The Captive (9 page)

“I’m being patient with you,” Megan said softly, “like Harold told me to be. I’m going to use lots of toys on her when you’ve had her. Just make her nice and wet and slippery.”

Gareth’s eyes sparkled. “Fetch the standing box,” he begged. His stature was such that he needed extra height in order to penetrate the girl, any girl.

The box brought the tip of his gleaming erection to just the correct height to place it in the moist entrance. Zacora smiled sweetly at him. The smile made him melt inside, made the stretched fineness of his end globe feel that it would burst. Blindly he probed the thickness at the soft warmth of her entrance. There was slight resistance to his massiveness, but suddenly they were coupled together. Her willingness made him all the more enthusiastic, and he pounded into her rhythmically.

An outside force on a particularly hard inward thrust made Gareth grunt with the sharp pain in his naked buttocks. The pain came again, sharper this time, harder. Suddenly, the pain became pleasure. He felt himself jetting his spume into the slave’s pulsing sex pouch.

“How did you like it?” He heard Megan’s voice through the mist of his orgasm. “Did it enhance your pleasure?”

Zacora was bemused by her strange masters. All her life her teaching was to be obedient, to give pleasure and to be subservient. She was so willing to please the right man. Where was he?

Megan shrugged. “Get her down for me and put her over the whipping saddle.” Gareth saw Zacora’s eyes widen fearfully.

Gareth caressed Zacora’s body, feeling the silky smoothness, soon to be discovered by the whip. His penis had descended into limpness but began to rise again. He was gentle in loosening Zacora’s chains, making sure that he brushed his moist globe over every part of her naked skin which presented itself.

“Over she goes,” said Megan. “I think she is now sufficiently used to being chained to realise that we are her masters.”

Gareth nodded again. His eyes were fixed on the pale naked buttocks which were posed delicately over the whipping saddle. The legs were splayed wide so that he could see the girl’s open sex pouch. Her firm breasts were pressed into the tanned and polished leather. The saddle was balanced on a waist high platform, keeping the victim at a comfortable height for discipline.

Balanced over the whipping saddle, Zacora could feel the cold, smooth leather massaging her hot skin. She saw her hair fall in a shimmering cascade of gold and silver to the floor and waited patiently for the next stage of discipline.

“How do you enjoy our little game so far?” questioned Megan, as if reading her thoughts.

Zacora was silent for a moment, choosing her words carefully, so as not to anger those strange people. Their discipline was given as an end in itself. Her training in Lokara was always to bring pleasure to men and, therefore, to herself. “You must do as you think fit, mistress,” she said politely.

Gareth was delving his penis into the very depths of the shimmering tresses, slicking his bursting globe through its silkiness. Zacora saw a droplet of his seed run down a golden strand, hanging there like a pearl.

“Oh, I will,” chuckled Megan, “have no fear on that account.” She was weighing the thin paddle of wood in one hand and the thick leather strap in the other, flicking them on her palms, testing their feel on her own skin.

Zacora felt her stroke the paddle over the creamy hillocks of her buttocks, so lifted by the whipping saddle. She felt her skin tremble, flutter involuntarily at the touch. The two tormentors had her completely at their mercy. She felt so helpless and vulnerable to them. This very feeling excited her sex, making it pout, even though she despised them.

Humiliation was part of her training in Lokara, but not like this. She felt Gareth stroke her offered body and she groaned piteously. He pulled the chains which held her, tugging sharply on the manacles and chafing her slim wrists and ankles.

“The strap,” Megan decided. The strap was a thick length of leather, composed of several layers bonded together. Zacora saw Megan flex it and couldn’t prevent a deep shiver of fear. “This little beauty,” Megan told her, “becomes hard and inflexible from lack of use, but lucky for you Uncle Harold has bought several new girls in recent weeks, so it is nice and flexible.” She chuckled happily.

Uncle Harold, thought Zacora. That must be the strong handsome man in the carriage at the auction. Discipline with him would be joy, she mused sadly. How she would please him!

“Let me do it,” begged Gareth, reaching out for the strap.

“We’ll both do it.” said Megan. “Strap and paddle together. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?” The thick leather was edged into the splayed cleft of Zacora’s buttocks.

“Yes, mistress,” agreed the captive obediently.

“That’s settled then,” said Megan, a cruel edge to her voice. “You take the paddle, Gareth, and I’ll use the strap.”

Zacora felt her legs being pulled yet further apart and a smooth wedge placed in the bottom cleft to fully reveal the rear entrance.

“Ready?” Megan asked, holding the thick strap high above the left buttock cheek.

Gareth murmured his readiness and both instruments struck at the same time. The pains were so different, one much sharper than the other. Zacora felt her flesh begin to glow in that familiar way and shudder under the force of the blows. She allowed herself only a very small muted murmur and this was muffled by the thick curtain of golden hair.

“The new ones usually make much more noise than that,” said Megan. She sounded disappointed. “Again,” she ordered.

The paddle and strap beat down again. The girl knew that her pale flesh would be flushed in vertical welts. She murmured again, but this time, not from pain, but embarrassment. The stimulation was causing a gentle pulsing of her fully revealed rear bud. Her excitement was becoming very evident.

“Harder!” snarled Megan. “Harder!”

Zacora knew that the woman was aware of her enjoyment. She must concentrate harder on dislike.

The paddle struck down. The leather strap striped the pert cheeks twice, very quickly.

Zacora’s vulnerable bottom wriggled. She was trying hard not to show the strange pleasure she was finding in the cruelty, but perhaps her early training went too deep.

“Just one moment,” ordered Megan. Zacora felt the smoothness of the paddle laid flat against her puffy open sex lips. It was stroked back and forth between the fully spread portals and the girl felt her face flush as the erect pinkness of the nubbin was grazed by the invading instrument.

“Look!” squealed Megan crossly, obviously holding the paddle for Gareth to see. “It is soaked with her juices. She’s excited.”

“Some more punishment?” Her brother sounded hopeful and very excited.

“But what?” Megan sounded very angry. She felt that slaves should collapse in floods of tears when they were brought to her. Only then would they know their place and behave obediently. She stroked Zacora’s fiery skin with the paddle, soothing the mounds with the girl’s copious juices. She stood behind her, brushing her dark bush against the parted cheeks, caressing the open-ness of the cleft.

“How does it feel, my dear?” she whispered into the heavy fall of golden hair. Zacora sighed a breath. The hair was lifted so that Megan could see the girl’s embarrassed and humiliated face. How Zacora longed for that unique combination of love and humiliation. But that was behind her, in Lokara. Here there was no love, only punishment.

Zacora’s eyes became expressionless. Her finely sculpted face remained passive. It looked neither sad nor excited. Only her mouth, with its lovely wide moist lips, told of her true feelings. They were lightly parted and the tip of the pink tongue protruded, shiny and moving ever so slightly. It told of hidden pleasure; hidden delight in her treatment. The delight would be so much greater if the punishments were done by the right person. The strong one. What did the sedan bearer call him? Harold the Pretender? Pretender of what, Zacora wondered.

“I have an idea,” said Megan brightly. “Have you ever worked in a kitchen, my dear?”

The endearment was false, Zacora knew, and she shook her head. “My training is to pleasure men of noble birth, for I myself am such.”

Megan gave a snort of disbelief. “That’s as maybe,” she said carefully. “Well, I think a spell in the kitchen might knock such stupid ideas from your head.”

“I agree,” said Gareth. “Are we going to dress her?” The question was asked softly as if the lad hoped that the answer would be negative.

A finger tapped Megan’s lips as she thought. Finally, she shook her head. “Let’s take her down just as she is. She’ll enjoy doing kitchen tasks with her body free of the encumbrance of clothes.”

“Must I wear clothes?” Gareth stroked the silky erection peeping hugely and coyly from his loincloth.

“Certainly, you must,” Megan said crossly. “We cannot demean ourselves in front of the servants.”

Zacora felt Megan’s hands stroking the broad welts which stood proud from the rest of the flesh. The girl knew that the woman was admiring her handiwork and watching the fine silk flutter at her touch. “Hm,” she murmured. “Delicious, and you enjoyed it, didn’t you, my precious?” Zacora shuddered at the false endearment. “Don’t shake your head for I know that you did.”

Brother and sister dressed hurriedly. Zacora was looped pliantly over the whipping saddle, awaiting the next command.

“Get up!” The command was snapped as Megan smoothed her short silky dress. It lay tightly on her plump frame, pulling across her breast pillows and skimming the hillocks of her bottom. She looked scathingly at Gareth.

He was wearing a loose white shirt. Over this was a hunting green jerkin, belted at the waist and reaching the top of his slim thighs. His largest attribute lay long and thick, nestling under his hose. His thin face was eager as he prepared to follow Megan.

“Go!” said Megan, pushing Zacora in front of her.

The girl knew that her scarlet beaten buttocks were being examined as they walked. She was conscious of the silver trails of Gareth’s spume coating her legs as it ran down the peachy skin.

“What shall we do in the kitchen?” asked Gareth.

“Nothing.” Megan smacked Gareth’s lank hair and grimaced at the grease. “We just give orders and make other people work.”

“Oh.” Zacora heard disappointment in Gareth’s voice. His chill hands were testing the perfect peach halves of her buttocks, flushed to delicate ripeness by the beating.

There was a smacking sound, solid and somehow pleasantly comforting. Megan was slapping her own thigh with a long lash chosen earlier. In her other hand she held a drumstick with a beautifully smooth globe, large like a good sized orange.

Zacora swept an anxious glance over her satin-smooth shoulder. Both Megan and Gareth grinned cruelly at her, waving the implements tantalisingly. The girl bowed her head, shuffling a little in the awkward chains. Her long pale hands were clasped together, the thumbs brushing the silver, fluffy nest. Megan, skipping along in front, watched the movement.

“Oh, do it more, dear,” she urged, “Slip both thumbs into the sweetness of the cleft. Stroke your own slipperiness up and down and graze the tip.”

Zacora looked up at the woman. All the girls in her class in Lokara were taught about self-pleasure, but it was for the entertainment of their husbands or future husbands; to be done in the privacy of the bedchamber not in some public place for all to see.

“I was taught that it is wrong.”

“Never mind all that nonsense. Do as you are told. Entertain us as we walk to the kitchens.”

Gareth joined Megan, having feasted his eyes to the full of the swollen redness of the well-disciplined bottom. “Yes, do it,” he urged, his sex sword massively thick under his stretched hose. His hands rubbed urgently at the monstrous swelling and Zacora saw his eyes glint excitedly as her thumbs trembled at the silver mound. Tears glazed her deep blue eyes and her whole body trembled with the depth of her embarrassment.

Her face flushed to a delicate rose, Zacora tentatively slipped both thumbs between already swollen outer petals. She looked at the two watchers through thick fluttering lashes, as if to ask if she was going about the task correctly. They nodded avidly.

“Open those little sweeties up,” Megan urged. The tip of her lash touched the silver fronded pouting outer lips.

The blush grew deeper, but she did as she was bid. The two watchers walked backwards, not wanting to miss a moment, their eyes focused downwards. With thumbs only, Zacora peeled the lips right back, revealing a sex bud which was scarlet and jutting from the tiny hood. A new feeling swept over her. The humiliation was replaced by pride and she walked with her pubis thrust forward, neat but plump.

Gareth groaned, leaning forward to look more closely. He could still see a pearly ring of his foamy seed gathered at her open, obviously willing, entrance.

“Use your middle finger to rub that lovely nubbin,” ordered Megan. She prodded the shining scarlet bud of flesh with her lash, loving it when the girl shuddered at the stroking touch.

Their progress to the kitchen was slower now, for all three were engrossed in what was going on in the girl’s sex pouch. A slender dexterous finger was flickering up and down each side of the slippery shaft. The silver fluff of the pubis seemed to puff outwards like a peacock’s chest. The swollen lips were firmly held back by obedient thumbs. The loose chains from wrists to ankles grazed the long legs as the girl walked, tantalising herself. The movement of the chain made the action more sensual, more slave-like.

Suddenly, the arch of the slender back became more pronounced and a husky whimper was drawn from the girl. The silver fronded pubis jerked and she pulled fiercely on the plump lips with her thumbs.

“Beautiful!” whispered Megan. “Take the middle finger away to show us how it jerks.” There was the splendid nubbin, swollen to twice the normal size and glowing with heat. It danced on the moist flush of the silky sex bud, pulsing with energy. The tip jerked out from the hood, looking almost angry as well as joyful. Megan could not resist giving it a playful flick with the very tip of the lash.