by Aran Ashe
Now the captain stood to Anya's left, at the head of the bed, watching not the view but her face in profile, illuminated with a deep glow from the last rays of the sun - the red hair burning, the full breasts gently rising and falling and the delicate fingers pressed against the thick glass, tracing a fine line of tender supplication. He saw the eyes suddenly widen and light up, the full lips open, the breathing quicken and the fingertips stretch and press very lightly to that glass again as if to kiss it. And the captain was pleased, because he knew from her expression that he had stirred the girl to a need much deeper than that of the flesh. The sight of that ship had moved her to the heart pangs of wanting. Soon those pangs would become inseparably merged with the pleasures that he would force upon her and in due course - in retrospect perhaps, as she lay in the silence of her cell - would add an extra depth to her shame. Then later, that very shame could be used again to force a pleasure that was overwhelming. And so it would continue.
'Close the curtains.' The muted voice was beside her. Anya hadn't even known he was there. Then he returned to his chair. 'Come here,' he said and again she was afraid. His eyes had become staring. His appearance was harsh and the hook forbidding. 'There are things we must discuss, Princess. Step closer.' He waited until she had done so. 'This man - the Prince - he does not give up easily.'
'No ...' She lowered her eyes. She watched the right hand dig into the armrest.
'The constant shadowing makes the men uneasy. Some of them agree with Travix - that we should have dispatched them straight away.' Anya looked up pleadingly; she felt the colour draining from her face. He leaned towards her and his eyes seemed to glow. The lines deepened on his craggy forehead. The lips moved slowly, so each word was clear and biting: 'If your Prince persists -' the lips hesitated - 'I will destroy him.' The hook dropped; with a sickening thud it stuck itself into the table.
Anya jumped. Her hands lifted to try to hide her face. 'No, please. I beg you ...' she whispered through her fingers. As her hands gradually lowered from her chin, her upper lip began to tremble. The hook pulled out and reached. Anya shied away. 'Stand still!' The green eyes flashed maliciously. And now she could not stop the tears. Though she did not move a muscle and her hands hung limply, chained together, her vision swam and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. And it seemed her tears were a potion to this hard-hearted man. His breathing slowed and became deeper, as if a calming drug now surged through his veins. 'Stand still,' he said again, but this time it was a whisper. 'And you may in time convince me that he should be spared.'
The attendant was dismissed. The blonde girl on her stool turned and sat cross-legged. Her fingers plaited quickly as, by rapid alternation, she watched the work, then the two immobile figures at the table.
The captain looked at the hunched and trembling form beside him, with her red hair hanging down but pushed aside by the swollen breasts, tipped with perfect blackness. Gazing down, he saw the wrists chained across the belly and the yellow stockings working up to cup against the buttocks. He decided that he wished this woman round - curved, in the way that he had envisioned her on the crewdeck, with her wrists fastened above her head, her back arching forwards, her toes - for the heels of her feet would certainly never have touched the floor - wide apart, gripping precariously on the rough and sawdusted floor. Though she was slim, he wished her curves to be emphasised, with a rounded, pressured weight distending every protrusile part.
He made her stand with legs open, and on her toes, though he could not see the toes buried in the thickness of the yellow woollen stockings. But now he could see the pouch, gripped about her flesh lips, swollen and round. He made her raise her wrists and place her hands upon her head. And now, above the bellying breasts and to the sides, the hollows appeared, deep rounded hollows filled with moist dark copper curls. He savoured those wet curls with his fingers. Then he touched the roundness of her breasts, the warm tips. Though she tried to edge away, though the tears rolled freer still, he touched them with the blue steel, pressed the converging double curve of coldness about them, like two smoothly rounded fingers not quite touching at their tips, and lifted, slid the steel across her skin until the nipple was necked between the shiny metal cusps. And in turn, each nipple swelled polished black until the hook had to be eased back before the nipple would squeeze between the prongs and slip free. Then he made her arch her belly until the thong about her waist was tight and the thong that descended along the line of faint curls, through the thick curls and to the pouch, was even tighter. The point of the hook had now to impress against the tight skin first, then slide beneath this second thong while he carefully folded the stocking tops down to leave two fingers' width of bare tight skin before the crease. He twisted the hook, which tightened the pouch until the skin upon it stretched and assumed the appearance of a hard carapace rather than fur. He did not touch it yet, but removed the hook and made her turn to the side, facing the table, though a little way from it, and open her thighs and bend fully down.
As her hands dropped, the chain between her wrists fell against the floor and now her body was doubled. He pushed the flat of the hook against her lower back to encourage it in its curvature, until even from the side, he could see both belly and pouch pushed between her open thighs. He touched the pouch, feeling its extent, measuring its girth between fingers and thumb, pressing to test its resilience, then urging her backbone to a deeper hollow to make the pouch stand out even more. He drew the outer lips away from it, held them back with thumb and little finger, to keep this part of her - the inner lips, closely clad with warm damp fur - completely isolated while the middle three fingers explored and kneaded it. And he listened for the breathing, pausing at times to roll the stockings perhaps further down and to touch the newly bare inner thigh, or to roll them up again until the woollen lip lay against the crease and nothing of her legs was visible, just her buttocks and her pouch, which then stood out harder by contrast - dark wet brown against the sunflower yellow of the stockings. The captain's gaze would at times return to the double thong that lay within the groove, to watch it lifted slightly by the small black mouth which pushed and pulsed against it as the belly between the open thighs writhed, as his hand diverted to touch that soft belly skin, warm pink between the yellow, before returning to flick or sometimes pull against the pouch.
Anya felt the pressure of the cord suddenly burst from round her belly. 'Keep still,' he said. He eased her legs apart. The thongs, unknotted at her back, dropped and swung to the front, hung across her belly and touched her upturned breasts. But the pouch still gripped about her bursting flesh lips. The loose cords between her buttocks were lifted. She heard the captain call to the girl. Slim feet appeared beside her. Slim hands touched the cheeks of her bottom, then held them open. A heavy finger pressed against the mouth, which tightened. The large hand moved down, stroking her belly as if to soothe it. When it withdrew, she tightened. The slim hands held her, encouraged her. She heard a loud metallic click. Then she felt something, round-tipped, thick and firm and cold but smooth, like a naturally oily animal skin, pressing assertively against the small mouth while the slim fingers brushed against the inner cheeks until the soft cold smoothness gained a purchase and her tender inner skin at last submitted and opened to form a gently kissing cup.
'Lift up. On your toes.' The cool-skinned firmness kept coming; her bottom was distended until it was filled. The coldness lay heavily inside her whilst the cords were gently pulled. The pouch began to peel away. She murmured, her bottom squeezed about the unyielding thing inside her while her sex lips slowly burst free from their extra skin. And those lips felt very swollen, soft and moist. They wanted to be touched. Then the thing inside her bottom moved. Though she tightened hard, it made no difference. Like a snake, it shed its supple skin. She felt the coolness sliding while the oily skin covering was left in place until the thing slipped free and the muscle of her bottom necked about the skin. The remaining short projection of the sheath was moulded into a soft fur cu
p that mirrored the tighter black cup beneath it. Anya was made to stand.
She averted her eyes from the blonde girl standing beside her. On the table, she saw the chart, coloured pale blue with, in the centre, a small elongate patch of yellow with a fine ink line drawn round it. To the left of the chart was a cockstem, intricately worked, life size, complete with ballocks and fashioned from polished iron. She knew that this was the thing that had been inside her. But as the captain drew back his left arm, she realised that his hook now lay detached on the table and it was instead the cockstem that was attached at its base to the stump of his wrist. And suddenly, a horrible fear played across her mind - that to the captain, this thing might be to his manhood as his hook was to his hand. She shivered. She was pushed forward; her buttocks were parted and the soft skin cup was touched.
There was a knock and the door opened. Anya was facing it as Travix entered. Though Anya tried to back away, wanting to hide herself, she was pushed forward deliberately until her elbows came to rest on the table and her hands, still chained, spread out on the parchment. The blonde girl, no longer confident in Travix's presence, edged away from Anya.
'What is it?' asked the captain coldly.
'Sir - I have come for the chart.' Travix had spoken through her teeth. Anya's hands tried to lift. The captain stood up but he held her pinned down with his right hand. Anya watched his left arm lift with the polished iron thing attached. Her heart was beating wildly. He stroked her hair back. 'Lift your chin,' he whispered. She did not want to be made to do it. But the fingers rasping beneath her chin demanded that it lift. She wanted to close her eyes. Travix stood across from her in her pale blue suit, her face drained, her gaze as fixed as if she were chiselled from marble stone, with the line across her cheek picked out in narrow shadow as if re-incised. She did not appear to breathe. Travix's gaze did not falter as, with Anya's chin lifted but her belly touching the table top, the funnel-mouthed sleeve was spread back and the rounded iron was pressed against it. But Anya gasped; the iron slipped and the sleeve within her body was filled out quickly with its rigid coolness. The iron bulbs lay coolly against her throbbing sex lips, yet Anya burned with shame. And there was no sound other than Anya's breathing for many long seconds until the captain spoke.
'She is beautiful, Mister Travix - do you not think so?'
Anya closed her eyes. Travix did not answer. Anya felt a tug inside her, then heard the loud metallic click. The captain, his left hand now only a stump, lifted Anya aside. The iron stem was still inside her. Its ballocks rested on the table where she lay, her belly pressed down against its surface and her legs drawn together, hiding her disgrace. She heard a second click and, peeping, saw the hook attached now, moving the bowl aside while the right hand rolled the chart then threw it. Travix caught it with one hand. 'Will that be all, Mister Travix?' Travix threw an icy stare at Anya, who looked away but could feel that freezing stare still washing over her until she heard Travix turn and go, slamming the door behind her. Then she felt the iron stem being slowly withdrawn, the fur skin cup being shaped against her and she heard soft grunts of approval from behind. She did not move but lay upon the table, afraid now of what Travix would do to her when she got the chance and afraid of the feelings in her belly. For when the captain had slipped the cockstem fully home, he had touched her between the legs; she had squeezed hard against the cockstem, she had tried to push her hot wet flesh against his finger, taking pleasure from that touch. Travix had witnessed it, Anya was sure. And the captain had felt that signal too.
He sat down now to his meal, took the Princess on his lap, with her body half curled in his arms, her head upon his left shoulder and his right hand free to play with her while the blonde girl brought him food, though he required but a light repast. The young girl's pleasure was food enough for him. Sometimes he would lift her nipples on his fingers, pulling them gently outwards, then turning them up and, with the tip of his little finger, stroking the nipple's underside. At other times, his hand would venture further, splitting the dark moist fruit between her legs and applying that fingertip touch within. And any welling oily droplet would be caught - upon a fingertip or a titbit or a small fruit, perhaps - and tasted. Small tufts of bread - the inner part of the bread rolled into small soft white balls - would be wiped upon her female lips, outside and within, until the pure white darkened with collected moisture, then he would deliver it, spiced with her saltings, quickly into his mouth. And the air would gradually strengthen with the smell of yeasted female heat.
And at such times as he judged fit, he would lift the young girl's upper leg, take the iron stem in his hand this time and bed the tip against the sleeve and the iron would slip freely in. Having done this, he would make her close her yellow-stockinged legs and perhaps he would rearrange her hair, which lay so deliciously heavily upon her shoulders or her breasts and reflected the light in narrow snakes of copper, bronze and gold. He would lift the chain between her wrists to expose her underarms. He would make her hold her wrists up while he brushed the curls that nested in the hollows. And it seemed to him his fingertips could almost taste the aroma there. But his fingertips were always anxious to be on the move, to explore her every intimacy, to get to know her body very fully by touch, that even when she was gone, the skin of his fingers would remain imbued with her taste and he would need simply to close his eyes and he would see her again. So once her flesh had become adjusted to the presence of the sheathed iron stem inside her, he would slip it out and form the sleeve into a cup. His thumb would rest within this cup whilst his fingers held her sex lips wide. And then he would want to hold her nubble with his claw.
He would make her sit astride the padded arm of the chair. The claw, curving down, would be used to lift the hood and to press against the nubble, which, like a soft wet pip, would squeeze between the polished points that he might touch it with his finger. And he would always make her lean back when he did this, in order to make her belly arch. He would brush back the wet hairs from the vicinity of her sex, which would appear as an open black-lipped pouch with the nubble trapped between the blue steel pincers at the very tip. Then he would proceed to rub this small pink nubble slowly with a wetted finger until her belly pulsed and bulged, her breathing became strained and her sweet thighs tried to grip about the armrest. At such a point, he would instruct her to open her thighs and to remain very still while the nubble was wetted and the rubbing resumed, that he might watch her belly gradually distend against the force of swelling pleasure. It would make him want to kiss its perfect rounded pushed-out form. It would make him want to kiss her at the moment of her pleasure, to feel the warmth and tightness of that skin against his lips and to taste her sweet round trembling shudders when she came. But instead, he would return her to his knee to touch her and proceed with the repast.
In due course the attendant returned with a covered dish, placing it purposefully on the table by the captain, then retreating. The captain called the blonde girl over. She knelt beside the chair, at Anya's feet, while Anya lay across the captain's lap, her naked body warmly cradled in the rich red coat, her legs enveloped to the creases in bright yellow wool. The girl lifted up the heavy iron stem from the table. 'Not yet,' said the captain. He nodded towards the covered dish and Anya was afraid. The girl lifted the lid and immediately the air was pervaded by the scent of fish, not a strong scent, but a warm and sweet one. She offered the bowl. When it tilted, Anya heard the sound of soft shells sliding. The captain reached inside and what he pulled out made Anya shrink away. It was a large dead insect, as big as Anya's thumb, with a long pointed head with feelers, a tightly curved body and tail, and many legs beneath its belly. Yet this insect was not black but pink. He held it in his right hand, slipped the upturned double claw behind its head and pulled. The head came off and dropped into the bowl. Then he held the body in the claw and pulled the legs off. Finally the skin was peeled back, shed and he held up a soft curved tapering white sliver, criss-crossed by pale red veins. He lifted it,
as if to eat it, then instead offered it to Anya. She sealed her lips tightly and twisted her head away. He shrugged and offered it to the girl.
And it was as if he offered the most delicious sweetmeat in the world. She threw her head back and closed her eyes. Her blonde hair dangled down in finger-thick wavy snakes as if it had been worked repeatedly about a finger until it was smooth. Her eyebrows seemed so strange - dense black - with the long curved black eyelashes below. The full lips opened and closed about the sliver, which was taken in and slowly chewed. Then the eyes opened in a heavy-lidded smile; the lips pouted again. The captain peeled another morsel, then a third and fed them to the girl. The smell of sweet warm fish was appetising. When he offered one to Anya again, she turned her head away more slowly: now that she had seen the girl's reaction, she half wanted to take it. It had brushed against her lips. It was warm; the taste on her lips was sweet and salty; it was fish - but a tastier kind of fish than she had known. The captain replaced the peeled fish in the bowl. Very gently, he turned her head back. He lifted aside her hair, touched her earlobe. And perhaps it was the way that he did that - touching reverently, as you would touch a perfect creature - perhaps it was something in the clearness of his eyes, but at that point, something happened in Anya's belly. It was as if a weight which had been slowly building up there suddenly melted, as if warm oil flowed inside her body. And she took the titbit that he offered on the claw. She closed her eyes and took it on her tongue and folded her tongue around it until her tongue touched metal. And when she felt him touch her belly, she spread her legs wide - not caring that the girl was there - for him to touch her. When the fingertips took her nubbin, she squeezed the fish flesh between her teeth, gently at first, but ever tighter, until it burst, while her own flesh was held open, the nubbin gently turned and touched until it swelled like the tightly doubled warm and rubbery fish that again was pushed into her mouth, this time by the girl. It was the girl who fed her - slim fingertips pushing between Anya's willing lips - while the captain continued to fondle her between the legs until she moaned. And it seemed this was the signal.