The Captive (16 page)

Callan’s world seemed to have narrowed to the fiery red sex purse into which he poured his spume. The sucking, fluttering labia were gobbling his long thickness until he thought that it would be torn whole from his over-pleasured body.

“I am spent, mistress,” he groaned. “I have no more for you.” Still shuddering from orgasms which blended, one after the other, into an exhausting whole, he slid to the floor. His majestic shaft twitched miserably at his groin, half its normal size and thickness. Its skin was no longer taut, but wrinkled and steamy wet.

Sighing, Freya stretched upright, folding the still fluttering labia inwards, to hold Callan’s spume safe in her body. “I suppose that will have to do,” she said sadly.

“May I go now?” Callan wished to ensure that his beauty, Zacora, was safe. If he made careful plans they could, perhaps, escape together.

Freya looked down at him, surprise and scorn marring the beautiful face. “Go?” she queried.

On his feet now and beginning to tie his loincloth back in place, Callan felt his strength beginning to return. “Yes, go,” he answered forcefully. “You have finished with me.”

“I most certainly have not,” Freya denied. “I have a full programme of punishments for you.” She tugged at the leather thong around his waist leaving him naked once more. His sex sword was filling and was almost restored to its usual glory. She whipped it, catching the circumcised globe with her strong fingers. “And this, you wretch!” she screamed. “You told me you were spent. You are obviously not, you lying knave.”

Callan squared up to her, glaring into her angry face. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he said, with an impertinent smile.

The remark took the punishment mistress by surprise, took her off guard. He watched her features soften and saw her preen the crown of red curls on her magnificent head. Her mouth softened to a moist pout and she smiled coyly.

“May I kiss you?” asked Callan, stepping towards her.

Freya nodded, her expression almost modest and maidenly. She lifted her hands and placed them behind her head, offering herself to him. The position made her lovely breasts more vulnerable, pressed out through the holes in the fine leather leotard. The nipples, a delicate peach, were hardened nubs begging to be sucked.

Fully erect again, Callan pressed against the firm flatness of her belly. He could smell the tangy odour of leather of her leotard and the strong female musk of her excitement. His strong hands grasped the offered breasts, squeezing them violently. He heard her murmur, but he was unsure whether in pain or ecstasy. Dipping his head, he took a nipple in his mouth, caressing it with tongue and lips. Freya pressed forward, forcing more of the breast flesh into his mouth. He tasted milk, sweet and warm, and he sucked contentedly, feeling his eyes droop as he became pleasantly sleepy.

He had a plan. He knew he had a plan. A plan to escape with Zacora. He was going to open Freya’s zip to release a torrent of his sperm. In the ensuing mayhem, with Freya ecstatic in his issue, he would be gone.

But somehow it didn’t seem important any longer…

Why did he want to escape, he asked himself, nuzzling into the warm pillow of Freya’s breasts? He had everything he wanted here: nourishment, warmth, love.

The warm milk trickled down his eager throat and he became sleepier. Never in his life had he needed sleep so much. Dreams clouded his consciousness; dreams of a beautiful girl. Zacora Prim. Who was she? It didn’t seem to matter any more. Nothing mattered except the comfort of the breast and the warm, delicious milk.

Finally, consciousness left him completely.

The big man, Callan, had promised he’d return, thought Zacora miserably. But he had not done so. Her willowy body was cramped by her bonds. The chain holding her wrists between her splayed legs were designed not to allow her to stand straight. Or rather she could stand straight, but if she did, her pink and tender sex flesh would be cut cruelly by the cold metal of the chain.

A twinge of pain from one of her torn feet made her wince and give a soft moan. The way from the Meleagan’s castle had been paved with stones and thorns, but she had been determined to escape.

The Meleagan family were descendants from the knight who captured the Queen. Their sadistic ways were well known, but Zacora found that Harold was the man she sought: a disciplining father figure who was sensually gifted.

Zacora sighed deeply and this deep intake of breath caused the wrist chains to grate against the delicacy of her female bud. She felt it draw out excitedly from its hood and she repeated the movement, for it made her think of the tall, handsome man who had gazed at her so kindly through the glass.

But he had not returned.

She felt the chain cut into her bottom cleft and graze her rear bud. The links of the chain were large, smoothly rounded, designed, it seemed to cause pleasure as well as pain. One loop probed into her rear opening, making it throb around the cold metal. She pressed harder, allowing the loop to enter her ready rear. The sensation was pleasant, comforting, and brought back the vision of two men who desired her so clearly. Both so different. She imagined the loop of chain to be their flesh swords, probing and caressing the narrow openings, front and back.

In her imagination she could feel their hard male bodies pressing against her helpless one and their cocks probing deep into her moist warmth. Why did she also crave the servant when Harold was the one she loved? Why did she crave rough handling when Harold knew exactly how to pleasure her? All her life she had given pleasure, perhaps, and now she was greedy to take it.

Quietly, she felt the wave of climax engulf her and she whispered her pleasure. The shudders which rippled through her lovely body made the chain catch the raw bud of her naked clitoris. Again, a pleasure wave rode through her, racking the delicious flesh with indescribable sensation. She revelled in it, but she dare not reveal how great her enjoyment.

“Now, my beauty,” rasped a woman’s voice behind her.

The silvery blonde hair swirled around Zacora’s head as she tried to spin around to see her attacker, but her bandaged feet were held fast by the ankle manacles.

Leather gloved hands slid around her naked body and grasped the firm fullness of her breasts. As much as she was able Zacora struggled in her bonds, but said nothing. In truth the softness of the leather and the delicacy of the touch was pleasant to the highly receptive girl.

There was a hoarse laugh. “No need to struggle, Miss Prim - that is your name is it not?”

Zacora’s nipples glowed and hardened, but she remained silent. Her breasts swelled against the caressing fingers, pouting proudly, and she prayed that the woman, whoever she was, would not notice the unbidden reaction. She offered up a further silent prayer that the leather-clad fingers would not investigate further, would not stray to the silver cloud of pubic curls and what lay beyond. If the sensitive digits probed the wet pinkness her excitement would be revealed.

As suddenly as her breasts were grasped they were released and Zacora heard the click of high heels on the floor of the chamber. Keeping her head bowed, she saw neat black leather boots planted firmly apart in front of her. Allowing her eyes to lift a little she saw that the boots were long like the legs which they clad. A finger lifted her trembling chin, forcing her to look upwards. There was a soft gasp of surprise.

“Oh!” heard Zacora. “They told me you were beautiful, but this!” There was a pause, then the woman spoke again. “My name is Paige. I prepare the Prince’s young ladies for coupling with him.”

With eyes made wide with the fear of the unknown, the girl looked up at the woman. She could feel hot tears stinging the soft sapphire blue eyes and, mutely, she pleaded for mercy.

“You’re like an angel,” came the whispering voice. “Surely you did not issue from any human womb?”

Zacora, lips parted, looked up at the woman. Her limbs were cramped terribly, for she had been chained in this position for several hours. Apart from the serving maid who had tended her feet and the man who lusted after her she had seen no-one until now. With a slow bend of her long spine she tried to make the heavy chains rattle to convey her extreme discomfort. The cold links brushed lightly against the heat of her sex flesh and made her shudder with unbidden pleasure.

A hand stroked the glossy platinum of her hair. “You poor thing!” said the woman. “You must be aching like mad. I’ll have something done about it.”

Zacora heard other footsteps, lighter, as though the wearer wore soft shoes. There was no harsh clack of heels, only a whispering, padding sound.

“Look at me,” ordered the woman. “You are a lovely creature. Can you talk?”

The girl looked up, fixing her limpid sapphire orbs on the woman, and shook her head, for the time being she had decided that until her thoughts were put in order she would not speak.

“You poor thing!” The woman seemed kind and caring and Zacora gave her a slight smile. Two gentle hands released the shackles between her straddled thighs. It was a relief to be able to stretch and she did so, straightening her long slim back and drawing herself up tall. She felt her heavy breasts tauten on her delicate rib cage as she eased her cruelly tortured spine. The very slight swell of her belly flattened as she arched upwards. She felt the soft pad of her mound contract and the silver fronds of her bush flutter with the movement.

“You may roll the manacles in the flesh of her pouch,” said Paige to the serving maid who was releasing Zacora. “I wish to check on the state of her arousal.”

Tears filled the blue eyes, for the order took her back to the school room in Lokara, in the time only days ago, although it seemed like months or years. The Master who taught the girls pleasure would check on their arousal. But life then was so innocent and her innocence, she felt, had gone forever.

The serving maid was small and plump, with a round cheerful face. Zacora looked down at her, trying to convey her unhappiness and pleading that the ravishment should not be too intimate.

“Bend your legs, dear,” said Paige softly, “and let Bella squat between them.”

Obediently, Zacora allowed her knees to relax, giving the serving maid more space to intrude in the sleek arch of the lovely limbs.

Keeping her sapphire blue eyes to the front, the girl did not look at either Paige or Bella. She knew that the silver fronded portals were spread, displaying the fresh moist folds and the jutting bud which nestled between them.

“Could you give your pelvis more frontal exposure, dear?” requested Paige sweetly. “I want to see all there is to see of that pretty little pouch before Bella does her tests.”

Fresh tears made the wide eyes more lustrous. Patches of red appeared on the high cheek bones as Zacora did as she was ordered.

“Tears?” questioned Paige. “Why so? Bella will not hurt you.”

“No, mistress,” smiled Bella, looking up at the parted sex leaves with their shimmering coat of dew. “She is too pretty to be disfigured.”

“You see!” Paige was triumphant. She was resplendent in a tightly-laced and boned black satin corset. The garment left her breasts and sex bush naked, jutting out and begging for attention. The breasts were firm and large, centred with dark brown buds decorated with small gold rings which pierced the erect flesh. The bush was thick and lush, the curls braided with precious stones which sparkled and danced as she moved. The long boots reached her sex and the cuffs were designed to spread the folds open. Paige’s face was handsome, the dusky skin stretched over beautifully carved bone structure. The fine features spoke of mixed race, but high birth. A small crown of gold held back the lustrous mane of crinkly curls.

“Rub the chains within the folds, Bella,” ordered Paige. “And let me sniff the perfume of her musk.”

Zacora’s head reeled at the command. She didn’t care for the intimate touch of women. Men, with their penetrating organs, their rougher fingers, their fumbling investigations and their shouts of triumph as they spumed their semen, men were much more satisfying. She closed her moist eyes, trying to shut out the women and their actions.

“You must watch,” hissed Paige. “It is imperative, just as it is imperative for me to watch your reactions.”

Reluctantly, Zacora opened the tear-dewed lashes and looked down at the serving maid who cupped the wrist manacles in her small hands and edged the bundle of metal towards the unwillingly displayed sex. Tense with apprehension Zacora flinched away.

Paige laughed. “So it’s true what they say about you,” she scoffed. “You really are Miss Prim!”

Biting her full bottom lip Zacora tried to be obedient, offering the frontally presented softness of her sex to the invading metal of the manacles. The links of chain were cold against the moist heat of her and the folds of her pouch fluttered against the intrusion, grappling with them softly.

“Aaah,” breathed Paige excitedly, stepping forward to watch more closely. “Not so prim, after all. See how the folds caress the chain, Bella?”

“Indeed, Mistress.”

Paige stroked her nipple rings, allowing her leather-clad fingers to trace the outline of the finely beaten gold. “Perhaps, at last, we have found the female who will beget the Prince an heir.” Her handsome features smiled kindly at Zacora. “Think how wonderful would be your position in the kingdom if he sired a son on you.”

Once more, thought Zacora, I am to be a slave. My body is not my own. Oh, how I long to escape these lands ruled by despots and cruel knights. Only one man had grasped her heart and that was Harold; one man and the handsome slave who, perhaps, she dreamed, could be Harold’s squire.

“Give me the chains, Bella,” said Paige coldly. “I shall test the aroma and you…” She paused, her almond-shaped eyes, dark as the deepest pits of hell, slitted with anger. “And you must whip her.”

Bella, full cotton petticoats rustling as she rose to her feet, grinned eagerly.

“But on no account must you mark her,” warned Paige. “The Prince will be displeased if he receives damaged goods.”

“Of course, mistress,” agreed Bella. “I shall choose only the softest of whips. It will merely caress her skin, remind her that she belongs to the Prince.”