Captive

by Aishling Morgan

  ‘Madame Yasma!’ the clerk exclaimed. ‘We are honoured indeed! Ganis, a fully appointed chamber, immediately! Or does Madame, wish the coprophilarium or the pump room? I can have either ready in moments.’

  ‘Stop babbling,’ Madame Yasma answered. ‘I am here merely to teach this Mundic slattern an important lesson in manners, across her fat meat.’

  ‘Ah ha, a cunt whipping!’ the clerk declared. ‘A wonderful choice Madame! Ah ha, but it is a punishment? Doubtless well deserved, doubtless!’

  ‘Have her spread on a bench,’ Madame Yasma ordered, ‘belly up.’

  ‘A moment, Madame,’ Grathor interrupted, ‘she is under my charge, by word of the Count.’

  ‘Have you married her?’ Madame Yasma demanded.

  ‘No,’ Grathor admitted, ‘yet…’

  ‘Then I may punish her as my rank allows,’ Yasma cut in, ‘as doubtless my noble cousin will tell you, should you chose to put the question. Now come on, make her ready, I aim to leave her raw from button to cheeks!’

  Grathor gave a reluctant growl but stood back, leaving the clerk and assistant to hurriedly finish undoing Aisla’s bonds. Free, she stood, rubbing the circulation back into her arms. Her bottom and breasts were throbbing, her bottom ring and tuppenny sore from penetration. The blood was still singing in her ears, but the sense of sexual helplessness that had made her give in was fading at the sheer venom of Madame Yasma’s manner.

  As the clerk took her arm she glanced around the room, hoping for support. Grathor returned a sullen shrug, the two girls who had been beaten smiles of sympathy but no more, while the big woman appeared intent on something outside the window. The assistant maintained his stolid expression, while Ganis gave her a licentious smirk, evidently more than happy to see her tuppenny whipped. She hesitated, pulling against the clerk as he tried to push her down on the bench.

  ‘Come now,’ he urged, ‘it wouldn’t do to keep Madame waiting.’

  ‘Get the piece of filth in place!’ Yasma snapped. ‘And send to the coprophilarium for a bucket, I wish to bring home her status to her in full clarity.’

  At her words the last vestige of sexual feeling deserted Aisla. Wrenching her arm free of the clerk’s grip she spun on the seamstresses, caught her elaborately coifed hair and wrenched it free. Madame Yasma screamed in indignation and lashed out her whip, only for Aisla to catch the thong, twist hard and wrench forward. Even as Yasma sprawled face first over the whipping bench Aisla was snatching at her dress. It came up, exposing a big, globular bottom in tight silk drawers.

  Madame Yasma’s wordless bellow of outrage turned to a sharp cry as Aisla wrenched the drawers apart, tearing the silk and leaving one fat buttock on show. An explosive crack sounded as Aisla’s hand landed on Yasma’s naked flesh and the seamstress yelped again, only for strong arms to pull her back. Aisla shook the assistant off but Grathor was too strong, dragging her back as Madame Yasma rolled off the bench to sit down hard on her bottom.

  ‘Slattern! Girl-dog!’ Yasma gasped. ‘I’ll have you impaled for that! Fried in lard! Fed to dogs!’

  Aisla spat, catching Madame Yasma full in the face to elicit a scream of fury. Grathor jerked Aisla through the door and wrenched it shut behind them, dulling the seamstress’ angry cries and demands for revenge.

  ‘That has put the troll in the bear pit and no mistake!’ Grathor laughed. ‘Do you not realise who that is?’

  ‘She is a seamstress,’ Aisla answered. ‘An artisan, as I am myself!’

  ‘She is cousin by marriage to the Count!’ Grathor exclaimed. ‘And a virago to boot as you have seen. By Gan you spanked her, and with others watching! She’ll have you dead if she can!’

  ‘Why?’ Aisla demanded. ‘And how can a seamstress be related to the Count?’

  ‘Her uncle is the richest merchant in Jihai,’ Grathor answered. ‘Her family has more wealth than any outside Zihai itself! Her cousin, Elmaea, is first wife to the count!’

  ‘First wife?’ Aisla demanded. ‘What of Sulitea?’

  ‘Sulitea will be his second wife,’ Grathor replied easily. ‘It is because she is younger and more beautiful than Elmaea that Yasma hates you so.’

  ‘In Mund each man takes a single woman,’ Aisla answered, ‘and the high-born do not lower themselves to merchant’s daughters. Merchants are mere peasants, Sulitea will never accept such a status!’

  ‘She already has,’ Grathor answered. ‘In truth she is less proud than you, in ways.’

  Aisla made to answer but remembered the state Sulitea had been in at the celibentuary, grovelling naked at the feet of a matron. Evidently the restoration of her pride had not been all it seemed.

  ‘Do not fear so,’ Grathor went on. ‘Count Alanthor is a strong man and will not allow your death merely because Yasma and Elmaea urge it. Indeed, when he hears what you did he is more likely to reward you!’

  Grathor laughed but kept his grip on Aisla’s arm. Within the saloon the noise had begun to die down and Madame Yasma emerged a moment later, once more covered and composed. Without so much as a glance at Aisla she swept down the stairs, Grathor following with a shrug. In the foyer were two seamstresses with bundles, who came to hurry importantly behind as Madame Yasma left the building. Grathor and Aisla followed.

  An enquiry revealed that the Count was in the fortress and Aisla found herself frog-marched up the hill, still naked but for her boots, and through the high gate of yellow stone that fronted the edifice. Within, Madame Yasma led the way, brushing aside all opposition until they reached a high door with a guard at either side. After another exchange of words they were admitted.

  Aisla looked around as Madame Yasma began an angry series of accusations and demands, only to be fall silent at an angry gesture from the Count. The hall was much like the one at Korismund Keep, only less tall and more plainly decorated, lacking the grotesque carvings that had always frightened her as a little girl. A huge table ran down the entire length of the room, with twin thrones at the far side. The Count occupied one of these, another man, taller and broader, the other. This was evidently Prince Ythor, glanced up at their entrance only long enough to make a brief appraisal of Aisla’s nakedness. Other men sat around the table, every one with an air of confidence and command. The table was strewn with weapons, samples of the Dwarven pieces they had brought from Utan, and it was these the men were discussing, in particular a peculiar axe of bright metal the Count was holding up for inspection.

  ‘This,’ he continued, looking away from the angry Yasma, ‘is a new piece, recently devised by a metalsmith in Ar-Kian. I paid the silver weight of two-hundred crowns for it, but the money was wisely spent. It is not iron, but something they call an alloy, light but very hard. Nor does it rust, while the edge is of a different metal and can cut iron without a blemish. It is called a birdswing, from the shape of the blade, which causes to lift on the air and, along with a counterbalance, greatly reduces the effort of wielding it. The angle of cut may also be changed by the smallest motion of the wrist.’

  ‘Magnificent,’ the Prince answered, ‘although unconventional. Will the heralds accept its use?’

  ‘It is an axe,’ Alanthor answered, ‘and they admit as much, grumbling only slightly because my rank allows a sword. A moment though, my lady cousin has some matter.’

  Yasma immediately launched into her tirade, demanding a series of painful tortures for Aisla, to be followed by a yet more painful death. Alanthor listened with his brow furrowed, then finally cut Yasma short with a curt gesture.

  ‘Is this truly a matter for me?’ he demanded.

  ‘Indeed, Lord,’ Yasma answered. ‘You will need to instruct the torturers to follow my will and sign the warrant for her death.’

  ‘Torture, death, for impudence?’ Alanthor demanded. ‘Come to your senses woman, have you no concept of proportion? If you want to requite your shame,
throw her in the goblin pit! My apologies, Prince, for the interruption.’

  Yasma gave a low curtsey and turned for the door, her mouth set in a hard line of frustrated fury. Grathor followed, tugging Aisla with him. They marched out into a sunlit courtyard, then down a flight of steps into gloom. The smell of damp stone caught Aisla’s nose, then another, stronger scent that made the hairs rise on the nape of her neck but also filled her with the urge to spread her thighs or sink to her knees and lift her bottom. In front of her Madame Yasma made a little throaty sound, then stopped, no less subject to the impact of Goblin musk on women than Aisla.

  ‘Won’t you be watching, Madame Yasma?’ Grathor enquired innocently. ‘They haven’t had a girl for months, so it should be a fine display.’

  Yasma answered with a grunt and walked on down the steps to door which a grinning guard let them through. Aisla could feel the juice running down between her thighs, while her nipples were hard and aching. Behind them the door slammed and she felt a sudden urge to run, only to have it change to pure lust as a stronger waft of the scent came up to them. Madame Yasma screamed and ran, back up the steps to the sound of Grathor’s deep laughter.

  The stairs turned and they came out over a drop, with pale sunlight filtering in from slits high in the wall above. Aisla looked down, trembling with need, her vagina and anus both pulsing in anticipation of cock. In the pit below were a dozen goblins, smaller and a darker green than those of Korismund, but with cocks no less huge in proportion to their bodies. They had obviously smelt her, just as she had smelt them, as they were gathered in a knot below among a mess of half-eaten cabbage leaves and bits of carrot and fruit. Every single one was erect, big green penes rising to the level of their faces.

  Aisla swallowed hard, fighting the urge to jump down, only for Grathor to push her in the back. Her balance went and she fell, landing on her hands and knees in the pit. Immediately the goblins were on her, their long, spatulate fingers pawing her body, squeezing her breasts, spreading her bottom. A cock was pushed into her face and she gaped for it, unable to stop herself. Another goblin slid under her, his fat cock penetrating her sopping tuppenny at the first push. Thick lips closed on her nipples, hands took her hair, pulling as one rode her back, rubbing his penis in the shallow grove over her spine. Wet sperm splashed across her bottom and she knew one had lost control, coming on her before getting his penis to the target.

  With the scent of the sperm her last effort at resistance collapsed. She began to suck eagerly on the cock in her mouth. Her hands groped out, finding stiff cocks to pull at. Bucking her hips she fucked herself on the one below her, and wiggled her bottom when a long, fat penis was laid in the groove between her cheeks. Above her Grathor was laughing, enjoying the sight of her giving herself to the man-beasts. As she was rolled onto her back she saw that his cock was out and he was masturbating over what was happening to her, stroking his cock in an unhurried fashion as another goblin penetrated her vagina and sperm splashed over her breasts.

  Again she was rolled, to her side, allow the biggest goblin to get at her bottom. She felt his erection press between her buttocks, then to her hole, still slick with Grathor’s sperm and her own sweat. The goblin penetrated her, pushing hard to pop her anus and forcing its full length up her rectum. For a moment she gagged on the cock in her mouth, choking on meaty cock head. Her penetration was complete, with the big, green, ugly cocks in her mouth and both hands, between her breasts and against her flesh in several other places, jammed deep in her vagina and bloating out her rectum. A tongue found her clitoris, adding the final touch to her ravishment as she immediately started to come even as Grathor’s sperm pattered down on her naked, used body from above.

  Chapter 3 – Spoils of War

  Aisla was left in the goblin pit for the night, used over and over again until she had lost all track of time in a haze of goblin musk. She even ate with them, face down in the food trough eating slops while one of them buggered her upraised bottom. Only when the morning meal was brought did men climb down, retrieving her while the satiated goblins were busy with their food. After being washed she was allowed to dress in a plain smock of dull grey calico and taken to Madame Yasma to apologise. Exhausted and still dizzy from her experience, she said the words demanded of her, only to have Yasma ignore her completely. Only then was she taken to Sulitea, who had been quartered in a fine room overlooking the city and the sea beyond.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ Sulitea demanded as Aisla entered. ‘I sent for a dress and you’ve been gone the whole night. I need you here, so don’t wander away again!’

  Aisla could find nothing to say and sank down on the bed, wincing at the soreness of her sex.

  ‘Indulging your dirty habits with that Grathor, no doubt,’ Sulitea went on. ‘I should whip you, indeed I will, but not now. You must pack, arrange for purchases, a dozen things, and all before noon.’

  ‘Why noon?’ Aisla asked weakly.

  ‘Because the army marches at noon!’ Sulitea exclaimed. ‘Have you been drunk senseless or something? The city is buzzing with the news, king Mogath is advancing, the Prince must move to retain full honour.’

  ‘And we’re going with them?’ Aisla asked.

  ‘Naturally,’ Sulitea snapped. ‘Do you know nothing of the Glass Coast honour system?’

  ‘Nothing, why should I?’ Aisla responded.

  ‘Combat is formal,’ Sulitea answered, ‘not just in that challenges and duels are fought out before a main engagement, as in Mund, but in almost every detail. An essential part of this is for the Ladies of the opposing Lords’ to be with the camp. If defeat is absolute they become trophies of the victor.’

  ‘What happens then?’ Aisla asked.

  ‘I would be caged naked in Zihai to be pelted with refuse and dung, much as if I were captured at home, I imagine,’ Sulitea answered. ‘Count Alanthor was not specific in this regard.’

  ‘You seem very calm at the prospect.’

  ‘In Kavas-Arion I was chained under the sump for a night because I failed to stand still during an inspection. Do you think mere exposure and a little horse dung scares me? Women are almost never executed, and certainly not a Count’s trophy. Besides, the point is moot. Prince Ythor will not lose. Now here is money, run and buy these items. You can read, can’t you?’

  ‘A little,’ Aisla answered and took the piece of charta Sulitea was holding out.

  In the streets the city seemed only marginally less placid than the day before, and although Aisla caught snippets of conversation about the coming battle, the interest struck her as strangely impersonal. Unlike the previous day, there were soldiers in evidence, wearing emblems showing either the crossed swords and bar of the Prince or Count Alanthor’s portcullis along with other insignia she did not recognise.

  While struggling to read Sulitea’s writing and find the shops and stalls she needed her thoughts ran in a circle, from how to get back to Korismund, to what Elethrine would have done in her position, to the fact that Elethrine was in Korismund and could not instruct her and so back. With Sulitea firmly involved with Count Alanthor there seemed no way of completing her task, leaving her to be dragged deeper into a rebellion she wanted no part of. Her preferences were clearly irrelevant to the scheme of things, with her regarded as a simple maid who would do as she was told.

  The sun was close to the zenith by the time she had everything Sulitea wanted, or at least approximations. The underwear had proved impossible, with her descriptions of Mundic drawers and pantalettes greeted either with incomprehension or open laughter. In their place she had been forced to settle for the Hai equivalent, small drawers of light silk, cut tight over the bottom and flounced at the thighs, which she was sure Sulitea would consider both inadequate and indecent. By contrast Sulitea’s order for whips had proved alarmingly easy to fill. In the market were several stalls, each with a bewildering range, while the fact that
it was her own bottom the implements were intended for made the choice yet more difficult. Knowing that choosing examples inadequate to the task would cause her more pain than it saved, she selected a horn handled lash much like the one Madame Yasma had carried and a simple dog quirt for her own sense of humiliation. By the end she had become quite friendly with the stall holder, and he pressed a cane on her, free of charge and apparently oblivious of the consequences of his generosity.

  After treating herself to a lunch of sweet pastries and fruit she returned to the keep. A bell had begun to toll and everybody else seemed to be heading in the same direction or in the way. Eventually she found Sulitea, seated in a open carriage with an expression of frozen haughteur on her face. Opposite, also in a position of rigid formality, was a brown haired woman of early middle age who had clearly been a great beauty in her youth. Aisla guessed this to be Elmaea and performed a careful curtsey which was entirely ignored by both women.

  With some difficulty she managed to identify Elmaea’s maid, Laia, a small, dark haired girl her own age who, to Aisla’s relief, was both friendly and helpful. Together they loaded a wagon with the ladies’ belongings and their own, finishing moments before the bell began to toll again and a blare of trumpets signalled that the column was due to leave.

  As they moved out from Jihai Aisla found it impossible not to enjoy herself. The day was bright and warm, while Laia chattered as merrily as if they had been going on a picnic outing rather than to war. She answered Aisla’s questions without reserve, especially those that smacked of gossip or scandal. The news that Aisla had spanked Madame Yasma was greeted with a gasp of horrified delight, the resulting period in the goblin pit with sympathy, real shock and a great deal of giggling.

  The road wound up through the hills to the back of Jihai, then opened out over a broad plain that stretched away to the southern horizon. Ahead the column of soldiers could be clearly seen, a twisting, multicoloured snake of men and horses with the bright cloaks of the Prince, Count Alanthor and other commanders visible towards the front. Laia eagerly pointed out the different squadrons and explained how each was loyal to a minor noble and made up part of a levee loyal to a senior noble. In turn Aisla explained the fealty system in Mund and her loyalty to Elethrine, which brought a sudden and unexpected pang of homesickness. Laia chatted on blithely, explaining the petty intrigues and jealousies of Jihai with such relish that Aisla quickly found herself smiling again.