Untying the Camel (verse)

Womanhood, it seemed to affirm.

Yet mechanically, without pause,
Kanikay still worked her jaws;
and at last, her efforts caused
fifth loop to free. In spite of raw
deal Nurbek had dealt—she’d clawed
her way back to an even draw!

In gut, though, princess felt despair,
not hope. That primal, bestial flare,
which at her crotch had first declared,
climbed up through breasts, and now prepared
to fill her brain. She’d not a prayer
to stop it; her reason’d soon be snared.
Then she’d lose this sad affair—
and freedom evermore forswear.

* * * * *

At last, Ermek cut loose to fuck
Kanikay hard. Brusquely, he struck
a rhythmic pulse. The way he stuck
into her said: ‘I plan to suck
my base wants from you, whore, then chuck
you aside.’ It stung for young buck
to use her thus—yet odd, it plucked
up her cravings more. So… amok
they ran. With every stroke he yanked
near free (her cunt clutched-on to shank
attentively). Then… full-length sank
in her again! Each time he spanked
up on her rump, it made girl’s flanks
quake, her tits on ground scrape, and lank
tresses scatter. And her flesh drank
it up—wanting to scorn his plank…
but greeting thrusts with secret thanks.

Crowd soon began to stamp and clap
in time with lad—till the beat rapped
harsh in her bones, and rapist’s slap
on ass dictated heart’s pulse. Trapped,
hopeless, girl still gnawed camel’s strap,
but had little strength left to scrap.
More and more, her focus was sapped,
by heady rush in ‘tween-thigh gap.

Down there at crotch, the lass was soaked,
squelching loud with each cock-poke.
Her pussy burned with lusts awoke—
cunt basking in commanding stroke!
Kanikay longed to just let go—
to stray from proper line she’d toed,
and let depraved fulfillment flow.
For now, she still could stay the throes;
with grim-set eyes tell passions ‘no.’
But not for long—then lid would blow!

Thus, onward rushed man’s coup-de-guerre.
Soon, Ermek leaned down on her bare
back; grasping her shoulders with air
of stallion covering his mare—
breath hot on her neck. The affair
flew faster, and faster still.
With short, sharp strokes, lad dipped his quill—
her passage oh… so deeply filled—
in fine show of masculine skill.

Kanikay’s legs trembled, her eyes
saw red. Great gulps of air from sky
she tore, with heaving lungs. And by
and by, strange feral moans and sighs
poured from her chest. She’d sooner die
than confess the needs that plied
her. But sounds wouldn’t be denied;
upon their own account let fly—
like not from her; but rather, cries
of beast within. Beast that vied
to free itself—to defy
her will, and shunt reason aside.
What’s worse, these moans did firm confide
she'd shortly be beast’s slave—hog-tied
to serve the flames lit midst her thighs.

As throaty calls resounded strong,
slicing through the buzz of throng,
Nurbek scoffed. “What obscene song!
I knew this debauched bitch did long
for gush of Ermek’s seed—but blest
if I thought she’d beg for it!” Jests
cut, but once again, man guessed
her weaknesses—her deep unrest,
her impure thoughts—too well to protest.
What’s worse (she could not but profess),
his humiliations had zest
of their own. Such barbs thus progressed,
by one more step, the fiendish quest
to make her reason-dispossessed.

Even now, though, she flailed at damn rope.
Weak, pathetic, her teeth still groped
at it. Not that she was some dope—
clinging on to rosy-hued hope.
She knew she’d no strength left to cope
with onslaught. Very soon she’d fall
prey to that inner beast—made thrall
to lust, at its beck and call.
And that would seal her sad downfall—
mind gone, she then would lose this brawl,
and be ever bound to brass-ball
emir, served up as helpless moll.

Still: duty, as daughter of kings,
kept her gnawing at the strings.
Hope may be lost; but while could cling
to self-control, she must see thing
through to bitter end—striving
on, as fit her rank and grade.
And abrupt, that persistence paid
off. For, as her lights set to fade—
brain faculties all quite mislaid—
and rhapsodic, carnal cascade
did through her frame at last pervade…
a miracle! She gave rope-braid
one final tug, and sixth coil swayed…
then fell slack! The endgame was played—
she’d got the camel’s knot unmade.

Reeling, Kanikay, for a fleet
instant, reveled in this feat.
Then, orgasm that she’d long beat
back, dealt decency one last defeat,
and made its reign o’er her complete—
flooding her head with white-hot heat…
all higher-reason to unseat.

* * * * * * * * * *

- Part VI: Kanikay gets inseminated -

To watch girl cede to her rapist
(having tried so hard to resist),
drew shouts from horde, and up-raised fists—
likes of which have ne’er been witnessed,
before or since. For a low tryst
of such wicked cast, to enlist
the wench in soaring climax? Grist
like that did stoke those hedonists,
to cries of greater zeal than midst
the battle at Ashtorgan, twined
with sincerity more refined
than chants at Bibi Ata’s shrine.

See, ‘untie the camel’ was fine
pursuit. But some time back, designs
of men had taken a new line:
bent to wager and opine
on whether the slut could retain
bare shreds of self-respect. When swain
pricked maidenhead, of course he stained
her honor. Still, questions remained:
could girl, against assault, sustain
any dignity at all? Main
part of crowd doubted lad would gain
such command, as to guile her brain
with ecstasy. Now, though, ‘twas plain
she’d yielded to Ermek’s domain.
Which left that cock-skewered lass profaned,
not just in crass, physical vein—
but also in the moral plane.
Mob frothed to be so entertained!

Signs of her fall were clear to read.
Kanikay, with convulsive speed,
bucked her hips back, so as to knead
clit on his balls. Seemed girl did plead
for stimulation—did concede
to brute a deeper stab. Knock-kneed
with bliss, she craned neck up… and deed
spurred Ermek’s lordly hand to weave
into her tresses; then proceed
to jerk head back. She paid no heed,
just let her jaw hang slack, freed
now to voice her pleasure. And indeed,
as her moans rose toward high-keyed
lilts, men’s hopes they did exceed:
“Ah… ah… ah… Ohhh Ermek, my steed…
uh-huh… uh-huh… take me to breed…
Ohhhh yes! Fuck yes! Fill me with seed!”

Princess no longer knew or cared
what passed her lips. And to be fair,
privileged life left her ill-prepared
to confront such treatment—stripped bare,
mounted, and fucked in public square!
It left poor thing with naught to spare.
So then, when climax got her snared,
pushing her past what she could bear,
her mind just ran like frightened hare—
self-mastery fled to who-knows-where?

Her fertile womb with passions pulsed—
tremors rippling out to convulse
her frame. The potent impulses
of the man’s movements as he humped
her—the way he teased her plump
folds, massaged her hole, smacked her rump—
had a voltage that made her jump.
And oh, how her heart did thump
with receptivity, and lust,
and excitement. Midst whirlwind gusts
of desire, she was no cow, trussed
up, meekly bred. No, she had bust
loose: a wild filly on the dust-
strewn steppe—proud welcoming stud’s thrusts;
meeting them with brave self-trust—
erotic sparks to hot combust.

Ermek, knowing girl’d surrendered,
set to taking what she’d rendered.
One last time did firm rear-end her—
plunging deep to smack on tender
ass, and ruthless cram her gender
full of cock. Next, male fixed to mate—
to fling wide his milky floodgates,
and virgin field thus irrigate.
So: with sharp jerk of pelvis, great
throb of penis… that reprobate
set right in to ejaculate.

In stamping her with his essence,
man did not intend to dispense
it sparingly. No: he commenced
to glut her tract—jetting out dense,
white ropes of cum, sharp and intense,
one after next. Kanikay tensed
and gasped to experience
that perilous, marvelous sense
she’d so long craved—the heady dash
on walls of cunt, the steamy splash
a-surge in womb, and mystic flash
of fruitful spark! And, as flood crashed
through her form, bathed-in unabashed
by her womanhood… raised a clash
in nerves, that made her sinews thrash,
as if to give her whiplash.

Well-pleased, her rapist showed no haste—
emptying ballsac in her chaste
passage with unhurried pace.
She writhed on pole, caught in embrace
of red-faced bliss. Man, with each clench
of glutes, twitch of balls, further drenched
her with his semen—and so, wrenched
one bit more honor from the wench.

The warriors near lost their heads
to see the princess being bred
in such demeaning way; and pled
their joy with lusty cheers. Fed
by hot desire, many had now shed
their pants, dick in hand—all tact fled
midst dream they, too, might thus embed
themselves in royal cunt. And (led
by thoughts of sperm, slopped in unwed
maid), not a few let fly—to spread
their seed across the dirt they tread.

At length, Ermek had blown his wad—
testicles spent. So, with mute nod
of ‘job well done,’ he pulled his rod
from her canal (still yawning broad).
And then… straight from the ring he trod.

A profound silence fell to weigh
on throng—broke only by the bray
of peevish camel. All eyes played
on naked form of Kanikay,
where lifeless on the ground she lay.
Head low, ass high, her figure splayed;
chest heaved, lids squeezed—her pose conveyed
the abject sense of vanquished prey.

* * * * *

Time dragged, as princess reeled in dirt—
with afterglow still firmly girt.
Damp pussy gaped, as if to flirt
how much her virtue’d been subvert.
No rush to rise; best stay inert—
thus, for a while, she still could skirt
thoughts of the way she’d been pervert,
and lengths to which her pride was hurt.

At last, though, consciousness returned,
and knowledge of her plight sore burned.
Unable to stay more adjourned,
she lifted head with shy concern—
and peeked (‘neath matted locks) to learn
how harsh was censure that she’d earned.

Blushed anew, to think what they’d viewed,
she braced for men to spout crude
ridicule. But… they stayed subdued.
Sheer strangeness of this made her brood—
why wait? It was a certitude:
any slut who’d been devalued
like she’d been—exhibited nude,
hard fucked, and with hot cum bedewed—
would be shunned. Culture must exclude
her. A joke, a caution, a lewd
stain on the nation’s honor—who’d
stand for that? Then… well, she’d be screwed.
Even graced with prize she pursued—
as girl in outcast solitude,
she’d end in bleak decrepitude.

Yet, though brought low as Nurbek’s pawn,
she still was daughter of a khan.
They’d never see her spirit gone!
Planting one foot, then next on
ground, she rose—her face withdrawn,
legs wobbly as a newborn fawn.

Standing there—tits heaved, stance bowed,
pussy swollen, and Ermek’s load
oozing from her—she felt cruel goad
of shame. Yet still, deep silence flowed
from crowd. Wond’ring what it might bode,
she peered ‘round…. Yikes! To grasp crossroads
just traversed made Kanikay flinch.
She’d dodged defeat by half an inch!
Seems Gulsana had been mere pinch
away from freeing her own cinch.

But… Kanikay had not been beat.
She’d borne defilement to compete,
and come out on top. And, downbeat
scowl on Nurbek’s face showed the cheat
was none too pleased. He’d planned to mete
out grief—to make the princess bleat,
and ruin her through deceit.
The notion she might gain her sweet
freedom had ne’er been his conceit.

Summoning up once-haughty glare,
girl raised her chin, and cool stared
down nose at emir. Her voice blared
rough, but shades of former flair
showed through. “I’d say your quiver’s bare!
I played your game and won it fair.
Untied the camel, slipped your snare—
one might suppose you’re short a pair!
So, gelded goat, it’s time we squared—
dispense to me my promised share.”

Brief span, Nurbek stood back at heel—
thinking to renege the deal.
But warning hum from fighters steeled
his mind; and with bare-concealed
distaste, he tossed henchmen a wave.
They soon brought forth, into conclave,
string of ten resplendent steeds. Gave
her soul a boost. This start would pave
the way to earn back wealth (once saved
by khan, then stole by faithless knave).

The parade was led by a snow-
white charger. Taking it in tow,
Kanikay sidelong bestowed
a glance at Gulsana. Her foe
stood there alone—on naked show,
just like Kanikay. And cow’s slow,
simple eyes expressed a low
plaint of desperation. Though
her flame yet burned, that look left no
doubt: defeat had struck a dire blow.

Princess pondered her rival’s fate.
With hopes of freedom and estate
now dashed, the wretch would once more wait
at pleasure of that crabbed ingrate
Nurbek. And, no doubt, bear the weight
of all his pent-up lust and hate—
a dumping ground for man’s vile freight.

So, Kanikay’s voice rang out bold:
“Nurbek! Once more, as you behold,
I stand a maid of royal mold.
As such, I require a household
drudge. If you’ll have Gulsana sold,
and to my retinue enrolled,
I’ll proffer mare from my fine fold.
Twice what tolengut’s worth; but gold’s
no mind. Girls such as I, from old
elite, have standards to uphold.”

Keen to wash his hands of mess,
the villain gave a curt nod ‘yes.’
Then turned away, rage scarce suppressed.

Bare foot in stirrup, princess swung
into saddle—and, with legs flung
wide over mount, her pussy sprung
cum-leak to grease the ride. Lungs
full of clean steppe air, she clicked tongue
to start. And, mmmh… the feel of beast
‘tween thighs, the swaying caprice
of bobbing teats, and in her crease,
leather rubbed on clit…. Without least
shred of guilt, the girl made peace
to wallow in this sensual feast—
no haste at all for it to cease.

Men parted ranks to give her rein,
as lass rode forth, into the plains—
followed by maidservant, plus chain
of eight choice mares arrayed in train.

Watching naked women go, brains
of warriors reeled. In one vein,
they knew they’d just been entertained
by camel’s-knot bout that would reign
supreme in history. Sustained
in story and song, retained
in memory, never to wane
so long as the nation remained.

But... in second, baffling vein—
what of Kanikay? They’d gained
front-row seat, to see her profaned
as much as maid could be. Displayed
nude before a throng; stripped away
of virginhood by rake’s cock-play;
impregnated by creamy spray
of sperm. Such sin should be repaid
by social death, without delay!

Thus spoke the men’s cold intellects;
but… hard to see that brave, unchecked
heroine as somehow wrecked
or ruined. Disrobed and demeaned
as a princess; used quite obscene
as a whore… still—she’d risen clean!
So, came ending none had foreseen:
even nude, she rode off a queen.

Gradually, crowd ebbed away.
Among them, though, a few yet stayed—
men from old khan’s fighting-array,
heroes of many fierce affrays.
Rueful, they shook heads in dismay,
at how God’s laws they had betrayed.
Then… after a time, they gathered way;
packed their tents, and fixed to stray
into the steppe—along highway
formed by trail of peerless Kanikay.

END

* * * * * * * * * *

ABOUT THE POEM

My parents were none too pleased when I took an MA in Tashli Literature—and even less happy when I spent the year afterward bumming around the Tashli uplands of Harbalistan. Financially, the degree has proven as worthless as they said it would be. However, the trip itself was a peak experience, and the people I met were wonderful, so I don’t really have any regrets.

Early on in my travels, at the end of August or beginning of September, I was hitch-hiking through a particularly remote region, and got stranded in some nondescript backwater. I began asking around, and soon found a family that would take me in—and not only did they refuse my money (just as well, since I had very little), they also invited me to attend a village festival that very night.

We were entertained with dancing, and traditional songs. We feasted on lamb-kebabs, plov, almonds, and melon. And to round out the evening, a bard had been brought in to recite an episode from the Tashli national epic, Sarambai.

I was in heaven. I’d written my master’s thesis on Sarambai. The narrative cycle is sprawling—a complete performance can take 10 evenings or more. But even just to witness one episode was an incredible treat. Tashli bards sing the old sagas in verse, working entirely from memory and adding their own personal touches. The most skillful can spin out long sequences of rhyming lines.

By the time of the performance, the kids had all been packed off to bed, and there were about twenty or thirty of us left. The singer was a smallish, wizened figure in a skullcap—not that old, 50 maybe, but browned and weather-beaten beyond his years. As he took the floor, our hosts darkened the room—leaving him softly illuminated in the center, while the rest of us clustered in a loose circle around him, reclining in the shadows on coarse-woven mats.

I thought I detected a twinkle in the bard’s eye when he announced the chapter he planned to present: “Untying the Camel!” The words sent a collective tremor through the crowd. Many of the women present, in particular, seemed flustered by the news. My host-mother wasn’t one to take any guff, and she rose, shaking a finger at the man. “Reza, you scoundrel! You know that scene isn’t fit to sing before a guest—and her a youngster, no less!” (Meaning me, of course.)

Some of the elders muttered their annoyance at this interruption, and my host-father beckoned her to sit. “Shush, woman! What are you on about? Our guest is a university scholar for heaven’s sake. Let her enjoy the show in peace!” Several other men chimed agreement with these sentiments, and my host-mother gave up, still clicking her tongue in disapproval.

The exchange left me baffled. I’d read every book there was on Sarambai and I’d never heard of an episode called ‘Untying the Camel.’ And sure enough, when Reza began singing, the verses he spun out were unfamiliar to me. Before long, my confusion was overtaken by astonishment at the raunchy excesses of the man’s narrative. Now I knew why this storyline hadn’t appeared in my studies—it had been censored out of all the published accounts!

In fairness, many of my peers would have considered the subject-matter distasteful or triggering. But my own fantasies have always been a little on the perverse side, and to be honest… well, let’s just say that by the end of the evening, the possibility of soaking through my jeans was a very valid concern. I don’t think I was the only woman there who could say that, either.

Afterwards, in bed, I scribbled down everything I could remember in a notebook. And then I had one of the most memorable solo sessions of my life.

Since then, I have pulled my notes out of the drawer once in a while to masturbate to. But only recently have I been in a position to organize and translate all this material into proper form. In doing so, I’ve made every effort to capture the style and content of Reza’s performance, while also honoring the conventions of Tashli epic verse (to the extent possible in English).

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. And in a larger sense, I hope my work aids in overcoming the prudishness that has prompted scholars to censor the ‘Untying the Camel’ scene from their published retellings of the saga. After all, it is a chapter that not only has artistic and cultural merit in its own right, but also fills important gaps in the story’s continuity (most notably, the identity of Sarambai’s father). Bards like Reza deserve our gratitude for keeping the memory of this episode alive.

- MF

* * * * * * * * * *