Captive

by Aishling Morgan

  With cocks in vagina, mouth and anus and her hair held tight in a fist, Aisla could only let her body jerk to the rhythm of the men inside her. With coarse wool rubbing on her beaten bottom and her breasts being fondled by the man in her vagina, her thoughts were kept firmly on how she had been treated, stripped, beaten and used over and over. Before long she had burrowed a hand to her tuppenny and begun to rub, drawing lewd comments from the men inside her. Almost immediately she started to come, her vagina and anus clenching on the cocks inside them. The cock in her mouth erupted and she swallowed gratefully, her orgasm rising on the slimy, salty sperm as it filled her senses. Thrusting her bottom back she heard a man grunt and felt wet semen splash out of her vagina as he came at the mouth. Her next contraction squeezed the cock out, only for it to be pushed back up to leave her to ride her climax with cocks in both holes, her muscles squeezing over and over until she was done. As she sank down the man in her bottom came, grabbing her hips and wrenching her back onto himself to spunk deep in her rectum. As he withdrew from her ring Aisla collapsed in utter satiation, sore, filthy but purring to herself as she flopped on the ground.

  Aisla woke to a sore feeling in her sex, a stinging anus and smarting, bruised buttocks. With a wry grimace she rolled to her front, only to find her whipped breasts equally tender. The last of the men who had enjoyed her were sprawled nearby, still asleep. She reached for a flask, pulling it free of its owner’s belt and upending it over her face. The water was stale and tepid, but did a lot to clear her head. Rising, she made a brief examination of the bruises on her bottom and breasts, wincing at the extent of the bruising and then smiling at the memory of how they had been inflicted.

  The tight Hai drawers were clearly going to be painful so she decided to go nude under her burnouse, and that if it showed it would reveal nothing that the soldiers hadn’t already seen in much more intimate detail. She slipped the garment over her head and pulled the drawstring tight around her waist, leaving plenty of loose cloth around her breasts and bottom. Her sandals were nowhere to be seen, so she selected a pair of masculine boots of the right size and slipped them on.

  She bent to do the laces, only to stop suddenly at a terrified shout from outside. More yells followed as she scrambled for the tent flap, then bugles and the thunder of horses’ hooves. A man cursed as she trod on his leg. Others came awake, swearing and snatching at their clothes and swords as Aisla burst from the tent to find a line of lancers tearing towards her, riding in from the desert at a full gallop. At their head was a huge man on a black horse, dressed not in Hai livery but in leather and chain armour, with a long sword swinging from one hand and his face set in a ferocious glare.

  ‘Kroth!’ a man near her exclaimed, a burly veteran but with weak fear in his voice.

  Aisla ran for the Prince’s tent as the lancers crashed into the encampment. Screams and the crash of metal on metal rang out, with the name Kroth called again in again in voices hoarse with terror. Ythor emerged at a run, naked, with his greatsword clutched in his hands. An attacker came at him, lance dipped, only to have it smashed aside. The Prince’s backstroke cut the lancer from his saddle, leaving the horse to career into the tent, tearing ropes free and ripping the silk.

  As the tent toppled slowly over Aisla reached it, screaming for Sulitea. Another lancer came in and Aisla was forced to leap into the ruins of the tent as the man missed the Prince and thundered past. Sulitea’s head appeared in the tear, her eyes wide with fright as she took in the scene around her. Aisla grabbed Sulitea’s arm, pulling her free. Naked, panicking, Sulitea ran for the desert, Aisla following, only to see a lancer wheel his horse towards them. A glint of metal showed among the ruins of the tent and she snatched at it, pulling up the birdswing axe. The lancer was on them, reaching for Sulitea, his fist locking in her hair. She screamed as she was dragged up onto the horses neck and the lancer laughed, then screamed in turn as Aisla buried the axe in his spine.

  The horse bore forward, carrying Sulitea until the dead rider fell away and took her with him. Aisla ran after, snatching Sulitea up and pulling her towards a cluster of rocks. Sulitea was gasping, her face set as they staggered into the cleft between two great boulders. Aisla turned, expecting pursuit, then crouched low as none came, clutching the axe in trembling hands as a sick feeling welled up in her throat. For a space they stayed still, huddled together in fright, listening to the din of battle. Aisla could feel Sulitea shivering, provoking a protective urge. Rising slowly, she peered around the edge of the boulder, Sulitea coming beside her.

  The encampment was in chaos, and barely visible, dust having risen under the pounding hooves of the horses to create a red haze in which dim figures struggled and screamed. The Prince was still standing, one of the closest to the girls’ hiding place, swinging his greatsword at his attackers. Beyond was the man Kroth, a tawny haired giant surrounded by a ring of rebel soldiers. None of them seemed to dare a proper attack, while Kroth was laughing and defending himself without apparent effort.

  Aisla turned to Sulitea, who was watching the fight with wide, bright eyes and biting her lower lip, now more excited than afraid. Recognising the reaction, and feeling something of it herself, Aisla said nothing. What would happen seemed obvious. This was the end of the rebellion. The Lancers were fewer than the rebel soldiers, but were fresh and had taken the camp almost entirely by surprise. They would win, Sulitea and she would become part of the spoils, first thoroughly used by the victorious soldiers and then put in chains and dragged back to the north.

  Resentment boiled up in her at the thought, then fright at the realisation that after killing the lancer his comrades might want a more bloody vengeance. Yet in the chaos of the melee none seemed to have noticed. Again, she was supposed to protect Sulitea, and as captives of the loyal forces it would be impossible, while the chance of returning to Ateron would be weaker than ever. Running into the desert was pointless, with every footstep showing in the red sand and neither food nor water.

  Despair seized her and she gripped the axe shaft, considering a wild run into the melee and a quick death that would obliterate all her worries, while she would come to the glories of the feast hall of heroines. She braced herself, but hesitated, frightened and telling herself the action would not aid Sulitea. A man screamed, a lancer, and she saw him fall from his horse, the feathers of an arrow sticking out of his chest. Another went down and she saw the archer, firing from the open flap of the last standing tent. A lancer wheeled his horse, bore down on the archer, only to fall half way, and the outcome of the contest was no longer obvious.

  Ythor yelled out, calling to his surviving men to rally. Aisla moved forward from the shelter of the rock, still hesitant, loyal only in that Sulitea had taken up the Prince’s cause. Ahead of her only a handful of men remained standing. One more fell to an arrow, then the archer was cut down himself. Two men stood beside the Prince, faced by the gigantic Kroth and a single surviving lancer. Aisla moved cautiously forward, waiting for the lancer to engage. Kroth moved in a blur of speed, cutting one man down and parrying the cut of the other. The lancer fell under a wild cut from the Prince even as Kroth dispatched the last of his opponents with a contemptuous swipe. Ythor backed as Kroth came at him. They engaged, Kroth grinning, the Prince struggling to defend against his opponents blinding speed and overwhelming power. Ythor was forced back, towards Aisla, who retreated. Kroth spun suddenly and swung at the Prince, the blow catching Ythor’s sword and wrenching it from his hand. The giant’s back was to Aisla as he pulled his sword up for the final blow. She swung the axe in, only to have Kroth’s instinctive backhand blow hit the blade, hurl her backwards, off balance, falling, spinning as the axe blade caught the air, lifted, came around in an arc and buried itself in his neck.

  Prince Ythor was already dead, run through an instant before Aisla’s blow had come home. Kroth lay across him, his head some way to the side. Aisla stood alone, her heart hammering, sick fear welling
up in her throat, then dying and she found her lips twitching up into a manic grin as a wave of pure exaltation swept over her. All the humiliations and frustrations of the previous month vanished as she pulled up the axe and lifted it high, screaming at the empty sky and shaking her fist towards the north. Warm blood ran down her arm as she cursed the Hai King and yelled a salute to her father in distant Korismund.

  She turned at the sound of her name, finding Sulitea stood, eyes bright, jaw trembling, naked, with her nipples stiff and her vulva swollen between her thighs. Aisla laughed, thinking of the dung-gatherer and twisted the axe in her hand, thrusting the rounded tail out like a monstrous phallus. Sulitea sighed, slumped to the sand and spread her thighs, offering a glistening pink tuppenny. Without hesitation Aisla dropped to her knees, took Sulitea around the shoulder, kissed her hard on the mouth and probed for her vagina with the axe.

  Aisla felt the bulbous axe tail ease into Sulitea’s hole and up, the blood slick shaft going into the sodden cavity without difficulty. Sulitea arched her back as her hole filled, kissing with desperate passion as Aisla began to fuck her, easing the axe shaft in and out. They clung together, Sulitea clutching at Aisla in her ecstasy, hugging her close and pawing her sex through the thin burnouse to work the cotton between the lips. Aisla continued to fuck, delighting in the girl’s submission and desire to masturbate her, her mind burning with a fierce elation.

  Sulitea was groaning, squirming her hole onto the axe shaft in abandoned ecstasy. Aisla felt herself start to come as the rough fabric worked on her clitoris, only for Sulitea to start snatching at her own sex, bucking on the axe shaft and clawing at her clitoris, screaming into Aisla’s mouth over and over, thrashing, biting and drumming her feet on the sand as she came.

  Aisla continued to fuck Sulitea, now on a high plateau of pleasure, elated, dominant, entirely in control of the writhing girl on her axe shaft. Only when Sulitea’s climactic wriggling had died did Aisla allow their mouths to part. She needed to come, and was going to do it proudly queened on Sulitea’s face, having her sex licked in a gesture of utter submission.

  She mounted quickly, tugging her burnouse up to her waist as she threw a leg across Sulitea’s prone body. Sulitea gave a deep groan but made no resistance, allowing Aisla to settle snugly onto her face. Aisla wiggled down, then began to squirm her bottom, rubbing Sulitea’ snub nose into her anus and pressing her tuppenny to the enthusiastic tongue. Sulitea licked, willing and eager, lapping at Aisla’s sex and bottom crease with her thighs still spread wide around the axe in her vagina.

  Aisla put her head back and closed her eyes, riding Sulitea’s face in a rapture that built and built until finally it exploded and she came, screaming out again and again until she was finally spent. As she came she was thinking of the haughty girl, so poised, so certain, now on her back with Aisla’s bloody axe shaft in her hole and her face smothered in naked bottom.

  Only as her orgasm faded did Aisla’s state of mind begin to return to normal. Dismounting Sulitea’s face, she stood and carefully scanned the horizon, alert for any signs of further troops. There was nothing, only the red haze of distance and the black specks of approaching buzzards. Nearer to hand several camels and horses were visible, standing uneasily around the edges of what had been the rebel encampment. Now it was a jumble of ruined tents, scattered stores and bodies, spread out on a carpet of bloodstained sand. If any soldiers had run there was no sign of them.

  ‘And now?’ Sulitea asked from the level of Aisla’s feet.

  Chapter 5 – Dark Comfort

  For the rest of the day Aisla and Sulitea moved deeper into the Red Parch, keeping to rock as much as possible and frequently turning worried glances to the north. They had taken as many camels as they could catch, letting the horses run free. Each beast was laden with water and provisions, hurriedly collected, also a quantity of valuables including coins and ornate clasps the more senior warriors had worn on their harness.

  Despite their worries there was no sign of pursuit, and in the morning the wind came up, obliterating their tracks. Moving into the shade of a great stack of broken red rock, they consulted a map. Hai itself was shown in great detail, with roads, rivers, cities and other features marked with symbols and names. To the north was sea, also to the west, with the coastal mountains marked in some detail. To the south the words Red Parch had been marked in sweeping letters, showing the approximate extent of the desert, which also extended to the eastern edge of the map.

  ‘I would guess that we are here,’ Aisla said, prodding her forefinger more or less at random into the centre of the area marked as desert.

  ‘Our description will be known in Hai,’ Sulitea remarked, ‘and I doubt we would be received with sympathy. At the least I would be hung naked in a cage and pelted with refuse and dung.’

  ‘Perhaps their customs are different?’ Aisla suggested. ‘You were to be a trophy if taken at Rai-Uhruhai. Perhaps they would simply parade you naked through the streets of Zihai or something?’

  ‘I am not certain,’ Sulitea answered. ‘I think as Count Alanthor’s Lady I should have given myself to Count Gallaris. Having fled I think my status changes, maybe. Beside, the prospect now seems less appealing. You, after all, were the victor at the last fight.’

  ‘They seem to regard women as somewhat lacking volition,’ Aisla suggested. ‘We might not even be thought of as rebels.’

  ‘Do you wish to put that possibility to the test?’ Sulitea asked.

  ‘No,’ Aisla admitted. ‘I suppose we must try the desert.’

  ‘South and east would seem to be nothing but an endless waste,’ Sulitea went on. ‘West is little better.’

  ‘There are peopled lands south of the Red Parch,’ Aisla replied. ‘A great, wet forest and a number of coastal cities. The folk are called Aprinians. They have dark skin and are said to be refined, although strange. The women go bare breasted and hang ornaments of rare metal from their nipples. Unlike the Vendjomois they take no slaves, while every citizen has a voice in council. That is all I know.’

  ‘Every citizen has a voice in the council?’ Sulitea repeated. ‘You must be mistaken. How would decisions be made, with each voice arguing against every other?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Aisla answered, ‘maybe I am mistaken, but those I met were courteous, although they think of us as barbarians. Their main city is Opina, perhaps no more than twice the distance we have already come. From there ships travel north to Port Ergan on the eastern coast of the Ergan Deep. It has dangers, but we would not be taken automatically and once there we might hope to win back to Aegmund.’

  ‘It is a large detour,’ Sulitea said sceptically, ‘but we would seem to have little choice. Will we be obliged to bare our breasts and fashion ornaments for our nipples?’

  ‘I was bare breasted onboard the Aprinian ship, Sea Chancellor,’ Aisla answered, ‘although I wore no nipple ornaments. Both Elethrine and Talithea remained covered. The seamen were intrigued, but did not seem to think ill of us. Still, seamen are perhaps not typical, and recalling my punishment in Jihai, it might be wise.’

  ‘I… I’m not sure I dare,’ Sulitea managed. ‘My tattoos would show!’

  ‘Then keep them covered,’ Aisla laughed, ‘and if it offends then doubtless it will be your bottom that gets an airing and not your breasts.’

  Sulitea gave her a dirty look but said nothing.

  For the next two days they rode south and west, making moderately good time across open rocky land and huge red dunes three and four times their height. It was impossible to tell how far they had been and also difficult to be sure of which direction they were going in.

  Their relationship had changed. Sulitea playing less of the haughty lady and discussing their progress with Aisla rather than simply issuing orders. Although their passion after the final battle was not repeated, they took to sleeping in each other’s arms for simple comf
ort. On both mornings Aisla awoke with Sulitea’s head cradled into her shoulder and she began to feel increasingly protective.

  On the third day they reached a plateau, an expanse of utterly barren red rock. For hours they rode across it, feeling as if they might be alone in the entire world, only to reach an abrupt lip. Aisla reined in her camel, looking down at a dry, dusty valley across the bottom of which a broad trail of disturbed ground ran. To the south it stretched away, empty to the distant horizon. In the west hung a hazy plume of smoke, rising from somewhere beyond vision. North was more desert, but with a plume of dust in the far distance below which she could make out the dark specks of wains.

  ‘Aprinians or Hai?’ Sulitea asked nervously.

  ‘They can’t have seen us, let’s wait and find out,’ Aisla suggested.

  They moved back, until the lip of the valley all but hid them. As it approached the caravan became clearer, a column of eight high wains each drawn by two massive double humped camels. Four guards rode at the head on lighter, faster beasts, with another two at the rear, small, wiry men in white robes that contrasted with the dark skin of their faces.

  ‘Aprinians,’ Aisla said in relief.

  Moving forward, they began to make their way down the side of the valley. Two of the guards broke away, riding fast towards them with long tubes of some dark metal held high as they came.

  ‘The things they hold,’ Aisla said, ‘are called bombards. They project metal balls at great speed in response to some magical process and are a most dangerous weapon.’