“Too soon!” she hissed. She sat back on her heels, her thighs spread wide and her tiny fingers opening her nether lips to release the dark purple of her womanhood. She rubbed it impatiently, looking up at him with her green cat-like eyes.
Unable to hold back, Callan held the pulsing thickness of his weapon, allowing its spume to fountain high into the air. It glowed with power. A pearly heat produced steam which flowed around them, engulfing them like a morning mist.
Mouth open, like a hungry fledgling, the captive watched his climax, which seemed endless. It poured, as a stream in flood, over Bernlada, soaking the coal black mane of her hair, trickling over her bursting breasts and coating the swell of her belly.
“Yes,” she rasped, arching up to allow his torrent to fill her pulsing vessel. Her agile fingers had brought on her own climax. It was the rule that Callan’s issue should always be collected in Bernlada’s urn. The Prince had decreed this rule.
The torrent slowed and Callan’s eyes became less glazed, but still he stared through the glass. The captive had bewitched him. The chain, cutting into her female bloom, was shining with her juices, and the pink bud was clearly visible through the silver fronds of her patch.
Bernlada carefully folded the black leaves to conserve Callan’s spume within her body. The Prince was convinced that it had magical properties and he ruled that it must be spread upon his cock every night by Bernlada herself.
The swarthy beauty rose gracefully to her feet, holding her sex purse closed with one hand. “Did you see how much he poured into me?” she rasped to the captive. “Do you think you could cause him to be so vigorous?” Her voice was harsh and cruel in her challenge. “I know you could not. With me, he cannot hold back his love juice. The very sight of me makes him spurt.”
Callan said nothing, hoping that Bernlada would not notice the swiftly growing bulge beneath his loin cloth. His imagination was running havoc with his blood. There was fire in it, and it was filling the network of vessels around his cock until he thought they would burst.
A small hand slapped down on the thick spike which stood out like a sconce from the palace wall, lifting the thin soft leather of his loin cloth. “Enough of this!” rasped Bernlada. “You wretch! We’ll see what the punishment mistress can do with you, because I’ll not take more of your nonsense.”
“Yes, Bernlada,” said Callan. His voice was firm, but dreamy.
“You are mine. Even your thoughts are mine.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you thinking of the captive? The Prince caught her for himself. You know how much he needs an heir.”
Callan looked at the ripe beauty behind the glass and his black eyes had an expression of longing. “Why does he need my help? Or yours?”
“As a couple, we inspire him.” Bernlada said proudly. “But he needs a beautiful woman to bear him a son.”
“He has his pick of beautiful women, but none bear fruit.” Callan imagined how it would be to plunge the long girth of his flesh sword into the moist spongy depths of the captive. She had shown that she was ripe for his taking.
Bernlada’s hand took a firmer hold on her dripping sex. “I know and I also know that the Prince is afraid for his potency, but enough discussion. I must put you with the punishment mistress.”
Callan saw Zacora’s eyes widen with fear as Bernlada led him away. He smiled reassuringly and mouthed the message: “I’ll be back!”
She looked so vulnerable in her bonds and her body looked so ready to take his that the thought of pain and bondage in the dungeons held no fear for him. He would simply fill his mind with thoughts of the captive girl.
“I don’t see what’s so wonderful about her,” muttered Bernlada. “Am I not beautiful?”
“Of course you, are my precious little one,” he soothed. He watched her neat tight bottom roll rhythmically from side to side as she walked ahead of him along the panelled passage. There was a tiny dimple in each cheek, emphasising the dark plumpness. The crevice between the buttocks was deep and Callan knew that the intimate pit which nestled in that crack was as willing and accommodating as the front orifice. Bernlada’s waist was almost shocking in its severity; a hollow separating the swell of the hips from narrowness of the thorax, and yet there was nothing narrow about the breasts. These were comforting pillows of flesh, soft but firm, lifted high by their youthful tone. The tumbled black mane fell from the crown of her head to well below her shoulders, glossy and bouncing on her swarthy skin.
In repose, Bernlada had the face of a dark angel. It was gentle and soft, begging to be stroked and caressed. The brown eyes were limpid pools of warmth in which Callan had sometimes drowned in dreams.
But there was a problem. Bernlada had a fierce temper. When she was in the throes of a tantrum her eyes became as black as coals. She hissed and spat like a beast which was part cat and part snake. Her tiny hands became claws, reaching out to slash and maim. The shapely body weaved this way and that as she attempted to attack an enemy.
They reached the narrow steps that led to the dungeons of the palace of Vakir. It was cold and damp and Callan shuddered. He knew that there were subjects who spent years in the dungeon, ending their lives there. Bernlada stroked his thick, muscular arm, feeling the tanned skin.
“Goose-bumps,” she giggled. “Fear or cold, Callan? Surely not fear in my courageous, virile lover.”
Derision made her deep husky voice more rasping. Only the thoughts of the chained captive, so blonde, curvaceous and vulnerable, kept Callan from smashing Bernlada with a hammer-like fist. It wouldn’t help the poor creature should he bring down more anger upon her.
“Cold,” he said softly. “Maybe the punishment mistress would be so kind as to give me warmer clothing.”
The little minx at his side sniggered. “I’ll see what I can do.” Her voice had a sneering grate.
There was a distant scream, pain-filled and desperate, as they trod the uneven stone passage. Pleading groans echoed through the vast chambers. The air had a musty smell tinged with the metallic odour of blood.
“Here we are,” said Bernlada cheerfully. She still held her sex pouch tightly closed with one hand. “Goodness, Callan, you really drenched me today. The Prince will be pleased.” She opened a heavy iron door with her free hand. “I want this man well and truly disciplined,” she said to a heavily muscled figure in the corner of the big room.
Callan was perplexed. “Why do I need to be disciplined when the Prince will be pleased?” He adjusted his loin cloth at the sight of the punishment mistress and wished his weapon was less defenceless.
“You have displeased me, you handsome idiot!”
“But you said I’d drenched you,” he protested. “You should be pleased.”
“You’ve been unfaithful in thought.”
The punishment mistress stepped forward. Callan gasped at the sight of her. Her beauty was undeniable, but her power and obvious strength were overwhelming, even to someone of Callan’s attributes. She was over six feet in height, heavily muscled and clad only in a tight leather leotard. Her full breasts were bare, protruding from carefully cut holes. On her arms she wore many gold and enamelled slave bracelets. Her waist was cinched with a silver chain-mail belt. The honed muscles of her legs were criss-crossed with leather thongs in which were inserted daggers and whips of various kinds. The fiery red hair was twisted into a heap upon her head, and in this, too, there were many instruments of torture.
“Do you require simple bondage, madam?” she asked, looking Callan up and down. “Or was there something more elaborate?”
The look made Callan shudder. She was appraising him; seeing how much pain he could take.
“He has been a thorough nuisance since the Prince brought the new captive to the palace,” said Bernlada in a spiteful tone.
“I understand, madam.”
“I thought you would, Freya,” said Bernlada. “You’ve never failed me yet.” She turned to leave and then stopped in her tracks. “He says
he’s cold. Put him in something warm.” She smiled evilly. “I think you know what I mean.”
“Of course, madam.” Freya lifted Callan’s loincloth and cupped the sperm sac. “Leave it to me.”
“Enjoy yourself,” said Bernlada as she left the cavernous room. They heard her chuckle as she hurried to the Prince’s chamber.
“Take off the loin cloth,” ordered Freya. She stood straight and tall on high-heeled boots, legs stretched wide. Callan saw her hand stray to her waist and wasn’t surprised to see the leather leotard part and reveal the smooth flesh of her flat belly as she slowly unzipped it. Down, down, down slid the zip until the fiery red bush of Freya’s sex probed puffily out of the narrow slit.
With deft finger and thumb Callan released the knot in the fine leather thong which kept his loin cloth in place. Although flaccid and drooping his sex club was thick, long and magnificent. A pearly drop of dew hung heavily from the smooth, beautifully circumcised globe. Freya lifted the club and examined the slit. “Nice,” she said appreciatively. “Rub it for me. I want it thick and hard. My sex muscles will drain you. It is necessary before I begin your punishment programme.”
Callan raised a querying eyebrow. “The supply of my issue is not endless, mistress,” he protested. “Bernlada has taken a great deal this very morning.”
A deep-throated disbelieving laugh echoed through the high-vaulted room. “Are you trying to tell me,” said Freya, giving him a wide-eyed smile, “that the famous Callan can only give one stream of issue in a day?”
His dark eyes stared at her stonily, suddenly hating this kingdom ruled by an impotent Prince and dominated by women. In his mind he saw the blonde captive sitting in the induction cell, waiting so passively for her fate. The thought spurred his flesh sword and it rose magnificently. It lay flat against his belly, quivering as its girth steadily increased.
“Beautiful,” said Freya. Her eyes sparkled with interest and Callan saw her big hands spread the fiery curls to reveal the many-leaved pouch at the open crotch of her leotard. “A glorious manhood. See what you can do when you put your mind to it?”
An unbidden smile curved Callan’s handsome lips. His mind was on the pliant Zacora who he knew he could love as he pleased. She would obey him, do his bidding. If only he could have her forever, for himself alone.
“I shall display my body to you to the utmost,” said Freya coldly. “I am extremely fit and flexible, as you will see.” She plumped out the thick lips more fully from the tight confines of the leotard. The red curls glinted with her moisture.
In spite of the massiveness of his erection, Callan felt no desire for the woman. Only the beautiful vision of Zacora in his mind made him able to produce any semblance of enthusiasm.
Freya slowly arched her body backwards. Her long legs were splayed widely apart on taut muscles. She clutched her ankles and her open sex pouted moistly at him.
He poised at her offered entrance, noticing the unusual nature of her. The labia were many and were frilled. They fluttered in gentle caresses around his globe, petting the tight, moist skin. Callan found himself mesmerised by the rhythmic movements of the labia. They cossetted him, drawing his sword into the deep, moist scabbard.
“Deeper,” growled Freya. “Give it to me to the hilt. To the hilt, man!”
It was then that Callan realised that he had been somewhat fearful of the punishment mistress’s body. He drove into her, deep and hard, leaning over her bowed body. His dark pubic curls grated against her fiery red ones and they seemed to enmesh, binding their bucking bodies together.
Freya arched up yet further, pressing him upwards. The fluttering labia, wet with her female spume, sucked at his cock. The caresses were soft at first, stimulating the whole length of his stem. The sensation made Callan feel faint with delight, he went fuzzy and his mind was less than clear. Who was he spearing?
The fluttering sensation around his embedded penis increased. It became firmer, seemed to suck him. He groaned, trying to draw back, but he was held fast. There was a delightful, and yet painful, pulling sensation in his sperm sac. It felt that the whole contents were being drawn by the fluttering leaves of Freya’s sex. He groaned again, louder this time.
“Let it go,” breathed Freya softly, and her voice sounded far away.
Callan’s orgasm was intense. It built to a crescendo of glorious sensation and left him hovering there at a peak which seemed to go on forever. The beauty of the spasms was so gorgeous, that for the moment he cared not whether he survived the coupling, and it felt that he would not.
The flooding which he gave Freya was at least as great as Bernlada’s, but the punishment mistress commanded more. “You’re not trying, Callan,” she rasped. “A puny effort for someone of your reputation. I have climaxed three times to your one.”
Sweat glossed the magnificently honed muscles as he pounded into her. His breathing was ragged and rapid. “Give me strength!” he pleaded. His fingers dug into the tense flesh of her buttocks as he tried to gain more purchase to do her bidding.
“You have strength, you wretch,” she hissed. “You are becoming lazy in your easy task with the Prince.”
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 h
e 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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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.
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