The great oak doors opened again from time to time, allowing in other eager customers. Zacora saw their eyes drawn to the sight of her suspended in the alcove. She felt beads of her sex sap ooze from the swelling leaves of her pouch. Her long training in the pleasure of men ran deep.
“Please,” she heard Harold invite, “feel free to release your cocks.” His voice was husky and lazy.
She heard sighs of relief and realised what effect the sight of her in the tortuous position must have had on their male swords. Suddenly, they were all released, gleaming ad rigid.
“Are we allowed to…?” asked one. She felt him stroke her splayed legs and her fully revealed sex pouch. She felt her flesh flutter in excitement. “May I touch further? Investigate?”
“If you must, Benedict.” Zacora could hear the testiness in Megan’s voice. There was envy in the attention being drawn away from herself.
She recognised the man. He had been close to the podium at the auction. His eyes had never left her through that long morning.
Her puffy sex lips quivered as he touched them, massaging their firmness and stroking the firm silver down which fringed them. Zacora caressed the finger which sank into the smooth moistness of her vessel. She heard him sigh, sliding the finger in and out of the clutching flesh.
“She is well-trained,” Benedict murmured. “Is this your training, Megan?”
“No,” interrupted Harold. “She is a Lokaran woman. They are brought up to give nothing but pleasure to their men. They are obedient and very passive.” He looked scathingly at Megan. “Quite unlike our own women here in Vakir. Disobedient, wilful hussies, most of them.”
Megan sniffed haughtily.
Zacora felt her sex lips parted and she posed the erect bud of her clitoris, emphasising Harold’s praises. She knew that it was flushed and eager. Benedict groaned as he felt the slight movement of the bud, urgent and wanting. His touch made more of her sex sap ooze from hidden crevices, warm and milky.
The other men gathered round, watching Benedict’s actions. The close investigation, after her experiences of the past few days, stimulated her as the Master in Lokara had told her it would. The more stimulation she received, after her years of training, the more she would please her eventual husband. She could feel the strong pulse in her sex bud as it swelled and became inflamed. The tight constriction around her waist, pinching the firm flesh and making her nether regions swell, caused her sex purse to pose itself, to press outwards, towards the eager man.
Zacora felt proud as she watched the men blatantly stroking their hard stems, glossing the oozing fluid around the globes and pressing the single eyes.
Megan broke the spell. “Who will be first?” she said with false gaiety. She thrust her plump dark bush at the nearest man.
Zacora saw his wistful look in her direction as he motioned that Megan should lie on the nearest sofa. It was especially designed to thrust up her pubis and open her solid thighs.
“Oh, beautiful!” sighed Megan as he thrust savagely into her. “So good, so filling.” The pumping was fast and Zacora saw him close his dark eyes.
“When … your time … is close,” panted Megan, “I want you to pull out … and … fill …the goblet.” She pointed to the silver cup nestling between Zacora’s lovely breasts.
The man grunted his agreement, taking a quick glance at Benedict who was gently thumbing the inflamed erection of Zacora’s clitoris. It seemed to her that the sight was the trigger. With an animal growl he took his penis from Megan’s cushiony width and staggered the two steps to Zacora’s tethered frame. Benedict, with a dreamy smile, held the goblet to receive the pearly splashes from his friend.
The issue was copious and the man was proud of the warm amount. Megan stepped from the sofa to peer into the silver cup.
“Not bad,” she judged, “but you must all take your turn before the contest is done.” She made a note on a parchment with a quill placed on the table for the purpose.
Zacora felt her head being lifted. “Take a sip, my dear,” she said, “and test for quality.”
Zacora licked her lips.
“How she longs to taste your spume,” remarked Harold. “What a wonderful girl she is to be sure!” Zacora watched him caress his length and thickness, feeling proud of the compliment.
The liquid in the goblet was still warm from the man’s body. It was thick and creamy and slithered easily down her willing throat. She looked to Harold, wanting his praise, and was rewarded with a smile.
He was watching avidly, stroking back the richly embroidered silk of his robe to bare his handsome body. Zacora could only imagine the wonderful drawing sensation she felt in his groin. His penis remained a monument to his pleasure, rising, thrust from the lushness of his groin. It was a proud thickness and a full nine inches in length.
Licking her lips, she watched him stroke the silky smoothness of the circumcised tip, neatly cut to make him sensitive to every stimulation. It was moist now, pearly with male dew.
A smile softened the hard features and Zacora returned his smile. How different was his strength from the Prince who had fought so hard to purchase her. He smiled again, a secretive smile, and if Zacora had known his thoughts her ecstasy would have been uncontainable. Harold’s aim was to dethrone the poor weak soul who desperately needed an heir to retain the respect of his people. Harold would produce his own heir with this beauty and combine the Meleagan lands with the neighbouring principality.
The splendour of his penis reared up and made Zacora’s belly melt with need. His eyes never left the beauty of the tortured girl. Her position, to her, was no torture. She was giving pleasure to the man she desired.
She gave no hint of pain or fear. There was no pleading to be set free. Held fast by the manacles, her limbs shaping a cross, her passive beauty was unmarred apart from thin red welts across the creamy naked breasts. Those were placed there by Megan because the girl, at one stage, had gagged upon a goblet of seed. Zacora held the marks as trophies rather than a badge of punishment. Not a murmur had escaped her lips as the lash snaked out.
All Megan’s callers had filled the goblet. The girl’s wrists and ankles were reddened with the chafing of the manacles. Her slim belly bulged slightly with long confinement in the tight silver waist band. Zacora’s mouth, those lovely wide and parted lips, shimmered with a dried silvery coating. Spilt semen formed a coating, beaded in places, and the girl’s pink tongue licked at it, tasting the sharp saltiness which also lingered in the moistness of her mouth.
“One more, my dear,” said Harold, rising slowly to his feet. “Take my robe, Aunt Megan.”
Dutifully, her moist darkly fronded sex bush shining in the soft candlelight as she approached him, Megan took the robe. She felt out of sorts; very much out of sorts. She didn’t like the slave commanding such adoring attention. Harold usually so cool and in control couldn’t wait to take his turn.
Sniffing crossly, Megan threw the precious robe over a chair. She was supposed to be the hostess, the sexiest lover, the symbol of femininity. That wretched girl didn’t have the wit to realise how suspenders framing a bushy thatch made men wish to part those curls to enter and fountain into the body behind it. She didn’t realise how men loved to grip firm plump buttocks to open them; how they to use handles at the hips to lever themselves up and down at every thrust.
Megan watched through angry slitted eyes as Harold approached the hung girl. His body, although older than that of her other visitors, was splendid. Firm, with muscles sharply defined one from the other, his skin lightly oiled so that it shone at each perfectly honed ridge. It was truly magnificent, she had to admit. The waist had no hint of thickness. His buttocks were as trim as they had been twenty years before. The balls were smooth, trimmed so that they were like silk to the touch. They were taut, drawn up with supreme pleasure, and his spearhead was held by his own hands, like the weapon it was.
It, too, was oiled. It shone sleekly and this enhanced its magnificent size. Megan watche
d as he smeared another generous coating of oil on the whole length of it. That, Megan knew, meant only one thing. His weapon was destined, not to join the contest, to fill the goblet, but to enter a much tighter orifice.
“Open the lining of the alcove, Megan,” he commanded.
She grumbled to herself. “Do this, do that,” she hissed as she did Harold’s bidding. “Anyone would think I was the slave, not her.”
The curtain was opened and the satiated men watched with interest and curiosity to see what would happen next. Harold slid behind the screen to which the girl was firmly imprisoned. There was a square opening at the height of the tops of creamy thighs and pubis. The men pressed forward eagerly. Behind the girl they could see Harold’s oiled penis, like a sexual talisman enraging reluctant male weapons, making them larger, more potent, more vigorous.
He held it, thrusting it against the cleft of the girl’s buttocks, demonstrating its beauty. The other men groaned in unison as Zacora seemed to tense in her chains. This was not from horror or fear, but to attempt to position the deep, tight cleavage more readily for Harold’s ease. Her body arched forward, just slightly, with the pressure from behind, rising because her limbs and waist were fixed.
The men craned their necks as Harold drooled yet more oil into the deep pit of her rear entrance, slicking it around with his long fingers. At last he was satisfied. He opened the pale cheeks with thumbs dug deeply into the flesh. The pit he sought was there, glimmering now with its coating of silky oil. At this angle, the positioning of his globe was all important.
It was tight, and she moaned in ecstasy.
Her ankles were inflamed from prolonged clasping in the tight manacles. The skin was chafed, but not broken. Her wrists, too, were sore from the beaten metal cuffs. The rigid belt did not allow any movement, but was tight, cutting into her fine pale skin. It caused her belly to swell a little and the taut skin over her rib cage was also swollen by the long imprisonment.
The moist skin lining her mouth felt dry from the copious salty fluids which she was forced to drink from the goblet. At first she thought she would gag, but after a while the taste was not unpleasant. It made her sex pouch become moist at the sensual thought of her humiliation.
There was another pleasure. Megan’s callers admired her sex, displayed as it was at their eye level. It was open fully; the lips parted and moist, completely at their disposal. She found it both degrading and exciting. The feeling was similar to that which she felt in the market place. She was on display and she felt that this was right; exciting and stimulating.
Harold whispered to her again and she felt her tight passage gently stretched. The oily lubrication which he had generously lathered into her, made her lean back upon him as he requested.
At last he slid into her. She held him to the hilt and he groaned ecstatically. As he promised, he slid his lubricated fingers to the front, to the splayed mound with the soft down of silver fronding. His long fingers massaged the swollen pliancy of her outer lips, spreading them further.
For the moment he was satisfied to let his slickly lubricated penis lie in the tight, dark warmth. And for the moment he was satisfied to simply spread her love lips as far open as he could, feeling their moist velvety softness. The two were fitted together by a willing socket.
Soon his fingers slipped further, entering the depth of her female entrance, slimy with her pearly dew. Two fingers, the deft forefingers of each hand, opened the neglected entrance and he felt her mound bear upon his palms, urging him to open her more. Meanwhile, his thumbs slithered gently from base to tip of her clitoris.
This done, his shaft slid very slowly out of her until she thought that he had withdrawn altogether, but he had not. At the last moment he plunged back into her darkness, making her grunt with the force of the penetration. Several times more he took this action. It was as if he was confirming who was master, but there was no doubt in Zacora’s mind and she soared to a delicious orgasm.
Harold roared his own pleasure, flushing her rear passage with spume after spume of his rich semen. For many moments after orgasm, they stood locked, the hot wetness spilling out along the small of Zacora’s back. She could feel her sex flesh pulsing on his hands, still glued to the heat of that silky skin.
Megan, angry at her second place in the evening’s entertainment, was ushering her callers from her chamber. “Are you going to stay attached to her forever?” she snapped over her shoulder to Harold.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, “that is what I should like when the time is right.”
“She’s a slave girl,” Megan reminded him. “A sex slave, bought only for sexual pleasure.”
Harold stroked the satiny buttocks which he so recently treasured with his sex weapon. “But of noble birth,” he added.
“So she may say,” grunted Megan disbelievingly. “What proof is there?”
“Her finely bred looks,” he said, stepping down from the dais and slipping into his robe.
“Nothing to go by,” sneered Megan. “Do you want her taken down?”
Harold nodded. “And let her sleep on this sofa tonight. No chaining. Her ankles and wrists have taken enough punishment.”
“Not chained? Do you think that’s wise?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Are you sure she won’t run?”
Megan frowned at Zacora, twisting her own dark dishevelled hair around nervous fingers.
“I’d feel much happier if she was chained to the bed.” She paused. “Or the wall. Anything solid.” She reached out to stroke Zacora’s arm and narrowed her eyes angrily as she felt the girl flinch. “Are you quite, quite sure?”
“Quite sure,” answered Harold. He cossetted the girl’s breasts, tracing their warm outline, their heaviness, with knowing forefingers. He felt her flesh tremble delightedly. “You won’t run, my dear. Not from me?”
A barely perceptible shudder went through the lovely girl’s frame. She remained still, silent with head bowed in gentle submission. At that very moment she had only one wish: that Harold would take her in his strong arms and hold her, possess her for ever.
But Megan, naked apart from her red garter belt, was quite adamant in her belief. “She should be chained, like any other sex slave.” Her breasts jiggled with rage and she shook a pair of wrist manacles at him. “What’s wrong with you, Nephew? Are you going soft in the head?” A light shone in Megan’s dark eyes. “Are you in love?” she shrieked at last.
Hiding her expression beneath the shimmering thickness of hair, Zacora gasped. She clasped her hands more tightly at the moist swelling of her sex pouch. Her nubbin jerked tightly at Megan’s words, moving slickly in its dripping nest. Could it be that Harold had such regard for her? She wanted to be sure. Ogham had betrayed her so.
“I do not wish her to be fettered,” said Harold sternly. “I wish her to be washed and pampered as a princess.”
He smiled into the liquid depths of the sapphire pools and received a tremulous soft curve of the pouting lips in return.
Zacora felt her full breasts become tender under the touch of his exploring fingers; felt her nipples tauten urgently at his touch. A fresh flow of her sex sap added to the pearly pools which already nestled between her folds. A warm heaviness settled at the pit of her belly, making her whole body lethargic and ready for him. She felt herself swaying towards him.
“Yes, a princess,” Harold went on. “For she looks and acts like a princess.”
The words made Zacora soar with renewed happiness. Did this truly mean that he had regard for her? She felt him stroking the pouting cushions of her buttocks, adoring the smooth curves and spreading them wide to return to the depths of the cleft between them. She felt him probe the moistness of her rear pit, enjoying the slipperiness of his remaining issue.
Megan snorted with disbelief. There was a clatter as she threw down the manacles in disgust. “Well, I’m keeping my eye on her,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t intend to let her out of my sight.”
Surreptitiously, Zacora watched Gareth’s urgent actions. She knew that it was a compliment to herself. His cockstem was bloated, the veins bulging in a tight trail along its length. The end bulb was shiny, purple and slick with a drool of issue. The lad was looking at her hungrily as he stroked the long thickness and cupped the turgid heaviness of his balls.
Harold looked at him with narrowed eyes. “We shall all take it in turn to watch over her,” he said softly. “She is, after all, such a precious creature.”
Restraint, Zacora pleaded with herself. Restraint. She wanted to throw herself into his strength. She felt her skin flutter as she allowed his hands the luxury of touching the slender, but voluptuous, richness of golden flesh. His fingers traced the flare of the tiny waist to the ripe shelves of the hips which swept upwards to the proud mounds of the breasts. She felt him shudder as he handled each valley and hillock of delicious flesh.
Head still bowed with sweet submission, Zacora parted her naked thighs and bore her mound down into Harold’s cupped hands. He sighed in delighted gratitude. She stroked the moistness of her sex pouch over his offered hands and lifted her dainty fingers to the back of her golden mane. In this attitude of complete compliance she gave herself to him.
A flush of heat swelled the petals of her sex. Her nubbin jutted, thick and long, its tip grazing his delighted fingers. Love sap oozed over swollen female folds, pervading him in the rich aroma of wanton-ness. A barely audible mew of ecstasy heralded her orgasm, but she held back, grinding her supple pelvis in an attempt to caress her lord’s shaft inviting it into her heated pouch.
“I still say that she should be shackled,” hissed Megan.
Zacora closed her eyes unhappily. The rasping voice had destroyed the sensual reverie of the moment. Her body ached with the loss of climax; the grinding ache felt in her loins when need is not satisfied.
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