BDSM Fetish Library

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, gnarled hands reaching out to touch when he noticed a part of her body which interested him. The smooth under swell of her breasts attracted him first and she tried very hard not to flinch when a clawlike finger stroked upwards to the nipple. She even tried to smile, for he was, after all, a man, and as such, should be welcomed by her.
“You like to be caressed, my beauty,” he croaked. “Do you not?”
“It is my duty to accept it, sir.” Her smile was tremulous and uncertain. The jailer was not like any man she had met before. He was filthy. His hair was unkempt and thick with grease. The teeth remaining in his mouth were broken or black with rot, but his physique told her that he was young and very virile. His life, down here in the darkness of the damp cells, had aged him beyond his years.
“I knew you liked it when I touched your cunt,” he croaked. “It was wet; dripping wet.”
“I am trained to give pleasure to a man,” she said softly.
“So you’ll pleasure me?” The jailer’s voice was barely audible. He grasped her breasts, massaging them cruelly and pinching their nipples. The gnarled hands went down to her belly, squeezing the taut flesh and digging one finger into the depths of her naval.
Her smile was unwavering. Her sapphire blue eyes remained soft and inviting. The lithe body bent to his will, allowing him to touch it as it pleased him.
“Answer me, wench?” he said loudly, lifting her hand and clipping her ear.
All her training taught her that she should answer him and agree with his request to be pleasured, but his odour was unclean and, although his body was young, his demeanour was old, as old as Satan himself.
Zacora remained still, her smile there but fading. They were suspended in time as she pondered on how to answer him.
“Very well then,” he said, before she could speak. “I must teach you a lesson in how to behave with your betters, since you seem to have forgotten your training.”
The golden hair was grabbed into a thick hank and a small mew of pain escaped her lips as she was dragged across the filthy straw-strewn floor. Through tear-blurred eyes she saw other girls taking notice, waking from sleep or wiping faces streaked from weeping. The small dark girl who had showed so much envy when they were brought to the cells was pointing a finger which mocked.
“Miss High and Mighty is truly fallen,” she sneered. She thrust her pelvis forward, lewdly opening her sex lips to show the contents and thrust a finger quickly in and out. “That’s what you’ll get from that old bastard,” she laughed, “except it won’t be quite so comfortable as my finger.”
“Shut up, bitch!” the jailer growled.
They reached a low platform and he threw Zacora on to it. The manacles and chains at ankles and wrists made it easy to fasten her to a strange device which brooded there, sinister and waiting for a victim. Within seconds he had hooked her to bolts upon it and her arms and legs were widely splayed. Even on the gallows, in clear sight of everyone in the castle, she had not felt so vulnerable and open as she did in the clutch of this wicked machine.
The dark girl came to look down on her, touching her intimately and laughing. “You’ve got her now,” she gloated. Roughly, the girl slid two fingers into the well-splayed folds of Zacora’s sex. She pulled them out again, looking at them in the smokey light of a tallow candle. “If she’s scared she doesn’t show it,” she said, stroking the running juices with her other hand.
The vulnerability which Zacora felt was enhanced by the strange device. On it she seemed more open and defenceless than ever before.
“Turn the handle,” begged the girl. “Let me hear her scream. Stuck up, bitch!”
It was only then that Zacora realised that she was on a rack, one of the most diabolical instruments of torture ever devised. How far would the jailer dare to go with it? If she died her new owner wouldn’t be pleased. He’d paid a fortune.
“Witch!” rasped the jailer, rebuking the dark girl. “Are you mad? I’m not turning that handle.”
The girl looked disappointed. “Then why’ve you put her there?” she wanted to know. “Waste of time.”
“You will see!” The jailer deftly untied the thong which held his pouch in place, releasing an organ magnificent in size, but horribly grimed with dust and caked semen. It was erect and the eye gleamed with a pearl of his seed.
“No!” said Zacora.
The jailer had leapt between her long splayed thighs and was slicking his hands up and down the spearing thickness.
“You dare to defy me, my beauty?”
There was little humiliation which Zacora would not take. Her behavioural training encompassed everything, but she would not, could not, take this monstrous unclean penis into her body.
“Whip her into submission first,” advised the girl.
“No,” the jailer grinned. “Turn the handle after all. Only three notches, mind.”
“Oh, yes!” hissed the girl gleefully. She took the handle in both her small hands, her face a mask of spiteful joy.
“No more than three,” murmured the jailer again. A drool of spittle made a slow trail through the grime of his unshaven but roughly handsome face. His tongue flicked around his lips as he looked down at the golden beauty, stretched out at his mercy. She hid her fear well, for the deep blue eyes stared up at him proudly, daring him to do his worst.
The golden body was so mouth-watering, splayed out openly below him, that he knew not where to start. Deep in thought, he stroked the heaviness of his balls, feeling their weight and readiness. Never had there been such a beauty at his disposal. They were all the dark tough little women of Vakir, bought for the vulgar work in their master’s houses. Bossy in the extreme, sex with them made him feel inferior.
Very occasionally a virgin would be brought to auction; fair of skin and subservient like this one lying there tightly stretched upon the rack beneath him. But they were out of bounds for him. They were virgins, too valuable to be used by a mere jailer.
Except for this one!
His penis throbbed as he looked at the open flesh of the woman’s sex. The lips were swollen, inflamed and parted. The silver curls were sparse and neatly trimmed, making the contents of the pouch more available. The inner lips fluttered, which, he had heard, was a feature of the women from Lokara. They were trained to pleasure a man to the full by petting his cock with these highly mobile lips. He shuddered with desire, reaching into the wet depths just as the little dark maid pulled on the handle to engage the third notch.
The sound of the ratchet was loud, echoing through the vast cell block. Only a tiny mew of pain came from the splayed girl. They usually screamed loud and long, even the men. He felt a flood of sap soak his intruding finger. A smile creased his uncouth features. She was enjoying herself.
The long creamy arms were splayed wide, stretched to the limit. The legs, too, were taut. This had the effect of hollowing the belly and he caressed the deep cleft of the naval, pressing it inwards and feeling the softness of the organs beneath. The mound, delicately fleshed and decorated with silver curls, pouted upwards. This again was the effect of the rack, stretching the fine bones of the beautiful pelvis.
Against his orders the ratchet engaged a fourth time, and he thought he saw a flicker of panic in the girl’s eyes, but it was only momentary. The pride returned to the beautiful face and the soft lips parted in a most inviting manner.
Two fingers were easily accommodated at the soft liquid entrance and the inner lips gave a cossetting caress to the uninvited digits.
Yet another notch clicked on the rack. It was done in a spitefully quick manner and Zacora made a soft moan. “Prissy bitch!” the dark girl spat. “Sex is sex. We don’t make a religion out of it here.”
“More’s the pity!” said the jailer, pushing three fingers fully to the hilt into Zacora’s fluttering sex purse, revelling in its wetness and pampering cushion of its walls.
For a while his rough hands roved over her tight frame, glorying in its tenseness, its inability to avoid his intimate probing, the way his crude mauling of her body seemed to excite her further, whether she wanted it or no.
“She’s ready now!” he exulted at last.
He thrust three fingers into her. “Yes!” he breathed, adding a fourth finger to the other three. “Ready!” His thumb balled the tip of Zacora’s clitoris, feeling its throbbing heat.
Zacora’s mind hated the thought of the man’s filthy penis entering her. So recently the lordly Ogham took her virginity and now she must submit to a shaft which water had never touched. She looked at its thickness, its throbbing length and she felt herself pulse around his roughly invading fingers. The pulsing was involuntary. Her mind may have hated the thought of the penis penetrating her, but her body was ready to welcome it.
He took her hair and twisted her face to his.
“You want it, don’t you?”
“Oh God!” she panted, “Oh yes. Fuck me!”
He laughed at the crude words coming from the angelic mouth; from a girl who looked like an angel. “Say it again. Tell me what you want.” He was kneeling between the thighs which were painfully stretched by the rack, towering over her, his penis spearing high and held in his hands.
“Fuck me!” she gasped. Her breasts, flattened by the tension of the rack, were still enticing mounds with mouth watering nipples as red as cherries. He fell upon her, taking them, in turn, into his mouth. They were grated sharply by the broken teeth.
The smooth heat of his tip lay nestling in the midst of her folds, teasing her needful flesh as his hands and mouth painfully took their fill of her body. The thick length inched into her vagina. It seemed that it was the only part of her which was mobile and free. It was not shackled or stretched to the very limits of bearable pain. She felt her own moisture soaking the invading shaft and seeping down her spread buttock cheeks on to the rough wood of the ancient rack. Natural, and taught, instinct was to gyrate around the male shaft, but she was held still, immobile and helpless. The only answer was to caress the hardness of his cock with her own muscular, cushiony walls.
“Aaargh!” grunted the jailer. His body was imbued with a pleasure which was almost unbearable in its intensity. He levered himself on her stretched arms, increasing the pain in the joints and, again, thrust into her. A whisper of pleasure escaped her soft mouth. It was a breath as soft as a child’s in its mother’s arms. Her freshly opened passage caressed the invading hardness, welcoming it as part of her own body. The two, the unlikely couple, were moulded as one.
The pleasure which she gave him was too much for a prolonged taking on his part. He began to pulse wildly and she knew that he would spurt his seed into her helpless body. Her clitoris was jerking wildly with each pump of his thickness into her. A swirling heat in her belly and that wonderful spiral of passion in the whole of her helpless body took her high above the pain of the rack. She was consumed with a climax within which nothing else mattered.
The jailer groaned, giving a final grind of his coarse crotch as he thrust deep into her. The first wave of his climax was so pleasurable it seemed heaven-sent. He felt his cock swell, as though it would burst, and a great gush of hot seed spumed into her, spilling out to back-flow along his own length. And again the pleasure wave came. If anything, it was greater than the last. His irrigation of her flooded more copiously. And again he was hit with the consuming fire of his orgasm, until he thought he would die from the pleasure waves.
Satiated at last he collapsed upon Zacora’s tightly fettered body, straining every joint in the girl’s tortured limbs. Tiny mews of pain escaped her parted lips, but she could not escape the jailer’s muscular weight.
His penis remained inside her, resting hotly in her still convulsing vagina. Awash with juices, hers and his, she could feel the thick, warm cocktail oozing over the sensitised cheeks of her spread buttocks.
His horny hands grasped her breasts, digging rough uncut finger nails into the tender flesh. More than anything she wanted to be free from the weight of him; free from his fetid breath and yet, had she not enjoyed his taking? Had she not enjoyed the flood of his spume into her? Did he not take away the thoughts of the terrible pain of the rack, or rather combine it with the pleasure of his fucking?
At last he lifted himself. His movements were slow and lethargic, as though he had run a great distance. “Are you some kind of witch to drain so much energy from a man?” he growled. He splashed the copious dew lingering on his penis across her prone body. She felt its heat on her face and breasts and felt it trickle over her stretched skin.
“No, sir,” she whispered politely. “It is my training which makes your pleasure so great.”
He grinned, scratching his heavy sperm sac as he walked to the side of the rack. She felt a release of the painful tension as he let go the ratchets. “Later in the night,” he chuckled. “you can use that training once more, but I must rest.” He looked down at her, admiring the pale, willowy beauty with the crown of golden hair. “This is a rare treat, my lovely, a rare treat.”
“Thank you, sir,” She gave him one of her inviting, shy smiles.
“How anyone could be so beautiful, so innocent and yet so sexually skilled,” he said, shaking his greasy head, “beats me.”
He walked away, still shaking his head in wonder, and heaped the straw where he slept.
Zacora, her limbs cramped and sore, swallowed hard. “Sir?” she said diffidently.
“What is it?” He spoke in a gruff growl.
“Could you, perhaps, release me, so that I might sleep?”
“Be quiet,” he rasped. “Sleep where you are. I’m not taking the chance of an expensive item like you trying to escape. More than my life’s worth. The punishment mistress would flay me alive.”
The cells were dark, silent and dank as the night deepened. Cold seeped like sharp knives into Zacora’s tortured joints. The copious silky wetness of the jailer’s seed mixed with her own sex sap cooled on her outspread thighs. Sleep was impossible on the discomfort of the rack and hot tears tumbled across her pale cheeks.

CHAPTER FOUR

At first the guards seemed a little afraid of her. They eyed her suspiciously. Kept casting nervous glances at her slender nakedness, at her shining sapphire eyes, the pale hair, the peachy skin. The women of their country were dark swarthy and well-built, almost masculine in appearance and behaviour, whereas Zacora was so feminine, pliant and passive.
One of the guards, called Wolf by his friends, told her that she seemed to them fairy-like, so fragile in spite of her long athletic limbs, that if they touched her she would break or dissolve like a will o’ the wisp.
“Are you sure you’re not magic?” he asked her on the first night of their long journey. Zacora saw him looking longingly at the tautness of her pale breasts with the delicately flushed nipple centred so perfectly in each mound.
Zacora was silent, looking at his huge frame lit by the flickering camp fire. The guards had been ordered that they were on no account to unshackle her, and one of them must always accompany her when she went to the bushes to perform natural functions.
“No,” she told him, fixing her soft gaze on his raised and parted knees. “I’m not a fairy or a witch or anything magical. In my country all the girls are fair of skin and hair.”
Wolf licked his lips. “You must obey me. Do everything I say,” he said almost nervously.
“I know.” Zacora lowered her eyes as was the custom in the far off land from which she came.
The big man gulped. He wasn’t used to women who were passive; who did what they were told. Here, in Vakir, the women were the masters. He gritted his teeth angrily. It was all the fault of that wretched Prince; that weakling.
“I’m going to feel your sex,” he said, trying to keep his deep voice steady. “Lie back and keep your legs open.”
Zacora saw the other three guards shuffle across from their seating places round the camp fire to look more closely. Wolf’s words set up the familiar glow in her belly, the warm softness which she always felt in intimacy. A gentle smile, beckoning and welcoming, hovered around her lips.
“Will you scream?” asked Wolf.
Zacora shook her head. She knew her sex was wet and ready, as it always was at the promise of the touch of a stranger, specially when she was naked and chained.
“Hands above your head,” said Wolf. His voice was barely audible, whispering and husky. He watched Zacora’s shackled hands, pale and long-fingered, go obediently to a point above her shining head.
The shackles were attached to a long chain which caressed the length of her creamy body. Wolf swayed the loose links over the pouting mounds of her breasts, watching colour suffuse the pale skin. He sat back on his haunches and Zacora could see his male flesh lengthening beneath the square of leather of his loin cloth. She looked away, only to be given sight of three more dark sex swords, swaying and stiffening.
Wolf’s dusky middle finger probed between the silver puff of curls on her female mound. “Open your legs wide,” he grunted, “as far as chain will allow.”
Her ankle manacles were chained, but the chain allowed her to straddle her legs to full stretch. The body chain rubbed across her warm flesh at every breath. It was taut, stretching from her wrist manacles to the chain between her ankles.
Wolf, also breathing hard, moved to her head, carrying a heavy rock. She looked up at him, the deep blue eyes desperate with fear, but he smiled at her, holding up a stout twig. “To peg you to the ground, my beauty.”
“But I said I wouldn’t scream,” she reminded him. In her mind she could feel the brush of his rough finger against the silky curls on her sex.
“Brad, Pike and Kroll are big men,” he said with a smile which was part cruel and part apologetic.
“But you are the biggest,” sneered Pike, lifting Wolf’s loin cloth.
Zacora gasped. A shaft, almost ebony black, gleaming with its skin stretched tight over the bloated contents rose up from a crisply curled groin. She listened to the steady knocking as the big man banged the stick into the spongy woodland ground. The wrist chain was secured to the earth, making her more helpless than ever.
Her breasts pouted upwards, cleaved by the chain between them. With every pound of the rock they seemed to become fuller and tighter. There was more moisture slicking the pink inner folds of her sex.
Another tough twig was pounded in the earth between her straddled legs. She was helpless, just as she had been with the noble. A heat came from nowhere and entered her naked belly, making her melt inside while her clitoris became engorged.
The men, the four men, slid their loin cloths to the side, baring the stiffness of their male weapons. They were lit by the flickering flames of the camp fire, and, silhouetted against their dark bodies, they looked bigger and more menacing than ever.
Chained and staked though she was, Zacora felt a fever of excitement, a forbidden delight at being naked and so open and vulnerable at the men’s feet. She gave them a slight smile, curving her soft lips and parting them sweetly.
Wolf frowned. “The woman is a harlot,” he said harshly. “She beckons us.” He bent down to look at the open moistness of the silver fronded sex lips. “You see!” he said triumphantly. “How her flesh seeps sap, ready for taking!”
“You don’t understand!” cried Zacora. “In my country women must smile at men or they are whipped.” Unshed tears glazed the lustrous eyes. “Only twice has my body been taken. I could not prevent it, for I was tethered - as now.”
Wolf grinned. “In your country, they know how to treat women!” The other men laughed. “Here, we men must suffer all manner of humiliation by women. Only on such a task as this are we able to take advantage and give as good as we get.”
The man called Pike had cut several long twigs from a willow and was binding them together.
“Where first?”
Wolf caressed the prone body with his eyes, gazing long and hard between the splayed legs where the skin gleamed silkily and a jutting scarlet bud probed from silver fronds. The breasts were tempting, swollen. The slight swell of the belly sweeping down to the triangle of silver blonde curls tempted him, but then perhaps it would be better to have her pegged face down, to thrash her buttocks. He nodded to himself, making the decision.
“See if we can roll her on to her belly,” he said. “I think the body chain has enough slack.”
Rough hands dug cruelly into the flesh of her upper arms and thighs as they rolled her over. The body chain cut into the flesh of the valley between her full breasts, her belly and mound. The new position made the tension on her shoulder sockets much greater and the pale flesh of her breasts was pressed into the soft leafy ground.
“Better,” murmured Wolf. “Much better.” His big hands cupped the fullness of her bottom, stroking the lower curves and leading up to the parted crease.
“Give me the willow twigs.” Wolf’s voice was low, trembling with excitement.
Zacora glanced over her creamy shoulder. Wolf was looking at the place between her splayed thighs with the flushed pink flesh, shining with moisture and centred by a delicate bud which she knew thrust out at him. He stroked the very ends of the willow twigs across the parted hemispheres, making Zacora shiver as she wondered at her fate. Part of her was supremely excited. She felt light headed at her vulnerable predicament; pegged to the ground and held by chains. She knew that Wolf and the other men could see every detail of her sex pouch, every fold, every moist crease, but she could not see anything of theirs.
The still evening air was disturbed by the swish of the crude whip, but only the very tips brushed the lower curves of her parted buttocks. It was a tickle, a brush, a taste of what she knew was to come. Her hands grasped at the peg which held her wrists to the ground and her slim body tensed as she waited for blows yet to be received.
Silently, her soft lips parted, she mouthed a prayer of thanks to her teachers. It was they who had shown her how to be disciplined and take punishment; it was they who taught her to be passive and obedient to all men.
Her buttock flesh quivered as the willow whip struck in earnest. A faint mew of surprise whispered from her lips.
“See how the flesh reddens,” said the man called Kroll. “Each twig gives a thin stripe of scarlet.”
“Again,” whispered Pike. “Do it again.”
The lash beat down again, harder this time, and Zacora’s body arched involuntarily, bowing upwards from the mossy ground.
Was she being punished for all the humiliation that the men suffered in their own land? She could think of no other reason for them to treat her so harshly.
A rough finger slipped into the hot moistness of her naked and vulnerable sex, displayed so openly by her position on the leafy ground.
The finger slipped into her easily, sliding between the folds without resistance. Zacora felt her face flush, remembering what Wolf had called her earlier. A harlot. The word echoed in her mind, but she wasn’t, surely she wasn’t.
“Her sex sap flows readily,” said Wolf, “and her passage is open.”
Zacora felt a work roughened thumb graze over the pouting erection of her clitoris. She heard herself sigh, whispering her pleasure at the touch on that sensitive place. She bore down on the intruding fingers, for that was what she was taught to do for men. She must receive both pleasure and pain gladly, for that was what men required to obtain full release.
“The bitch asks to be taken,” said Wolf roughly. “What does she need?”
“Punishment!” said the others with one voice.
Zacora tensed, knowing what was coming. Her buttocks were greatly heated from the first lash of the willow whip. She felt that the tender flesh had been peppered with coarse sand, for there were many points of pain.
The pain was greatly enhanced at the next blow. The heat suffused her whole body as well as making her buttocks a swelling mound of fire. Tears welled up in her sapphire eyes, spilling down the peach-like cheeks to add to the dampness of the fallen forest leaves. Her soft lips curved to a perfect O as breath was forced from them.
“She likes the pain,” said Brad, excitement obvious in his voice.
It was true. In Lokara women were taught to accept discipline. But there, it was controlled pain; an exciting prelude to a man’s taking of their flesh.
“Please, not so hard,” she whispered. She looked over her shoulder, her limpid eyes seeking Wolf’s dark brown ones, pleading for less harsh discipline. “Make the strokes lighter and I shall gladly take you into my body.”
Squatting by her helpless body, Wolf stroked his fingers across the inflamed hillocks of her bottom. She could see the beauty of his male shaft, erect and spearing from between his massive brown thighs. His gaze was fixed on her parted buttocks. He allowed his fingers to trace each line left by the willow twigs, feeling the welt where the flesh was raised.
“Lightly, you say?” he queried. He frowned into the blueness of her eyes.
“Yes,” she murmured. “If the pain brings tears, how can I take your bodies gladly?”
Tense, her hands clasped tightly around the peg which held her wrist chains and her legs spread taut and wide, Zacora waited. Her bottom was a mound of fire, but her sex was delicately flushed, almost ready for the penetration which she knew would follow the beating. Her sex sap gathered on the pink and swollen folds, moistening her bud which was jerking involuntarily, pouting for attention.
The willow twigs whispered through the air. Zacora licked her lips in that interminably long second as she waited for the blow to fall. It came. Upon the pain already inflicted, it stung hotly, adding to the raised welts lifting on the pert mounds.
Men are my masters, thought Zacora. It has always been so in Lokara. As the willow twigs swished through the warm night air and she waited for the next blow, she thought back to her home, the castle where she was born; the noble knight who took her virginity and, when he had finished with her, sent her to the auction to be sold.
“She makes not a sound,” said Brad, marvelling at Zacora’s silence.
“Except the sighs of passion,” added Pike. “Is it now, Wolf? Can we take the woman’s body now?”
A hard naked toe prodded the softness of her breast, the full flesh sloping into the leafy forest floor. “Aye,” rasped Kroll, “and who shall be first?”
Zacora looked up at him. His square jaw jutted forward belligerently as he looked down at her. He stroked the smoothness of his erection, iron in its rigidity. He grinned and posed his shaft at her, thrusting his muscular pelvis forward and cupping the hard fullness of his balls.
Zacora turned away, although all her training had taught her that she should have smiled at a man who desired her. She had no wish to be called a harlot again.
The hard toe prodded the fullness of her breasts again. “Would you wish me to be first, my pretty?” asked Kroll.
She could see the bloated veins of his rigidity pulsing with eagerness. A pearly dew drop hung upon the bloated globe of his penis, shimmering in the light of the dying fire. “If you wish,” she said, but her voice was cold and polite. There was no warmth of invitation.
He kicked her again. “The wench is insolent,” he said spitefully.
Wolf laughed. “And our women are not?” he questioned. “Apart from Harold the Pretender and the Prince there is not a man in Vakir who can stand up to our women. Enjoy the good manners of this one while you may.”
Kroll grunted sullenly. “No more whipping?” he said, feeling that his spite should be vented in some way.
Fingers, cool compared from the fire in her buttocks, touched the thousand raised welts on the once creamy skin. Zacora trembled at the touch, wanting them to enter the darkness of the cleft between her buttocks and go further. She wanted them to cosset the spongy moistness which awaited in her willing sex pouch.
“Turn her over,” said Wolf, and she heard him throw the willow whip to the floor.
As she was turned upon her back she winced as tiny twigs and pebbles on the forest floor pressed into the punished flesh of her buttocks. With the four huge men looking down on her, she was suddenly ashamed of her nakedness. This emotion had never plagued her before, for she was proud of her body, but she knew they looked upon her in a different light from the men of Lokara.
Her breasts were swollen on each side of the body chain, pouting out with nipples inflamed and massively erect. Zacora closed her eyes, not wishing to look upon her own body. It had suddenly become a thing of shame rather than a supple living thing of beauty.
A roughened nail flicked each pert nipple, making shots of pain flutter through the taut mounds. She winced, opening the sapphire blue eyes wide, questioning the reason for such outright cruelty.
“Isn’t it a great feeling?” Wolf hissed. “Tonight we are the masters!”
Pike gave a gleeful growl. “The masters,” he echoed. “Our issue will not be banked to produce yet more women. The masters, if only for tonight!”
Zacora held her breath in shock. Every muscle in her slender body became tense with horror. What kind of hell was this?
“If the Prince could produce a son, an heir,” sighed Wolf, “perhaps there would be kindness in the land once more. Perhaps there would be love between men and women. Perhaps life would be normal.”
Brad and Pike nodded. “We were spared only because we were strong and were suitable for hard manual labour.” Brad looked down at her, cruelty and revenge patent in his dark eyes.
Zacora was beginning to understand. The men, those which were spared, hated women. They punished them for being women whenever there was a chance. A pliant and passive beauty, obedient and eager to please was a treat which they could not resist.
Stretched tautly above her head, Zacora’s arms ached intolerably. Her bottom was raw and inflamed. She remained still, so that it would not chafe on the forest floor. Her sex, so naked and unprotected, felt very vulnerable. At home, with her own kind, she would have revelled in that very vulnerability.
“It is time,” said Wolf, kneeling between her splayed legs and feeling the plumpness of her mound, stroking the perfectly rounded arch of her pubis. She felt the soft pad of flesh ripple under his fingers and the silver curls of her bush whisper against his palm.
The circling moons, the three sisters as the locals called them, had risen and shed cold light upon the scene. The mens’ bodies gleamed darkly in the pale light. Their huge chests, with the massively developed pectorals, were a mass of shadows and highlights. The tight stomachs and narrow hips were firm. Long shadowed thighs and huge calves were straddled wide and their male sex swords were thrust forward eagerly. Zacora found her eyes straying to the heavy sacs, so full and taut under the arches of the splayed thighs. If the men were so deprived of affection, of sex, those sacs must be bursting to release their contents. She found herself shuddering uncontrollably.
Thumbs spread the plump moist folds wide open, making her even more exposed and vulnerable. “Never have I seen a woman’s sex so pale,” whispered Wolf. “Always they are dark. And this one has such a dainty bud, so young and innocent.”
The compliments were obviously sincere and Zacora found herself smiling with pleasure, in spite of the possible insults she might rain down upon herself.
“Now she preens!” scoffed Brad. “Penetrate her to the hilt.”
The sharp words were said spitefully. Tears blurred Zacora’s vision and, again, she felt ashamed of her body. Even when she lost her virginity, she did not feel shame or humiliation, but somehow these men made her feel dirty with their actions and words.
Kroll stroked the fan of golden hair spread around her beautiful face, tracing the silver highlights caught by the light of the three moons. He was squatting behind her head and she looked back at him, trying again to please, but the smile was rewarded by a hard slap across the cheeks. Zacora gasped for the blow was a shock and a surprise. It made her head rock against her arms, stretched so tightly behind her. And again the blow was repeated, this time with the back of Kroll’s hard hand. Zacora’s beautiful face burned with shame and the force of the blow.
Wolf looked up. His fingers investigated every moist crevice of her sex and she could feel a melting in the lower part of her belly and she knew it heralded the beginnings of her orgasm. “She’s getting wet,” he said, grinning at the other men. He pointed a free hand at Kroll. “Hey! Don’t damage her, idiot.”
Face burning, Zacora looked up at Kroll, asking why with wide blue eyes. He dived his rough hand into the depths of her silky hair, tugging her head back until her long creamy throat was exposed. The action lifted her breasts, arching them high and making her nipples more available to him.
“It hurts,” she whispered softly, trying vainly to release his grip by twisting her head from side to side, but this only increased the pain.
“You talk too much,” he rasped, tugging her hair yet harder. “We must find some way to close your mouth.” He looked at Wolf, seeking permission.
Wolf grinned, nodding before returning to his task of stimulating the girl.
A further tug in her long golden hair brought Kroll’s face close to hers. She could feel her sex aching for pleasure. She knew the folds were swollen and open for Wolf’s attention. She knew her bud was fully exposed and it was jutting upwards from the moistness of the flushed bed. She felt ugly and used in her humiliation, but at the same time she didn’t want Wolf to stop his caresses.
She heard him snigger and she heard a metallic rattle. The body chain was loose, dangling somewhere over her head. She couldn’t see it because Kroll still held her by the hair. Although the opportunity was there because the lower end of the body chain was released, she had no wish to close her legs. The opposite was true. She raised her knees to make herself more available.
She felt a sudden shock of cold. The chain was being fed into the moist heat of her vagina. A gasp caught her throat but she clutched frantically at the intruding chain with her trained vaginal muscles. Wolf’s attentions had been prolonged and without release.
The change of action motivated Kroll and, almost before she had time to draw breath, a great sword of flesh was thrust between her softly parted lips. In her country it was a custom, in sexual play, for a man to spume into a woman’s mouth, but it was not done through force but after much gentle preparation.
“Suck it, bitch,” said Kroll. “Swallow me.”
At the same moment, Wolf caressed her bud as well as pushing as much of the smooth body chain into her willing vagina as was possible. She felt her body convulse magnificently. It could not be stopped. It was just as it was when the noble took her virginity.
Mouth open, Zacora was able to engulf all of Kroll’s hugeness. His tip moved into her gullet and this caressed it, soaking it with saliva. She could hear him groaning his pleasure and this increased her pleasure, making her climax repeat itself with double the strength.
The chain was pulled from her vagina, link by link, and she could feel the cushiony flesh clutching at the warmed metal, as if to keep it there. Suddenly, the chain was gone and her sex was clutching on the misty night air, grasping at nothing.
“Watch!” breathed Wolf to Brad and Pike. “Never have I seen such a welcome!”
The words made Zacora proud of the years of female training in Lokara; the learning how to love and be loved.
“Are you going to put it in?” asked Brad. He was the youngest of the sedan bearers and had no experience with women at all. He had never been given a chance to sink into the heat of a willing vessel. Wolf pushed him forward.
“You, my lad,” he said laughing, “may take your turn, but be quick about it. My hunger is at least as great as yours.”
Zacora felt smooth young thighs being pushed against hers, just as Kroll jerked deep into her throat. The first taste of his issue was thick and salty as though it was long stored in his huge sac. Jet after jet poured over her tongue and down into her gullet. Her training made it easy to take the rich liquid without gagging. It poured into her in a never ending stream.
There was a smooth jab at her slippery vaginal entrance. “That’s it, lad,” she heard Wolf say, “now press hard.”
The penis which speared into her was long and thick, but it slid into her with very little resistance because she was so wet and ready. The cushiony walls caressed the young man’s length, petting the smooth rigidity with skilful muscles. Brad was breathing hard.
The four men had treated her badly. Her buttocks still burned from the thrashing and her mind still reeled with their insults, but her training went so deep that she could not help herself. She had to pleasure Brad to the very best of her ability.
He drove into her, butting to the very limits of her womb. She, in turn, so far as her tethered arms would allow, gyrated under him, ignoring the stinging pain in her thrashed bottom. Her rear hole, still glowing from the attention of the willow twigs, pulsed in rhythm with her caressing vagina.
A final harsh breath signalled Kroll’s climax had faded. The night air was free to blow across Zacora’s fair features which had been so closely confined throughout his penetration of her mouth. He didn’t stand immediately, but wiped his penis in her silky hair, leaving sticky streaks in the golden strands.
In the very depths of her vagina began a heaviness, a melting pot of pleasure which engulfed her and, in turn, the young man.
A mew of delight escaped Zacora’s soft lips, lips which were silvery with the remains of Kroll’s semen. She arched her back, craving Brad to take her body. He pounded her, holding the sharp arches of her slim hips to gain purchase, bruising her with the force of his grip.
“She’s almost there, Brad,” said Wolf excitedly, “And so are you. Fuck her! Fuck her hard!”
The crude language grated on Zacora’s ears but, at the same time, it heightened her excitement. Her puff of silvery blonde hair upon her mound gyrated on the man’s coarse black one, and this was another source of excitement. She felt him throb in her silky depths and she, automatically, squeezed with her well-trained muscles. He groaned, wetting her creamy body with the sweat of exertion, so that their skin squelched moistly as they moved.
He spurted into her. Time after time he spurted into her. The thrusts seemed never ending, but at last Wolf grabbed the lad’s muscular shoulder, pulling him away from the helpless girl. Zacora saw Brad, panting and still making his emission a few yards away.
She felt hard hands on her strained shoulders. The pain made her wince, biting her soft lower lip. It was Wolf, the largest man, lowering himself into her. She saw his penis, so dark in the shadow of his own body as to look almost black.
Her entrance was fully open and drenched with Brad’s sperm, but she tensed, trying to make her vessel tight for Wolf, trying to make it pamper him. He hovered above her, rough hands hard on her shoulders. He nudged at the warm wetness of her entrance with the rounded thickness of his globe. She could feel him opening her up, spreading the inner lips apart. Poised there, he looked down at her.
Prised open in this way, Zacora could feel Brad’s hot liquid running from her; feel it seeping over the spread buttocks and down her splayed thighs. She had bent her knees and spread them outwards, making herself totally vulnerable for Wolf, wanting to please him.
“You are a used woman,” he grunted cruelly in her face. His features were a mask of hatred; his need to hurt her naked form beneath him.
Zacora said nothing, but simply tried to ignore the pain in her shoulders. His grip was fierce on her soft flesh and her arms were becoming numb from their long confinement in one position above her head. She concentrated on the wonderful feelings in her sex. He penetrated her further, making the entrance slow and tantalising. She tilted her mound, offering a more open position.
Wolf’s dark eyes slitted cruelly. “Surely,” he hissed, “only a harlot would know such tricks.” She saw him move his swarthy cheeks, gathering saliva and a great gob of his spit splashed on her pale cheek. He plunged into her fully, gyrating cruelly, and she met him movement for movement. It was an angry, frantic coupling with the sex skilled girl contracting her muscles around him, milking him of his sperm. His heavy balls smacked hard against her buttocks, already wet with Brad’s spillage.
Another splash of liquid fell hotly on her swollen breasts. Wolf still held her at the shoulders, pinching the fine skin and bruising the delicate bones.
Zacora looked up, Pike was standing over them, his head thrown back, glorying in their sudden ascendancy over a woman. His penis was held in one hand, while the other was cupping his balls. His thick shaft was being manipulated vigorously and it was spurting in great hot splashes over her naked breasts.
She accepted her humiliation gladly. She smiled up at Wolf and was rewarded with another gob of saliva, aimed this time into her open soft lips. His movements were frantic, spearing his whole length into her. She could feel him pulsing and her own climax was so close, so very close.

CHAPTER FIVE

The new slave had arrived in a sedan chair, lying back on soft cushions. Naked, as a slave should be, she trembled in her chains as Megan peered into the curtained sedan. It was a delicious sound; the tinkling of the fine chains.
The nervous slave looked up at her new mistress with the biggest sapphire eyes Megan had ever seen. Long blonde curls - no, not truly blonde, gold, with streaks of silver - twisted over the pale shoulders to circle pert pink nipples. The breasts had the perfect roundness of youth. The skin was stretched over them drum-like and it swept down to a slender waist, so delicately curved that it asked to be caressed. Megan stretching out a finger and the slave flinched back into the cushions of the sedan.
The girl had a belly, a mere gentle swell from the dip of her navel. The nest! Oh, Megan had gasped at the sight of the nest. It pouted out, a pad of female flesh brushed with hair more silvery than that upon her lovely head. And the way she had been placed in the sedan by the guards made the silver-flecked labia part so that Megan could see the moist pink folds beneath. The nubbin, too, was plainly visible, achingly lovely, begging to be kissed by female lips.
The chains by which Zacora was held were light, but strong. The ankles were gripped by manacles, holding her shapely pale legs apart. The chain between the manacles was at full stretch, holding the legs taut. A well-placed padlock in each lower corner of the sedan pulled the ankles, and thus the full legs, wide apart.
The wrists, too, were shackled, but together. The arms were pulled high, Megan noticed, and fastened to the roof of the sedan, making the lovely breasts so taut that it looked as though the skin would burst.
A seemingly unnecessary chain was looped between ankles and wrists. It was very fine and, at intervals, were smooth round balls of different sizes. The placing of these devices, it seemed to Megan, was judged very precisely. There was one at the mouth, one between the deep valley of her breasts, one upon her sex mound and one, where the chain took a loose loop, at her sex entrance. Every slight movement caused the balls to give small stimulations, teasing almost.
Megan’s mouth went dry at the sight presented to her, and her sex became puffy, more open, ready and wet. She had difficulty calling for the guards to unfasten the padlocks so the girl could be helped from the sedan.
As two guards stepped forward, presenting their hairy muscular buttocks as they bent into the curtained sedan, Megan had no desire to finger the leather thongs parting those delicious male clefts. Heavy sacs lay between the slightly parted thighs. Normally, Megan would not have been able to resist cupping these, caressing them, feeling them move within the loose skin. She did nothing except lick her lips, mentally running through the inventory of her sex toys. Which would be most appropriate to use on this sweet creature first? What would she use to train her to adore? Should she take her to tantalise her favourite customers? Yes, she decided, how they would love that extra stimulation.
Free and wobbly from long tethering in the sedan, Zacora stood beside Megan, head bowed in sad submission. Even in this position the breasts were taut and firm with sweet little nipples, gently tucked in, asking to be sucked to erection.
“Walk in front of me,” ordered Megan.
Zacora’s sapphire eyes looked up questioningly. Even with the looseness of the ankle chain, walking would not be easy.
“Do as I say!” Megan’s voice was sharper. “And keep your head bowed.”
The new captive took a tentative step towards the heavy wooden drawbridge. The girl was obviously nervous and unsure of herself.
Megan liked her new slaves to walk in front of her, so that she could admire their buttocks. Her eyes always strayed to that place. Those in front of her at that moment were particularly fine. The flesh was firm, sporting the most delightful slope down to the fullness at the lower margin. There was also an attractive parting at the bottom cleft which urged the viewer to want to investigate within those depths.
The sway was lovely too. Once the girl caught a rhythm, there was a swing of the flesh, pouting and parting, which was most provocative.
However, thought Megan, frowning, the girl, seemingly so pliant, also had a hint of rebelliousness. This must be beaten out of her. Her fingers itched as she mentally viewed the whip case. She lightly brushed the pads of her thumbs across those of her fingertips as if feeling the texture of different leather strips, how they would feel to her fingers before she striped the girl with them.
But she would be gentle in her discipline - at first. She lifted her eyes, dark and heavily outlined with black kohl, to look at the graceful length of the girl’s body. Although pale there was a golden sheen as is found on a ripe fruit such as a peach. The skin begged to be caressed by mouth, fingers and lash.
The shoulders were wide for such a slender body and they were proud, for all the golden head was bent in submission. A strange mixture. This was no ordinary girl, that was plain enough.
“I’d better take you to the bath house and have you scrubbed.” She wagged an admonishing finger. “Don’t know what you’ve been up to with those guards.”
Zacora said nothing. The guards were men and her strict training taught that they, even though they were servants of this woman, they must be protected and loved.
“Hm!” Megan sneered at her silence. “Four hulking guards carrying you in a sedan chair for five days and you did nothing? This I cannot believe. They would not be able to control themselves!” She laughed. “I know what those men are like. Couldn’t resist a girl like you. I’ll bet it was one after the other several times a day, every day.”
Zacora remained silent.
Megan laughed even more loudly. “You were helpless,” she reminded the girl. “In chains and your legs were splayed wide open.” She gave a nod of understanding. “You allowed them to do it in your mouth, is that it? So their misbehaviour would not be discovered?”
Zacora hung her head in shame, blushing furiously.
“Nevertheless, I feel, so that I can discern the truth, I must inspect you,” said Megan, “once we reach the bath house.” Zacora had halted, her lustrous golden tresses hanging loosely from the crown of her head and over the lovely curves of her breasts. “Not far now.”
The girl shuffled forward, for her ankles were becoming sore with the chafing of the manacles. Megan loved the way her arms were held loosely in front of her, hands at the soft warmth of the silver nest. The length of chain looped from ankles to wrists brushed the satin skin of the inner thighs in a most stimulating manner. Megan could feel her own sap gathering between swollen lips and her nubbin jutting quite urgently between her uncovered cleft.
“Here we are,” said Megan cheerfully, swinging open an oak door. “This is the bath house.”
Zacora hung back, for the echoing marble chamber was full of giggling girls. “Here is the new girl.” Megan pushed the reluctant captive into the dimly lit, steam-filled room, and spoke in an almost motherly fashion. “I’m going to inspect her, if you would like to watch, my dears. I fear she has been very naughty with the guards.”
Cries of ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’ went up from the naked girls.
“You two!” Megan pointed to two well-built young ladies drying themselves at the edge of one of the round marble tubs sunk into the stone floor.
The girls looked at each other, giggling that they had been chosen, then turned to Megan to question their task.
“Get her up on the examining table, but I want the chains undisturbed.” Megan looked eager, her dark eyes bright and her scarlet lips slightly parted and moist.
The fairer of the two girls looped her strong hands under Zacora’s armpits, while the darker one lifted her at bent knees. “She’s very light, mistress,” said the dark one, placing the new captive on the bench. Smiling at Zacora she splayed her knees and carefully put the shackled feet together. This had the effect of opening up the sex lips quite nicely.
Zacora looked down and, seeing how she was spread, she blushed in humiliation. She tried to close her knees, but Megan quickly stepped forward, slapping them wide again. “And keep them that way,” she ordered.
Other girls were gathering eagerly around the bench. One even stroked the underswell of each breast, watching how each inverted nipple sprang out almost immediately.
“She’s very sensitive, mistress,” remarked the girl, smiling down at the blushing Zacora.
“And so will you be,” said Megan sharply, “if you don’t leave her alone. She’s not for you to touch.”
In her hand, Megan held an instrument. Before using this she spread the soft sex leaves open with her fingers, as if gaging the width to which they would open. Immediately, she saw the girl’s clitoris jerk to attention. It was stiff, peachy coloured and shiny with moisture. Zacora was indeed sensitive.
“How pretty!” she couldn’t help murmuring, stretching out a gentle finger to stroke the jutting erection of the bud.
Megan lowered her head and placed a wide syringe into the pulsing entrance. Yes, it was pulsing. It wanted something to go in. The skin was smooth, so moist and silky. It was made to be penetrated.
“I am going to take a sample of the fluid within you,” Megan told the suffering girl. “To discern just how much the guards defiled you.”
Zacora shuddered, hoping that the guards seed had drained away. Megan looked at her suspiciously.
“Hm, we’ll see,” she said quietly.
The syringe was as thick as a medium cockshaft. It was smooth and slid in easily. Megan knew that the girl would feel a mild sucking sensation and, maybe a sense of fullness. She watched the dainty bottom cheeks lift a little from the bench, as if wanting more. The mistress removed the syringe and held it to the light to check the contents.
“Milky looking,” she noted, “quite copious. I really cannot believe that this is all your own. No woman produces so much lubrication - not even me.”
The girls gathered, so close to the bench, sniggering. One or two of them received hard slaps for their pains.
Zacora, almost in tears, held her guilty secret silently.
Megan shrugged. “What matter anyway, I shall still have you scrubbed to make sure. I have very intimate plans for you.”
Spirits sagging, Zacora allowed herself to be lifted from the bench. All the girls seemed very eager to be the ones to scrub.
Still chained, the captive was slipped into one of the deep tubs. The water was pleasantly hot and aromatically perfumed. Megan watched as her prize was shampooed; her long golden curls floating out like a living fan upon the swirling water. She watched as the girls scrubbed under, over and around the sensitive mounds of the breasts, until they glowed scarlet. She watched as many willing hands dipped down to finger the silvery mound, and into the slit. She heard a slight moan as a sensitive spot was teased. It was going to be sheer delight playing with this young woman. She looked so innocent and yet she was receptive. It wasn’t often one found both qualities in a slave.
“Take her out,” she ordered. Her voice was quite husky with longing and she found herself lifting her black clingy dress and stroking her plump mound. She stopped, just in time. It wasn’t good for discipline to do such things in front of the slaves. They were the ones to be done to, after all, not to do.
The captive was pampered as she was dried with soft cloths. All the girls took a part of her and rubbed and patted her dry. Zacora loved it when her pale skin flushed with embarrassment as the girls reached the most intimate parts. It was quite amazing how, though embarrassed, her nipples popped out as hard pegs and her nether lips became inflamed and swollen.
“You can all bring her to my play room as a special treat,” said Megan, “but you will have to leave when I begin my games.”
An excited twittering set up among the girls. Some of them were still glowing from their bath and all were still. Their young bodies shone with moisture and nipples of every shape and shade dripped enticingly, and in the midst of them was the trembling figure of the new captive.
The other girls were long trained slaves, quite happy in their role. Megan looked at Zacora, being pulled by her body chain by several girls. She looked sad though her body glowed prettily from the treatment she had just received.
Hands stroked Zacora’s nakedness, infiltrating her front and rear clefts. Megan saw her, surreptitiously, bear down on the fingers, urging deeper penetration. Oh, she thought, I can’t wait to begin on her.
The procession of women, chattering and giggling, made its way to the vast chamber where all new slaves were taught the Meleagan way, “Where do you come from?” whispered one little creature in Zacora’s ear.
“Lokara,” replied Zacora, “we were trained to please men - but not women.”
“No more talking, you girls.” Megan heard her own voice. It was sharp and edgey.
They all entered the play room, Zacora in the middle of the crowd. I should be excited, thought Megan, by having all my girls around me, fresh and clean from the bath house. But she wanted the beautiful Zacora on her own.
“Go away now,” she said. Her voice was softer, huskier.
When they were alone she turned to look at Zacora, smiling lasciviously. Taking the hem of her black dress she lifted it and pulled it over her head, Her full figure was naked apart from a narrow red suspender belt, black stockings and tight ankle boots with heels.
“What do you think of me?” she asked, pirouetting and posing her heavy breasts and pillows of flesh forming her bottom.
Zacora, head bowed, was silent.
Megan strode towards her crossly to drag her to a pillar at the centre of the room, hooking her wrist chain to a high placed hook. She grinned as she saw the tight breasts lift with the tension. In a vertical position, the body chain was much tighter and the smooth balls fitted into their appointed places: mouth, breast valley, silver mound and the sex slit.
Megan stood back looking at her new slave. “Very nice indeed. How do these little teasers feel?” She rubbed the balls at the mound and slit, grinning as she saw Zacora wriggle and bear down on the titillation.
“Something more fleshy is called for,” said Megan, stroking at her own dark brown forest, spreading the swiftly swelling lips to bare her moist nubbin. “Look up, my pet, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Obediently, Zacora raised her sad eyes and they widened at what she saw. Depicted on the high ceiling was the Garden of Eden. Adam watched in horror as the serpent coiled around Eve’s leg, although she was obviously ecstatic. Her mouth was open and eyes glazed in lust. The head of the serpent was poised at her dripping entrance.
When Zacora attempted to lower her head she found that she could not. Megan had plaited her hair into a loop and fixed it firmly to the post by some means.
Megan went to a cabinet, leaving Zacora forced to stare at the defilement of Eve. The girl was trembling, Megan knew, for she could hear the slight tinkle of the chains, metal upon metal. She smiled to herself, allowing the girl to think that she was to be penetrated by a live snake. “It isn’t poisonous,” Megan said calmly, “and it absolutely loves warm, dark places. And snakes aren’t slimy, you know, not at all. Not a bit like people think, so you’d better set to and create some of that famous sap of yours.”
“Please, mistress,” whimpered Zacora. “I hate snakes. Anything but that.”
Megan laughed. “Oh, I have lots of treats in store for you,” she assured. “Lots of playthings, but I want you to feel the glorious wriggliness of my little pet first.” She turned to look at her slave, smiling a little as she looked at the forcibly held silver head, the pale arms stretched high to lift the breast mounds, the long legs balanced on tip toe and manacled around the broad pole. Megan felt light headed at the sight; almost drunk.
In the cabinet, the cupboard she called her toy box, there was a wide variety of smooth carved lengths of wood, dildoes, worn with frequent usage, of every shape and size imaginable.
Slowly, she sorted through the collection, looking for the special one. It wasn’t a real snake, but her wood carver had made a fine job of creating a dildo replica of the reptile. It was made in segments to give the impression of movement when Megan pulled a cord at the tail. There was even a tiny forked tongue which could be retracted when the carved serpent was inserted. Even the colours were realistic upon the scale-like marking.
A wicked smile wreathed Megan’s round face as she took it from the cabinet, holding it on the flat of both palms as she swung her plump near-naked body across the room to Zacora’s bound one. “Here he is, the little beauty,” she said proudly. “Not so little really. I hope you’re feeling nice and open because his girth is quite huge.” She giggled. “Just eaten, you see.” The giggle came again at the lie.
She held up the smoothly carved snake, surreptitiously pulling the tiny cord so that the serpent waved slowly on the upheld palms. It was kept below Zacora’s eye line, so that the view of it was just sufficient to give the impression of live movement. Megan was delighted when she saw the girl flinch in terror.
“Come now,” the woman cajoled. “It’s like cold water - it really isn’t so bad once you’re in.” She paused, thinking. “Or rather, perhaps I should say, once it’s in.”
Zacora’s whole body was taut with fear, flinching back against the post. Her eyes were closed against the awful scene on the ceiling above her, and yet her sex pouch was ready for something to stretch the soft cushiony walls.
Not a snake though! Oh no, not a snake!
“Here he comes!” Megan made the snake wriggle, made the forked tongue tickle the swollen silver lips one last time before she retracted it. She brushed her own plump body, her belly and her cushiony breasts against Zacora’s willowy one and positioned the snake head at the girl’s entrance. She pushed it forward, smiling as she heard the whisper of horror change to a sigh of delight as the wriggling thickness entered and stretched the soft, moist membranes.
“You see! I told you!” Megan was triumphant. She brushed her huge pillows of soft flesh across Zacora’s firm tight breasts as she eased the plumpness of the snake replica into the receptive moistness of the girl’s sex passage. She could feel the captive’s young muscles pulsing around the wriggling intrusion and the breathing was one of excitement; the excitement of a sensation. Megan pulled the cord, very gently, and a groan escaped the girl, becoming louder as the intrusion became deeper and more vibrant.
“See how your pleasure flows over my little pet,” she said huskily. “Your nubbin tip rubs beautifully over his tail and he delights upon the liquid which you pour over him.” Megan sniffed the air. “Oh yes, he loves your fresh musky aroma. Once more, my precious little slave, but we shall place him into your rear passage now that you have wetted him so nicely with your love sap.”
Very slowly, the snake-like dildo was withdrawn from the pulsing sex pouch.
“No, mistress, please,” pleaded Zacora. There was humiliation in her begging, but Megan took no notice. “Not there, please!”
Unheeding, Megan released her new captive. The girl’s legs were weak from the strong orgasms given by the dildo and she fell gracefully in a heap to the floor.
“Good,” smiled Megan. “We’ll keep the thighs open and your bottom just clear of the ground.” Zacora’s legs were placed in this position around the post, still using the ankle manacles and chain.
Keeping the dildo out of sight, so the illusion of the snake was kept, Megan played with the climax-relaxed body. She kissed the lifted moistness between the splayed thighs, sniffing the aroma as she nuzzled into the wetness with her nose. She kissed each breast, misted with the heat of orgasm, swollen to tenderness. She kissed the soft, parted lips, transferring the girl’s own juices into her mouth. The captive was so excited that there was no hint of embarrassment or humiliation. Megan frowned. She missed those things in a girl. Surely, innocence could not be peaked away so quickly by climaxes?
“I’ll soon fix you,” she said hoarsely. “He’s entering you now. You’ve made him nice and slippery, so there should not be too much pain.”
Zacora’s sapphire blue eyes flashed open. It was as if she had been mesmerised by that first orgasm from the snake, and now she was back to reality. “That’s better,” said Megan cheerfully. She pressed the pale lifted bottom cheeks to expose the rear mouth and pull it open. The snake head poked at the tight wrinkled opening. The girl shuddered, but it wasn’t clear whether it was a shiver of horror or of delight. Megan shrugged, probably delight, for she was massaging the fully exposed nubbin. The dildo snake moved as she pulled the cord and inched into the darkness of the rear passage. The girl was breathing quickly and rhythmically in her bonds.
Megan was delighted to note that Zacora kept her hands stretched high above her head. The girl certainly knew her place, knew that she should be passive and pliant. The flexible dildo was high up within her now and Megan was stroking the nubbin with all of her moistened fingers. The hoarse breathing was quicker, more urgent, and there was a bearing down on the snake.
“Let your full pleasure flow, my lovely,” Megan urged. “I have to teach you every nuance of sensuality and you are such a good pupil.”
With strong pulsations in the young muscles the snake was gradually eased out of the rear mouth. The girl lay passive, her moist silver sex purse open and the swollen lips fluttering. The nubbin jerked in and out of the pink leaves, throbbing with its recent satisfaction. Fluid, pearly and warm, oozed from the darkness of the pouch. Tears flowed down the pale cheeks as Zacora lay, still chained with her legs humiliatingly parted.
“Tears, my darling?” Megan questioned. “Why so, when my little pet has cossetted you so nicely?”
“Please let me go,” begged Zacora.
“Aren’t you enjoying yourself with our little games?” Megan raised a quirky eyebrow and squatted before the girl, displaying herself lewdly.
“No - yes,” she stammered. “Oh, I don’t know what I mean.”
Megan watched the girl eagerly, seeing what effect her display might produce. The sapphire eyes focused on the dark lushness of Megan’s sex pouch, open and slick with creamy lubrication. The young lips seemed to open automatically and the tongue protruded ready to tease an opening or a jutting bud. Shuffling eagerly, Megan moved towards the beckoning, fully open slit