favor was requested from a known assassin from within our own tribe. He was a man known to easily take life and that caused him to have to live as an outcast among us. But he did live among us. And despite his despicable character, he was a devoted servant of the Queen. I knew that he would report everything to the Queen. He would even give her the tablet on which was written– and sealed with Amira’s own thumbprint– the instructions of when and where to commit the assassination.

That was the hardest part of my plan– getting Amira to press her thumb into a blank tablet. Putting your seal on something is not a little thing. Your seal was your promise... your pledge... your very soul.

I would never have been able to do it, but for some reason the Queen wanted me to learn how to read and write. Normally something such as that was beneath a royal daughter, but the village shaman had dreamed a dream that the prosperity of the kingdom depended upon me learning to read and write the little stabs and slices the scribes put into the clay of their tablets. Writing was, for some reason, important to him. There were ancient tablets which he kept in his hovel of a home that supposedly told the true history of our tribe and foretold our future.

One day, while Amira and I were alone in the royal bedrooms, I pretended to be practicing my writing. I made it obvious I was having great problems with something. Finally I threw down my hands in frustration. “I can’t get it right!” I cried out. “No matter how I try, my seal ends up just a smudge in the clay.”

Amira laughed that light, silvery laugh which so irritates me and said, “I’ll show you how to do it properly.” She then gently pressed her thumb against the bottom of a blank tablet I handed her. “See,” she said, “you have to press very gently and roll your thumb from side to side to make the proper seal.”

I pretended to scrape that slate clean, but what I scraped was the one I had been practicing on. When Amira left the room, I wrote the letter to the assassin that she had unknowingly sealed with her own thumb.

I knew it would not be long after that, and this morning a royal proclamation was announced throughout the village and the nearby lands. “This very afternoon, at the beginning of the fourth watch of the day, the Queen will sit in judgement of another traitor.”

Tablet Three

My plans were coming together. By nightfall, Amira would join her disgraced sister. I could barely eat at noon, and sleep during the third watch rest period was all but impossible.

The trumpet declaring the beginning of the fourth watch finally sounded. I, all of my sisters, my aunts, and all my female cousins, were seated beneath the royal awning. A few rich merchants and high-ranking officers of the army sat beneath a smaller awning. The late afternoon sun threw long shadows out into the small arena which was used for many things, but most importantly as an open court where the Queen would sit in judgement of criminals.

As the trumpet echoed it call, the Queen emerged from the castle with her elite guard. Rather than walking directly to her throne, which was shaded by its own awning, she walked out into the open area and addressed her daughters.

“Daughters of mine,” she began, “I gave birth to fourteen children during my fertile years. Two died, four were males, leaving eight as heirs to the throne.”

Her voice broke slightly as she continued, “Recently I was forced to banish my oldest daughter from this realm because she could not wait for my time to make its final circle on the wheel. Today, I have been given proof that a second heir, another child of my own body, has acted treasonously against me and our tribe. The evidence against her is overwhelming. There is no doubt of her guilt. We are met here today not to judge her guilt or innocence, but rather to determine her punishment.”

She looked up at me. Her eyes were full of sadness as she said, “Nawra, my precious desert bloom, you are my third child and since the treason and banishment of Malika, you are second in line to my throne. The seer of our tribe says that you are blessed with special gifts and will be with our tribe for many years. So, daughter of mine, what should the punishment be for this grievous act of treason by one of my children?”

She motioned for me to come down and stand before the gathering while she, herself, took her seat beneath her golden awning. Two slaves with feather fans stood beside her to provide a gentle breeze as I spoke.

“Beloved Queen, my mother,” I began, “you must decree a severe and public punishment that will be spoken of within the tribe for generations to come. Only in this way will you cut off thoughts of treachery before those seeds blossom into treasonous actions.”

The crowd, including my sisters and cousins murmured in approval. I could see Amira’s head bob as she, too, agreed with my severe words. Watching her sitting there completely oblivious of the web I had woven around her filled me with such happiness. I would finally have my revenge against the one I hated most.

I don’t know that I had ever thought about what punishment Amira should or would receive once my trap was sprung. Normally someone adjudged guilty of treason is publicly punished in some symbolic fashion and then banished. But I wanted more than banishment for Amira. And my hatred demanded more than a symbolic punishment. As I looked out at my sisters it all came into focus in my head as if it were a vision.

“The traitor’s punishment,” I continued, “should begin here, now, today. Immediately after her condemnation is announced, she should be stripped naked and made to stand before the Queen as the totality of her crimes are clearly stated for the tribe to hear.”

I pointed to the officers of the army and said, “Her brothers should then hold her in place and administer a flogging of forty lashes plus one.”

Normally a flogging was forty lashes minus one to guarantee that the law was not broken by forty-one lashes accidentally being given. Only in the case of the most grievous crimes was the full forty lashes administered with a trusted officer of the army carefully calling out the count. Forty plus one was reserved as a symbol in those very rare cases where the crime was exceptionally heinous and deserved a much more serious punishment.

I paused and my sisters all leaned slightly forward waiting for what I would say next. I felt a warm glow, almost as if I were with a gentle lover, as I stated the next part of the punishment. “After all gathered have heard her screams,” I said firmly, “she should be tied to the back of a jackass and paraded in shame through all the streets of our village.”

There was a collective gasp from the crowd. The parade of shame was normally only done for women who had seduced another’s husband or for prostitutes who refused to wear the paints and colors of their profession.

For the parade of shame, a woman was laid naked on the back of an ass. She would be face up with her ankles tied to the donkey’s front collar. In order to fit on the small animal’s back, she was then pushed as far forward as possible. This would force her legs to be spread wide with her knees almost alongside the ass’s head.

Once pushed forward with her legs spread, the unfortunate woman’s head would now be riding just above the animal’s furry tail. To hold her in place, her arms would be pulled beneath her and tied tightly together under the donkey’s haunches. If it were a jenny, that was not a great problem, but if she were tied on a jack, as I had specified, then her hands– or at least the ropes– would be against his genitals and the animal would buck and jump about with any struggle on her part. Such bucking and jumping would, of course, cause her to be displayed even more lewdly as she struggled to stay on the animal’s back.

When the woman was paraded through the village, she was slowly taken down each side street from the main street to the edge of the village. When the street ended, she was turned around and taken back up the street to the opposite end where she would once again be turned around and brought back to the main street. That meant that she was effectively paraded down each and every street in town twice.

The members of the tribe were forbidden to throw anything which would hurt or kill the woman, but rotted fruits, eggs, and manure were allowed. Technically, human excrement was not to be thrown, but shit is shit and often what was thrown came from the night soil bags gathered from the streets and byways by poor farmers for their fields.

“She should then,” I continued, “be taken to the army barracks and cleaned off in the trough at the end of the street. After she is clean enough, she should be tied to the rail where the horses are normally tied and left there for the soldiers to use until the sun of a new day shines on her naked body.

“In the morning, the prostitutes of the town should come and clean her up as they would one of their own. They should then paint her face as they would their own and use henna to write the words ‘traitor’, ‘treason,’ and ‘slut,’ all over her body.”

I found that I was trembling, almost as if I were going to climax as I continued, “And then they should put a collar around her neck and lead her back here to the place of judgement where you will officially ban her from the village.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I finished with “Her brothers should march beside her as she walks out of the village, the rope of slavery still hanging from the collar on her neck.”

Only once before in our history– long, long, ago– had someone been banished naked into the wilderness. In that case it was one of the daughters who had fallen in love with a general from an opposing army. The reason for the war was not carried down with the stories, neither was who won, but part of the final peace treaty was that the daughter, Takisha, was stripped naked, her total body shaved, and she was driven out of the village. Her general stood waiting for her a short distance down the road as she walked in shame and silence. No one has been named Takisha– healthy and alive– since that time.

Table Four

I stood, panting heavily, as I waited for my mother the Queen to tell me to return to my seat. My four brothers were already standing with me, ready to receive Amira for punishment. I looked directly at my sister and sneered in triumph. Today all my hatred would be satisfied.

I watched as her eyes, and the eyes of all my sisters, suddenly opened wide in surprise. Two of my brothers had grabbed my hands and pulled tightly outward. One of the other two moved to stand before me, the other behind me. They each reached up and grabbed my robes.

The fabric was no match for these strong soldiers. My robe tore loudly as they pulled it from my body. With surprising swiftness, they removed my scarves and underclothing and then all of my jewelry. They even removed the braided tie from my hair so that it was now hanging fully down my back.

I was too shocked to be embarrassed by my nakedness, but somehow the idea of my hair being undone in public caused the heat of shame to come to my body.

“Nawra,” the Queen said loudly, “you have be found guilty of crimes against your Queen and your sisters and our tribe.”

She rose from her royal throne and came down to stand directly in front of me. “I first became aware that something was wrong when Amira came to me and said that someone had placed seven Bedouin coins in her bed chest.” She chuckled. “One of Amira’s weaknesses, in this case, proved to be a strength. Everything must be so neat and exact for her. Whoever removed her clothing from the chest did not put it back exactly as it had been.”

She turned slightly so she could look at Amira and continued. “I would not have noticed such a little difference. But Amira did and she found the coins. ‘Why would someone do this?’ she asked me, and I told her about the tradition of making a treaty with the Bedouins. To seal the treaty you exchange seven golden coins.”

The Queen turned back to face me. “You knew that,” she said firmly, “but you evidently didn’t know that the coins had to have the image of the current king or queen on them. Two of the coins were old, and the Bedouin King is young.” She paused. Her voice became almost bitter. “That was your first mistake.”

She pointed her finger at me and said sternly, “Your second mistake was assuming that just because a man is an amoral pig he is also disloyal. The Shaman came to me as soon as you approached him in an attempt to buy his visions with money and the promise of sex.”

She looked down at the ground. “He wanted me to know,” she said slowly, “that his visions of the coming end of my reign were true visions and that he had not succumbed to the offer of Amira’s body.”

She laughed. It was not a laugh of joy or happiness, but of resignation. “If Amira had not already come to me with the golden coins, I might have believed it was actually her, but...” She let her voice trail off.

Her voice suddenly became loud and harsh. “Then,” she almost growled out, “the village assassin came to me with a tablet sealed with Amira’s seal. Again, just because he is an outcast, it does not mean he is not loyal. I knew then that whoever was behind all this was very, very clever, and very, very ruthless.”

She snapped around and looked at a group of court scribes gathered near the army officers. “I took the tablet to the chief scribe and asked him if he could tell me which scribe had written it. At first he said that it was not possible to tell because each scribe is taught to make the same exact marks. But I insisted he look at the tablet. He studied it for but a brief moment and then said with confidence, ‘None of my scribes wrote this.’ He then pointed to the marks and said, ‘You see here where it gives your name as the one to be killed. Whoever wrote this used the common marks for queen, not the royal marks which are used only when referring to you.’”

She spun back and stood so that she was nearly touching my face with hers. “I knew then,” she said sadly, “who was behind all of this. I asked Amira if she had ever put her seal on one of your tablets. She told me how you tricked her into giving you her seal on an unwritten tablet. She thought you had cleared the clay, but instead you filled it in with instructions to the assassin. Unfortunately for you, you haven’t had enough experience with the marks to know that there is a difference between queen and Queen.”

She stepped back slightly and continued in a more normal tone of voice. “You have named your own punishment,” she said firmly. “I make only two modifications to what you have proclaimed. The flogging will be with a whip of cords rather than the leather normally used. And you will not be banished naked. In fact, you will not be banished at all. Instead you will be taken naked to the Shaman’s house and will be tied to the post outside his door where sacrificial animals are tied in the days before our yearly sacrifice. He will take you as his slave but shall treat you as his wife.”

Her voice dropped slightly as she told me, “And you shall treat him as your husband and willingly give your body to him as often as he desires.”

A smile came to her face as she finished with, “But since our precious Shaman needs his afternoon time for quiet meditation, each afternoon, you will stand outside the Shaman’s door, naked except for your collar and tie yourself to his post. Should any ask you why you are there, you will reply, ‘Because I betrayed my Queen, Zara, and my future Queen, Amira, and am now no better than the lowest animal.’ You will do that until that statement is no longer true. After that you will not have to tie yourself to the post, but you will still stand naked at the Shaman’s door each afternoon.”

She then turned and walked back to her throne. As she walked away, she said loudly, “Let the punishment begin.”

Tablet Five

The two brothers holding my arms pulled even tighter. It felt like I was going to be torn apart. Then the first blow fell. Leather would have cut my skin. Knotted cords would have bruised so badly that the flesh would bleed. Plain cords inflicted no less pain, but they were less likely to reduce my back to bloody flesh.

I screamed with the first blow and danced in place. As the second blow fell, I tried to pull away. The brother holding the whip behind me said something and two soldiers ran up and knelt on one knee in front of me. They each removed a leather strap from their bootlaces and wrapped it several times around my ankle and the ankle of the brother holding my arm. When my brothers pulled their legs back and once again pulled on my arms, I was held tightly in a naked X.

“The count is two,” a loud voice said from behind me. Then the whip fell again. Once again I screamed, but I could no longer dance on my feet or try to pull away. All I could do was scream, “No, No, No!”

By the tenth blow, I could no longer form words. My screams merged together into one long, continuous sound.

By the twentieth blow, I no longer pulled against my brothers. Evidently my body realized that it could not escape.

Even my voice had left me before they finally reached forty plus one. If my brothers had not been holding me, I would have collapsed to the ground. I looked up at where my sisters were seated. I expected to see Amira’s gloating face. Instead she was crying. Her head was tilted forward and her tears were dropping to her lap.

I vaguely felt myself being lifted. The leather which bound my ankles to my brothers was removed. A different leather took its place, tied as tight or even tighter. I was now on my back. My arms were being pulled down and leather straps were being used to tie my hands tightly together.

It was not until the donkey began to buck and kick that I realized where I was. I was on the back of a jackass with my legs spread wide and my sex visible to all. “You have to keep your hands still,” a stern voice said. “If you don’t, he will buck you off and you will end up under him. You could even get thrown completely off and trampled if he gets out of control.”

The donkey began to move. I didn’t know who was leading it, but they were walking very slowly as I was led around the open area at the place of judgement. No one in the crowd had anything to throw, but news of my punishment would spread quickly and the people of the streets would have time to hurriedly gather their eggs and fruit and manure.

I was wrong. Many of the commoners had come prepared. Rotting fruit and excrement is hard to carry, but rotten eggs carry easily in a scarf or bag as long as you are careful. I don’t know what was worse, the pain as the egg hit my body or the smell which immediately engulfed me.

It was like being stoned with soft stones. The eggs broke when they struck my skin, but they still hurt. I screamed as someone made a direct hit on my breast. Then I realized that some of the eggs were landing more softly, but directly on my stomach. The women were lobbing the eggs up high so they would come directly down on my body. I wondered why they would do that. My question was soon answered when one egg hit directly between my legs.

My scream was more of surprise than pain, but the crowd cheered anyway. We were now moving out of the place of judgement onto the main street. Most of the homes were at most one story with an area on the roof to seek relief from the heat at night or bathe during the day. The shops along main street, however, were two stories with the shopkeepers living upstairs. The areas on the roofs of these buildings were high above my head and I could see faces leaning over the parapets and smiling. In their hands they held fruit so rotten it barely held together. The fruit was made even more foul smelling by mixing it with the deposits from the chamber pots found in the water closets on those roofs. There was no real pain as the noxious mixture splatted against my stomach or even when it hit between my legs, but I screamed none-the-less.

We turned onto the first street. There were only nine streets in our village. When you counted the nine cross streets that meant a total of eighteen streets through which I would be paraded twice. A blob of manure hit me on my neck. A small portion splashed into my mouth. I struggled to spit it out and finally did, but I could not rid my mouth of the taste. From that point on, I did not scream– at least not with my mouth open.

I heard one of the accompanying soldiers cry out “Not allowed!” I looked toward his voice and saw a young man drop a stone onto the ground. With my brothers guarding me, at least I would be spared that pain. We turned at the end of the street and went back to the main street. There was less thrown at me now, but it appears that many had held back their eggs for my return trip. The thudding of the eggs against my filth-covered body was almost continuous. I don’t know if I was becoming numb or the layer of filth helped protect me from the impact, but the eggs seemed to hurt much less than they did while I was leaving the place of judgement.

I shortly lost track of where we were. We could be on the fifth street or the tenth. Perhaps my mind no longer cared. Someone made a direct hit to my face with a particularly noxious mixture of filth and I vomited over the side of the donkey. One of the soldiers shouted something and the woman leading the donkey stopped. The rain of filth and eggs also stopped. The soldier stepped up alongside me and wiped the filth from my eyes. He poured water across my face to clear my eyes and nose. He then offered me some to drink.

“It is best to rinse your mouth first, then drink,” he said softly.

I did as he instructed and spit out the first mouthful of water. I then drank several mouthfuls before he pulled the water skin back and shouted out, “Resume.”

Tablet Six

I still didn’t know where I was, but we turned around only five more times before we came to a stop in front of the army barracks. I knew what would happen next. I was the one who had ordered it. I had not said who was supposed to clean me up, and I was surprised when a group of prostitutes untied the leather holding me on the ass and walked / carried me over to the large trough normally used by the soldiers to wash themselves at the end of the day. They had already done so and the water was slick and murky.

Luckily, I had time to take a deep breath before they dropped me into the trough and pushed my head under the water. The women used old rags and several rough sponges to clean the filth from my body. Then they pulled me out of the water and pulled me over to the low rail the soldiers used to tie their horses. Using the leather that had bound me to the donkey, they tied my wrists wide apart so that my breasts were pulled tight against the rail. Then they added additional ties between my elbows and shoulders so that I was unable to pull away from the rail even a little. Once I was firmly secured, they began to wipe my body with a scented oil.

“This ointment contains special herbs from secret places in the desert.” one of them whispered. “We use a little of it when we need to be more enthusiastic for our patrons.” She giggled softly and added, “But this is more than any one of us would use in a year.”

As she was whispering, I could feel her hands sliding between my legs and into my slit as she pushed a large glob of the thick oil into my cunt. She also filled my ass crack with the oil and then pushed some of it through my rosebud with her finger. I didn’t intend to do so, but I moaned as she did so and pushed back against her finger and she pumped it in and out pushing more and more of the thick oil inside me.

“By morning,” she whispered to me, “you will be known as a whore of whores.”

I didn’t know what she meant, but as the women walked away I could feel a fire building from deep within me. Several of the men came out of the barracks to stand around me. The fire was overwhelming my body and my mind. I couldn’t help myself.

“Fuck me!” I screamed. “I need you to fuck me!”

I continued to scream “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” as man after man plunged into me from behind. I even continued my chant when one of the soldiers chose my rear opening rather than my cunt. I only quit crying out when one of them pushed his prick into my mouth. I suckled him like I was a yearling calf, and all the while I suckled, my head was bobbing up and down his shaft as I was driven forward and back by the man pounding himself into my ass.

I don’t know how many men were in the barracks, but each of them had me at least twice before they went inside to sleep, leaving me alone in the darkness. Several other men, perhaps not even soldiers, made use of me through the night as I continued to moan, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

Near dawn two women, most likely prostitutes, stopped by. One of them laughed lightly and said, “This will remove the effects of the oils.” She laughed again and then added, “But you might not like it.”

She pushed something into my mouth that tasted like the wild garlic which grows down by the river. She also pushed something into my cunt and ass. Whatever she put in my cunt immediately began quelling the fires which were burning within me. But what she put in my ass began fires of its own. She had figged me!

The ginger root soon warmed and began to exude its oils which burned like fire within me. I was screaming once again, but now I was screaming for help. The women laughed and ran off into the grayness of first light.

One of the soldiers, I think he was part of the night watch, came running to my cries. “My ass!, My ass!,” I cried out. “Take it out of my ass!”

He smiled at me and said, “If it comes out, something else will go in.”

“Anything,” I cried back. “Anything, just pull it out!”

He stepped around behind me and pulled the carved root out of my ass. He then reached into my cunt and pulled out a similar root. His hands were now on my back and I could feel him lining himself up with my asshole.

He slammed himself forward, but my sphincter was closed tight from the ginger root. “How can you be tight as a virgin after taking on so many men through the night?” he asked loudly.

He grunted and pushed harder. I was amazed that I had any voice left, but my screams filled the dawn as he drove himself into me. I was no longer shouting, “Fuck me!” Instead I was screaming, “Stop! Please stop! Please, Please, Stop!”

Two guards were standing in front of me laughing, but they were pointing not at me, rather they were pointing at my ravisher. They whooped with laughter as he suddenly screamed out, “She’s a demon! I’m on fire.”

He pulled out from me with a loud pop and stood dancing up and down and holding his prick and balls.

“It’s not the root, goat brain,” one of the guards called out. “It’s the oils in the root.”

The other guard laughed and added, “Only a fool would put his prick in a recently figged asshole.”

The both continued to laugh as the man stood at the trough and tried desperately to wash the fire out of his crotch.

Tablet Seven

A soft voice spoke next to me. It was one of the village prostitutes. “Time to get you cleaned up,” she said gently as she began to untie the leather which bound me to the rail.

I had trouble standing up once I was free. My muscles were cramped and sore. My whole body was sore.

“If you fight us,” the woman said, “we will have the guards tie you up again.”

I looked at her and nodded. There was no fight left in me.

“Spread you legs,” she said firmly, “and hold your arms out to your sides.”

Two of the other women began smearing a foul-smelling cream all over my body.

“This will hurt a bit,” she said, “but it is the easiest way to remove the hair from your body.”

I whimpered as the cream attacked my skin. It was like when I had been burned by the sun, only many times greater. Somehow I didn’t scream. Maybe I was screamed out. After what seemed like a third of the watch, someone poured a bucket of cold water over my head and the women began wiping off the cream with coarse rags.

I looked down at my body. It was obvious that all of my body hair was gone. It looked like at least the top layer of my skin was also gone.

“The removal of hair from your body is because you have become a slave wife,” the head prostitute said. A slave wife was the lowest a woman could be in our culture. It was lower even that the lowest of prostitutes.

“The removal of hair from your head is because your former life is now totally lost to you,” she added as one of the women began to hack away at my hair with a sharp razor. Once my hair was cut down almost to my scalp, a bucket of hot water was brought out and placed at my feet. Another of the women dipped a small brush into the water and began to move it rapidly against a cake of soft soap of some sort. She then began to lather that soap across my head.

A free woman of some sort stepped forward with a bright, shiny razor. “Don’t move or I may cut you,” she said brusquely. Then she started shaving my head.

When she was finished, she ran her fingers over my eyebrows and said, “I would have removed these too, but the Queen is feeling merciful.”

“I’m not,” the head prostitute said as she personally smeared some of the foul-smelling cream on my now bald head. She smiled cruely as she carefully smeared the cream through my eyebrows. My screaming voice returned as the cream ate into my scalp. After several minutes, she used a small wooden stick that was shaped like a razor to remove all the cream from my head. The stick also removed my eyebrows and any little hairs on my head which the razor had missed.

“I would rather have you in my parlor,” a female voice said from behind me, “but this will have to do.”

She then instructed me to stand still and began painting my lips and face with the paints which were normally worn by the village prostitutes. Once my face was dry, she started on my body with henna ink and a small brush. Soon the words which I had declared– traitor, treason, and slut– were written in various sizes all over my body. I couldn’t see what she had painted, but I had no doubt that the words were also on my face.

“Now,” the head prostitute said firmly, “we take you to the Shaman.”

He was standing in front of his house waiting for us when the procession of women brought me to his door. “Tie her to the post as she foretold,” he said firmly. “And then leave,” he added much more softly.

I stood at the post weeping. The Shaman had affixed a bronze mirror to the post so I could see every detail of my body. The prostitute’s face paint was such that my tears ran down my cheeks without disturbing the thick white coating that covered my face. The bright red around my mouth went beyond the edges of my lips and formed a silly-looking smile even when my mouth was slightly down. Across my forehead in the same red as my lips was the word, “Traitor.” Across my chest, just above my breasts, it said in big letters, “Treason.” On my stomach in even bigger letters it proclaimed, “Slut.” After last night, maybe I am. I chose those three words for Amira’s body, but now I know that they apply truly to me. I am a traitor; I have committed treason; and I am a slut.

“What do you see in the mirror?” the Shaman asked.

“Myself,” I replied. “A slut and a traitor.”

“Which is your new name?” he asked.

“Both” I replied dejectedly.

“Neither,” he answered flatly. “Your new name is Redeemed.”

“How can that be my name?” I said bitterly.

“As the husband of a slave wife, I have the right to give her a new name,” he replied. “I choose to call you Redeemed, for you will redeem yourself and become a precious part of this tribe.”

“How?”

“It has been many generations since this tribe has had a female Shaman,” he continued. “Perhaps that is because females are no longer taught to read and cannot study the ancient tablets.” His chuckle became a raspy cough, “And what female would be willing to live with, and study under, a randy old goat such as myself?”

Tablet Eight

So began my apprenticeship to the Shaman. He taught me how to go within myself and watch for visions as I stood naked tied to his post. He also taught me how to correctly interpret the ancient tablets hidden in the floor of his hut. As the months passed, he taught me how to interpret the signs in the sky... and in people.

As the Shaman had foretold, Queen Zara soon joined her mother in the world beyond. Amira became Queen. Shortly after her coronation, she summoned me to the place of judgement. I told the Shaman that she was surely going to banish me or worse, but he said that different things were foretold.

When we got to the place of judgment, all of the sisters were there. Most of the important women from the village were also there as well as many of the officers of the army. The Shaman led me into the center of the arena and turned me so that I was facing Amira– now Queen Amira.

The arena was totally quiet as I stood and faced her. “You who were once a daughter of the Queen,” she began, “I have summoned you here for final judgement.”

My heart dropped. I would be banished... or worse.

“My judgement is this,” she said firmly. “You have been punished. You have been redeemed. If you pledge your undying loyalty to me and to my descendants, you shall be forgiven.”

I dropped to my knees. As I did, I suddenly realized that I had seen this many years before. As a small child I had seen this and knew it was a vision of the future. I knew that someday I would be kneeling naked in the dust in front of Amira. That is why I had hated her so much. My vision brought about my hate and my hate brought me to this day making the vision true.

I leaned forward and placed the palms of my hands on the ground in front of me. “My Queen,” I said, “this moment was foretold many years ago. I pledge to you and your descendants my life, my loyalty, and my service.”

“Rise, Redeemed,” she said loudly. “I accept your pledge. You are forgiven. When the time comes for the Shaman to leave the wheel of life, you shall take his place.”

One of my sisters stepped forward with a robe. She held it out to me, but I shook my head. “Forgiven is not forgotten,” I said. Then addressing the Queen I said loudly, “I will be more than your Shaman. My nakedness will be a reminder of what can be lost when we lose sight of our destiny and turn against our sisters.”

“So be it,” the Queen said, and the Shaman and I turned and left the arena.

The next dry season, the Shaman died. That was many years ago. I will soon finish my time on the wheel of life and have trained a young woman to take my place. I write these tablets and seal them with my own thumb so that future daughters will know the true story of The Naked Shaman who stood in the street outside her house each afternoon to search for guidance for her tribe.


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