The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  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.

  “S
o 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.