The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  Zacora’s hair shook more wildly. The last thing she wanted was Paige’s madness discovered.

  “Kind and thoughtful as well as beautiful,” remarked the Prince. His soft touch grazed up her splayed thighs until he reached the lushness of the spun silver nest. She flinched away and he laughed lightly. “Miss Prim, of course! Your name quite slipped my mind.” He looked into the wide sapphire eyes, allowing his gaze to linger deep in the blue pools. Zacora saw him shudder, as though he saw something which caused great fear. He looked away from the pale, beautiful face which held so many secrets.

  “This…” His finger traced, but did not touch, the perfection of her nether regions. “This should be draped in gossamer veils, looped lightly through a jewelled belt. Such a garment would cover, but leave each orifice available for my touch when I require it.” He smiled at her. The fear had faded from his fine features and Zacora could see lust in his dark eyes. “Would you like me to pleasure you? Shall I place you on a coupling throne?” His voice became wistful. “Will you give me an heir?”

  Zacora, her hands bonded above her head, was helpless. All of her life she had searched for someone who would take care of her, but all she received was humiliation.

  The Prince’s dark eyes hardened. “Place her on the coupling throne, Mapoto. Let us have no more delay.”

  An uncontrollable shiver took over Zacora’s slender body as she watched the giant approach her. He was fully twelve feet tall. His massive upper body was decorated with tattoos depicting serpents and dragons interspersed with maidens being defiled by giants like himself.

  He pointed proudly to a cockshaft of massive girth and length, sliding into a maiden, not dissimilar to Zacora in appearance. The maid looked ecstatic, even though the stem which pierced her was taking her life. “In my home,” he said in a deep, booming voice, “that is the custom.”

  Zacora’s shivering became more violent, but she could not resist looking at Mapoto’s crotch. His sex sword, perhaps for the best, was sheathed in a golden cod piece which decorated silken trousers, loose and baggy, but gathered at his ankles.

  The giant swept her up, gently this time, but the arm which held her lower body slipped between her thighs, grazing her soft sex and holding her legs wide open. A great tattooed hand, the size of a dish which would hold a Christmas turkey with ease, caressed the shuddering firmness of her breasts. The same hand held her arms above her head. The giant’s grip was firm, but gentle, almost sensual.

  “The coupling throne,” reminded the Prince, jumping lithely to his feet and following his giant bodyguard to the fearsome looking seat on the dais at the far end of the chamber. He stroked it, feeling its silky perfection, kept in daily trim by Bernlada’s ministrations.

  Zacora watched him warily from her high vantage, casting the sapphire eyes at the tawny shaft with its gleaming globe. It was, she had to admit, a handsome weapon, but there was something about the Prince which told her that he was not a fitting sovereign.

  There was a weakness, a lack of potency in him. There was a softness about the finely sculpted features; a lack of certainty about his manner.

  The small procession reached the coupling throne. Mapoto looked at the Prince questioningly.

  “Place the wrist bonds over this hook.” The Prince pointed to a golden peg on the back of the chair and Zacora knew that her arms would be stretched to the limit and her breasts lifted painfully once she was captured on the throne.

  “Yes, master,” intoned the giant. The slender arms were placed in position and the silk bonds slipped over the peg. Mapoto released his hold on Zacora and her long legs dangled freely. She was suspended from the peg. The pain in her shoulders was excruciating, and yet, hanging there, a strange freedom entered her silver fronded pouch. Her sex sap flowed freely, drooling over the silver fronds and down the creamy thighs. Her clitoris jutted clear of the swollen lips.

  Zacora’s arms ached dreadfully, but all the time her sex became more moist, softer and more willing. Not for the Prince, she assured herself. Her thoughts flew more and more to Callan. The leather loincloth which lifted at the sight of her to show the rigid magnificence of his male shaft; that was the picture which was in the forefront of her mind.

  She felt the Prince’s hands on the cushioned firmness of her bottom cheeks, placing them in the narrow saddle-like platform. His long, soft fingers lingered at the depth of her buttock cleft, spreading the deep valley open. With a cajoling smile he slipped each ankle in turn into soft leather stirrups, tightening buckles around her bandaged limbs.

  She knew that she was fully open to him. That he could see every fold and every moist crevice. She knew that her silver fronds were shining with pearls of sex dew. There should have been pride in her mind for all her training had led to such a moment as this, but the Prince, though noble, was not the man for her.

  Her needs were for a stricter, stronger man. A man who could tame her naturally rebellious nature.

  “Prepared or not,” breathed the Prince, “you are a stimulating sight.”

  Zacora lowered her eyes, only too aware of her open-ness, her availability. She felt that she was sacrificed on the alter of a god of potency.

  “Look at me,” begged the Prince. His golden clad legs were straddled directly in front of her. He was holding his rigid staff with both hands, offering it to her, like some tasty morsel. Zacora licked her soft lips, letting the tip of her skilled tongue rove around the deliciously fine skin.

  His eyes strayed to the velvety slickness of the folds of her pouch. His dark eyes glinted with naked lust. So piercing was his gaze that she could almost feel it touching the dew which pearled on the folds. She knew that he was focusing on her swollen bud, alive with his erection, its tip bared.

  The Prince groaned as he approached the throne, poising his globe to enter her helpless body.

  “NO!”

  It was a loud shout from the opening door.

  Mapoto turned and growled, striding towards the speaker with thunderous steps, his great footfalls echoing through the vast chamber.

  Zacora saw a being, hooded with tight black leather and dressed in a skin-tight black body suit which clothed him totally. At the crotch there was a metal guard, a codpiece, large, cone shaped and shiny. The intruder was wielding a great two-handed sword which he slashed from side to side, parrying Mapoto away. His skill was such that it was inevitable that the ponderous giant would be felled.

  Uncertain who the intruder might be, Zacora hung, imprisoned and passive, on the great throne. Was she to be set free? Was the rescuer Harold the Pretender, thunderously angry at his expensive loss?

  Her gaze shifted limpidly to the Prince’s dark face so close to hers. He was terrified. The expression of fear was frozen on his handsome features. The once rigid shaft was softening at her warm, moist entrance, folding like a sleeping serpent into a soft coil.

  Zacora’s rescuer, if such he was to be, stormed forward over the fallen Mapoto, who lay like a great felled tree in a fast spreading pool of blood. How had Mapoto been overcome? In the confusion she had missed this feat, but the newcomer had a great sword in his hands and Mapoto, huge though he was, had been unarmed.

  Supple black leather, a full length suit covering the stranger from toes to fingertips, lay upon his muscular body like a second skin. All that could be seen of his face were the dark, glittering eyes and the mouth, sensuous but firm.

  The Prince was flung from Zacora’s pliant body and the sword was used to split the silken bond that held her wrists to the chair. Wide sapphire eyes looked up at the black clad stranger, thanking him with parted, mute lips. Now the stirrups of the coupling throne were slashed and Zacora was free, pulled to her feet. She winced and she was immediately lifted tenderly into the stranger’s arms as he ran from the room.

  The last she saw of the Prince was a writhing heap of misery at the foot of the now useless coupling throne, wailing and beating upon the floor with both fists.

  As for the fugitives, nothing p
assed between them for many minutes. The man loped easily along the network of passageways with his slender burden in his arms and his sword resheathed at his side.

  “A horse awaits at the palace gates,” he said at last, hardly breathless in spite of his exertions.

  Zacora smiled up at him, leaning the tumbled platinum tresses on his broad chest and feeling comfort by his arms. The strength, the muscular body, these things spoke of Harold.

  They sped across a narrow bridge which spanned the moat surrounding the palace. A splendid white charger pawed the ground in a small copse close by. With apparent ease he slid her onto the saddle before swinging up behind her.

  The thought of Harold holding her close against his splendid body brought her bud to full erection against the cold of the saddle. Juices poured from her opening, creating a dark patch on the tawny leather. He had come for her. Come for her alone. There was no sign of his horrible Aunt or her diabolical son. Her life, she felt was complete.

  “Shall I place you sideways in the saddle?” he queried softly, concern for her comfort plain in his voice.

  She shook the silver and gold curls, her head bowed subserviently.

  He looped the reins in his hand and Zacora felt the fine leather of his sleeve brush both her breasts as he urged the horse gradually into a gallop.

  “In the forest,” he said, “there is an abandoned cottage. We can rest there for the night.”

  Before returning to your castle, she thought. Had he told those awful relatives of his to go?

  The rhythmic movement under her crotch stimulated Zacora. In her belly was a swirling maelstrom of heaviness, hot and weighty, pressing down on her most sensitive parts. She leaned back, luxuriating in the feeling. Her eyes closed and her soft lips parted. Her rescuer pinched the delicate flesh of her nipples, flicking them until tiny frissons of pleasurable pain fluttered down her body.

  One of his leather gloved hands reached down to part her folds, allowing the cold evening air, moved by the swift progress of the horse, to enter the heat and moisture of the delectable entrance. Zacora wriggled pleasurably, wanting to give him delights such as he had never known.

  “Be still,” he chuckled. “There will be time later.”

  The voice sounded strange; not as she remembered it, but that, she told herself, was because of the leather hood. The body was strong and the touch on her body was sensual, in spite of the tightly fitting gloves.

  The hand holding the reins also held a breast, cupped softly and tweaking the tautness of the nipple. The other hand spread her eager folds, abrading the clitoris with one finger while the middle finger delved deeply into the darkness of her well. Zacora rode the delicious rapture as she soared from peak to peak.

  She slumped forward in the saddle, her long soft curls covering the pale fullness of her breasts, exhausted by the events of the day. It would have been better to remain in the castle, endure Megan and Gareth and, perhaps, gradually cajole Harold to asking them to leave her alone.

  She could feel the odd swelling of the rigid codpiece which covered his glorious maleness. It dug into the cleft of her buttocks, parting them. His breathing was rapid and she could feel the heat of his breath on her neck where he swept the silken coils of hair over her creamy shoulders.

  “We have some way to go,” he told her, “before we reach the cottage.”

  Zacora nodded disconsolately as they galloped along the forest path.

  “Would you like to hear how I escaped from the dungeons?”

  Her heart lurched. The dungeons? Why was Harold in the dungeons?

  “How I came to be in this ridiculous suit?”

  Zacora half-turned in the saddle, looking into the slits of the mask; looking into the depths of the eyes. Callan! It was Callan, not Harold. Her heart sank.

  “Quite a story,” he said, holding her more tightly. “Freya, the punishment woman, drugged me, and when I woke I was dressed in this suit and splayed in a torture chair.”

  Zacora made no comment. Her thoughts were with Harold. Would he, indeed, come to look for her?

  The night was coming. The two suns of Vakir sank simultaneously, making the sky blood red in both directions. The trees of the forest, silhouetted against the darkening sky, seemed to be cut from black card and stuck to a scarlet backdrop. As the suns set it became colder and Zacora snuggled against Callan.

  “My rampant beast was her undoing.”

  Zacora sighed. Callan’s bragging tone was boring her. She wanted Harold, who would take her without all this talk of his magnificence.

  “I persuaded her to loose me so that we could place my devil where it belonged. It wasn’t long before she released me after that, I can tell you.” He gave a triumphant laugh and Zacora gave an almost imperceptible sigh. “I gave her a taste of her own medicine. Had her clamped in the chair before she knew what hit her.”

  Zacora gave him a bored smile.

  “The cottage is just ahead.” She gave a horrified gasp at the sight of the old dwelling. It was tumbledown and half hidden in an overgrown garden. Callan dismounted and turned to lift Zacora from the charger. “We’ll rest here for the night,” he said, holding her clasped in his arms, “and decide our plans tomorrow.”

  He did not see her grimace of distaste. She knew her plans for the morrow did not include him, not if she could help it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The search was going badly and Megan was out of breath and thoroughly out of sorts. Her favourite hat, the black one with the wide brim and the high pointed crown, was dusty and crumpled, her long brown hair mussed and tangled.

  “There’s a cottage beyond the rise ahead.” she said to Gareth, who was lagging behind. “We’ll check there. If no-one has seen or heard of her, we’ll camp there for the night and go on in the morning… but look - surely there’s smoke above the trees?”

  She began a stealthy approach and soon they both were peering through a dirty window.

  Sure enough, there were silver curls spread upon a pile of animal skins. Zacora’s sapphire eyes were closed.

  The cottage was lit by a single candle. Someone seemed to have given the girl clothes. Megan snarled angrily. She liked her favourite slave to be naked and totally available. Still, she consoled herself, the clothing was very brief.

  A dress stitched roughly from a striped skin covered one full breast. The other was as bare as ever; full and pouting with the pink nipple erect. The skirt of the rough dress was brief, not covering the sex pouch. Wisps of silver curls escaped beneath the skin. A belt cinched the narrow waist and it was made from plaited vines.

  Zacora moved, easing her long legs provocatively open. Megan could see the silver wisps gleam in the flickering light of the candle. They were moist; that was obvious. Mistress Meleagan frowned, but licked her lips as she savoured the memory of the girl’s taste. She’d had her where she wanted her then.

  Something moved in the shadows. A man! He was tall, broad and devilishly good looking, from what they could see of him, which wasn’t much. He was dressed in black, black leather. His cock was bare, however, spearing towards the girl’s widening legs.

  Zacora was raising her buttocks.

  “In!” she ordered. “Quick! Get her!”

  Megan was already filling the doorway with her considerable girth, preparing to approach the couple in the cottage. “I’ve got the ropes,” she breathed cheerfully.

  In spite of his strength Callan was no match for the skilled ropemanship of the two Meleagans. He and Zacora were soon trussed at ankles and wrists, their slim bodies arched backwards. Gareth fondled the girl’s naked breast, squeezing the nipple between his first and second fingers. He felt her wince as his teeth grated the tender flesh, but it also became more erect.

  “You love it, don’t you?” he whispered.

  “She hates it!” gritted Callan.

  “Gag this one,” ordered Megan. She turned to Zacora, gazing down at her bound vulnerability as rag was jammed into Callan’s mouth. How she lov
ed to fondle Zacora’s moistness, spread her folds to fully expose her pink clitoris. She turned to the slave’s bound lover to trail her fingers along his smooth erection.

  Megan had a string of beads round her smooth her neck. She was playing with them thoughtfully, looking at Callan’s thickness. The globe was already moist, gleaming in the soft, flickering light. The eye drooled a pearly drop of dew, in spite of the pain which her tight trussing must have caused him.

  She smiled as she unfastened the necklace, letting the beads trail through her hands slowly. “Roll her on to her stomach, Gareth,” she ordered. Gareth obeyed, keeping a pleased eye on Zacora’s bare buttocks peeping from the brief dress. They looked pale, firm and very enticing as the slave rocked on the dirt floor of the cottage.

  The beads were dangled before the sapphire eyes. “Do you know what I’m going to do with these, my sweet?”

  Zacora’s eyes widened and her lips parted. The mouth was so enticing; so open, so ready.

  Gareth’s sex weapon was heavy in his hand. He stroked the rigid member, caressing the silky skin and smoothing its own dew from the globe and along its own length.

  Zacora nodded, showing that she knew exactly what was to be done to her. It was humiliating, but her pleasure always soared readily when it was time.

  Her bound lover watched, his dark eyes angry, and yet there was another expression, excitement. He, too, knew what was to be done to the arched girl.

  Megan gently stroked the smooth round beads through the hot moistness of the silver female cleft. The bound slave felt the beads judder over her hard bud over and over again. Zacora felt her eyes close with the lethargy of need; felt her body go heavy and molten from the inside.

  Her open mouth was suddenly plundered with the thickness of Gareth’s weapon, filling her throat. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, even though he was rather rough; probing back and forth to the very depths of her throat.

  “He loves to watch,” chuckled Megan, referring to Callan. “We must do something about that.” She took a device from the belt around the suit of armour. It was a codpiece of chain mail to be fixed around the wearer with a padlock.