by Aran Ashe
The Chronicles of Lidir
PLEASURE ISLAND
A Saga of Erotic Domination
ARAN ASHE
First published in Great Britain in 1992 by
Nexus Books
332 Ladbroke Grove
London W10 5AH
Copyright © Aran Ashe 1992
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks.
ISBN 0 352 32817 7
A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
To Sun, Sea, Sand
(And Slaves)
Contents
1 A Shortfall of Doves
2 Amongst the Pigs and Pickles
3 A Severed Lip
4 A Punishment by Proxy
5 The Captain's Table
6 The Key
7 Abaata
8 The Village
9 Initiation
10 Miriri
11 The Playground
12 Taboo
13 Loving Retribution
14 Chickens to the Rescue
15 Firebrands of Passion
[1]
A Shortfall of Doves
It was the kind of late spring day that should have gladdened every heart. The ship was small, but strong. She had braved the storms around the cape and now she raced the whitecaps steadily homeward across the sparkling turquoise sea. Flying high above her, beating steadily like a giant tethered snake, was a magnificent royal banner of heavy red braid adorned with golden sunbursts and flashes of splendent blue. It had withstood the vicious storm winds totally unscathed. That too should have been an omen of good fortune.
But on the quarterdeck, the Prince of Lidir stood unmoving, and below him, every man seemed turned to stone. All eyes were fixed aloft, watching the single tiny figure clamber up into the crow's nest, then shade his eyes and stare out far ahead.
Below deck, in the great cabin, another figure stirred. She was unaware of the tension up above, of the way her destiny was being moulded to the fickleness of fate. Languidly she drew the tousled covers aside, then knelt up on the bed, then stretched her smooth nude soft-skinned body. Silken tongues of copper hair snaked down across her shoulders; spun gold gleamed in her underarms as her scent caressed the air. When she raised her chin, her perfect face was lit by softened light. Fine freckles lay like tiny jewels upon her cheeks. Her eyelids were half closed; she was relaxed.
Then suddenly she turned and looked towards the door, as though an apparition had entered to challenge her very presence on this scene, as though spectres from her past were haunting her. And for a second, her confidence faltered. Her eyes opened wide and dark, like the eyes of a startled doe. Anya trembled, and those old fears overtook her.
Can a slave become a princess? If fate decrees it, it is in her gift, as sure as limpid eyes are windows to the soul, as sure as winsome ways can melt a young girl's heart. But that gift, once promised, can just as surely be rescinded.
Anya knew this. Yet she knew her Prince was true. Her fingertips stroked the sheets where he had lain, traced the line of the folds, touched the smooth dried satin spillage, and now she smiled as she remembered last night - the way she had urged him onward, pursuing her pleasure, torturing him with wanting in the way that lovers do. Then in the end, that second time, she had just held him, not releasing his flesh, but touching him, kissing him with her open belly while the warm milt dripped between her fingers to the silk.
Two decks above her, in the open air, the Prince allowed his gaze to lower. His calm green eyes moved round, taking in the helmsman's iron grip upon the tiller, and beside him, the captain, ashen-faced and intent. The Prince knew it boded ill. Looking forward now, beyond the anxious men, he saw his lieutenant - the only man who moved down there - examining the two small cannon on the foredeck. The Prince's heart sank; they seemed so feeble. Then he stared out again at the ship on the horizon. It seemed to be growing larger - it was swinging round, turning broadside on. He needed no lookout now to tell him. But as the terrible confirmation at last was shouted from above - that one word, striking fear into every heart, even the Prince's, though his eyes would never show it - two things happened at the same time. A row of tiny puffs of smoke arose to cloud the tall ship in the distance, and a hooded figure emerged from below deck and came up the stairs towards him.
'Pirates!' came the heart-stopping cry. It was followed by the sound of rippling, distant cannon thunder.
The figure froze. Her head lifted, and in the second before she turned to see the waterspouts bar the way ahead, the Prince's cool green gaze was melted by the look of terror in that beautiful, innocent face.
'Anya ...' But before he ran to her to take her in his arms, he whispered quickly to the man beside him. 'Captain - they must not reach us; they must not be allowed to board.'
The captain glanced at the young girl on the stairs, then set his jaw and nodded grimly. He strode forward and placed both hands upon the rail above the main-deck. At the first command of that powerful voice, the ship was transformed. The men of stone suddenly came alive. They were filled with purpose, scurrying across the decks, hauling down the red and gold royal pennon, breaking out cutlasses, pikes, longbows and arrows, then starting to hoist the cannon aft while the helmsman and his mate strained to bring the ship hard round.
But on the stairs, it was the slender figure's turn to stand immobile. The Prince of Lidir placed his arm very gently about her shoulder and led her away from the hubbub and towards the starboard rail. He did not speak, for he could not find the words to say. He could only look into that perfect face - the olive eyes; the pupils, wide and black as night now; long hair of copper fire; the gentle freckling on her cheeks; her lips, so warm and trembling - as her cool slim fingers reached to brush against his cheek and to touch his earlobe gently.
'My lord,' she whispered, 'I am afraid.'
'Shh ...' He kissed those warm lips softly, repeatedly. He wanted time to stand still for the two of them now, while he held her to his breast and breathed the soft warmth of her skin. 'You must not fear - this ship is fast; she will outrun them.' And yet, as he looked out above her at the ship that had taken up the pursuit, he saw that it now looked even larger. He could see the row of gun ports down one side and the chilling emblem flying from her mast: the horned black goblin on a blood-red base was the flag of a pirate slaver.
Suddenly she turned and saw this image too, then buried her face once more against his chest.
The Prince felt desperation welling up inside him. He gripped the hilt of his sword. But as the minutes ticked away, he felt only more helpless. His ship had earlier moved so fast, but now it seemed so sluggish. What were these sailors doing? They were supposed to be a hand-picked crew. Exasperated, he shouted across the quarterdeck: 'Captain! Why do we make so little headway?'
'But Sire, we are against the wind now, and a fresh wind at that. We have to tack across it - as they do too.'
'Then why are they gaining ground?'
The captain shook his head, then sighed in resignation. He looked steadfastly at the Prince. 'They have the sail, Sire. And to bring her round so quickly, they must have the men. I have but a dozen sailors - and your guard.' At that moment, the harness about the cannon broke and it crashed to the deck.
The captain sighed again. 'Good men. Alas, they are not seamen.'
The Prince spoke more softly: 'I was hasty, captain ... I know you do your best. And I have not forgotten the valiant way you brought about our rescue. I will never forget that.'
He was interrupted by the lieutenant running up the stairs.
'Sire,' he shouted. 'A cracked pulley block, no more - the cannon will be reinstalled. The men are ready.'
The Prince took heart from the resolve in the young man's face. He had seen that look before, when, injured and on the ground, he had watched this man single-handedly beat back three Surdic swordsmen. The prince slowly clapped the young man on the shoulder and took hold of the captain's hand. 'Lieutenant ... Captain ... I could not wish for better men by my side.'
The lieutenant's pale blue eyes narrowed. 'Whatever befalls this day, Sire, they shall not prove us milk-bellies.' Then he glanced uneasily towards the young woman, who had been listening but now had turned to watch the enemy ship approaching. His voice fell to a whisper: 'Sire - the Lady Anya ... I fear that we must guard against the worst.' The Prince bit his lip, then nodded. The lieutenant turned and gave an instruction to one of the soldiers, who hurried down below.
The Prince returned to comfort his betrothed. The hood of her cape was down now and her long red hair flowed in the breeze. Together they stared out across the sea, at the ship steadily tacking across behind them. It seemed so quiet now, yet somehow even more menacing than when it had fired upon them. The prince prayed for something - a sea mist, even a storm - anything that might grant them some respite. Faint hope it was, he knew, against that fresh spring day.
At last, she spoke. 'It is as if they were waiting for us.'
'No. They are opportunists - vagabonds of the sea. It is chance that they are here.' Then his gaze was distracted by two seabirds floating down to alight upon the stern rail. His eyebrows knitted in a frown.
She turned and stared at them. The Prince was lost in thought now. Something about the arrival of those birds was troubling him. Her voice became less steady: 'My lord ...' She looked at him. 'What if the pirates should board this ship?'
'No ...' But he looked away, at the birds again. It forced her to persist:
'Their ship is large. The captain said that they are many; we are few ...'
He tried again to reassure her: 'But we carry little coin - no treasure. They are interested only in gold and jewels and ...' Their eyes met; suddenly, his mind went blank.
'And me?' she whispered faintly.
He put his finger to her lip. 'Shh ... Do not say it. I will never let it happen.' And then, as he touched the softness of her cheek, he remembered the doves - six white doves, released two days ago, as they rounded the cape. They were ringed with the royal braid - a signal of his homecoming. But this time, the doves had also carried a message: The Princess of Lidir is coming home. The blood drained from his face. Could it be? Again he looked at the gulls, taking flight now after their rest, and again the Prince felt helpless, sinewless, caged upon this ship; how he wished he had his feet on solid ground.
'Sire?' The lieutenant stood behind him with a small bundle of clothing. 'Sire - it is better that the Lady Anya goes below now. On deck, there is the chance she could be seen.' He nodded in the direction of the pursuing ship. Then he spoke to the young woman; his voice was subdued and his tone encouraging: 'My lady, please take these; put them on - as a precaution.' As she reached uncertainly to take the cabin boy's suit and cap, the lieutenant looked upon her gentle face, so very pale now, framed by the soft red hair.
The Prince paced the length of the great cabin again, then hesitated at the stem windows and looked out at the ship that had dogged them so relentlessly. But now it seemed to be hanging back, as if toying with them - it could easily have outrun them long ago. Perhaps the pirates were afraid to come within cannon range: they could not know that his ship had but two small guns.
Then he saw a flurry of activity on the deck of the enemy ship. Something was being roped to the mainmast. Wooden beams were being carried and hoisted upright on the port side - it could only mean that a boarding would be tried. But again, something was being fastened to the beams. Was it some weapon - bundles of sacking they might set alight?
'Sire ...?' The soft voice made him turn and the vision salved the torment in his mind. She was kneeling up on the bed, half turning towards him. Draped limply on her arm was the final linen undergarment she had only just removed. Her body was illuminated in a soft creamy light diffused upwards from the ruffled sheets. The Prince remembered last night - the way she had tantalised him so deliciously with her fingertips, lips and tongue, the way she had pursued her pleasure tirelessly on into the morning. And now she looked at him again with languid eyes.
'Sire ...?' She placed the linen garment down beside her and took up the dark blue tunic top. Light touches of her hands smoothed the densely woven material; every movement that she made spoke sensuality. Slender fingers slipped into the sleeve, then opened out the jacket, straightened it and caressed the interior, gently brushing, assessing it as if it were a lover's skin. Nervous fingertips tested the ornate brass walnut-shaped buttons, traced the edges of the collar, the tight, silk-lipped pockets - slipping within them - then stroked again across the surface of the lining. And all the while, as Anya examined this uniform, her body moved - smooth lithe movements, so innocent, yet so very sexual. When she reached, and her body rotated forwards as she balanced on her knees, the hollows of her underarms would deepen and her tight full breasts would sway and lift. Her back, narrowing so deliciously from the hips, would form a perfect down-sweep furrowed by a backbone supple enough to tempt a tongue to paint it from the shoulder-blades to the tip. And the temptation would progress further. Her thighs would tense, the rounded buttocks would rise, then separate slightly as she settled down again upon her upturned feet. Each time she rocked, peeping between those lifted, separating, rounded cheeks, was the gently bulging fleshy pouch - a twin fruit, with a fine infold of potential cleavage to tempt that tongue to make the split and to taste the salt-fruit moistness which was dusted very lightly by the soft bright curls of fire.
'Sire ...?' Anya reached and rested upon her elbows while she adjusted the belt. Her back arched down until her smooth round belly almost touched the ruffled sheets. And still the Prince of Lidir had not answered. He could not, for he was waiting for the gap to close, for her supple back to bend that little more, like a longbow drawn to its final curve of tension before the arrow is unleashed. He was waiting for the tight skin of her belly to stroke against the heaped-up silken sheet.
'Sire ...?' Anya sat up again and lifted her hair away from her densely freckled shoulders. The shoulder blades slid smoothly beneath her skin and almost touched. She turned to face him fully. The Prince waited. Anya placed her hands upon her hips and the wing muscles tightened from her shoulders to her breasts. Deep, delicious hollows opened underneath her arms. She raised her head; her elbows moved back and her nipples pointed upwards. They were black. Her breasts were milk white but her nipples were velvet black, and large, with no surround, as if a velvet-coated acorn had been fitted to each tip. She was sitting on her heels again with her slim thighs apart. Below her belly was the bush of soft red curly hair and the curls were slightly parted. The satin lips projected starkly - matt black against the red curls, inky black against the whiteness of the fold of sheet which pressed them to one side. As she breathed, her belly lifted and the pure black gently moved against the sheet.
'Sire? Why do you not answer? Come to me.'
But now, he did answer. He knelt beside the bed, looked up into the dark pools of her eyes and he could smell her scent of almond oil and butter. I love you - as I have never loved another,' he said.
Anya took his face in her hands. Her fingertips stroked his hair. She kissed him. He sucked upon her soft lips. Her small tongue pushed into his mouth. His hands moved over the smooth skin-coated shoulder-blades and down the warm slim back, and tickled,
making the belly curve towards him. He touched her belly; then his fingers slipped between the silken sheet and her open thighs. The black and satin skin felt hot and soft. Her tongue pushed deeper into his mouth, assenting, touching against his own. His fingertips searched out that other tongue between those other lips. She murmured as he gently split its fleshy sheathing. He used his fingertips to kiss that small moist tongue and to milk it very gently. Anya lifted. He slid one hand beneath to touch the skin within the groove, which became deeper and warmer as she edged her thighs apart until his little finger touched the in-swirl of her bottom. It felt like very fine twisted velvet. The other hand held her sex lips open, nipped the bud and made it slip.
Still the kiss continued. Her neck craned forward; he could feel her warm breath coming quickly through her nose. His lips closed about her tongue and sucked; her thighs began to move; he could feel her sex lips pressing moistly about his fingertips while he milked her, pumping the tiny tip up hard until it could not be retracted. It remained pushed out like a small hard ball which touched the backs of his fingers as he brushed them up and down the soft skin pouch. Finally, she pulled away from his embrace, but he would not release her. He held her hips while he took the black and fleshy nipple tips to his mouth and sucked them until they hardened and became wet. As he sucked she arched back tighter until he was sucking the undersides of her breasts, then sucking her belly, then tracing the fine line of downy hair below her navel until she was arched back with her shoulders to the bed and her feet still tucked beneath her and the soft fine downy hairs that he kissed were replaced by wiry curls.