Babala's Correction (15 page)

As he left the bath chamber Desilla stood over Babala, and beckoned some of the girls closer. ‘I want her placed on the examining table,' she said.

‘But we might hurt her,' protested the redhead. ‘Her restraints are so hard and unyielding and she is already in discomfort.'

‘Do as I say,' said Desilla.

The girls were gentle, but the blonde who was slapped could not resist a spiteful pinch of Babala's bottom as she helped to lift her onto the marble table.

‘Do you wish us to unfasten her chains now, mistress?' asked the redhead.

‘No, not yet,' Desilla said, shaking her head as she eyed her lovely prize. ‘Why are you so concerned about her?'

‘Because you used me in much the same way when I first arrived here,' the redhead responded, her chin held high.

‘And will do so again if I have any more of your cheek,' said Desilla, turning to search a shelf. ‘Where is my strainer cup?' she asked, picking up first one implement and then another. ‘Have one of you used it?'

‘No, mistress,' chorused all the girls.

‘We would not presume to take something of yours,' added a girl with hair as black as night. ‘And what use would we have for your strainer cup when we rarely see a man?'

‘Less of your cheek,' Desilla snapped, before continuing with her search.

‘Ah, here it is,' she eventually said, picking up a tube as thick as a large cock. It was made of a hard but clear substance that shone in the candlelight.

The marble was cold and hard beneath Babala's bottom and it struck a chill into her flesh. The manacles rubbed the tender skin at her wrists and ankles and the spacer-rod made her thighs ache.

‘Lift her buttocks with this,' Desilla ordered, and the redhead was handed a wooden device, carved to take the fullness of bottom cheeks. The mistress stood, thighs gracefully apart, holding the strainer cup.

‘I'll try to be gentle,' whispered the redhead, pushing the wooden pillow beneath Babala's buttocks, and although she was as good as her word, Babala could not help but give a mew of discomfort as the shaped wooden block was pushed beneath her. It was not that the pillow caused her pain; it was the strain it put on the rod and chains that held her captive.

‘This will not hurt,' promised Desilla, and the strainer cup, which was not a cup at all but a syringe, was placed at Babala's opening. Desilla pushed forward with the implement and Babala felt her flesh pouch being pressed open. She parted her lips and gasped.

‘Oh, come now,' chivvied the woman. ‘You've welcomed many cocks bigger than this, I'm sure. It cannot be hurting for you are slippery as can be; juices seeping very nicely to lubricate your passage.'

‘It is hard and cold, mistress,' whispered Babala. ‘And it opens me shamefully wide.' She looked up shyly at the girls who watched her humiliation with such interest. ‘And they are all staring at my cunny.'

‘Stop making a fuss, girl,' sneered Desilla. The strainer cup was fully inserted and Babala felt a sucking sensation that made her draw in her breath. The sucking seemed to go on and on, but at last the strainer cup was withdrawn and Desilla held it to the light of a candle.

‘It is full,' Desilla's voice was no more than a whisper. ‘And I sucked a great deal from you.' She gave Babala a sideways glance, her eyes narrowed slits of suspicious. ‘Rata gave you all this seed?'

Babala said nothing, but wished the floor would swallow her up. Could the syringe be full not only of Rata's issue but Maxim's as well? Was there any way Desilla could know?

‘Who else has fucked you?' asked the woman. ‘Tell me, who?'

The other girls were silent, huddling together, their soft breasts pressed close and their hands clutched together as if their closeness would give them comfort.

‘Well, you little strumpet,' Desilla persisted, ‘what have you to say for yourself? Did Rata receive money from a courtier or two for your services as he brought you here? Is that it?' She stroked the iron restraints at Babala's ankles, and then her fingers thrust into the girl's exposed sex. ‘They took advantage of your helplessness, I suppose.'

‘No, mistress,' murmured Babala, her voice trembling with dread that Desilla might discover the truth; that Maxim had fucked her in the carriage on the way to the castle. She wished she dared wriggle away from the thrusting fingers, but to do so was to invite punishment, she knew.

Desilla sighed and let her fingers slide from Babala's wetness. ‘Oh, very well then,' she said, her tone one of irritation. ‘But if I ever find out you've put your cunt where you should not...' She drew her forefinger in a cutting movement across her own throat and smiled evilly as she watched Babala shiver.

‘Take those restraints from her,' she ordered. ‘I have the key.' The redhead reached out to take it, but the dark girl was quicker, and bent down next to Babala.

‘It was the master, wasn't it?' she whispered.

Babala darted frightened eyes in Desilla's direction, but the woman was busy at the bench setting out the toys that she unclipped from the lower margin of her corset.

‘He does that with all the girl slaves if he gets the chance.' The dark girl kept a wary eye on Desilla as she released the wrist restraints from Babala. ‘And madam always suspects, but rarely proves anything.'

‘Leave the leg chains in place,' Desilla said suddenly, and the dark girl looked wary, clearly fearing she'd been overheard. ‘Lift her into the tub and make sure she is properly scrubbed.'

The girls hurried to do madam's bidding and Babala felt some relief as she was lowered into the warm and perfumed water. Aching and tired from her long restraint in the manacles, she closed her eyes and let her hair float in a golden fan on the milky surface. The girls used perfumed soap and soft cloths to scrub under and over Babala's breasts, paying special attention to the sensitive nipples that sprang up like little pegs.

It was the dark girl who attended to Babala's cunny, made available by the rod that still spread her thighs. ‘You have lovely fleshy lips,' she whispered as she dipped into the warm swirling water and soaped Babala's golden curls. Babala said nothing, but the gentle massage was making frissons of pleasure spark within her lower belly, making her feel relaxed, and could not help but moan as her outer lips were peeled open and the dark girl's knowing fingers teased her sensitive nubbin.

‘I know what you're up to,' Desilla said, interrupting the moment, and the dark girl yelped and cowered as a whip licked around her slender and bare shoulders. ‘I do the pleasuring, not you girls. You have been my body slaves long enough to know that.'

‘I am sorry, mistress,' said the girl, ‘but her cunny pouts so invitingly.'

‘It does, doesn't it?' Desilla purred. ‘Take her out. I want her now.'

Babala moved awkwardly in the leg irons, but the girls managed to help her out of the tub and dry her with many soft cloths, and then at last the restraints were unfastened and her legs were free.

‘You girls may leave us now,' said Desilla, her predatory eyes fixed on Babala. ‘I want her alone. There is much I need to know about this one.' There was a look in her eyes that unnerved Babala. ‘Oh, there's no need to look like that,' the woman mused, toying with her prey. ‘I have a treat in store before I send you back to the kitchen...'

The girls had gone and the bath chamber echoed with Desilla's next ominous words. ‘According to my husband you have been well used before, so what I have planned for you should not be a trial at all.' She strutted towards a door. ‘Follow me,' she ordered.

On shaking legs and her mind troubled by the woman's words Babala did as she was told. The room into which she was taken was gloomy and shadowy. It was sparsely furnished with only one narrow table in its centre. Babala looked at Desilla curiously.

‘Up on there,' said the woman, ‘and spread your arms above your head and part your legs. This is one of my little toys for girls who are disobedient. I punish them.'

‘But, mistress, I do everything you say,' Babala protested. ‘I try to be good and to please you.'

Desilla's eyes narrowed. ‘Hm, when I can see you, but what about when you are out of my sight? What do you get up to then, eh?'

She was talking about her husband, Babala was sure. The cruel woman suspected and this was why she was being punished.

‘Up on the table,' Desilla repeated, and gave her a slap on the bottom that made the pert mounds quiver. The sound was like the crack of a whip and hurt almost as much, and Babala stifled a sob of woe. With tears in her eyes she climbed onto the narrow table, opened her legs wide and spread her arms.

‘It's quite obvious that you make a habit of making yourself available to all and sundry,' said Desilla, her lips thin and curved in a cruel smile.

‘But only because I am made to do so, mistress,' Babala countered bravely, as her wrists were strapped hard to the upper corners of the furniture.

‘Don't be impertinent, you little strumpet.'

Babala sighed and wondered exactly what the woman had in store for her - how exactly she was to be tormented.

‘This is an interesting device, my sweet.' Desilla stood at her head, looking down at her and fingering a large wheel. ‘Since you enjoy to be open and pliant this will make you more so.' She gave a wicked chuckle. ‘Very much more so, and will please the gentlemen who are waiting to get their hands on you.'

A click echoed through the bare-walled chamber and Babala felt a tension in her limbs as they were spread wider.

‘How does that feel?' asked Desilla.

Babala's breasts felt taut and her nipples stiffened. Her cunny felt extremely exposed, and her sex lips were parted, her clitoris flushed and eager, aching for the touch of a finger or the chafe of a cock. She could sense the drafts in the chamber seeking it out, whispering over the golden curls and meandering like an icy stream over the heated inner flesh. ‘It feels very strange, mistress,' she admitted, although privately she thought how deliciously vulnerable she felt.

‘Stretched, would you say?' probed Desilla.

‘Very much so, mistress,' said Babala. Her sex bud did indeed feel stretched, making the tension in her limbs feel as nothing of any great importance.

‘It will feel even more so by the time my gentlemen friends have finished with you,' Desilla threatened. ‘And then you will hold no appeal for my straying husband whatsoever.' She smiled maliciously. ‘You will not know who they are, of course. No, that wouldn't do at all. They will be masked.' She gave the wheel at Babala's head another turn and the girl felt her belly hollow from the extra tension, felt her breasts become flatter on her ribs and felt her legs become more open. ‘Only I will know that.'

Babala moaned, finding it more difficult to breathe as she was stretched, but despite her anxiety she felt her sex sap seep generously, warm and milky, trickling over her folds and soaking through her golden pussy curls. She twisted her head to look at the Slavemaster's wife and cringed from the disturbingly intense expression in the dark eyes.

It was a trick - Babala knew it. Desilla was taunting her. She'd known all the time that Maxim had seduced her in the carriage. The rack and the masked men, they were all a ploy to tease and torture Babala. Not to make her unappealing to the woman's husband in the future, but to punish her for acts already perpetrated. And at the end of it all she would be condemned to a life as a serving wench in the kitchens, or horror of all horrors - thrown from the crag to an awful death.

Desilla's expression changed. She became bright and inviting as she moved away and opened the heavy oak double doors. ‘Come in, gentlemen,' she beckoned, smoothing the supple leather of her tight corset over her shapely body. ‘The girl is prepared, and I know you will all enjoy her immensely.'

Four men - aristocrats, judging by their expensively heavy cloaks - crowded into the room. Macabre carnival masks hid their faces, turning them into grotesque demons, and behind the masks eyes glinted avariciously. Babala could hear their breathing, harsh and rapid, eager and wanting - and somehow this increased her treacherous yearning. The Taskmaster's training had been extremely thorough; she could feel the greater pulse of her sex bud and its growing heat. Her limbs, stretched and secured as they were, only served to increase her shameful excitement.

‘Perhaps you would care to open your codpieces, gentlemen,' Desilla offered. ‘I am sure our dear girl would love to see what is in store for her.'

The cloaks were swept aside and codpieces, the padded covers that enhanced the men's groins, were unfastened and erections of varying length and girth sprang forth. They were already proud and turgid, the knobs bared and shiny, slippery with pre-issue. The men remained silent and stood in line, waiting their turn to ravage Babala.

As her sapphire eyes traveled along the display of swollen members she readied herself for the onslaught. A strange pride made her look at each of the men in turn, and watch as they blatantly stroked their rigid stems, glossing their issue over their bulbous helmets.