
THE CAPTIVE by Amber Jameson
Copyright Amber Jameson
CHAPTER ONE
Laughter, musical and happy, drifted across the castle garden. The girl was as beautiful as her laughter, a rare beauty that came from within.
Her gown was of fine thin silk, a simple shift, caught below the breasts by a narrow thong of gold. He could see through it the shape of her long legs. And oh those breasts! His mouth watered as he gazed at them bouncing freely under the unrestricting silk.
He was still sweating hard from his fencing lesson as he stood taking his breath, leaning against the castle gallows. The exercise had made his blood flow fast at the sight of her and the badge of his masculinity was rising painfully beneath his short leather practice tunic.
Her name was Zacora. He had noticed her before, and enquired.
His father promised him that as soon as he had taken part in his first joust he could choose a girl as his wife. Could he wait that long? No! The fencing master had told him there was much work to do before he was ready for a tournament.
Still his desire grew. It was too much. Clenching his fists, Ogham howled, howled aloud like an animal.
There was a sudden silence on the castle lawn and and then Zacora came running. The very sight of her approaching him was an aphrodisiac and the pain in his groin was unbearable.
“Are you ill?” Her voice was like music; each word stroked his belly and caressed his penis.
“Not now!”
The two young people stood together in the menacing shadow of the gallows. Zacora lowered her sapphire blue eyes and folded her hands at the top of her thighs, just as she had been taught to do in her lessons in womanhood.
Breathing was difficult for Ogham. The girl’s sex was clearly outlined by her white silk dress and the way her hands lay at that very point.
“What have you learned today?” he asked, taking in the creamy bare skin of her arms and imagining what they would look like bound to the gallows. And those long legs coiled around the post to open her up. He had to close his eyes, screw them tight, he could not bear to see her, the thoughts of that luscious body bound and at his mercy were too much.
She stretched out a hand to stroke his chin, still smooth with youth. Her obvious concern made Ogham hide a smile. This was going to be easy.
He gave a brave grin, shaking his head. “You haven’t told me what you learned.”
“Oh, how to kiss a man’s penis with the vagina.” She related it so matter-of-factly and yet her eyes were still lowered modestly.
Ogham’s throat seemed to be closing with desire, but this girl wasn’t what his father would choose for him. Or allow him to choose. Rumour had it that although her father was a nobleman, her mother was a mere chambermaid. It was her beauty which brought her to court and the classes for the young ladies.
“Anything else?” he asked.
Zacora shook her head, her long golden hair waving like spun silk and catching the sun to throw out silver highlights. “There wasn’t time.” Although her head was still bowed with submissiveness, there was laughter in her voice and he could see her eyes twinkling.
“But you’ve been in there all morning!”
“I know, but one of the girls was disobedient.”
She looked up at him. Her wide soft lips were parted and he could see even white teeth and the pinkness of a tongue tip. He could imagine all of these engulfing his painfully hard penis. She seemed to be inviting him to place his whole length in her mouth.
“What did this girl do? This disobedient one?” It was difficult for him to speak, so great was his need. He was ready for a woman, must have one, no matter what his father said.
Zacora lifted her dress, unveiling the creamy length of her athletic legs right up to the silver triangle of hair, for she was naked beneath. Ogham held his breath. “The girl pleasured herself,” she said gravely, pouting her sex and opening it by pulling at the firm young lips.
He could see everything! The pink folds, shining in the sunshine and the hardened bud of her clitoris. The folds shone with moisture and even with his limited experience of women, Ogham knew what that meant. She was ready for him.
“Was she punished?” His hands were sweating and his body glowed with need. He had the fire of a man in him.
“Indeed she was,” said Zacora. “It was Peeka. There she is. She got her bottom smacked very thoroughly.”
Ogham followed the direction of the delicate pointing finger and saw another fair girl, pretty but not as beautiful as Zacora. She seemed none the worse for wear. He held out his hand. “Let’s go into the forest and you can tell me all about it.” Keeping his voice light and carefree was a problem, but he managed it.
The folds of fine gossamer silk were allowed to fall, hiding the sex treasures once more, and Zacora lowered her eyes. “I can tell you here,” she said meekly. “I do not wish to disobey you, but no girl goes into the forest.”
“Unless she is betrothed?” That was what she would be thinking. He grabbed her hand, holding it cruelly, squeezing her fingers.
She nodded. “Unless they are betrothed.” Her golden head was still lowered, but his touch, though painful, stimulated her. Her body was flushed and a lethargic heaviness lay in the nakedness of her belly.
“I like you,” he stammered. “I like you very much.”
Did that mean they would be betrothed? Zacora looked up at him shyly, that same inviting smile on her lips. Soon he would be a knight, riding into battle and leaving his wife behind, safe in her chastity belt. Perhaps he would indeed ask her to be his wife if she encouraged him. Just a little!
“Perhaps we could go a little way,” she said. “Just into the edge of the forest.” She wanted to so much. Hesitantly, reluctantly, but driven by desire she could not control, she began to walk with him across the lawns to the thickly wooded wilderness beyond the castle grounds.
“Tell me about Peeka.” In the green light of the forest, ever changing as the breeze moved the abundant leaf canopy, his voice was steadier. “Tell me how she was punished.” He knew it would be punishment for himself to listen. The story would increase the pain in his organ until he could bear it no longer.
She took a deep breath. Talking about another girl was better than worrying about herself, worrying lest she be seen in the forest with a man to whom she was not betrothed. “It happened when the Master was describing how a woman should ripple her vagina along the length of a man’s cock.”
There was no trace of embarrassment in her voice as she told the tale, but then a woman’s whole life was devoted to giving a man pleasure.
“Peeka lifted her dress and used one of the Master’s pleasure tools inside herself, before she was given permission.”
“Very disobedient!” Ogham pressed Zacora’s willowy figure to him, feeling the sweep of her hips and the jut of her buttocks, and she hardly resisted at all.
“The Master was furious!” Now Zacora nestled against the strength of Ogham’s young body. “The stupid ignorant girl had taken her own virginity, you see, there in the class. We are taught to wait until it is taken from us in whichever way our man requires.”
“Of course.” Ogham swayed against her. His legs had lost their strength. “So she was whipped?”
Zacora nodded. “She was placed in the stocks, completely naked, and we were all made to watch or help.” She turned to him with wide innocent eyes, eyes which made him feel that he was drowning in his own sexual need. “Each wrist and her neck were clamped in the heavy wood of the stock, while her back and bottom were pressed out ready for the birching.”
“And her legs, were they free?” With one hand slipped securely round Zacora’s waist, he let the other stray to her breasts, one after the other. The nipples sprang to hard little pips under the silk. She was so receptive, he thought. She learned her lessons with the Master well.
“No!” she exclaimed. “They were shackled and spread well apart and the Master made Peeka keep the training phallus in her vagina.”
“Was there any sign of humiliation?”
“She didn’t cry,” Zacora told him, “in fact, she pouted her quite plump buttocks high.”
“She was ready, then?”
Ogham’s male sword, cramped in his tight breeches, squirmed against the restriction of the leather. With Zacora nestling under his strong arm the thought of Peeka almost asking to be birched, plump and naked, was too much.
“Hm,” agreed Zacora, cuddling closer. “Very ready, The Master showed us how her juices trickled copiously down the phallus and even…” She paused, looking up at him, her eyes wide and her lips moistly parted. “Even down her thighs.”
A sigh, long and painful, whispered along the path which they were treading. Ogham had never had a woman although his father had told him what it was like to sink into the joyous welcome of female parts. All women in Lokara were taught how to pleasure a man to the full.
“Describe Peeka’s bottom,” he begged.
Zacora stopped, resting against the massive trunk of an ancient oak. She closed her eyes, not seeing Ogham rub his painfully erect shaft. “Her bottom was spread wide by the shackles.” She traced her hands to the shape of well opened buttocks and widely splayed legs. Her long fingers also traced a vertical line to denote the deep cleft. The fingers stroked away from her body, depicting the voluptuous curves of each buttock cheek. “We could all see her rose hole and it was pulsing madly. The flesh of her bottom cheeks quivered, The Master says that plump buttocks always quake more than slim ones when they are waiting for a blow to fall.”
Ogham’s green eyes were wide as he stared at Zacora’s beauty. She was describing the scene so vividly that he felt that he was in the training room with them. He approached her tentatively, looking at her fairy-like beauty hidden only by a single layer of gossamer-fine silk.
“The Master took the training phallus from Peeka,” Zacora continued. “It was then that she started to cry. She said she felt deprived without it. The Master laughed at her and, almost immediately, rammed the most monumental phallus into her, the type given to men as a betrothal present, up into Peeka’s vagina, so she was on tip-toe.”
The young squire placed his hands against the trunk of the oak, pressing the heat of his body against the girl. “Describe Peeka’s cunt,” he grated crudely.
The coarse word didn’t offend Zacora, it excited her. Her golden head, with the mass of curls tumbling over her shoulders, leaned back against the tree. Her unfettered breasts felt full and swollen and the nipples pressed hard against the thin silk, hot and inflamed. Her mound felt more puffy than usual, pouting out towards this handsome squire. Surely this was what all her training was for; to please a man such as this, to snare him in her charms?
“Peeka was standing on tip-toe in the stocks to display her bottom and sex pouch properly, that’s what we’ve been taught, you see, all our lives, to make ourselves pretty and subservient to men.”
Ogham nodded. Quite right too!
“In the centre of Peeka’s folds was the thickness of the training phallus, opening her vagina to the full. Her clitoris was juddering and was so swollen and scarlet I thought it was going to burst. The folds were swollen too and fluttering like butterfly wings. It was then that the Master struck the first blow.”
“Does Peeka have a very pale skin?” Ogham was leaning the whole length of his body on Zacora’s and squeezing the pliancy of her breasts.
“Oh, very,” she nodded. Her nipples were being pinched cruelly and the breast flesh was kneaded like dough. It was her duty, she knew, to bear whatever pleased a man. “Much paler than mine. Her skin is almost white, whereas mine is creamy.”
Ogham was lifting the silk which swathed Zacora’s slender but curvaceous bottom. “What colour did her flesh become after the blows?”
“The first blow of the birch made a single scarlet stripe. Peeka flinched, but simply pressed her bottom out further for more.” Zacora allowed the young squire to spread her own cheeks wide, his fingers digging painfully into the most delicate flesh of her rear valley. “She couldn’t move very much because the stocks limit any wriggling.”
“Have you ever been in them?” The delight of visualising the gorgeous Zacora naked in the stocks was unbearable.
She lowered her eyes, thick honey-blonde lashes sweeping her cheeks. “By the time the Master had finished there were ten very red weals across Peeka’s pale skin, each exactly parallel with the other and mostly gathered across the plumpest part, where the cheeks curve down. At least two were striped across Peeka’s sex lips.”
“Stop!” ordered Ogham. “You haven’t answered my question.” He could feel a sheen of sweat beading his face. “Have you ever been in the stocks?”
Zacora’s long thighs were open as he pressed his taut young body to hers. All her training had prepared her for this day and she wanted to enjoy it to the full, but there was still a small nagging doubt in her mind. Did he really like her as he said? She should not be behaving like this with a man to whom she was not betrothed, but surely…
“The stocks!” he hissed. “Wouldn’t you like to experience what Peeka experienced?”
His strong young fingers were spreading her open, her buttocks, her sex lips. She knew he could feel her sex sap trickling warmly from the folds, soaking her clitoris which was pressing against his questing finger tips. Her will was gone. He sighed, grasping her hand. “Come on!” he growled hurriedly. “There won’t be anyone in the training room now!”
It was early afternoon and most of the court was resting. There were a few guards on duty, but none stopped the two young people as they returned to the castle and entered the empty echoing training room. The stocks stood ready, sombre dark wood stained with old blood in places, the carefully placed holes for neck and wrists beckoning Zacora. She shuddered at the sight of them. The equipment seemed to be much more threatening when the other girls weren’t there.
“Strip!” ordered Ogham. His voice was very commanding for so young a squire. “Strip for me! Is it not what you are taught to do?”
It was. But…
“Now!” he said again, even more sternly this time.
Obediently, as she had been taught, Zacora gathered the fine silk in her hands and lifted the hem, feeling very vulnerable without the film of gossamer swirling around her body. She bowed her head and folded her hands at the silver fronded crotch. She wasn’t ashamed of her body, standing there naked didn’t humiliate her, for she had been born to please her masters, the nobles of the kingdom.
Green eyes glittering, Ogham watched every move, every sway of her young limbs, the sheen of moisture on the neatly trimmed bush of silvery blonde hair at the top of her thighs.
“Let me see you in the stocks!”
Now she hardly hesitated. With long easy steps she made her way to the sombre punishment implement. “This is just a game? It must be a game we are playing. You won’t lock me in, will you?”
Ogham said nothing, but helped the young maiden to place her slender neck on the curved block and place her wrists in the slots. The solid sound of wood on wood as he brought down the top half of the fiercesome contraption, made his penis swell yet more. He hesitated, wondering whether to slip the hasps of the padlocks, but the hesitation was only momentary. In a second it was done. The girl was caught fast.
At each end of the room there were windows, long and dusty. The grime made them act as mirrors and Zacora could see her naked backside lifted in the air. Ogham was shackling her ankles in the floor manacles so her legs were splayed, revealing her sex slit to the full. Unlike Peeka there was no need to stand on tip-toe, for Zacora’s legs were long, she simply hollowed her back, posing her sex upwards.
“What shall I beat you with?”
“You must not beat me. I said it must be a game!”
He was standing behind her, his hands resting lightly on her buttock cheeks, his thumbs pressing the puffy lower edges of her sex lips.
She had no idea whether he was clothed or naked for he was bending low, examining her minutely. In that position she could not see him reflected in the grimy windows, but she knew that he could see every detail of her sex folds. What he was doing was no lover’s caress and, for the first time, she felt shamed and humiliated.
He felt her tension and released his tight grip. “Are you going to scream?”
She shook her head, swaying the silky tresses from side to side. It would do no good to scream. There was no one within sound of them. And if there were, she would just be found with a man to whom she was not betrothed. She would be disgraced. Better not to be rescued. She had fallen into a trap and must make the best of it.
A laugh, cold and without mirth, rasped in her ears. “I think, just in case, we’ll use the tongue bar.” She heard him move across the room and then the chink of metal as he sorted through the Master’s equipment. Returning to her, he held the device for her to see. She swallowed hard. It was a painful contraption.
A bar of iron with balls at each end was placed in the victim’s mouth, depressing the tongue and held in place by a leather strap around the head. As he tightened the buckle, pulling it unmercifully, so that her head was shaken from one side to the other, he was breathing hard.
He moved to stand in front of her. A hot bulge was close to her helpless face. She could feel his penis throbbing like a caged wild animal.
“Yes!” he said. “Excellent!”
Zacora would have protested if it was possible, but her soft lips were fixed by the iron gag. There was no escape, she realised. She was trapped, completely trapped, but this sense of total helplessness gave that wonderful feeling of lethargy. Her eyes felt heavy. There was a liquid whirling in her belly; a melting heat. Her sap, as she was warned would happen when the time was right, was drooling down her pale thighs, hot and sticky.
Before that day in the beauty of the Lokara springtime, she never realised that being vulnerable could make her aware of her powerful sexuality.
Ogham held the polished wooden phallus before her eyes. Her sapphire orbs widened with fear. He wouldn’t use that, surely! She was a virgin and must remain so until her betrothal.
Straining her neck she looked up into his deep green eyes. They glittered with cruelty in a face lightly tanned by days spent practising on the tournament field. His leather tunic lay discarded on the wooden floor and his lithe young chest was bare, heaving as he stood over her. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, he slid them down over his hips and thighs. Zacora could not gasp for the device clamped in her mouth would not allow any sound to issue from her mouth.
After giving her a glimpse of the monstrous swaying penis he disappeared from view. An image of it remained in her mind. Darker than his body skin, but still a pale flesh colour, it shone as if the skin was stretched to the limit. At the end was the globe, a perfect rounded cone, glistening with a sheen of its own dew. Below it hung the sac, full and taut, the two hard balls neatly drawn high between his muscular thighs.
She felt his hand smoothing over the firm curves of her bottom. He investigated their texture by pressing the two perfect hemispheres together and then parting them so that he could see every crease of the tight rose hole.
“Such perfect globes,” he murmured, “should be warmed by the birch or the paddle. Which do you prefer? But, of course, you cannot speak.” He gave a light laugh and showed her the two implements he had chosen; one in the left hand and one in the right. In his right hand was the birch and in his left was a broad bladed paddle.
It was difficult to believe that only that morning Zacora had watched plump Peeka’s buttocks quiver and redden under the swish of the birch. She had watched two narrow welts appear from one broad buttock, across the plump and tender sex lips, to the other buttock cheek. It was almost possible to feel the pain for the girl, but Zacora longed for the excitement which Peeka obviously felt. The memory of the trailing silvery sex sap running from the newly broken gateway was a clear picture in her mind.
“Choose!” he insisted.
Zacora nodded to the left, to the paddle.
Ogham grinned broadly, slicing the chosen implement through the air and then slapping it across his own palm. He gave a grimace at the stinging pain and she hung her head, wishing that the game had never started.
He walked behind her, his paces slow and measured. She felt him smooth the paddle over her poised buttock mounds, measuring the stroke. As her excitement increased, her breasts became tauter, serving to heighten her excitement. She felt her open sex folds swell, making them more vulnerable and more clearly revealed. The humiliation began in earnest.
“You have no right to be at court, you dirty little bitch!”
Surely he had not said that! Then the paddle fell, swiping across the full bottom mounds. The sound of the thinly sliced wood hitting flesh was loud and echoed through the empty school room.
“You are not nobility!” The paddle slapped again, giving a burning stinging pain, overlapping the last.
I was invited to court, she wanted to say, but the iron gag prevented any sound. And I am nobility. You have no right to say that I am not.
Again the paddle slapped. Her firm, well-lifted bottom was on fire, but below that, her sex pouch was heating and melting. The juices were flowing from virginal folds.
“I’m going to fuck you.” The words were rasped cruelly and smacked her ears like a blow from the paddle, but at the same time they were as stimulating.
The paddle slapped lightly at the soft, pouting sex folds. The blow wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was more shaming than any given previously. It caused a squelching sound as the thin piece of wood pressed the liquids gathered between the inflamed leaves.
The paddle slapped down viciously on the uplifted buttocks, so beautifully rounded, sliding down at the end of the stroke to the open folds which dripped with her fluids. The continued discipline coloured them, Zacora knew that. It gave them a rosy glow where once they had been creamily pale. The punishment made her hot inside as well; the beautiful melting heaviness opened her up yet further.
The strokes of the paddle seemed unending. Her bottom flesh was a rounded fire, but the moist crease between them was hotter. Swollen folds created to take a man’s sex sword. She wriggled, hollowing her back to present her moist silky entrance with the puffy silvery fronds at the best angle for him.
His breathing was harsh and quick. She knew that he was standing behind her, gazing at the scarlet welts which merged into two burning, swollen mounds. There was pain as he grasped the punished flesh to open it yet further. His thumbs spread the puffy lips, smearing the dew on the silver curls as he opened them fully. A flush suffused her face as she realised that he could see everything; every fold, every crease, every drop of sap and, in the centre, her swollen bud, pert and jerking.
Zacora wanted him to touch that, but he ignored it and she felt tears of frustration well in her moist eyes. But she knew that she must please him first. Her own pleasure was in what he gave her by bonding her in the stocks, making her feel vulnerable and by making her bottom glow.
There was a pressure at the silky entrance, a growing pressure, Zacora felt her eyes widen as she looked up at the vague reflection in the grimy window. Ogham was standing behind her, bracing himself on the heated mounds of her bottom and pressing himself against her.
At first the pressure was pleasant. It was a meeting of moist flesh, her own and his. She was helpless. She had no control over what he did to her. The pressure increased, pushing into her pitilessly. She could feel her vagina gateway being pushed open.
With a final thrust he was inside her. She heard him sigh pleasurably. The pain was a mere pinprick compared with the fire he had created in her helpless bottom.
For a brief moment he was still, as if he wasn’t sure what to do next. The young squires were taught to fence and joust, but the sexual pleasing was left to the ladies of the court.
Knowing her duty, she gyrated her heated and punished flesh against the coolness of his groin. Her well-trained vaginal muscles caressed the thick length of his cock. She heard Ogham groan and he began to quicken his movements. Her flesh drew on his, pulling his penetrating shaft into her wet cushiony pillow.
A squire so young and inexperienced could not take a long caress. It had been hard for him to contain his seed in all the long moments of stimulating punishment.
Zacora felt her painfully confined breasts swell as she recognised his growing need to let go. His pumping was frantic; his vigorous young balls bounced rhythmically on her lifted and open sex lips. His organ seemed to be pulsating against every part of her nether regions. His seed emptied into her helpless body in a great rush of fluid heat. She offered him her opening, taking the torrent as it filled her. The young squire gave several more jerks into her, making sure that every drop drenched her newly opened pouch.
At last he pulled out of her, leaving her frustrated. Her own pleasure did not quite reach the peak, although her bud had throbbed close to it.
“You will be disgraced,” he rasped.
She knew it was true but, muted, by the iron gag, she was unable to reply. Why, her mind cried. Why had he abused her so?
“My father will send you from the court.” He laughed, the sound shrill with contempt. He wiped the end of his drooling globe across the burning mounds of her buttocks. “Perhaps I shall suggest that you should be strung on the gallows, naked with your legs splayed for all to see how you have been despoiled.”
Ogham moved to allow her to see him. His penis, although so recently emptied, was partially erect and slick from the mixture of their juices. Slowly, he released the leather strap which held the iron gag between her lips.
Relieved, she glossed her lips with her tongue. “Peeka wasn’t treated so cruelly,” she whispered. Her mouth felt dry and her voice was hoarse through the long confinement with the gag.
“Peeka is a nobleman’s daughter.” he sneered.
“So am I.”
“Not legitimately.” He posed his sperm soaked globe at her mouth, pressing it between the soft lips. She could taste the salt, and such was her training, her tongue wrapped around it automatically in a moist caress.
“You’ll be auctioned,” he told her, pressing his length into her mouth. She took it as she had been taught, using the smooth, unresilient phalli. This was warm, pulsing and growing thicker as she sucked upon the living, throbbing length.
As she sucked obediently upon the young master’s flesh, she thought how unfair it was that she should be humiliated in such a way. She saw herself on the gallows, her arms outstretched and tied at the wrists. Her breasts would be taut, but the nipples erect on the flattened flesh. The occupants of the castle, including the guards, would be at liberty to look up at her splayed legs and would see each moist fold.
“My father will delight in leaving you on the gallows until the auction,” he sneered.
Miserably, she sucked his hard length. Her duty was to pleasure the man, no matter what imagined wrong he may have done.
In the land of Lokara a man could do no wrong. Zacora had been taught that from childhood.
CHAPTER TWO
It was auction day in the neighbouring land of Vakir and there was a churning sensation in Harold Meleagan’s belly. Something wonderful was going to happen. He felt it in his organs, especially his male organs.
From the very moment he woke he knew that this would be a special day and when he saw the imported girl on the podium he knew that his gut feeling was right.
She was introduced as Zacora. Taller than the other girls; graceful, willowy, but full blown. Aristocratic. She was just what he needed to be his consort. She would compliment his accumulated wealth exactly.
It was the hair which caught his attention first. Among all the dark-skinned beauties, the pale skin, sapphire blue eyes and the golden hair streaked with silver made his blood run hot. The same hair, lightly curled, grew lushly from the pouting mound of her sex and tickled the tops of her perfect thighs. Yes, mused Harold, the sex hair was lush but neat, no beard to tangle with a man’s enthusiasm. He adjusted his organ which was rearing mightily beneath his silken robes.
“This one says she is of noble birth,” claimed the slave master.
Harold gave a quiet smile of triumph, knowing that his feeling had been correct, but there was crude laughter, a sound of disbelief, from the crowd of potential buyers. They were a mixed bunch. Some of the poorer ones just came to look, for the slave auction was always an entertainment. This was especially so when the girls destined to be sexual playthings were put upon the platform. They were always naked and always fearful. Some of them wept and pleaded to be allowed freedom.
His eyes remained fixed on the girl called Zacora. There was something about her. She was very special. It seemed that she had all the knowledge of every nuance of sexuality and yet she had the innocence of a cherub. He hugged himself, determined that she would be his; his consort to sit beside him on the… no, he chided himself, he must not think that far ahead.
He peered from his carriage at the crowd. They were rowdy that day. Mostly they were peasants come to town for the market, which was held on the same day as the auction. They were dressed in rough tunics, men and women alike, short and hardly decent. Their legs were bare apart from thongs of leather criss-crossing the flesh to hold the plates of rough hide to their feet. Baskets of produce were held on their hips or balanced on their heads. This method of transport of their wares hoisted their crude clothing yet higher, leaving their unfettered genitals free in the morning air. Such nudity encouraged sexual freedom and it wasn’t unusual to see a couple take advantage for a quick release of their pleasure on the cobbles of the square amidst the debris of the market.
Harold shuddered at the crudity of it all. His companion, Megan, his Aunt, clearly revelled in it. Sometimes he wondered how she could be an Aunt of his. A strange woman, Megan, enjoying anything which smacked of the lower orders.
Amidst the mixed crowd there were some merchants, men like Harold, but he liked to think that he had risen above them. Their women hung on their arms. Wives were left at home and these pretty creatures were playthings, bought at previous auctions.
As they waited for the auction to begin the merchants took the opportunity to squeeze the breasts of this particular girl, beautifully highlighted by the flowing robes of rich silk. Others were bolder, folding the fine material until it was draped over the soft curve of the belly and it fell in delicate pleats like curtains framing the lushness of a sex bush they would delight in fingering.
Some of the other women displayed showed embarrassment or humiliation at such inspections by potential buyers, others were delighted. The latter would arch their back to give the merchant full access to the moistness of her sex. She would smile, urging him to bring her to orgasm.
Around the outside of the square there were carriages, carrying nobles, rich merchants like the Meleagans, and minor Princes from neighbouring lands. Harold saw one of these watching eagerly as the golden haired beauty was fondled and groped by the slave master. Harold smiled, slotting his eyes. The Prince of Vakir! The weakling was fast losing control of his life and his land.
The Prince stared unblinkingly as the slave master lifted up each full breast, cupping it and stroking the nipple.
The girl, Zacora, showed no sign of humiliation. She looked proud as her breasts were fondled in such an intimate manner, as though it was the slave master’s right to treat her thus. Harold nodded approvingly at the girl’s demeanour.
“She takes pain well, ladies and gentlemen,” said the slave master. He held up a toothed device which flashed silver in the morning sunlight. Carefully, this was placed over one pink nipple. The man, smiling at his audience, let go and there was an audible click.
The blonde slave arched her willowy body backwards and the crowd made a whispered sound of appreciation. It seemed that the arch was not a distortion caused by pain, but to show her new adornment to the best advantage. The crowd saw the silver nipple clamp pinching the delicate skin into the toothed circle. The slave said nothing, but her wide, soft lips curved to a slight demure smile.
The crowd murmured their appreciation of the girl’s conduct as the other breast was treated in the same manner.
“These devices,” said the slave master, “although causing slight pain, do not mark the flesh, so there is no detraction in the value of your potential property, ladies and gentlemen.” As he gave the clamps extra twists Zacora remained still, subservient and passive, but oh so beautiful. Harold nodded again. Oh yes, she would suit him very well.
The slave master pulled the clamps to demonstrate how the nipples could be moved up down or around and still cause no damage to the goods. He and the auctioneer had worked together for many years and had done well in their merchandising of human flesh. Now they were dressed in the fine rich raiments of merchants. The goods they enjoyed the most were the girls destined to be the sex slaves.
Harold cast his dark intelligent eyes back to the Prince in his ornate carriage across the square. He was smiling. Handsome, with fine delicate features, the Prince was supposedly desperate for an heir. If the girl was truly of noble birth that would suit the Prince very well. A shame the man was destined to be disappointed.
“Megan, my dear,” whispered Harold, “would you care to have that fair beauty as your newest toy?” He could let Megan play her little games and see how she behaved. If Zacora seemed to be suitable in every way, he mused, then he would see.
Fascinated, her mouth open with delight, Megan was staring at the podium. The slave master was demonstrating how the girl was fully broken in for sexual pleasure.
“The story, ladies and gentlemen, will amuse you.” The slave master was kneeling at Zacora’s feet, his neatly trimmed beard close to but not touching her open sex. “She claims that she was tricked by a young squire who took her virginity.”
The crowd sniggered as they watched the slave master use both hands to open the plump silver fronded sex lips. He urged the girl to widen her long legs and bend them to give him full access. It was very moist and he slicked a finger through the parted lips, holding it up for the crowd to see. He then held up a smooth wooden peg, polished and dark, almost but not quite imitating a man’s penis. “Observe, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “that she has been fully prepared for service.”
The crowd was silent, waiting and craning forward, eager to see the fair slave demonstrated. The girl’s eyes were wide and moist with unshed tears, Harold noticed, but she stood quite still and proud. She might be humiliated by the slave master’s actions, but she seemed to accept them willingly, as though she had been trained to do so. He liked that. He liked that very much.
The slave master, in his richly hued satin, knelt with thighs spread at the slave’s feet. Even at this distance across the square Harold could see the man’s erect cock spearing upwards under the robe. Even the slave master, with his vast experience of girls destined to be sexual playthings, was excited by Zacora’s compliance.
The polished rod of wood was offered upwards by the slave master, like a relic to some sensual god. He held it reverently in both hands against the peachy smoothness of the girl’s shivering belly. She looked straight ahead while the slave master was intent upon his task. Many girls would have sobbed or screamed at this humiliation, but Zacora seemed to expect it. It was part of her life, Harold could tell.
Now the polished phallus slid back down her belly, very slowly, stroking the fine silk until the wood reached the downy softness of the silvery bush.
There was not a whisper in the crowd. Harold had never seen them so intent upon the slave podium. The other girls, darker, shorter, not quite so beautiful but attractive enough, were shuffling restlessly in their light chains.
The gleaming rod, so smoothly polished by a skilled craftsman, entered the girl, pressing back the sex folds firmly with its girth. Harold could see a trickle of the girl’s lubrication ooze down the hard stem. Her face was passive, showing no expression apart from the gleam in the sapphire blue eyes and a slight parting of moist lips. This was nothing new to her, Harold realised. He saw the mound jut forward a little, the fronds parting to show the swelling inner lips and the pert bud hugely erect for all to see.
In the square there was silence apart from quickened breathing amongst the crowd and the occasional metallic chink of the slave’s chains. Harold, himself, leaned from his carriage, with Megan at his side.
“Can we have her?” said Megan. Her plump breasts, rising from her brief dress, were flushed with excitement and they rose and fell rapidly.
“I’ve said so, haven’t I?” His tone was terse, for his male sword was painful in its wanting. “But we must see how the auction goes.”
“Oh, we’ll outbid anyone here,” said Megan confidently.
Harold nodded to the soft featured Prince, gazing longingly at the girl. “Don’t be too sure,” he said.
Megan tossed her head in disdain and turned to more interesting sights on the podium. The blonde girl, hair streaming in soft shimmering coils down her naked back, was in the full throes of orgasm. The polished wooden rod was slicking back and forth, in and out of the girl’s convulsing entrance.
Harold groaned softly in delight as he saw the phallus withdrawn and held up to the crowd. It was thickly coated with the girl’s love sap. She gave a soft whimper of pleasure. Her chained wrists were linked behind her head and Harold saw them tighten as she reached her peak.
The crowd gave a communal sigh and the slave master rose to his feet, holding the steaming phallus in his raised hands. Everyone could see the liquid from the depths of the girl’s body dripping hotly down the slave master’s raised arms.
A great cheer went up and, seeing the enthusiasm which the slave master’s demonstration raised, the auctioneer stepped forward, anxious to start the bidding while so much interest was aroused.
“Zacora,” he introduced, pulling the blonde girl forward by a thin gold chain decorating her waist. “Of noble birth, so we are told and betrayed by a noble young squire.” The last few words brought scattered laughter among the crowd.
Harold’s eyes did not leave the girl’s willowy, but ripe, figure. Zacora, he breathed. Even her name was beautiful, mystical, magic. The deep sapphire eyes stared over the heads of the crowd, the soft lips parted and moist. The proud breasts were high, forced so by the position of her arms behind her head. The nipples were pinched by the silver devices held by cunning clips and teeth.
The auctioneer traced the gentle curve of the waist, so cleverly enhanced by the simple addition of the gold chain. He stroked the tiny swell of the belly before turning her round to sweep his hands over the fullness of the bottom cheeks, parting them to show the tight pinkness of the rear mouth with delicate wrinkles like the spokes of a wheel. “Tight, you see, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “so wonderfully tight.”
The bottom mouth flexed involuntarily and Harold felt his groin tense. He loved the secretiveness of buttocks in a beautiful girl. There was something forbidden about their loveliness which he found it hard to resist.
The girl was made to open her mouth, to draw out her tongue to show its pink cleanliness. The auctioneer nodded to the slave master as a signal.
The slave master lifted his richly woven robe to expose the magnificence of his penis. Zacora was pushed to her knees and her mouth was forced wide. The satiny globe, slick and purple, was pressed into the available orifice. It seemed to Harold that the shaft was being swallowed eagerly as the girl massaged the tightness of the rim with her soft lips. The agile tongue flicked back and forth over the slipperiness until, very slowly, the thick girth was swallowed and Zacora’s soft lips nestled in the crisp curls of the slave master’s pubis.
A communal sigh of satisfaction was drawn from the crowd. Zacora’s lips slid up and down the thick shaft, caressing it at each slick passage. She gave his sperm sac a pat with her tongue at the end of a caress. The magnificent organ began to throb and, suddenly, he pulled from her, turning to the crowd and holding his shaft proudly in both hands. A great fountain shot from it, splashing the nearest onlookers with hot, creamy jets.
Zacora, head held proudly and hands linked in her tumbled hair, allowed the slave master’s spillage to lie upon her pale cheeks. A pearly droplet hung upon her soft lower lip and she sucked it lovingly into her mouth.
“A thousand drachma!” The voice was loud, urgent.
The crowd looked towards its source. A Prince in a suit of cloth of gold and a solid gold codpiece stood close to the podium. He held a leather bag, thrusting it at the auctioneer.
“Two thousand!” Harold remained in his carriage, unlike the anxious Prince.
Bidding became fast and furious. No such sums had been taken for sex slaves before. The crowd murmured delightedly. It reached thirty-five thousand and the Prince shook his head as he walked dejectedly to his carriage. The horses were whipped furiously by the driver and the carriage scattered the crowd as it hurtled from the scene.
“We got her!” exclaimed Megan. Her plump figure, covered only by a very brief black silk dress, jiggled excitedly. Her breasts were fighting each other under the silk like warring little animals. “I’ll use her to teach my clients a few new games.”
Megan, much to Harold’s disapproval, had set herself up as part-time harlot. “It’s a hobby,” she told him. “I’m not efficient as a housekeeper, so I can’t help you very much round the castle and I’ve got have something to keep me out of mischief.” It went much against the grain to agree for it did not help Harold’s social standing in Vakir and he had ambition, great ambition. The Meleagans would be the top family in the land before very much longer. He had sworn an oath to that.
“Yes, my dear,” replied Harold at last. “It has been a very satisfying morning.” He turned to Megan’s son. “Gareth, my boy, order a sedan to pick up the slave first thing in the morning.”
“Why is it always me?” grumbled Gareth.
CHAPTER THREE
Zacora watched the carriage drive away from the market place. The audience, too, slowly drifted to the neighbouring villages, leaving debris of rotting fruit, mouldering in the hot sun. She sighed. It was all so different to the tranquil existence she had led before.
“What are you waiting for, stuck up bitch?” hissed a voice behind her.
She looked round. One of the other girls, small, dark and scowling with venom, was glaring up at her. “Suppose you think you’re something because you fetched a big price.”
Zacora shrugged miserably, her eyes lowered.
“Well, you’re not, see.” The girl, quick and lithe, slipped her hands, manacled with the links of chain, around Zacora’s slender body, catching the nipples in the links. The pain made tears glaze the sapphire eyes, but Zacora kicked backwards, feeling her toes sink into moist sex flesh.
“Stop that, you hellcats!” boomed the slave master. A whip snaked around the two struggling young naked bodies. “Get down to the cells to await transport.” The whip lashed again as the two girls disentangled themselves, catching Zacora across the softness of her breasts and the other girl across her small pert buttocks. The lash struck again, not for any other reason than to give the slave master pleasure.
The cells were dark and cavernous. A jailer greeted the group of girls as the slave master ushered them into the rank filth of the cells.
“Auction finished?” The jailer, wearing only a scrap of worn leather, gathered to a pouch, looked up smiling. He scratched at his groin with a huge key hanging from a bunch on his wrist.
“Get this place cleaned up,” ordered the slave master. “It stinks.”
The jailer, a huge man, shrugged, using the key to scratch his long, thick greasy hair. “Don’t matter. Slaves don’t matter.”
“They matter a great deal!” yelled the slave master, so loudly that the noise, echoing through the stone cells, made Zacora’s ears ring. “They are sold goods. They have to stay in good condition.”
Zacora felt a rough hand close upon her upper arm. She flinched, looking up into the grinning dark face of the jailer.
“This is an unusual one,” the big man hissed. “All these golden curls and this…” He caressed the fluff of her pubic bush.
Zacora stiffened, but the soft silver curls of her mound were automatically thrust forward. Her long legs, muscles tense and nervous, were splayed as far apart as her ankle manacles allowed.
The jailer cupped Zacora’s sex, stroking the valleys where her thighs met the silver fronded lips. “Nice and full,” he remarked, “for such a slender girl.” He slid the flat of his palm along the lips, so delicately sprinkled with fine silver curls. “A virgin, I suppose?” He consulted a list given to him by the slave master. “Must be at this price. Thirty-five thousand! A record, isn’t it?”
The slave master nodded. “It’s a record to be sure, but she isn’t a virgin.”
“She isn’t?” A heavy sheen of perspiration broke out on the jailer’s face and body and his rough fingers prised open the fullness of Zacora’s sex lips, feeling the slippery coating of sex sap oozing along her folds.
“Lost her virginity to a noble’s son, stupid wench!” sneered the slave master. “So she ended up here. Told some lies about being betrothed to him.” But Zacora looked back at the slave master proudly, knowing the truth of her terrible betrayal.
“The Meleagan sedan will pick her up first thing in the morning,” the slave master advised the jailer, who was licking his lips with eagerness.
The other bought slaves slumped down against old walls, slimy with oozing damp and green with a heavy growth of algae. Some settled down to sleep as they waited to be taken to their new owner’s homes and some sobbed quietly, making the chains which held them captive rattle metallically. Only Zacora stood proudly, as still as a statue.
The jailer circled round her, his rough, gnarle