Maiden

by Aishling Morgan

  A low moan drew Elethrine’s attention to what was happening behind her. Talithea was almost invisible in a press of men. It was hard to see what was happening, but one of the larger men was certainly mounted on her and had his cock either up her vagina or her bottom ring. Two men seemed to be sharing her mouth, while her hands had been untied to allow her to stroke and fondle the cocks of others. As always after a good whipping, the Princess was exhibiting a wanton lust, yet, Elethrine realised, it was really no different from her own.

  Only when Drathor had tired of watching Irqual fuck Aisla did he turn his attention back to Elethrine. Picking her up with ease, he threw her across his shoulder and made for the companionway to the stern of the galley. Elethrine made no resistance, but lay passively as he fondled her bottom through her dress. Doubtless, she thought, the sight of Aisla and Talithea being fucked had aroused him once more and once she had again sucked his penis to erection he would be ready to deflower her properly.

  It didn’t happen, nor on the subsequent three days that the galley, the Black Joke, sailed steadily to the south-east. Instead Elethrine was used two or three times a day and always to the same routine. Drathor would come down to the cabin and throw her across one of the wooden chimerae that supported his bed. Her dress would be pulled up and her drawers unlaced and pulled down. Drathor would then take the cat-o’nine-tails to her bottom, not with his full strength but hard enough to bring her quickly on heat. He would masturbate while he whipped her and then put his cock in her mouth once her bottom was hot and red. While she sucked he would grease her anus, using the same thick fish grease that he had the first time. Then his cock would go up her bottom and he would bugger her while she masturbated, always coming as she did so that the helpless contractions of her anal ring would draw the spunk fully from his cock. He showed no interest whatever in her tuppenny, nor her breasts, even when she offered them in the hope of having her nipples sucked. She accepted being buggered with a mixture of resignation and relief, enjoying her orgasms and grateful for the plentiful supply of fish oil that prevented her from becoming unduly sore.

  When not providing sexual service, she and the others were allowed to wander the decks as they pleased, the crew apparently indifferent to the idea that they might pose any threat. Talithea had been appointed ship’s whore and was seldom free from her task of servicing the crew in hands, mouth, vagina and anus. One the second day Irqual ordered that each man could take his pleasure with her only once a day, yet more often than not she was to be found on her knees in the main saloon, sucking on a seaman’s cock while another rode her from behind and perhaps as many as four more queued for their turns. The attention seemed to put her in a sort of sexual haze, and by the evening of the second day she had abandoned her clothes altogether and even took her dinner naked and sat in a mans lap with his penis wedged firmly up her bottom.

  Aisla, with only Irqual to satisfy, had more time to spend in Elethrine’s company. While Drathor was both coarse and taciturn, Irqual affected a rough attempt at elegance and was also loquacious. His routine with Aisla was to eat dinner with her as if they were man and wife, to have sex with her in a variety of different ways and then to sit and boast of his prowess while he downed flagon after flagon of strong red wine. It was from Irqual’s boasting that Elethrine learnt that the Black Joke was headed back to the corsair’s base after a long and highly successful voyage of raiding along the coasts of Vendjome and the Aprina States.

  Home for the corsairs was the Morin, a rock girt island somewhere to the south. The base was apparently approached by a treacherous channel and, according to Irqual, had resisted the attacks of both Vendjome and Opina for some three generations. This conversation was held on the evening of the second day as Elethrine and Aisla rested in exhaustion against the rear rail of the Black Joke’s sterncastle. Both girls had been well serviced by their masters and below they could hear the delighted shrieks of the drunken crew as Talithea was once more put through her paces. Two lookouts alone were visible, neither paying attention, while all around them the sea spread like glass with the sun sinking slowly towards the western horizon.

  ‘This afternoon,’ Aisla said, ‘after Irqual had had me assume what he calls the position of the surprised armadillo…’

  ‘The what?’ Elethrine cut in.

  ‘It means I have to curl up with my head down and my legs well parted so that my tuppenny is over my face,’ Aisla explained. ‘An armadillo, he says is a small animal that is able to roll itself into a ball for protection, like a hedgehog. It hurts my back a little but in the position he can use both and vagina and mouth without really moving. He likes to feed me my own cream and then have his balls sucked while he finishes off in me…’

  ‘Aisla!’ Elethrine interjected, shocked by the sheer wantonness of her maid’s tone of voice.

  ‘Sorry Mistress,’ Aisla said quickly.

  ‘No matter,’ Elethrine sighed, ‘after all, I myself am buggered nightly and often in the afternoon. While Drathor may be less inventive, he is certainly no less dirty and I confess to taking pleasure in his antics. But you were going to tell me something.’

  ‘Indeed Mistress,’ Aisla continued. ‘As Irqual was boasting of his raids along the coast of Cypraya he began to speak of a palace they stormed on an island far to the south. Apparently the owner was some sort of warlock - a death-seer Irqual called him - and he inflicted a lot of damage before Irqual killed him. The loot, Irqual claims, included a great carpet of blue and gold and will fly at the proper command…’

  ‘And you feel we might use this to escape?’ Elethrine finished, immediately sensing Aisla’s drift.

  ‘Perhaps Mistress,’ Aisla continued, ‘especially as the activating syllables are said to be woven into the pattern of the carpet.’

  ‘A thought,’ Elethrine admitted, ‘yet I have surrendered to Drathor and expect to be taken to wife when we reach Morin.’

  ‘Are you not still maiden?’ Aisla asked.

  ‘Indeed,’ Elethrine replied, ‘yet for all his perverse habits he is technically my master and honour commands me to respect him.’

  ‘Yet we would never more see Korismund!’ Aisla objected.

  ‘Such is the burden of highborn honour,’ Elethrine replied. ‘Still, I am not yet taken to wife, nor even formally betrothed as he persists in using my bottom ring although I offer my tuppenny willingly enough.’

  She moved slightly uncomfortably on her sore bottom, feeling a trace of petulance at Drathor’s wilful perversity.

  ‘And what of Princess Talithea?’ Aisla continued. ‘Ship’s whore is hardly an honourable estate for a Princess of Mund.’

  ‘True,’ Elethrine admitted, ‘yet perhaps on Morin there is some other captain or great warrior who will want her. Alternatively we might persuade Irqual to relinquish you in favour of her.’

  ‘He is not a man to be persuaded,’ Aisla said. ‘Nor do I think he would take a girl who has been so roundly used by thirty of so of his men.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ Elethrine said after a pause, ‘but we must wait until we see what transpires on Morin.’

  Late in the afternoon of the following day they sighted Morin, a jagged black crag low on the horizon. Elethrine watched as they approached, and as the island loomed closer she realised why the base had never been taken. They were headed for a small bay between great promontories of black rock which reached around to guard the inlet like the claws of a crab. At the summit of each stood a squat fortress, really no more than low towers but with three bombard barrels protruding from each, their deadly black mouth aimed out across the approach. Jagged rocks barred the entrance to the bay, and the Black Joke was forced to wait an hour until Irqual judged the tide high enough to make it possible to enter. Even then the galley had to be towed in by two rowing boats and Irqual himself took the depth soundings. Peering over the side, Elethrine twice glimpsed the pale shapes of rocks beneath them, scabrous ghosts that seemed insubstantial in the green water yet which she knew
were quite capable of tearing the bottom out of the ship.

  Finally they entered the bay and the bottom turned to a fine sand. The Black Joke was warped alongside a crude jetty built of massive, rough hewn boulders and a ramp lowered to the ground. Many people had come out to greet the ship, corsairs like those aboard, girls marked both by beauty and a timid manner and a scattering of children. Only one of the females stood out, a plump, matronly woman with brawny red arms folded across her bulging chest and a look of stern disapproval on her face.

  Irqual roared his greetings to those gathered on the dock and then began to throw down items of loot, boasting as to how he had acquired each as the men below caught it. Behind him men were dragging the loot up from the hold, carefully watched over by Drathor.

  ‘See this,’ he was saying as he held up a small casket of rose coloured wood, ‘it contains a strange spice that makes the mouth burn. We took it from a village deep in the jungles of Cypraya. The locals cowered back at the very sight of us, and when Drathor belched they fled!’

  The people below laughed and a squat man caught the casket, stacking it among the rapidly growing pile of riches.

  ‘And here,’ Irqual shouted, ‘taken from the dying clutches of some thrice damned death-seer, is a carpet that defies it’s weight and the weight of all that is placed on it! Nine good men died to take it and other things, but his spells were no use against my axe. I put it through him like a skewer up a rabbit’s arse!’

  Elethrine watched as he dragged the carpet out. It was large and woven of rich blue and gold, clearly an item of worth even if it did not fly. By carefully questioning and a pretence of awe, Aisla had managed to establish that the corsairs had tested it and succeeded in getting it airborne, yet Elethrine was cautious of Irqual’s boasting, as the deeds of arms he claimed were so fantastic that some, at least, had to be no more than hot air.

  ‘And last,’ Irqual was saying, his voice finally having started to become hoarse, ‘just three days ago, in the sea off Anjome, we found three fine girls adrift in a boat. Ho, Omilla, take them to the girl’s hut and smarten them up. They will serve at the feast tonight.’

  As he gestured the three of them towards the gang plank Elethrine began to feel a distinct sense of unease. She had been expected to be announced as the intended wife of Drathor and certainly not as if she were part of the corsair’s spoils. Yet the woman Omilla, the plump matron in the crowd, had been told to smarten them up, and possibly that and serving at the feast comprised some sort of pre-nuptial ceremony, rather like the ritual spanking of a girl before ravishment and again before the actual wedding ceremony in Mund.

  With no more than a curious glance to Aisla and Talithea, she obeyed Irqual’s instructions and Omilla’s peremptory gesture once they reached the dock. The houses were no more than a hundred paces from the dock, long, low affairs with gable ends carved into the likeness’ of fierce beasts. The largest was in the centre, with a broad path leading down from it’s great doors to the dock. As they passed it Elethrine glimpsed a long table set with trenchers and knives and various girls scurrying about preparatory tasks. All were near nude and all were beautiful, and as one bent to place a tray of fruit on the table, her short skirt lifted to display rounded, naked buttocks, each of which was criss-crossed with a network of thin red lines - clear evidence of recent punishment.

  Omilla was headed for a different building, almost as large as the main hall but less ornate and set somewhat apart from the others. The woman walked with a fussy, somehow irritated motion, as if to suggest that she had far more important work to do than see to the three girls. She walked fast, yet with their longer legs the girls had no difficulty in keeping up. They also had to duck to enter the building, which proved to be a long dormitory with perhaps as many as two dozen pallets arranged along either wall. Many of these had possessions beside them, but some, at the darkest and dampest end of the building, were vacant, and it was to these that Omilla gestured.

  ‘Yours are the three at the end,’ she ordered brusquely. ‘They are to be kept tidy and no fripperies are permitted. Now strip.’

  ‘I…’ Elethrine began, intending to point out that there had been a mistake and that she was destined for the bed of the mighty Drathor rather than what was evidently a communal dormitory for girls of no status whatever.

  Omilla made no reply, but grabbed Elethrine by the ear so suddenly that she was taken completely by surprise. Thrown off balance, she was dragged to a chair, on which Omilla sat down. Elethrine managed a squeak of indignation as her arm was twisted forcefully into the small of her back. She knew exactly what was happening, as she had seen Nurse Anaka administer the same brisk, vigorous over the knee spankings to Aisla many, many times. It wasn’t appropriate for her though, when she was beaten it involved a complex ritual of preparation and then the application of a cane or whip to her silk clad buttocks. To be spanked bare bottomed over a matron’s knee was something that only happened to the low born, yet it was now quite clearly about to happen to her.

  ‘No, not like that! I’m highborn! I’m… Aisla help!’ Elethrine squeaked as Omilla threw up her dress.

  Aisla stepped forward, but hesitated before the stern fury of Omilla, her response ingrained from years of submission to similar punishments.

  ‘No not that, please not that!’ Elethrine gasped as the dreadful woman pulled at her drawers, not opening them, but tugging them down, to effect the complete exposure of her naked bottom.

  Elethrine gave a long squeal of despair as it all came on show, full creamy buttocks, plump pouted tuppenny lips with their puff of rich gold hair, puckered pink anus, swollen and slightly open from repeated use by Drathor. Aisla took another, hesitant step forward, of which Omilla took no notice. Talithea was standing back, her pretty mouth open in a little ‘O’ of horror. To the Princess, Elethrine knew, being spanked bare bottomed over a matron’s lap was the ultimate indignity, far worse than taking any number of cocks into her body. True, they had done it to each other, but then they were more or less equals.

  ‘You will obey me in all things,’ Omilla was saying, her voice quiet and level, as befitted a matron about to put a naughty girl in her place. ‘If you do not, this will be the result - or worse.’

  From Elethrine’s point of view there was nothing worse. Her dress was up, her drawers were around her knees, her bottom was bare and she about to be spanked by hand - spanked as if she were some common kitchen maid! She made one last, desperate effort to get free, kicking out and catching the woman’s shin. Omilla took no notice, but only twisted Elethrine’s arm more tightly into the small of her back. Elethrine gave a sob of resignation and stuck her bottom up as the pressure of Omilla’s armlock dictated - far from happy about it but resigned to her punishment.

  The spanking started, Elethrine feeling an enormous burst of utter shame as Omilla’s hand smacked down full across her nude seat. Another fell, making her kick and buck her bottom in a way that she knew opened her cheeks and gave a fuller display of tuppenny and anal charms. She wriggled helplessly, overcome by shame, exposing herself more and more fully as the slaps rained down on her rapidly reddening buttocks. Finally her shame became unendurable and she started to beat her fist on the floor and burst into tears, giving in utterly to feelings stronger by far than when she had been quirted in the palace at Vendjome or flogged over the barrel of the corsair’s bombard.

  Only at the sight of her mistress’s tears did Aisla manage to overcome her instinctive respect for the matronly Omilla. Stepping forward, she took a firm grip of the woman’s spanking arm and pulled. Omilla pushed back, a pre-emptory move, as if brushing a gnat away. Aisla only pulled harder and then suddenly seemed to come alive.

  With a jerk Aisla threw her weight backwards, unseating Omilla. Elethrine fell to the floor, to land with her red bottom stuck up and her thighs cocked rudely apart, the drawers having been kicked off one leg in her struggles during spanking.

  Omilla had also landed on the floor. Rounding on Aisla
, she spat a string of words with such venom and fury that the maid hesitated, but only for an instant. As the overseer tried to rise, Aisla throw a leg nimbly over her back, grabbed a wrist in each hand and pulled sharply sideways. Omilla landed back on the ground with a squashy sound and a curse, struggled again to rise but found Aisla’s full weight on her back and her arms pinned up.

  Elethrine had managed to get her drawers back on, and the feeling of submission that had been rising as she was spanked fled way as she once more covered her bottom. Talithea also had come forward to help, finally snapping out of the obedient sexual trance she had been in since her first whipping from the corsairs. Together they quickly had Omilla’s skirts up, exposing a fat pink bottom that quivered with the overseer’s indignant struggles.

  A delicious feeling of revenge came over Elethrine as she planted the first smack and watched the flesh of Omilla’s big, round bottom wobble in response. Talithea planted a second, harder smack and for an instant Omilla’s plump thighs opened to display the lips of her fat, hairy tuppenny.

  Suddenly the door burst open. The scene froze, the three girls around Omilla, hands raised to smack the central target of the overseer’s large, pale behind. In the door stood Drathor, his shoulders filling the frame and his face set in an expression of puzzlement and annoyance.

  ‘What’s this? he demanded.

  ‘We are chastising this impertinent woman,’ Elethrine answered with as much certainty as she could muster. ‘She seems to think us no better than the other serving wenches. Perhaps she does not realise that Irqual and yourself have singled Aisla and I out?’

  Her statement had been delivered hopefully, almost pleading for Drathor to finally recognise their relationship.