The Awakening of Zilphia Turner

Zilphia Turner groaned as she felt her consciousness return. Her head was woozy, light, swimming in and out of lucidity. She waited for her eyes to adjust, but then she realized with a start that she could not see. She attempted to reach out to remove whatever was obstructing her vision, but then she found that she could not move; her body was bound to something hard, and her hands were bound tightly at her sides. She yelped in alarm, only to find that her mouth was muffled by some fabric.

Panic set in. Zilphia struggled against her bounds, heaving her entire body, attempting to free herself from her sudden captivity. After a few seconds she realized the futility of the effort and slowed, her breasts heaving. She felt her dress clinging to her now perspiring body.

Zilphia tried to think back to how she could have ended up in this situation, tracing her memories. The last she remembered, she was on a ship headed to the Andaman Islands. This was to be the last segment of her journey to India with her husband, the Colonel Abel Turner, whom she had accompanied on a safari trip.

The week before, they had been guests of the Lady Anjali of Jaipur, a local Indian feudal ruler who worked closely with the British. Despite what Zilphia saw as Lady Anjali's low birth, she immediately charmed to the Turners, astonishing them with her erudite knowledge of British history and literature. The Turners regaled Anjali with the stories of their hunts throughout India and the game they had captured; Anjali listened intently, never failing to make eye contact with the Turners.

Three nights before, Anjali propositioned Zilphia: join me on a short trip to the Andaman Islands; a wedding is to take place soon, unlike any other like you have seen.

Zilphia's interest was piqued. The Andaman Islands existed out of time; no outsider had set foot on the islands in centuries. Most Indians could only speak of legends, and the British dare not venture there.

Anjali only smirked at this. "Perhaps. But my family has held an honored place in among the islanders. Join me; you will get no other chance to see the islands." Zilphia hesitated, but then Anjali put her hands on top of Zilphia's. "If you wish to see humanity in its rawest form, you will join me." That convinced Zilphia, oddly.

Zilphia could not tell her husband that she was setting out for the islands; he would have forbidden it. So she told him that she would stay with the Lady Anjali in Jaipur for another week, and that he should go on to Calcutta; she would meet him there. He consented, and soon Anjali and Zilphia were sailing secretly to the Andaman Islands.

As the first day on sea passed, Zilphia felt quite wicked deceiving her husband in this way, but she felt strangely empowered by this. Zilphia attempted to ask questions of Anjali about the islands, but Anjali would only smirk, take Zilphia's hand in hers, and assure her that it would be everything she expected. This only made Zilphia more excited.

The first night and second day passed as expected on sea. But the second night...

Zilphia's body was still heaving slightly. The room around them was exuding a sort of heat, but it didn't seem to be coming from a single source. She tried to think. The second night she remembered being sound asleep. She remembered her door opening. When she rose to see who it was, something heavy fell across her face; a sack, perhaps? There was then intense pressure on her neck, and she fell out of consciousness.

Zilphia shuddered. I have been kidnapped, she thought. But who? Pirates? That would not make sense, she definitely could feel that she was not on a boat. But then who?

Her musing was interrupted by the faint, light sound of footsteps entering the room. They seemed almost muffled to her ears. She didn't know if she should attempt to cry out, should this be a rescuer. She instead stilled her body, foolishly believing that she would perhaps not be noticed.

It was not to be. The footsteps neared her, and her breathing quickened in heightened alarm. She felt a sudden tugging, a ripping of fabric, and the blindfold was removed from her eyes.

She blinked. The room was dark, dimly lit such that the figures standing over her were almost imperceptible. There were five of them, completely shrouded, the light casting thin shadows across the fabric covering their heads downwards. Zilphia could see that she lay suspended off the ground, at their waists.

Zilphia now attempted to speak, to plead, but could only mumble through the fabric muffling her. Four of the figures looked to the one standing by her toes. That figure raised a hand, and the others shuffled off, out of sight.

The figure heavily stepped towards Zilphia's face. Zilphia felt fear bubble up inside her, and despite herself, looked away. The figure raised a shrouded hand, and ran fabric covered fingers across Zilphia's cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost taunting. Zilphia winced and held her breath.

"Lady Turner," the figure spoke melodiously. "How wonderful it is to see you."

A cold chill spread down through Zilphia. "Anjali?" she cried, muffled, though the sounds recognizable.

"Welcome to the islands," Anjali said ceremoniously. "You must be wondering why you have been greeted this way." Zilphia had lost the ability to speak, the shock rendering her silent. Anjali noted and continued.

"As I said, you are to be an honored guest!" Anjali said with produced cheer. "Be glad. As I promised, it will show humanity at its most savage. But perhaps not in a way you expected."

Anjali gestured to the other attending figures. "As with any wedding, you must be properly attired!"

One figure grabbed the hem of her skirt and tore roughly. Zilphia instinctively attempted to push herself up to resist but another figure firmly grasped her shoulders and held her down. A quarter of the skirt ripped loudly, drowning out Zilphia's muffled cries. Another sharp gesture and the skirt was ripped all the way through. Two other of the attending figures began to work at Zilphia's sleeves. She resisted, attempting to thrash her body here and to, but her nightshirt was quickly ripped through.

Anjali chuckled, looking at Zilphia's undergarments. "I shall never understand how many clothes you Britishers wear to bed." Anjali gestured for the attending figures to continue, but they were quickly foiled by the silk fabric.

"Ah, I see you have enjoyed the silk from our land as well," Anjali reached into her gown and produced something, handing it to another figure. It was a knife. Zilphia gasped and held herself still again, in sudden terror. One figure picked up the waistline of her nightgown with two hands while another drew the knife across the taut point. The nightgown resisted valiantly but tore.

Zilphia groaned as the clothing peeled off her body like a banana peel. Since she had come of age, no person had seen her thighs; her husband was dutiful in bed but any nighttime activity took place under covers, in the dark. And now her unmentionable region was bared to these strange people. Her head was spinning with fury, such that she scarcely registered the attending figures picking up her shirt and pulling the knife through it. How dare these savages do this to me, she thought.

She looked at the shrouded figure of Anjali, defiant anger in her eyes, staring daggers at her. One of the figures whispered something quietly to Anjali in a strange, light tongue.

Anjali chuckled. "Do you know what she said?" Zilphia did not react, refusing to be cowed. "She said that even monkeys bathe themselves, yet you Britishers do not."

Zilphia shrank away, shame and horror now overcoming her. She felt small, her nudity making her panicked. She wanted to draw her body in on itself, concealing herself from the watching eyes, but the binds would not give. One of the women gestured at Zilphia's nether region, and then pointed at her hair. Anjali laughed melodiously. Zilphia muffled a cry as she realized she was being taunted for her pubic hair, ungroomed and pushing down her thighs.

Anjali drew a hand across Zilphia's face. "My dear, please. As I said, you are an honored guest, and we will certainly not let you attend the wedding in this state." Anjali gestured, and the other four figures knelt down, lifting some type of vase in their hands. Zilphia looked to each frantically as they began to tip the vase over Zilphia's body, and a thick, warm fluid began to pour out slowly.

The waxy fluid spilled over Zilphia's body, who groaned and winced from the sudden, but not burning, heat. Zilphia again attempted to move her body here and fro but to no effect; the wax was hitting her from all angles. The vases poured wax down over her neck, breasts, and arms, all the way down her legs. A figure handed Anjali an urn, who then completed the coating of Zilphia's body by tipping the urn over Zilphia's nether region. Zilphia squealed despite herself, making Anjali chuckle. I will make this bitch pay, Zilphia thought.

Zilphia was now thoroughly confused as the attending figures produced white cotton strips. Without any idea their intention, the attending figures pressed the cotton strips across Zilphia's body, digging deeply into her flesh. I am being mummified, Zilphia thought with horror. They seek to bury me here.

Zilphia was resigning herself to her fate as the attending figures, acting as one, ripped the fabric from her body. Zilphia howled as the hair was ripped from her body, the follicles registered their displeasure. She was so confused that didn't even notice that the fabric around her nether region and inner thighs remained. Anjali now pressed a hand onto the fabric, digging in, taunting Zilphia. Zilphia shook her head, reduced to frantic pleading.

Anjali cocked her head to her side. "Come now, we must do this. We wouldn't want to upset our hosts." Anjali ripped with a light but deft pull. Zilphia expected pain, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead she felt only heat, and not an unpleasant heat.

Zilphia was so confused that she barely noticed as the attending figures undid her bounds slightly and roughly turned her body over, repeated the procedure with her back and bottom, and then turned her back around. Her raw body felt the lack of hair, the rawness of it all. She felt even more exposed, and choked back further shame. She felt even more horror when she saw the attending figures hand the sticky cloth to Anjali, coated with her body hair.

Anjali put the remains of her body hair to the side as the attending figures now produced different urns, full of steaming, sloshing water. They poured it over her body, and then began to scrub her with rough cloths. Zilphia squealed as the rough material scraped over her now hairless body, sensitive to the touch.

"This is a great honor for them, you know," Anjali said, with great levity in her voice. "But I suppose you cannot see that. You must think this so savage, to be bathed like a dog."

More urns were produced; Zilphia could see a thick, white milk-smelling substance being poured over her body. She didn't not respond, turning her head to her side, fuming silently and pathetically at the way her body was being handled.

Anjali leaned close to Zilphia. "Indeed, so savage. But you British are civilized." Zilphia could smell fury in Anjali's voice and presence, though shrouded. "Civilization led your husband to order a village woman brought to my courtyard as you slept."

Zilphia swung her head around to face Anjali. "Oh, you think it a lie?" Anjali said, with false concern. "My servants watched her as it happened. They dare not intervene for fear of your guardsmen, but they did ensure the woman did not suffer lasting physical harm."

Zilphia was sweating, and not from the heat of the milky fluid being rubbed into her body. Could what Anjali was saying possibly be true? She had noticed at times her husband arriving late at night, disturbing her despite his quiet entrances. But surely he was just speaking business with the other soldiers?

Anjali shrugged, as though reading her reaction. "You need not believe me. Perhaps you are just being falsely pious; maybe you enthusiastically granted your husband his fun." Zilphia winced at the accusation as the women produced more urn-filled waters and poured them over Zilphia's body, rinsing the milk off.

The women now produced long cloth towels, and proceeded to dry Zilphia's body. "As I said, you are a wedding guest. Not some unlucky village woman. You shall be treated with the honor you deserve."

After her body was dry, Anjali took a final urn, full of something sweet smelling. Anjali poured a stream of oil down her neck, between her breasts, and down between her legs. Anjali then took a soft brush, similar to a paintbrush, and began spreading the oil across Zilphia's body. The thick perfume hit Zilphia's nose, making her head spin slightly. Anjali then dipped the brush into the urn, and spread it over Zilphia's face, who barely had time to shut her eyes before the oily brush washed over it. The oil was then brushed across Zilphia's buttocks.

After Anjali finished, the four women grasped the frame that Zilphia was bound to, and pushed her upwards, such that the frame was now standing. Ropes were tied in place to secure her, and the women now moved away, out of sight. Zilphia looked down, and saw her hairless, perfumed body, shining brightly despite the dimness of the room. Absurdly, Zilphia's first reaction was not disapproval, but...something else?

Anjali noticed and laughed. Zilphia looked away, as though absurdly trying to express modesty in her position.

"You are almost ready, my dear." Anjali said. "But, surely, you must be wondering some things. Like why are we all shrouded, why have we not touched you with our own hands?"

Zilphia gulped. She had wondered that; at no point had their bodies actually come in contact with her.

Anjali raised her hands, and torches blazed to life around the room. Zilphia winced at the sudden light, blinking rapidly to adjust her sight. As her eyes acclimated, she began to lift her face to examine the now illuminated room. She gasped.

The room perhaps was a dozen feet square, and covered with the most elaborate tile-work and carving work she had ever seen. Bright colors shined off of every corner, delicate stonework and sculptures bedecked every corner of every wall, some smaller than her finger. But then she looked closer.

Every sculpture, mosaic, and painting depicted sexual acts. Thousands of carnal acts spread across the room. Women with thin hips and wide breasts seductively posed in front of men. Women conjoined with other women, their limbs entwining like snakes. Women, their backs arching as they embraced men. Women inserting objects into their bodies, their faces curved in pleasure as their eyes all stared emptily into Zilphia.

"This is how the islanders keep their records. Of weddings." Zilphia felt a cold sweat dripping down her body. Her mind and body were confused, spinning.

Anjali strode to a blank portion of the wall, a tall ivory slab taller than her. It stuck out, with its raw plainness. "This section is to be the record of tonight."

Zilphia's head sunk, unable to comprehend everything in front of her. Anjali reached into her pocket, and produced a pouch shiny white powder. She took a cork and pressed it into the powder. Anjali then pressed the cork into Zilphia's nipple, causing her to gasp suddenly.

"After all," Anjali said, ignoring her. She pressed the cork into her other nipple. "You are an honored guest. Anjali pressed the cork into Zilphia's unspeakable region, above where her legs met. Zilphia ground her teeth at the sudden sensation, but it was gone all too soon.

"I suggest you examine the statues around you carefully," Anjali said. "They may teach you useful lessons." Anjali and the attending women strode out, leaving Zilphia alone in the chamber, surrounded by the lusting statues.

***

Anjali examined herself carefully in the mirror. There was but a few minutes until the ceremony was about to begin, and she felt tense. This was to be the fifth wedding she had served, but the first she had been charged with as a high priestess. By providing the British woman as tribute she had doubtlessly proved her value to the islanders, but there was little doubt that others would be looking for her to fail.

She was but half-Islander, and half-mainlander; her early childhood was spent in Jaipur, and after she had come of age her parents had sent her to the islands for several years, while claiming she was abroad in Europe. Even as she was accepted into the priestess circle of the island, she had always been made to feel as though she was not truly one of them. This was her chance to show them. In bringing the British woman, the islanders needed someone to communicate with her, to ensure the ceremony went smoothly.

She turned, examining her naked body for any obvious blemishes or any hair she had failed to remove. She nodded, satisfied at the work the ladies in waiting had done to clean her body.

The last part of her preparation was now at hand. She sat, cross-legged, and shut her eyes, remembering what she had been taught. Bring your body to a state of elevated energy, she remembered. You must be that which you wish to see in the crowd. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes again. She looked to each of the statues bedecking the room, statues that had so stunned the British woman. Anjali imagined her face in place of those women being penetrated, imagining those stone phalluses come to flesh, waiting to erupt with hot fluid.

She continued to focus as felt herself growing more warm and moist; not noticing that the ladies in waiting were placing gold jewelry around her forehead and draping her shoulders with the ceremonial robes. Her lips parted as she drew her energy further upwards, feeling her muscles tighten with desire. She pushed herself further...right up to the edge... then paused.

She bit her lip. She had achieved the correct state, the heightened desire expected in the ceremony. She had but to focus as she had been trained. And now, she could only hope that Zilphia would perform as expected. She rose.

Anjali strode into the seemingly empty ceremony hall, feeling the heat of the mountain surrounding her; rivulets in the wall glowed a dull red. The vastness of the silent hall was revealed in each of her footsteps and the clinking of her jewelry against her body. The dais at the center of the hall was ringed by torches, guiding Anjali's way in the darkness of the hall. Anjali stepped into the center, and without missing a beat, called out:

"Bring in the tribute!"

Ropes creaked in the darkness overhead, the sound of gears and wood turning echoing out. Seconds passed, and the figure of Zilphia appeared, her body tied to a wide wooden wheel, being lowered to the ground. As her features become clearer, Anjali saw her blanched face seeing the ground slowly rush up to her from a height. Even with the muffle in her mouth, Zilphia was too frightened to cry out. All the best, thought Anjali. We need her as emotional as possible for the next part of the ceremony.

The wheel neared the ground, and unseen hands pulled it downwards, fastening it quickly to a frame. The hands then disappeared. Anjali approached Zilphia. Zilphia eyes were darting around frantically, and had not even noticed Anjali. But finally she did now, and her eyes widened.

The wheel was easily 10 feet in diameter, more like a massive table made of fine, red wood. Zilphia's body was tied in an X across its surface. She was dressed again in one of her British robes that had been preserved during her capture. The fabric pulled against her body as she struggled against her ropes, her eyes afraid and furious at Anjali. Anjali approached Zilphia, and craned her face into Zilphia's causing her to turn away. Her head started as Anjali pulled the muffle from Zilphia's mouth.