Captive (7 page)

‘I’m not her first,’ Grathor grunted.

‘A rare thing, an anal virgin,’ the clerk remarked with regret.

‘That’s right, little one, let me in,’ Grathor said and pushed once more.

Aisla gasped as her bottom ring gave and Grathor’s cock head popped into her anus. Shutting her eyes, she concentrated on the feel of the thick, slimy shaft easing bit by bit up her rectum, all the while with her mouth agape and her eyes tight shut. It was ecstasy, and despite her appalling shame and the leering attention of the audience she once more began to rub herself on the ball.

‘She’s frigging again, what a dirty little trull!’ the beaten woman called out.

A hand gripped Aisla’s hair and something blunt and fleshy pushed into her mouth. Her eyes came open in shock to find Ganis in front of her, but it was too late, his cock was in her mouth and she was sucking, an instinctive reaction to the taste of penis and her overwhelming lust. A woman laughed but she was lost, sucking and frigging as Grathor worked his cock in her rectum. Realising that she was willing, Ganis released her hair and took her breasts, groping them and slapping them to make them swing.

A hand twisted into her hair, pulling it and she saw the big woman from the corner of her eye. Something hit her bottom and the beating starting again, the beaten woman slapping at Aisla’s bottom with the doubled whip. Ganis came in her mouth, suddenly, unexpectedly, his sperm erupting down her throat and then spraying out around her lips as she struggled to swallow and failed. He grunted as he did it, pushing his cock deep into her windpipe and holding it there as she choked and her throat clamped over and over on the bulbous head.

Someone laughed at the sight and Grathor’s pushes became more urgent. The glorious cock-full feeling in her rectum turned to pain and he grunted, jammed himself in to the hilt, stopped, and Aisla knew he had come up her bottom. She cried out as Ganis’ cock left her mouth, expressing both her ecstasy and her overwhelming shame at being watched as a man came up her bottom, but Grathor’s cock was still hard in her anus and she was coming, her bottom ring tightening on the thick, fleshy plug as she started to come again. She screamed in her orgasm, overcome by the sensations inflicted on her body, from the feel of the cock in her bottom, through the throbbing of her beaten buttocks to the burning pain in her arms.

It was over, and she was hanging, sobbing in her bonds as Grathor’s cock pulled from her anus. The assistant began to undo her arms, the others chattering, remarking on the display she had made with casual intimacy. Her wrists came loose and she thankfully began to flex her arms. He unclipped her collar and began to work on her belly strap, only to stop suddenly as the catch came open.

Aisla turned. In the doorway was Madame Yasma, her plump features creased into a knowing smirk as she admired Aisla’s naked rear view. There was a short whip in her hand, a length of braided leather with a thick, horn handle.

‘Madame Yasma!’ the clerk exclaimed. ‘We are honoured indeed! Ganis, a fully appointed chamber, immediately! Or does Madame, wish the coprophilarium or the pump room? I can have either ready in moments.’

‘Stop babbling,’ Madame Yasma answered. ‘I am here merely to teach this Mundic slattern an important lesson in manners, across her fat meat.’

‘Ah ha, a cunt whipping!’ the clerk declared. ‘A wonderful choice Madame! Ah ha, but it is a punishment? Doubtless well deserved, doubtless!’

‘Have her spread on a bench,’ Madame Yasma ordered, ‘belly up.’

‘A moment, Madame,’ Grathor interrupted, ‘she is under my charge, by word of the Count.’

‘Have you married her?’ Madame Yasma demanded.

‘No,’ Grathor admitted, ‘yet…’

‘Then I may punish her as my rank allows,’ Yasma cut in, ‘as doubtless my noble cousin will tell you, should you chose to put the question. Now come on, make her ready, I aim to leave her raw from button to cheeks!’

Grathor gave a reluctant growl but stood back, leaving the clerk and assistant to hurriedly finish undoing Aisla’s bonds. Free, she stood, rubbing the circulation back into her arms. Her bottom and breasts were throbbing, her bottom ring and tuppenny sore from penetration. The blood was still singing in her ears, but the sense of sexual helplessness that had made her give in was fading at the sheer venom of Madame Yasma’s manner.

As the clerk took her arm she glanced around the room, hoping for support. Grathor returned a sullen shrug, the two girls who had been beaten smiles of sympathy but no more, while the big woman appeared intent on something outside the window. The assistant maintained his stolid expression, while Ganis gave her a licentious smirk, evidently more than happy to see her tuppenny whipped. She hesitated, pulling against the clerk as he tried to push her down on the bench.

‘Come now,’ he urged, ‘it wouldn’t do to keep Madame waiting.’

‘Get the piece of filth in place!’ Yasma snapped. ‘And send to the coprophilarium for a bucket, I wish to bring home her status to her in full clarity.’

At her words the last vestige of sexual feeling deserted Aisla. Wrenching her arm free of the clerk’s grip she spun on the seamstresses, caught her elaborately coifed hair and wrenched it free. Madame Yasma screamed in indignation and lashed out her whip, only for Aisla to catch the thong, twist hard and wrench forward. Even as Yasma sprawled face first over the whipping bench Aisla was snatching at her dress. It came up, exposing a big, globular bottom in tight silk drawers.

Madame Yasma’s wordless bellow of outrage turned to a sharp cry as Aisla wrenched the drawers apart, tearing the silk and leaving one fat buttock on show. An explosive crack sounded as Aisla’s hand landed on Yasma’s naked flesh and the seamstress yelped again, only for strong arms to pull her back. Aisla shook the assistant off but Grathor was too strong, dragging her back as Madame Yasma rolled off the bench to sit down hard on her bottom.

‘Slattern! Girl-dog!’ Yasma gasped. ‘I’ll have you impaled for that! Fried in lard! Fed to dogs!’

Aisla spat, catching Madame Yasma full in the face to elicit a scream of fury. Grathor jerked Aisla through the door and wrenched it shut behind them, dulling the seamstress’ angry cries and demands for revenge.

‘That has put the troll in the bear pit and no mistake!’ Grathor laughed. ‘Do you not realise who that is?’

‘She is a seamstress,’ Aisla answered. ‘An artisan, as I am myself!’

‘She is cousin by marriage to the Count!’ Grathor exclaimed. ‘And a virago to boot as you have seen. By Gan you spanked her, and with others watching! She’ll have you dead if she can!’

‘Why?’ Aisla demanded. ‘And how can a seamstress be related to the Count?’

‘Her uncle is the richest merchant in Jihai,’ Grathor answered. ‘Her family has more wealth than any outside Zihai itself! Her cousin, Elmaea, is first wife to the count!’

‘First wife?’ Aisla demanded. ‘What of Sulitea?’

‘Sulitea will be his second wife,’ Grathor replied easily. ‘It is because she is younger and more beautiful than Elmaea that Yasma hates you so.’

‘In Mund each man takes a single woman,’ Aisla answered, ‘and the high-born do not lower themselves to merchant’s daughters. Merchants are mere peasants, Sulitea will never accept such a status!’

‘She already has,’ Grathor answered. ‘In truth she is less proud than you, in ways.’

Aisla made to answer but remembered the state Sulitea had been in at the celibentuary, grovelling naked at the feet of a matron. Evidently the restoration of her pride had not been all it seemed.

‘Do not fear so,’ Grathor went on. ‘Count Alanthor is a strong man and will not allow your death merely because Yasma and Elmaea urge it. Indeed, when he hears what you did he is more likely to reward you!’

Grathor laughed but kept his grip on Aisla’s arm. Within the saloon the noise had begun to die down and Madame Yasma emerged a moment later, once more covered and composed. Without so much as a glance at Aisla she swept down the stairs, Grathor following with a shrug. In the foyer were two seamstresses with bundles, who came to hurry importantly behind as Madame Yasma left the building. Grathor and Aisla followed.

An enquiry revealed that the Count was in the fortress and Aisla found herself frog-marched up the hill, still naked but for her boots, and through the high gate of yellow stone that fronted the edifice. Within, Madame Yasma led the way, brushing aside all opposition until they reached a high door with a guard at either side. After another exchange of words they were admitted.

Aisla looked around as Madame Yasma began an angry series of accusations and demands, only to be fall silent at an angry gesture from the Count. The hall was much like the one at Korismund Keep, only less tall and more plainly decorated, lacking the grotesque carvings that had always frightened her as a little girl. A huge table ran down the entire length of the room, with twin thrones at the far side. The Count occupied one of these, another man, taller and broader, the other. This was evidently Prince Ythor, glanced up at their entrance only long enough to make a brief appraisal of Aisla’s nakedness. Other men sat around the table, every one with an air of confidence and command. The table was strewn with weapons, samples of the Dwarven pieces they had brought from Utan, and it was these the men were discussing, in particular a peculiar axe of bright metal the Count was holding up for inspection.

‘This,’ he continued, looking away from the angry Yasma, ‘is a new piece, recently devised by a metalsmith in Ar-Kian. I paid the silver weight of two-hundred crowns for it, but the money was wisely spent. It is not iron, but something they call an alloy, light but very hard. Nor does it rust, while the edge is of a different metal and can cut iron without a blemish. It is called a birdswing, from the shape of the blade, which causes to lift on the air and, along with a counterbalance, greatly reduces the effort of wielding it. The angle of cut may also be changed by the smallest motion of the wrist.’

‘Magnificent,’ the Prince answered, ‘although unconventional. Will the heralds accept its use?’

‘It is an axe,’ Alanthor answered, ‘and they admit as much, grumbling only slightly because my rank allows a sword. A moment though, my lady cousin has some matter.’

Yasma immediately launched into her tirade, demanding a series of painful tortures for Aisla, to be followed by a yet more painful death. Alanthor listened with his brow furrowed, then finally cut Yasma short with a curt gesture.

‘Is this truly a matter for me?’ he demanded.

‘Indeed, Lord,’ Yasma answered. ‘You will need to instruct the torturers to follow my will and sign the warrant for her death.’

‘Torture, death, for impudence?’ Alanthor demanded. ‘Come to your senses woman, have you no concept of proportion? If you want to requite your shame, throw her in the goblin pit! My apologies, Prince, for the interruption.’

Yasma gave a low curtsey and turned for the door, her mouth set in a hard line of frustrated fury. Grathor followed, tugging Aisla with him. They marched out into a sunlit courtyard, then down a flight of steps into gloom. The smell of damp stone caught Aisla’s nose, then another, stronger scent that made the hairs rise on the nape of her neck but also filled her with the urge to spread her thighs or sink to her knees and lift her bottom. In front of her Madame Yasma made a little throaty sound, then stopped, no less subject to the impact of Goblin musk on women than Aisla.

‘Won’t you be watching, Madame Yasma?’ Grathor enquired innocently. ‘They haven’t had a girl for months, so it should be a fine display.’

Yasma answered with a grunt and walked on down the steps to door which a grinning guard let them through. Aisla could feel the juice running down between her thighs, while her nipples were hard and aching. Behind them the door slammed and she felt a sudden urge to run, only to have it change to pure lust as a stronger waft of the scent came up to them. Madame Yasma screamed and ran, back up the steps to the sound of Grathor’s deep laughter.

The stairs turned and they came out over a drop, with pale sunlight filtering in from slits high in the wall above. Aisla looked down, trembling with need, her vagina and anus both pulsing in anticipation of cock. In the pit below were a dozen goblins, smaller and a darker green than those of Korismund, but with cocks no less huge in proportion to their bodies. They had obviously smelt her, just as she had smelt them, as they were gathered in a knot below among a mess of half-eaten cabbage leaves and bits of carrot and fruit. Every single one was erect, big green penes rising to the level of their faces.

Aisla swallowed hard, fighting the urge to jump down, only for Grathor to push her in the back. Her balance went and she fell, landing on her hands and knees in the pit. Immediately the goblins were on her, their long, spatulate fingers pawing her body, squeezing her breasts, spreading her bottom. A cock was pushed into her face and she gaped for it, unable to stop herself. Another goblin slid under her, his fat cock penetrating her sopping tuppenny at the first push. Thick lips closed on her nipples, hands took her hair, pulling as one rode her back, rubbing his penis in the shallow grove over her spine. Wet sperm splashed across her bottom and she knew one had lost control, coming on her before getting his penis to the target.

With the scent of the sperm her last effort at resistance collapsed. She began to suck eagerly on the cock in her mouth. Her hands groped out, finding stiff cocks to pull at. Bucking her hips she fucked herself on the one below her, and wiggled her bottom when a long, fat penis was laid in the groove between her cheeks. Above her Grathor was laughing, enjoying the sight of her giving herself to the man-beasts. As she was rolled onto her back she saw that his cock was out and he was masturbating over what was happening to her, stroking his cock in an unhurried fashion as another goblin penetrated her vagina and sperm splashed over her breasts.

Again she was rolled, to her side, allow the biggest goblin to get at her bottom. She felt his erection press between her buttocks, then to her hole, still slick with Grathor’s sperm and her own sweat. The goblin penetrated her, pushing hard to pop her anus and forcing its full length up her rectum. For a moment she gagged on the cock in her mouth, choking on meaty cock head. Her penetration was complete, with the big, green, ugly cocks in her mouth and both hands, between her breasts and against her flesh in several other places, jammed deep in her vagina and bloating out her rectum. A tongue found her clitoris, adding the final touch to her ravishment as she immediately started to come even as Grathor’s sperm pattered down on her naked, used body from above.