Be warned! Although this is a Majnun story, unlike most of the others, it is not so soft and romantic but instead explores some of Sapphire’s deepest fantasies rather than my own. Blasphemy and religious play are two of her big kinks and so, if such themes upset you, don’t read on!
This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.
Sapphire’s Ceremony
My name is Safiya and I have a good life. Alhamdulillah, I have been blessed indeed. I am married to a pious and god-fearing man who is the imam in one of the foremost mosques here in Bradford, the most faithful of all cities in predominantly kaffir Britain. My husband is well-known and respected in the community for his adherence to the True Islam, keeping firmly to the ways of the Sunnah and abhorring all bidah and deviance. His sermons are well-attended and, as his wife, I am blessed to live a life that reflects his great piety. Along with my co-wife Zareen – for our husband believes in a good, traditional lifestyle, Alhamdulillah, I never leave the house without my niqab and gloves to protect my awrah, whilst at home I immerse myself in reading the Qur’an and hadiths, and teaching children at his mosque which is adjacent to our home. Indeed, all that is missing from our lives is the gift of children, but, inshallah, we shall not be waiting long. I have only been married for four years and Zareen less than that, and we are young so there is time. No, we are blessed indeed, and all is as it should be.
Or, at least, it was.
Little did I know what demons can lurk around the corner, Audhu billahi min ash shaitan ar rajim!
It was a Thursday morning, very early in the morning. My azan alarm clock had woken me for the Fajr prayer. As our husband is a strict and pious man, he takes turns to sleep with us wives, for the Qur’an states “And if you have reason to fear that you might not act equitably towards orphans, then marry from among [other] women such as are lawful to you – [even] two, or three, or four: but if you have reason to fear that you might not be able to treat them with equal fairness, then only one – or from among those whom you rightfully possess.” So, that night was Zareen’s night and she was lying with our husband and I was alone.
Being alone, I rose, and sleepily made my way into the prayer room. It may sound strange to you that we have a prayer room in the house but, as I said, our husband is a pious man and so it is only right that he provides a room for devotions to Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta’ala. However, when I sleep with him, we usually just pray in the bedroom, but being alone, I like to use the prayer room as it catches the first shafts of morning sun.
Sleepily, I unrolled my mat and performed my devotions automatically, immersing myself in the motions and wondering about the day ahead. Then, when I had finished, I stood up and was about to roll the mat up again when a shadow on the wall caught my eye. I turned around to see a man standing in the prayer room.
A man that was not my husband!
I was about to scream when this masked man grabbed me and put a damp pad of cloth over my face. There must have been something in it for, within seconds, I felt myself going limp and drifting away into the world of slumber.
I awoke in a room. Where this room was, I could not say, but it was not my prayer room. Indeed, it was not any room that I had ever set foot in before. As my head cleared, I looked around. The walls were made of stone and, at one end was a small arched window such as one might find in a mediaeval castle. The room had a stone floor too and the only furniture was the bed that I was lying on and a small Christian crucifix with the Prophet Isa shamefully depicted hanging almost naked on the cross. “Audhu billahi min ash shaitan ar rajim!” I whispered to myself to steady my nerves.
I got up. I was in the clothes that I’d been praying in, my usual brown bedtime abayah with flowers embroidered upon it. I went over to the window. It was rather high, but I managed to stand on my tiptoes and look out of it. Wherever I was, it was high up on a hill or mountain with forested slopes as far as the eye could see. Astagfuralah, where was this place?
Across the opposite side of the room was a door. It was again arched and looked solid and ancient. I went to it and tried it. Locked. I rattled it but it would not budge. Dismayed, I returned to the bed to sit and utter a prayer.
I did not have time though. I heard footsteps and a key turn in the lock. A woman entered. At first, I thought she was a Muslim sister, but then I stopped.
She was veiled all in black like a Muslimah, but around her neck was a crucifix. What did it mean?
She approached silently, carrying a neatly folded bundle of clothes. “Welcome to Arce Pietatis Occultae,” she said softly in accented English. “The Crusader who brought you to this place took these from your room so that you would have clothes to wear before embracing the Ceremony. I trust they are sufficient for you. Please dress yourself and come with me. Leave all your nightclothes on the bed and I will have them laundered for you. Quickly, the Master awaits your presence.”
“Where am I?” I asked. “Who are you?”
Her blank veil stared back at me, obscuring even her eyes. “The Master will explain all,” she replied. Knowing I had no choice, I started to dress.
The clothes that she had brought were indeed my own. There was my black, everyday abayah with a pair of loose black trousers that I wear underneath if I’m going to the mosque or about the house. There was also a black undercap, a black hijab, black cotton socks, my single-layer black niqab and a pair of my black gloves. I was glad to see them; they represented stability, familiarity… and modesty, for this strange veiled Christian woman had mentioned a Master and I felt uncomfortable about seeing any man unveiled.
However, there were some things in the pile that made me feel less comfortable. For some reason, the lingerie that the kidnapper – hadn’t she referred to him as a ‘Crusader’? – had brought was a set that had been bought for our wedding, racy and lacy in bright red. Wearing them I must admit that I always felt sexy, but at the same time they covered so little, literally a string between my buttocks, that I also felt immodest, shameful, wanton. Still, my husband enjoyed seeing me wearing them, so I would don them on special occasions to please him.
Why on earth had they selected those?
But with nothing else to choose from, I had to put them on, blushing with embarrassment as the veiled Christian lady stood there motionless.
Dressed and ready to face the world – wherever this new world I found myself in was – I followed her dutifully out of the room. We went down narrow corridors and then up a flight of stairs. We exited into a courtyard, and I could see clearly that my initial guess had been correct: this was a mediaeval castle, yet unlike many of them, it was not ruined but complete and obviously lived in.
Across the courtyard was a large round tower. We entered an arched doorway at its foot and then started to climb up a narrow set of spiral stairs. I had to lift my abayah like a princess of old and found the climb quite tough. However, eventually, somewhere near the top I guessed, we came to a door. The veiled woman opened it and I found myself in a large room.
On one side of the room was a huge fireplace where wood crackled. In the centre of the room was a large table set with two meals. One was evidently for me and the other for my dinner companion, the man sitting on the opposite side.
The Master.
He was dressed in a most extraordinary manner, like a knight from centuries ago. He wore chainmail and a cloak of white emblazoned with a large red cross. Had I not only been transported to a castle, but perhaps also back in time?! His face though, was obscured, by a mask over the eyes, such as those worn in Venetian carnivals. Despite this though, he exuded a presence. An aura of power and strength. This permeated my brain and breast and made me feel at once afraid and, shamefully, excited. Astagfuralah!
We all have our jihads to fight, and I am no different. I am naturally submissive as Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta’ala intended all women to be, and so I have always admired stronger, dominant men. That is one reason why, when the matchmaker introduced me to my future husband, I knew that we would be a good match, for he is dominant. But next to this man, the Master, he seemed weak and feeble. This was raw strength.
He smiled. “Your name they tell me is Safiya, am I right?”
I nodded, uneasy, unsure.
“Well, that won’t do for this place. Too Oriental. I shall Europeanise you, call you Sapphire. You were born in a supposedly Christian kingdom after all. Sapphire. That shall be your name from now on. And my name is the Master. You need know no more. Please, sit down and eat.”
I sat and looked at him and then the food. I was ravenous. The food prepared looked and smelt delightful. It was meat and there was a fork and knife next to the plate. There was also a glass full of a deep red liquid. I put it to my mouth and drank a little and then realised, to my horror, that it wasn’t grape juice.
It was wine!
I spat it out and he laughed. “The vintage is not to your taste I see? Shall I have Sister Catherine bring you a different one?”
His accent was foreign, hard to place, but somehow filled with dominance and allure.
“It is not the vintage, sir, it is… wine. My religion forbids alcohol.”
“Your religion does not forbid wine; instead, it decrees that you should drink it in remembrance of Our Lord’s sacrifice upon the Cross.”
I am a Muslim sir, not a Christian.”
He smiled a cruel and domineering smile. “You think you are a Muslim because that is what you were taught as a child. But that heresy is not your true faith, your real calling. You are really a Christian as are all human beings. However, I will accept that you do not realise this truth… yet.”
He spoke with firmness, but I would not hear our beloved Deen disrespected.
“No sir, I am a Muslim and always shall be. It is the only true path and yours is but a heresy!”
He laughed as if I had told a hilarious joke. “Poor girl, poor deluded Arab girl! Your mind has been so brainwashed! Still, it can always be washed clean as Sister Catherine’s here was and many others too. But that is by the by. Besides, if you are a Muslim, you can still drink the wine. Go ahead!”
“It is forbidden!”
“‘They ask thee concerning wine and gambling. Say: “In them is great sin, and some profit, for men; but the sin is greater than the profit.”’ Now, my dear Sapphire, that does not sound like a prohibition. Instead, it reads more like advice, general guidance. So, drink!”
I could not believe that he was quoting the Glorious Qur’an against me. I wanted to counter, talking about the sequence of revelations, and so on, but sensed this was not the time or place… and that he would already have an answer prepared to combat me.
“No,” I replied.
“Very well then, be stubborn. But you shall need to drink at some point and water will only be offered after wine. Eat instead!”
“Is this meat halal?”
“Of course, it is not.”
“Then I cannot eat it.”
“Then you shall go hungry.”
“So be it.”
“A stubborn little miss I see. And yet the reports said that you were so submissive and passive. Obviously, they lied… or you do not know yourself. Whatever the case, it is your choice. Everything here is your choice. You will not be forced to do anything. However, you will not escape. If you do not eat or drink, you will die. No one is coming to rescue you. You are thousands of miles from the dreary streets of Bradford and that heretical mosque that you like to pray and teach in. You are in Arce Pietatis Occultae – The Castle of the Hidden Piety.”
“And where is that?” I asked, the smell from the cooked meat torturing me.
“Where it is does not concern you. What it is, however, does. What it is, is the secret outpost of the Knights Templars. Do you know who they are?”
I shook my head.
“We are an ancient crusading order, founded in 1119 to protect Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land who were under threat from your own heretical Arab ancestors. For centuries we wore the Cross of Christ and protected the weak, needy and travellers. But then, on Friday, 13th October 1307 we were heinously betrayed by the Church authorities which had been infiltrated by Arab and Jew heathens. Our knights were massacred, our castles seized, and our order destroyed. Totally.
Or so they thought.
We did not, however, die. Instead, we went underground. We retreated to unknown fortresses and catacombs below the earth from which we have continued to protect Christians to this day. That is our mission, and it will not be over until every single soul is blessed with the love of Christ. Which is why you are here, Sapphire.”
I sat silent, sullen, trying to reassert my submissiveness.
“Your husband is a troublesome man. Last month he took two good and pious Catholic souls and converted them to your heathen creed. He will be damned eternally for his sin.”
I knew what he was referring to. A couple of white people had come to the mosque. They’d been going through a crisis, homelessness, and drug addiction. My husband had brought them to the Deen. I had been so proud of him that day.
“Two souls lost to God. A debt that needs to be paid. A debt that you are going to pay, Sapphire!”
“Me? How?”
“You will provide us with two new Christians. Either you convert and you become one of them, or you beget Christian babies for our order.”
Beget babies… but that means… Astagfuralah!
He smiled his cruel smile again. “Today is Friday the 6th May. Next week will be Friday the 13th, the symbolic anniversary of our day of woe. The Ceremony will take place on that day. You have until then to decide your path. Your choice is simple: Convert to the True Faith and you will be inducted into the Enclosed Order of the Carmelite Sisters that Sister Catherine belongs to. You will take the veil and live in perpetual chastity and piety, praying to repent of all your sins. That will symbolise one soul redeemed for Christ. For the other, we will then take your co-wife, Zareen.
“Or the other choice is to remain the heretic that you are and undergo the entire ceremony. A ceremony of impregnation, a ceremony of retribution for the soul lost to Christ by your evil husband. After the ceremony, you shall bear your Christian child and then, when it is born, be free to leave and return home.”
“I can go home, just like that?!”
“Indeed, yes, although I will warn you now, no girl yet has chosen to do so. All those who came before you opted voluntarily to stay within these walls.”
“But why?”
He laughed loudly. “You shall soon learn, Sapphire, you shall soon learn! Now, my dear, eat and drink, for you have much to be merry about. You will soon be returning to your true form. Angel or devil, we will discover it a week hence…”
I lasted another twenty-four hours without food and then I gave in. As I took that first gulp of wine and tasted that first chunk of unconsecrated meat, I felt a surge of guilt and shame rush through me
I had been famished, the hunger gnawing at my belly and the dryness of my throat a worse agony, like sandpaper. After that first sip – which went straight to my head, they gave me water. I gulped down a whole glass and then another and then another.
I’d justified my weakness during my prayers which had been intense. I promised that, for every day I sinned, I would fast thoroughly. As my mind grew light through hunger, that argument seemed to make sense, but as I filled myself on the forbidden food, I realised that I was only lying to myself, for if they kept me here indeterminably, then I would have to fast for the rest of my life. But then the Master had mentioned the possibility of a release although this was qualified with the warning that none of those who had gone before me had taken it. Why would they not do such a thing? What sting was there in this scorpion’s tail?
No answer came of course and so, at night I lay there on my bed in that rude dungeon feeling guilty, weak and shameful. I did not deserve to live. Before me countless martyrs had gone to their deaths for the faith yet there was I, having abandoned two of its core teachings after only a couple of days. What kind of Muslim was I supposed to be? An unworthy one! A shameful one! Astagfuralah!
Yet at the same time, the meat tasted so good and the wine – for they made me consume a glass with every meal – once you were used to it, I began to like. What is more, with the return of my food came the return of other things, things that I neither expected nor welcomed.
I dined with the Master every evening. He called me Sapphire which I found humiliating, like a Westernised parody of my true identity, but, worse than that, as I sat there in silence eating, I began to have thoughts. Glancing up at his manly physique, his domineering presence, I began to imagine him as I had once imagined my husband. In my mind he would come over, rip off my veil and embrace me passionately on the lips, paying no heed to my struggles and complaints. I should have hated, detested these visions from Shaytan, yet instead, humiliatingly, between my legs I grew warm, and I longed to touch myself there even though I knew it was a sin.
And at night it was worse. I would toss and turn in my abayah and wake up coated with sweat as, in the realm of dreams, he would enter into the room, see my exposed face and hair, pin me down to the bed and then take me, as only a husband should ever take his wife, but far more powerfully than my husband had ever done, as if he owned me, filling me with his presence, mastering me completely.
Astagfuralah, what kind of girl has such thoughts? What kind of Muslimah has dreams like that? Who was I?
And then, on the fourth day Sister Catherine came again carrying a bundle of cloth. “Remove your attire!” she commanded, “And put on these clothes!”
“But why?” I asked.
“You are to visit the convent of the enclosed sisters.”
“But I do not want to.”
“The Master commands it. You need to know what the alternative to the ceremony entails. The choice must be free and yours alone.”
Her argument made sense and, besides, if the Master commanded, how could I disagree? Sullenly I donned the garments.
In all honesty, they were not all that different to the attire of a strict Muslimah. The underwear was plain, and the abayah-type coat was baggy. The main difference was the weight; these garments were made of a thicker material.
Like Sister Catherine’s attire, I was dressed in black, but unlike her my veil was white. She draped it over my head and my vision changed from clear to blurred. “You wear white because you are a novice. Only full sisters like myself are allowed to wear black. And in the convent, we wear proper veils, not like this disgraceful excuse!” She pointed at my discarded single-layer niqab on the bed.
“What is wrong with it?” I retorted.
“It reveals your eyes. You use those green orbs to tempt and lure men like the whore you are. It conceals nothing, merely emphasises. In the convent, under the True Faith, we embrace a truly modest lifestyle.”
“What would you know of my way of living?” I snapped.
“For it was mine when I was called by the shameful name of Aisha,” she replied. Behind her coverings, she laughed. “You are far from the first Sapphire, and there will be many more after you. Perhaps though, like me, you will have the strength to adopt a truly holy lifestyle within the convent. I doubt it though; few have the faith and fortitude and you… you look like a weak and shame-ridden thing. Come!”
I made to go but she stopped me. “You have forgotten your crucifix on the bed!” she reminded.
“I did not forget it; I refuse to wear it. I am Muslim, not Christian.”
“In the convent we all wear it,” she replied in a tone that brooked no opposite. “Now, we can do this a number of ways; which is it to be?”
Like the shameful coward that I truly was, I took the cross and put it on. Then, sight dim, we left my bedroom.
The convent occupied one wing of the castle situated slightly below the main keep. To enter it, one had to pass through a stout locked door. Sister Catherine knocked, and a grille opened at the top. When satisfied with who it was, the unseen nun opened the door to let us in.
We were in a small antechamber. The nun, veiled as Sister Catherine was, handed us both an item. It was a black plastic ball on a strap. Astagfuralah, a gag! “We all gag in the convent,” whispered Sister Catherine. “Silence is golden.”
With nothing to lose, I lifted the veil and entered the ball in my mouth before buckling it behind. It was weird to have that invader in there, unwelcome and limiting. My voice had been taken from me. I was now silent as well as anonymous and hidden. Of course, Islam recommends silence in the presence of non-mahrams, but there were no men here, only sisters. I did not understand.
The unknown sister beckoned, and I followed. We walked down a corridor to a room. In the room were five nuns, each hidden, each silent, each sewing. The unknown sister selected one of the works to show me. The sister was sewing a red cross onto a man’s tunic. Another was sewing the words ‘Jesus’ onto a handkerchief. They just sat there in silence, sewing and sewing. I was given a needle and thread, some cloth, and a set of instructions. Through my veil I could just about see enough to work. I began.
How long I worked, I cannot say, but it was dull and boring, repetitive stuff. Then, at last, a bell rang, and the nuns silently rose. They filed out in a line and Sister Catherine indicated that I should follow them. They went down a corridor to a simple chapel. There, they knelt. I knelt at the back too, and the service began.
A lead nun, who was evidently not gagged like the rest of us, read the prayers. I didn’t understand a word as they were all in Latin but Iesu and Maria were mentioned a lot. I did not say a word, of course, as I could not and I wouldn’t have done so even if I could. Instead, I stayed there in silent devotion.
The service ended with an “Amen” and the chiming of a bell. We then all filed out for our meal. As before, I followed. The meal was eaten in silence, a thin tasteless gruel washed down with a glass of that accursed wine. The came more work and another service. After this came bed in which we were to lie, still covered, our hands chained to the sides of the frames to stop any nocturnal sinning.
And so, it continued for two days’ straight, a seemingly endless monotony of drudgery, prayers, meals and sleep. Always silent, always muffled and blurred, always without joy.
Well, except for one event. It was on the first night I was lying in my bed, weighed down by my clothing, unable to sleep, hating where I was but seeing no possible escape. This would not be an option that I would be taking, that was for sure.
Then, I heard a noise. Muffled and slight, but a noise, nonetheless. And I felt something too, someone! Someone undoing my clothing, climbing into the bed with me! I struggled against my chains, but it was to no avail, I was helpless, vulnerable.
Fingers, pulling down my trousers, tracing over my mons, touching me there… in… there.
I bucked and resisted but nothing changed. The fingers, slow and steady, expert as if this was far from the first time, bringing me to a climax most unwanted.
How can I express this to you? Some sisters, I know, like the explore the bodies of their fellow ukhtis. It is sinful, yes, sickening, but Shaytan has possessed their minds and causes a temporary madness. They get the same satisfaction as when they have a man in them, I am told, they scream and buck and long for more.
The fingers stopped and a breathed a sigh of relief. The evil had abated, whoever it was had seen the error of their sinful ways.
But then…Astagfuralah! Not fingers now but a tongue, no TWO tongues! Two tongues working away at that most sacred, most private of areas.
And despite what other sisters may feel, I do not dream of liaisons with an ukhti, I do not long for bare breasts against my own. Even my beloved co-wife Zareen, the thought of seeing her without clothing, let alone having her touch me, invade me, titillate me! Astagfuralah!
And yet, despite the disgust, unfulfilled for so long, with constant dreams of the Master coming to my bed, I found those hateful tongues succeeding, achieving what before only my husband had managed with his tool. I panted beneath my covers, squirming and both hating and loving the experience, ready to completion, eruption, that which we all desire when…
… they stopped.
Silence descended.
My trousers were pulled back up.
Then a whisper at my ear. “Choose this life when you go before the Master in his hateful ceremony. Embrace you true nature, Sapphire, and become a sister. This was only a taste of what pleasures we can bring. When we welcome you to our order, you will learn it all.
And then they were gone. I lay there, desperate for that release, sweating and writhing, my mind churning, yet helpless to do anything about it.
And shame came over. A woman had been there, had touched me, had stimulated me. And like with the meat and the wine, I had failed. Even though I hated her touch, it had aroused me and now I could only lie there chained and frustrated, unfulfilled save with shame and guilt over my natural state which was becoming clearer to me with each day I spent in this surreal castle.
It was the day of the ceremony. They released me early from the convent, took me back to my room and let me change. The clothes that I wore were new, not my own, but like the outfit that they had stolen from my home. Why did they not just give me back what was mine? I knew better than to ask. I would not receive an answer. Here, one accepts, not questions.
Then, I was free to do as I liked. I wandered through the corridors, into empty rooms and onto the tops of turrets. As I sat there, my niqab lifted – well there were no non-mahram or indeed any people to see me – and looked out over the forested groves, I thought how beautiful it all was, what a glorious example of Allah’s Creation and how, well… if it weren’t for all the haram activity and influences, this would be a nice place to live. Nicer certainly than the back-to-backs of Bradford and its landscape of kebab houses, warehouses and rotting mills.
But then, midway through my reveries, as I gazed out over that gorgeous landscape, a shadow appeared. Sister Catherine. “It is time to prepare for the Ceremony,” she said simply.
I nodded, flipped down my veil and followed her.
She took me to a bathroom and ordered me to strip. The shower was warm and steamy, and I soaped myself all over. Then I rinsed it all off feeling clean and made my way out of the cubicle.
Waiting for me was a large fluffy towel and a razor. The implication was clear. I was to prepare myself.
In line with Islamic rules around hygiene and cleanliness, I shaved my armpits and my intimate areas. I then moved onto my legs but, after that, I stopped. One of the downsides of my race is that we have a lot of body hair, and it takes so long to shave the whole body so, I only bother with those areas where it is proscribed and my legs.
When I had done so, Sister Catherine entered. She nodded when she saw me, and I wondered – had hers been one of those two tongues? I longed to ask but knew instinctively that she would not tell. I hated her for her arrogance and anonymity. She handed me my own clothes, freshly laundered and folded.
I put on the shameful skimpy red lingerie, hating having her eyes scrutinising me as I did. Then, I gladly draped my black layers over it and my body, restoring my modesty and dignity. Finally, I pulled on my gloves and tied my niqab around my head. I nodded and she turned, leading me to my fate.
It was held in a large room that I had not entered before. It was situated in the depths of the castle, down a steep flight of stairs, built into the bedrock itself, more a cave than a chamber. The only light came from flaming torches high up on the walls. The floor was paved with marble and, inlaid in the centre was a large cross. Sister Catherine led me to it and then left me there.
I looked around, shaking. I was not alone in that subterranean dungeon. Around the wall were chairs and on each chair was a masked Templar. All wore the same tunic and mail; all were stout and manly like the Master and all stared at me from behind those anonymising masks. I counted them. There were forty in total.
One of the chairs was slightly larger than the others and on that chair sat a man I wearing a billowing cloak of white with a hood that went down over his face. He rose slowly and then intoned, “Ceremonia incipiant!”
The voice was familiar to me. It was the awe-inspiring Master.
All around a chanting rose, forty masculine voices in harmony, intoning Latin phrases. Although I understood none of it, the sound and the spectacle caused me to shudder and warm inside. It was beginning and I was the unwilling victim at the heart of the sacrifice!
The chanting died down and the Master strode over to me. “Behold Sapphire!” he boomed.
They stamped their feet in unison.
“Behold the Daughter of Eve who will choose her destiny tonight of her own free will!”
Again, they stamped.
When the noise died down, he stared into my eyes, his blue orbs piercing my soul. “You will be presented with several choices tonight. Chances to embrace or reject; chances to descend or ascend. Chances to be redeemed or damned. But before we do that, you are offered one opportunity to avoid this Ceremony and save your heathen soul. Sister Catherine of the Enclosed Carmelite Sisters waits by the door with an invitation to join their feminine order and pray for your sins until the day you are taken in glory to the Lord in Heaven. Do you accept her offer, Sapphire? Do you renounce sin and the devil and agree to join the ranks of the Christian soldiers?”
A life of drudgery, anonymity, and restraint, at the mercy of sin-ridden sisters who wished only to abuse and torment me in the most distasteful manner possible.
No, that could never be.
I shook my head and the knights stamped.
“The then Ceremony will be continued!”
I stood there before them all, protected by my veils, they also anonymous. It was terrifying and yet, at the same time, I felt that shameful warmth in my crotch. Being in the presence of such raw male dominance excited me in a way that worried me inside. I, who had always tried so hard to be pure, to follow the Deen, to obey the rules, and yet I was feeling desires most haram towards men who were as off-limits as anyone could be. They petrified me yet excited me. I hated them yet also I…
He stepped up towards me and declared, “You, Sapphire, have rejected the redeeming grace of Christ who died for your sins on the Cross. Therefore, you have allied yourself with Satan himself and this must now be reflected for the whole world to see. Brother, please bring the mark of her true nature!”
One of the cowled knights rose from his chair behind me and walked over to me. I longed to turn around but was scared by the presence of the man standing before me and also did not wish to accede to their games. The man fitted something on top of my head, headband of some sort, that I could feel pressing in on my skull. Then, he retreated.
“The mark of your true nature has been fitted, but still, you hide your face from the world, hide your real self from humanity and God Himself. Therefore, you must be revealed!”
And, leaning forward, he untied my niqab. I shook my head and whispered, “No! No! No!” but he paid no heed. He was in charge and his will would be done.
The cloth fell to the floor, and I was exposed. He held a mirror up before me and I gasped at what was reflected. My face, on view to strangers for the first time since puberty, framed by my black hijab which had previously represented modesty but now seemed to symbolise only the dark forces that he was telling me I adhered to. And atop that framed visage, two devil’s horns protruded! Gone was Safiyah and, in her place, a demon like those in the paintings on church walls.
“Behold thy true self, Sapphire!” he declared, and the entire assembly stamped their feet raucously.
He waited until it had died down and then continued, chanting in incomprehensible Latin. I longed to scream back at him, ‘Why the strange tongue? Can you not just talk to me in the language of common folk?!’ but then I recalled my own faith and the countless times when I had defended using Arabic over English. Yes, I was as guilty as he or any other!
The chanting ceased and silence befell. Then he did something I had not anticipated, nor wanted to! He withdrew his sword from its sheath and approached me slowly. I started trembling, cowering, “No! No! No! Ya Allah, not that, please not that!” I turned to run, but, without me realising, one of the cowled knights had crept up behind me and was holding me tight. So, this was to be the nature of their demonic ceremony! To murder me with cold steel in front of a watching crowd! To slice me open as punishment for my sinfulness and religion. But I didn’t want to die! Not there, not then! I screamed but they stayed silent, unmoved, uncaring. The steel glinted, razor sharp, ready to do its cruel duty. He held it before my uncovered face, and I stopped screaming. There was no use, it was too late, my fate was sealed. I stood proud before him and declared loudly and proud the Shahadah, ready to meet my maker.
He slashed.
I felt no pain.
He slashed again… and again.
Still no pain. Was the adrenaline keeping it out. I put my hands to my breast to feel the blood.
They were dry.
There was no blood.
Nor clothing.
Then I realised how expert his swordsmanship was, and how sharp his blade had been refined to.
The slashing had not been to divest me of my life, but instead my clothing. My protection. I was now virtually naked from the breast down.
He sheathed his sword and approached me. With a powerful tug, he removed the final tattered shreds of my abayah. I stood there virtually naked, a living shame. Only my hair was protected by the hijab and my breasts and private parts by the lacy red underwear.
The chanting began again, incessant, overpowering.
Vide eam in decedus!
Vide veram animae eius naturam!
Vide eam in decedus!
Vide veram animae eius naturam!
Over and over again, their feet stamping as I stood there trembling.
He approached me and leaned towards me. “They are saying, ‘Behold her in her shame! Behold the true nature of her soul!”
And shame is what I felt, deep shame. Yet also something else, in the presence of this overpowering man whom I both hated and… astagfuralah… desired.
He let the chanting and stamping continue for some time and then raised his hands in triumph and, within an instant, it ceased.
“You may still take the option of going with the holy sisters, Sapphire! To save yourself from the shameful, demonic nature of the conclusion of the Ceremony. Do you reject the devil and wish to save your soul?”
I stared at him, and, for a split second, I do confess that I considered it. No, not that. But inside my stomach churned, for unlike earlier, this was no stalwart defence of my deeply-held religious beliefs. No, this was different now: those horns were more than mere charade, no meaningless costume. Now that I knew they weren’t going to murder me, I found myself almost wanting this bizarre theatre to continue. I wanted to be exposed for what I was before these people who both despised and desired me.
Slowly, I shook my head.
“See this shameful Sapphire!” his voice boomed. “Behold her true nature! She rejects Christ, for the Devil, rejects purity for filth, rejects heaven for hell!”
Their feet stamped and the chanting commenced, but whilst they intoned, his voice rose higher, almost screaming in ecstasy and fervour. “Behold the true nature of this horned vixen! Beneath the plain black exterior, she dresses only to titillate, to incite! Behold this underwear, the read of sin, an invitation to trespass! She how she is proud to don it, how she chose it freely, how she longs for what is to come!”
He unsheathed his sword again and pressed its tip to my chest. This time I neither screamed nor writhed, but instead stared at him defiant.
“Impale yourself on my blade, horned vixen! End it all now, it would not be suicide! Use this mercy to escape your shame! Lean forward, it will not be long or painful!”
I stayed stock still and with a practised and skilful move, he sliced through the bra, it falling to the floor, exposing my breasts to the room.
The room which chanted and stamped.
My nipples rock hard like pebbles, my desire undeniable now, the horns reflecting the truth.
He reached forward and touched my pants. Touched me over that most sacred place. Then he raised that hand and displayed it to the world. “See how it glistens! Behold the dampness, the damp of shameful desire! Of course, she rejected Christ, of course she embraced the devil! It is her nature! Behold!”
And still they chanted, still they stamped.
The sword came out again and, before I knew it, the pants were on the floor, and I was exposed. Fully exposed, my slit dripping, my shame for all to see.
He sheathed his sword again and then moved his hands to his crotch. He released his tool from the confines and stood before me in his full glory. It was huge, much larger than my husbands, and so hard. The veins stood out and the uncircumcised head bulged. I imagined it inside me and felt weak.
He approached me and then stopped, the tip brushing my sex but no more. The chanting had grown louder and the stamping faster. The whole assembly was rising to a climax.
Then he raised his hands and silence fell. Deathly silence, leaving me alone with that monster.
“I invited you before to impale yourself on my blade, horned vixen,” he said. “I do so again, except that this time I believe you will accept the offer, for it is who you are.”
And although my mind screamed no, and my brain demanded I retreat from that rod, my body would not obey. Was it something they had put in my food, or all the treatment they had subjected me to those past weeks?
Or was it me, my real animal nature. The true Sapphire shining through after decades of pretence.
I thrust forward and he entered me, filled me, embraced me. I groaned at the length, the width, the hardness.
And he? He put his arm around me, almost tenderly, cupping my naked buttocks with his hands and, lovingly, lifted me up and in, knowing how I could achieve pleasure whilst he did.
And whilst I rode his rampant length the chanting grew and grew, louder and louder, faster and faster…
Vide eam in decedus!
Vide veram animae eius naturam!
Vide eam in decedus!
Vide veram animae eius naturam!
And then, with one almighty thrust, he erupted deep within me, filling me with his hot seed, fulfilling me with his mastery. All around they stood, stamping and clapping, whilst I collapsed, defeated into his arms, my head on his chest as his hands removed my horns and hijab to reveal my flowing raven locks.
Epilogue
I still live in that castle. I always will, until the day I die. As promised, the following day they offered me my freedom. But I did not take it; I could not. I told myself it was because they had filmed the whole thing; that if I went back my people would reject me, judge me, call me a whore when they saw my shame.
How could my husband ever lie with me again after seeing such images?
That is how I justified to myself at first. Of course, it was not the truth. Not the raw reality. I could not go back, not because my husband could not lie with me after the Ceremony, but instead the reverse. Every time I shared his bed, I would be thinking of my powerful crusader, my public impalement.
And I would always know that I could have avoided it yet chose not to. I could have chosen apostasy or even death. Yet instead, I continued. For I needed him within me. I need to be filled by his seed.
I am his woman now, and I lie with him in his chamber. He is strong and he is manly, yet he can also be kind and loving in private.
I also lie with the others. My crusader is not jealous. They are a brotherhood and brothers may share all things.
I am filled and fulfilled constantly.
I have not converted, they do not expect me to now. They know that I could never really accept Christ in my heart when such demonic desires also live there. But do I keep my original faith? Perhaps on the surface I do. I still wear my hijab. But always with the horns. They are never absent. For that is who I am.
Safiyah has been laid in her grave. Sapphire smiles triumphant.
And she waits eagerly in the garret room as her crusader approaches…
15/05/2022 – 04/07/2022, Smallthorne & Sandyford Cricket Club, UK
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