The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  Callan was not in a position to struggle. His throbbing sex weapon was rigid with excitement and the fit in the codpiece was far from easy. His eyes widened as the devilish device was fitted around his sac and the stiff length of his flesh.

  “There,” she said, sitting back with an expression of satisfaction on her face. She could see the straining flesh through the mesh of the chain, calling to mind a caged serpent.

  Zacora’s eyes were hooded as she soared to her climax, ready to take the hot, creamy issue to be poured into her throat. Gareth was pumping into her hard.

  As the girl soared up and up the slicked beads were placed one by one into her rear mouth. Megan was watching carefully; watching the pulsing of the sex folds, watching the throbbing clitoris.

  It was time. Megan knew by the juices pouring from the pink folds. She quickly popped the beads from the rear mouth, from the clenching sphincter and, deliciously, she plunged a finger into the creaming front entrance.

  Gareth grunted, saturating Zacora. He spilled over her lips and she allowed it to trickle like a pearly stream down her chin and neck.

  Zacora was humiliated, but when she looked at Harold, she knew that it did not matter. He found it stimulating to see her pleasure thus.

  Megan sighed, kneeling with her fine plump thighs well splayed. Her short dress, the black silk dusty now from the rough floor, was hitched to her bare wide patch. She felt her own well developed nubbin become very urgent.

  She looked at Zacora. The girl was a delicious plaything; so passive and pliant, almost eager to be humiliated, and yet she had run away, and, as a result, they had to spend the night in this dreary cottage.

  Taking off her hat, Megan lay, disgruntled and splay legged, hands delving for comfort into the moist heat of her nest. Each forefinger pressed open the pouting thickness of the lips. Each second finger splayed the swelling slickness of the inner folds and Megan knew that her nubbin jutted high and taut.

  Eyes closed, her mind drifted back to happier times when Zacora was first brought to the castle. She was very shy and so beautiful. A glorious heaviness settled upon Megan’s breasts, making them swell against the black silk. Soon she slept. Gareth, satiated, was not far behind her.

  Zacora lay on the filthy floor of the cottage. The bonds at her wrists and ankles were rubbing uncomfortably and she sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” she heard Callan whisper. “Are you in pain?” There was a pause, and she could feel him shuffling and trying to help her.

  “I’ve made three recent mistakes in my life,” she whispered, wishing his fingers would keep out of the way.

  “What are they?”

  She sighed again. He was deliciously handsome, but he was a slave and not the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

  “One was running away from the Meleagan castle.” She listened to the soft sounds of sleep issuing from their three captors. “Then I thought perhaps the Prince was the man I wanted, but I was wrong.”

  “Well, you have me to look after you!”

  “You were the third mistake,” said Zacora sadly. “I’m ambitious and I’m noble.” She could feel her wrists becoming free. “Take me to Harold the Pretender.”

  “But -“

  “I wish to go with you, not with these two that impose upon him.”

  “But -“

  “Come, while they sleep. There are three horses in the garden. Let us go.” The Meleagan steeds were placidly silhouetted against the dawn sky.

  Callan was unsure how to cope with this suddenly dominating young woman, who sounded so like Bernlada, his previous helpmate.

  “And take this awful animal skin from me.”

  “But you’ll be cold,” he protested.

  “Rather cold than smelling to high heaven.” She stood still as he snipped the fur from her nakedness. She wriggled gratefully, delighting in regaining her freedom.

  Callan looked longingly at her luscious body.

  “Hurry!” she said impatiently, picking up the discarded ropes. “Into the garden.”

  Moving quietly they left the cottage, hearing the Meleagans grunt at the slight sound of disturbance. How she longed for Harold to realise her motives!

  “Right,” she said efficiently. “I want you to use these ropes to tie me to one of the horses.”

  Callan gasped at her disbelievingly. “Tie you to a horse?” he questioned at last.

  “That’s right.” It was difficult for Zacora to hide her irritation. “Take me as a prisoner, for who knows who we may meet on the way? If soldiers, you may say you are returning me to the Prince.” She was stammering with irritation. “Hurry up!” She waved a hand at the sleeping Meleagans. “They’ll wake up any moment.” Zacora took Callan’s hand and led him to the low door.

  It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air after the stale air of the tiny cottage. Callan stood a yard away from her, eyeing the mouth watering sight of her.

  “Please, hurry,” she said, her voice becoming softer and less dominant as she handed him the ropes. “Make sure that my hands are tied behind my back and I am facing the rear of the horse.”

  “The rear?” Callan sounded astonished.

  “You must humiliate me as much as possible,” she explained. “Put the rope between my buttocks, between my legs and around my neck.”

  Reluctantly, Callan did as she wished, placing her on Harold’s huge stallion so that her legs were fully splayed. “Now tie my ankles, to spread my legs yet further,” she ordered, “and lastly, use a piece of cloth to gag me.”

  Once she was settled in place, with her tumbled golden curls falling over her shoulders to caress her proud breasts, Callan reached up to stroke the soft slope of her fine belly, but she edged away, her eyes lowered humbly, again the passive embarrassed maid.

  Callan, lithe and athletic, swung on to the big stallion, revelling in the feeling of the beautiful naked buttocks against his leather-clad body. The dual suns of Vakir, one in the east and one in the west, broke over the horizon together, bathing everything in rose and purple light.

  Within minutes Zacora’s precautions were justified. They met a young traveller who, after making pleasantries with Callan, insisted in trailing behind them, gazing up at Zacora in awe. “Are you taking her to the auction?” he wanted to know. “That isn’t until the day after tomorrow.”

  “She’s a runaway sex slave,” said Callan sternly. “I’m returning her to her owner.”

  “I wish I owned her,” said the young man, stroking the growing bulge in his tight hose. “She wouldn’t run from me. I’d keep her busy.”

  “That’s what they all say,” said Callan, playing his part.

  The young man looked increasingly uncomfortable. It was a very large bulge which was ascending in his tight hose, making his jerkin flare like a short skirt. “May I touch her?”

  “Very well,” agreed Callan. They stopped to allow the young man access. Zacora sat very still on the broad back of the horse, looking straight ahead while the young man gazed admiringly at her fully revealed sex.

  An arm, clad in a torn homespun shirt, reached up to the gaping moistness of Zacora’s cunt. She was open to him, available, and the thought made her tremble. The emotion was not fear, but excitement, she knew. A stranger was reaching up to caress her pouting labias. The silver fronded lips seemed to arch out to him from the broad back of the horse.

  “One moment, kind sir,” the young man said in a hoarse, urgent voice. “I cannot reach the slave’s beautiful nest, but I have a box in my pack which will aid me.”

  “Hurry then,” said Callan impatiently. “The morning is well broken and we are anxious to be on our way.”

  The box placed in position, Zacora lowered her soft blue eyes to the young man and watched his fingers gently push the rope to the side. It had chafed her clitoris which rose to swollen, inflamed erection, the tip arched pertly. The young man gasped with delight and used a grubby finger to touch the heated little nubbin. Zacora felt her body flush
at his touch. She knew she was wrong to have encouraged strangers to take such action, but it was the only way to return to the palace without Callan being severely punished.

  The intrusive finger slid down to the delicate membrane of her entrance, feeling the silky wetness and the inviting portals. She shuddered as the finger penetrated deeply into her, driving in until the palm was pressed upon the downy cushion of her mound. The heel of the young hand, rough with hard work, grated on the hard projection of her nubbin. She could not help but move with him and soon she found her body arching back to take the full pleasure. The big horse twitched under her and she knew that her sex sap was wetting the big creature’s smooth coat.

  The young man slumped over the stallion’s rump and Zacora knew that touching her, seeing her fully disclosed sex and feeling its reaction under his rough hand, had been too much for his male package. It had spilled its contents within his tight hose.

  “We must go,” said Callan. “Too much time wasted. We are chased by those who say they own this beauty.”

  It was full daylight with the suns warming the forest path. Zacora shook back her cascade of golden hair shot with silvery lights in the sunshine and pouted her full breasts to take the full benefit of the warmth of the suns.

  The rough rope chafed the tender skin of her bottom cleft, irritating the membrane of her rear entrance. She wriggled, for the roughness made her remember the gnarled feeling of the young man’s work roughened hands. It wasn’t unpleasant, that memory.

  Suddenly, Callan reined in. “Listen,” he said, keeping the horse very still. At first all Zacora could hear was the gentle rustle of the breeze through the branches of the trees, but then another sound infiltrated into the noises of the forest. Hoofbeats, steady and moving fast.

  Callan kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and the big beast moved off quickly. The rhythmic movement of the wide back under her was both stimulating and comforting. Her warm liquid oozed out of the open lips copiously and wetted her already excited clitoris.

  The sound of hoofbeats, a group of horses, was much closer now. Zacora also heard the sound of laughter; very loud, male laughter. Men were talking as they rode.

  “We’ve got to hide!” said Callan. “They’re riding fast and they’re very close now.” His voice was low and breathless. “It will be the Prince’s soldiers!”

  Zacora, gagged by the piece of rag, was unable to comment. Callan reined in, looking round frantically. The forest was dense, but the horse was big, not an easy animal to hide, He jumped down, quickly untying Zacora’s ankles and helping her dismount. In doing so, one hand brushed the softness of her downy thatch and felt the moist strands where the puffy lips parted. He raised his dark eyebrows, a knowing smile on his lips. His hands remained where they needed to be to lift her willowy form from the horse, his thumbs grazed the side swell of her full breasts, and his fingers slid to cup the warmth of those mounds. He heard her sigh behind the gag and she lowered her thick lashes.

  He took this as an invitation and slid his hand over her belly, behind the rope which bound her wrists to her slender neck. His fingers slid down to cup the moist silver fronds, to part them and to enter the silky valley in which female treasures lay. She sighed again and her body flushed with heat as he touched the hardened love bud.

  Her sapphire eyes gazed up at him. Her breasts were hard against his broad chest and she could feel her nipples become tender with their tension; the fine erectile skin gathered to hardened nubs. Her bound arms, the wrists chafed by the rough thick rope, caused her breasts to press closer to him. The spiky hemp rubbed roughly into the moist leaves of her sex, sensitised her nubbin, making it jut further from its hiding place. The rope caressed the plumpness of her mound, skimmed the slimness of her belly and up to her throat. Its tautness held her head bowed and, when she looked up, it cut cruelly into the wet skin of her sex leaves.

  “Ah-ha! And what have we here?”

  The gruff voice broke the spell between Zacora and Callan. They had been so engrossed with each other that they had not realised that they had been seen.

  “A runaway perhaps?” It was the same voice. The speaker jumped down lithely from his horse and approached the two. He wore the uniform of a sergeant: light chain mail over a short leather jerkin. He rubbed the chain codpiece protecting his male package, grinning loudly.

  “A beauty,” he grunted. “A real beauty.”

  “She ran from the Palace - I am returning her.” Callan’s tone was firm and decisive. “No doubt there will be a reward.”

  “Is that right?” The sergeant tested the firmness of Zacora’s bonds and nodded approvingly. “We shall escort you, then.” His large hands tested the weight and softness of the breasts so tautly pressed out by the ropes binding her slim wrists. A finger grazed down the bond cutting through the valley of her breast flesh and down to the pouting silver mound.

  Other men gathered round, watching the sergeant’s actions avidly. He tugged on the rope, enjoying the way its roughness sliced into the drooling valley of the sex purse, parting the swelling lips and grating the bud of the clitoris. Without any thought of how the delicate skin of her cunt might be chafed, he pulled harder on the rope so that it pressed into the depth of her bottom flesh.

  “She looks like the slave…” The sergeant hesitated, turning Zacora round to examine the peachy fullness of her buttocks, admiring how the binding dipped deep into the cleft. “The new slave that we have all heard tell of, the one Prince is so pleased about.”

  The gag was torn from Zacora’s mouth, baring the very kissable lips. “It must be her!” said the sergeant gleefully. “There cannot be two such beauties! The reward will be large!”

  There was laughter among the men, specially from one who had pushed to the front of the group and was eyeing Zacora avidly; her proud breasts, the soft blue eyes, the flowing golden hair and the always parted lips. In her bonds she looked so vulnerable and yet so willing as she flicked her gaze from one to the other of the men. “Who will know if we have borrowed a woman whose role is purely sexual?” said the bold one.

  The sergeant nodded. “Aye,” he agreed, “who will know?” he turned to Callan. “We’ll bind this man, her protector, and deliver her ourselves. When we have finished with her. Fetch chains, ropes, anything.”

  “There is no need,” Callan said huskily. “I shall not stop you, nor claim any reward, I will go my own way. But first I shall join you in whatever you wish to do to this woman.” His penis throbbed at the thought of completing that which was thwarted at the cottage. It was erect and ready; already dewy on the globe. He stroked it slowly, grazing the tautness of the balls at each side of the peak of the shiny end.

  “We’ll leave her bound,” said the sergeant, already removing the chain mail codpiece from his own throbbing erection. The other men drew around Zacora, grinning with anticipation.

  There were ten men, including the sergeant. Each was in his prime; heavily muscled, tall and in peak condition. They all wore helmets with visors over the eyes, but their lower faces were free. They wore hose, in the fashion of the time. Knit in fine wool homespun, it showed off their superbly muscled legs and the heavy bundles of their masculinity to perfection. On active service, they wore armour in the form of chain mail which would make repulse but the sharpest swords. Preparing for entry into Zacora, they had bared their male weapons. All were rigid and throbbing.

  Zacora, her arms still bound and the rope tightly holding her sex lips apart, looked up at the tall group of men, allowing her lips to curve in a sweet smile. There was a nervous tremor about the smile, for she had never been called upon to take so many men before. They were all so big. Their cockshafts were wide and long. She shuddered at the thought, but in her belly there was that excited swirling feeling of molten anticipation.

  Callan pointed to a massive fallen oak. The trunk was as wide as the horse’s back; the bark rough and gnarled. It rested on thick broken branches so that it did not lie flat, but slightly at an
angle.

  “If she was positioned correctly, that might be a useful addition to our needs,” suggested Callan formally.

  Hand resting slightly on the slippery silkiness of his globe, the sergeant looked at Zacora’s lovely open face; at the luscious curves of her figure, at the way the rope disappeared so invitingly into the softness of her sex. “Yes,” he agreed, “you could be right.” He frowned as a thought crossed his mind so heavily involved in plundering the beautiful body. “Do we need to tie her?”

  Callan shook his head. “She is quite pliant.” His eyes narrowed, became darker as he gazed into Zacora’s wide blue ones. “She desires to be violated and to pose for her plunderers.”

  Zacora knew that he was angry with her for being so bold, but it seemed to be in her nature. It wasn’t what she chose to be. It was what she was.

  “Ah-ha!” The sergeant nodding his head eagerly. “She is a born sex slave.”

  “So it would seem,” said Callan softly. “But she can be tied if you wish?”

  “If YOU wish. You seem more knowledgeable in these matters,” said the sergeant. “What is your position in the palace?”

  “Official Procurer of Potency to the Prince,” Callan said, almost under his breath.

  A sigh of admiration whispered through the small group and they watched carefully as Callan placed Zacora on her stomach, facing down the massive trunk. Her long legs were splayed around the rough bark. The rope was tight around her wrists and her head was pulled back as the truss disappeared into her clefts, front and rear. He placed a pillow of gathered moss under her belly so that the front and rear orifices would be available as he pulled the rope to the hollows between thigh and body.

  “I loved you,” he hissed in her ear as he made adjustments to her position.

  “You are merely a slave.”

  “So are you!”

  The sergeant and his men were becoming impatient. “What’s going on there?”