Dunes of Gor Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Four: The Free Companions

“Hmm.” Daan Shahzad gazed down at the half revealed body, still partially covered in a rug of fine textile weave, though now hideously soaked in blood. “Do you have a good reason for cutting the throat of our metal worker locksmith and hiding his body under a rug?”

“Yes, I do, beloved,” said Reyhan as she stood beside one of the windows, nursing a goblet of ka-la-na to calm her nerves.

“Excellent. I would hate the death of a talented artisan to have been a waste, otherwise.” Daan said nothing more, except to cross the floor of the room, pass into the outer chamber, open the door into the corridor beyond and then call two of his men inside. He took them back through to the personal reception room of his companion and indicated the body.

“Malik died valiantly, saving the life of my companion. His actions are a heartfelt inspiration to us all in these dark times. See that his body is returned to his family. Praise his heroic and selfless actions and pay them the sum of fifty silver tarns in gratitude from the treasury. No, wait, actually twenty-five will do.”

“As you command, Khuda,” said one of the warriors. They set about wrapping the rug around the body and then together they lifted it across their shoulders and carried it out into the corridor.

“Thank you,” said Reyhan, after a while.

“I was hardly going to leave the body here to rot,” said Daan.

“No, I mean, thank you for not even asking why I did it.”

“You are my woman. You are loyal, fierce and I love you. If you killed a man, I trust you did so out of necessity to support your family. Is that so?”

“It is.” Reyhan nodded.

“Then I trust you to have done the right thing. Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

“Serafina is alive,” said Reyhan. “And she is now safe.”

Daan gazed at his woman. “That sounds mysterious. Tell me more. Can I see her?”

“She is in a state of shock, beloved. Come with me now.” Reyhan offered her hand, which Daan took, and then the woman of Al-Quada-a-Dhum led her man through into her personal bed chamber. Kneeling on the floor, in tower, was Serafina Shahzad. She now wore some of her mother’s clothing, and the piercings set in her earlobes and nose had been removed. She held position obediently, because she was kajira. 

“She has put on weight,” said Daan as he gazed at his daughter. “Why does she not say anything?” He began to suspect something was not altogether right. 

“I have commanded her to silence until you have questions,” said Reyhan.

“I wish she was always this dutiful,” said Daan as he approached the young girl. “Normally she won’t shut up. What is going on? How did you find her? Something about this worries me now.”

“As well it might, beloved. There is no easy way to say this, and I have bathed and dressed the girl before you came, because I did not want you to see her as she was when she found my chambers.”

“She came to you? She has been in Al-Quada-a-Dhum?”

“Beloved, our daughter is kajira.” Reyhan placed her hands on Daan’s left forearm in a heartfelt plea. “She is branded with the kef. She has been enslaved.”

“No.”

“It is true, beloved, though I would pay any price that it not be so. The kef marks her left thigh. She is no longer free.”

“No. I do not know why you say this, Reyhan. Why do you try and hurt me with this lie? Have I not suffered enough? You lie.” 

Reyhan fought back fresh tears. She turned to Tupa and said a single word as she clicked her fingers. “Obeisance.” Instantly the girl dropped to all fours, resting her weight on the palms of her hands. Then, without further command, she lowered herself onto her elbows and forearms, lowering her head until it was pressed to the tiles before her father. “Bara,” said Reyhan, the tears now welling in her eyes. Tupa fell to her stomach, her head still down, and then turned to the left, crossing her wrists and ankles, with legs straight, ready for binding.

“Enough!” cried Daan. “Enough!” 

Reyhan pressed herself to her man and sobbed, her face resting against his chest. “I have already died once, beloved. I do not have your strength anymore.” 

Daan reeled back, his face etched with pain. “I will burn the Sasanis alive for this!” he cried. “All of them!”

“It wasn’t the Sasanis,” said Reyhan as she tried to control her tears. “I know everything now. She is the legal property of Javad Mohsen. He bought her at auction, but he does not know who she is. Her name is Tupa now.”

“Who did this to her?” said Daan. “Who?”

“She… I am sorry, beloved, she did it to herself. She wore slave bells to walk through Brand Street in Tor. She thought it would be naughty and fun. Things happened. She ended up in a slaver house.” And then, as Daan listened, Reyhan told him everything, everything except for Ghadir’s slight role in all of this, for Reyhan understood that in his rage Daan would go and kill Ghadir without asking further questions, and Reyhan was pragmatic enough to understand that right now, with the Landsraad army approaching, they needed Ghadir’s tactical and organisational skills. Ghadir would answer for any part he had played in this, but only after he had saved House Shahzad. 

But then a reckoning would come, and if necessary, the hand that held the knife would be Reyhan’s. She promised herself that.   

Reyhan also spoke nothing of Jaleesa. Tupa had told her that Jaleesa had suffered the humiliation of being auctioned too, but that Ghadir had managed to buy her and return her to the House of Tor, or so she understood. The fact that Jaleesa was indeed safe at home suggested that she had been spared the kef brand and two months of strict slave training under the prompting of the whip. It also suggested to her that Ghadir might have actually tried to help the daughters. Much of Tupa’s story was garbled and unclear. She would have to find out what Ghadir knew, possibly with the application of white hot iron pokers against his skin if she thought he was lying or concealing the truth. If he had in any way demeaned Reyhan’s daughters, he would die slowly and in great pain. Reyhan still had to speak to Jaleesa and hear what she had to say about all of this. What concerned her greatly was that Jaleesa had kept all of this a secret. She had known all this time what had happened to her sister. Why had she not come to her mother? 

“She wore slave bells.” Daan closed his eyes and felt like his world had collapsed around him. “My daughter wore slave bells. There is nothing the Houses of the Landsraad can do to me now that is worse than this.”

“Beloved, listen, she came to me with news. There is a plot against us. A plot involving the Emir and his Sardaukar. Our daughter overheard Javad talking about secret orders to strike at us once we were settled into the Keep and no longer wary. That is why the Emir loaned us fifty Sardaukar, so that we would nestle a viper at our bosom, behind our steep walls.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Daan through gritted teeth. “Nothing matters any more. My daughter wore slave bells. I am dead. Everything I am, everything I was, is dead now. My daughter wore slave bells.” 

“NO, beloved. I need you to be strong.” Reyhan gripped his arms at his side. “You are the head of this great House at this, the time of its greatest crisis, and you DO NOT have the luxury now of giving up. I will NOT allow it. You will be strong and you will do what you have to do so that we may all survive. Do you understand me, Daan? You will be a man, because I cannot be a man. We cannot show weakness now. All hands are raised against us. We stand or we fall.”

“You have always been such a strength to me,” said Daan as he took his companion and kissed her. 

“Men who have not been companioned often do not understand the advantage of companionship with a free woman. They think only of slaves, in their need and lust,” said Reyhan as she softly kissed her man back. “Free women make you stronger. I stand with you in your moments of doubt.”

“You have always done that, Reyhan. I love you more than you will ever know. And I will not let you down, now, or ever.” Daan kissed his woman again. “I want you, Reyhan. I want you very much now. To the couch, woman.”

Reyhan stroked Daan’s cheek and whispered, “send Tupa into another room. She should not see this.”

“She is just a slave,” said Daan. 

“Please, beloved. Send her into another room.”

Daan nodded and turned to his daughter where she still lay in Bara position, not having dared to move. “Go the slave room in this suite, kajira. Chain yourself to the ankle ring.” There was anger in his voice as he looked at what had been his proud eldest daughter. She had shamed him, shamed his house, shamed his woman, and shamed her sister. There were tears welling in Tupa’s eyes as she hurried to her feet and left the bed chamber as ordered – banished by her father.     

With Tupa gone, Reyhan began to undress herself. She had more practise in doing so than an un-companioned woman might, as there were many nights when she would be alone with her man. She peeled away the layers of garments until she stood before Daan in just her knee length underslip of brushed silk. This was very different fabric to slave silk, but it too was soft and kind to a woman’s skin and pleasant for the touch of a man. She permitted him to gaze at her like this for a while and, as he motioned with his hand, she turned slowly round, lifted her arms up into her hair and gazed back at him over her shoulder. She shook her hair loose from its arrangement of pins and ran her fingers through the dark locks. She flexed one foot and turned completely round, hoping she still pleased him.

“To the couch,” said Daan. 

Reyhan went to the couch and lay on it, on her back, with her hands straight at her sides. She gazed up at the ceiling and slowly parted her thighs. She still wore the silk underslip which covered much of her body, though her arms were now bare. Beside the foot of the couch, Daan undressed, his eyes gazing at the semi-clad body of his woman. He was already aroused by the time he threw the last of his garments on the floor, and as he climbed onto the broad couch beside Reyhan, and as he began to stroke her bare legs, brushing the slip further up her thighs, he grew harder still. Reyhan gasped as she felt his touch for the first time in a week, for Daan had been busy, too busy even to enjoy many of his slaves. The touch of his hand to her skin made her part her thighs even more, and as she felt the silk slip drawn up around her hips and folded there, she breathed deeply, but remembered not to look directly into his eyes, but to look up at the ceiling. She felt his lips on hers as he ran his hands over the silk covering her breasts, reminding himself of her body. Reyhan gripped the head board of the couch, keeping her hands well away from the cast iron slave ring that was fixed there, and she cried out as Daan entered her with a deep thrust. It felt so good. She needed his touch. A week had been too long for her. Reyhan made small gasping noises, trying to control herself, as Daan continued to thrust and touch her through the silk slip. Now, while he put her to use, he did not insult her by touching her bare skin. In free companionship a man either touched his woman’s bare skin, or he penetrated her, but never both simultaneously. That would perhaps be too much for a free woman to endure and would be a shameful exploitation of her body while she was in such a sensitive state. Free women were not slaves after all. They had to be handled delicately, gently, with respect. Daan was maybe a little rougher with her than he should have been, but he did not handle her the way he would a slave girl.  

“I love you, my beloved,” cried Reyhan as she felt him drive harder still, rocking the solid frame of the couch as she clung desperately to the headboard, fearful that she might touch him by accident if her hands weren’t occupied. It would be wrong for a free woman to touch and caress her man while she was penetrated. It might signify slave-like excitement and an uncontrollable desire to arouse him further. It might suggest she was a wanton slut at best, or have slave feelings at worst. She moaned and tried to control and limit her feelings. But it had been a week! Possibly longer! Daan knew Reyhan enough to know when his woman was coming dangerously close to an orgasm, and he paid her the kindness of slowing down and pausing, allowing her arousal to subside before she was anywhere near that dangerous point. It would not do for a free woman to lose herself in orgasm. That would be humiliating for her. A kind companion would ensure that the woman was never driven to that point. And so, Daan allowed Reyhan to simmer back to an acceptable level before he continued again. Hearing her gasps, he was well aware that she remained in control of her body. But then when the tremors increased in her body, and he saw she was building back to orgasm far too soon, he finished quickly and withdrew in time, having taken his pleasure from her body. 

“You did well, woman,” he said, having saved Reyhan from disgracing herself. She had perhaps come dangerously close, but Daan was kind enough not to remark on it. He loved her after all. He watched as Reyhan wrapped her arms about her chest and lay there, trembling, painfully unfulfilled but still aroused. Her breathing was ragged as she now looked at him. “I hope I gave you pleasure, beloved,” she said.

“You did. Much pleasure. You served me well, Reyhan.” He kissed her softly on the forehead. “And you did not shame yourself.” It was a kindness that he said that. He knew she had come close. He would have to be more careful next time. Perhaps not touch her quite so much through the silk slip. He had been greedy and careless in his use of her. Reyhan rolled onto her side, still crossing her arms about her breasts, and as she did, she drew her knees up slightly towards her. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself down. There was such a burning need still between her legs, but she needed to calm that. The sex was over. She had pleased her man. That was enough.     

She thought of her daughter, and how she had looked in the pleasure silk, and the collar and the earrings. Tupa’s body was now similar to Reyhan’s own in size and weight. Chained, collared and placed in pleasure silk and slave bells, Reyhan would look much the same. A collared and silken kajira of course would rarely be denied an orgasm. They were not expected to maintain their dignity on a couch. She breathed hard as she willed her body back to normal. 

You are a free woman, she thought to herself. You are a free woman. You are a free woman.