The Slave of Lidir

by Aran Ashe

  "No, no, my lord," Marella said, but rather shakily, as if she were afraid. "I was just taking Anya down to the kitchen ... on the Taskmistress's instruction," she added more loudly, as if mention of that woman's name might ward off this unwelcome interference.

  "Anya - such a pretty name," he said, making Anya shrink back against the door. "So, she has misbehaved?"

  "No, most certainly she has not, my lord! I'm taking her to have her fed." Marella sounded affronted at the suggestion, and Anya was thankful for her support and her protection from this person.

  "I see ..." he said, deep in thought, yet with a sinister expression.

  His long thin bony fingers reached and lifted Anya's chin. "Very nice," he said, and traced his fingers lightly underneath until he touched her burning earlobe, which he took between his finger and his thumb and massaged very slowly. "Yes ... very nice indeed." Cold ripples ran up her back and round across her belly; her breath came short; she felt as if her body was being lowered slowly into a deep pool of ice-cold water. His other hand was at her cloak, just below the neckline, toying with the fastening. Why did not Marella do something to stop him? She must have known what he was doing. "And beautiful red hair, do you not think so?"

  Marella answered. "Yes, my lord," was all she said, and Anya knew then that she was lost.

  The finger moved across her lips. "Why are you trembling, my dear?" he asked. "You must be cold. Let me feel your skin." The other hand had slipped beneath her cloak. She tensed, and wanted desperately to close her eyes, for she could not bear to look him in the face a moment longer. She wanted to run, but she was too terrified to move - his eyes snared her so she dared not even blink. The hawk was poised to strike and tear her heart out.

  His finger touched her in the hollow of her neck; it felt like the point of an icicle was pressed against her, and at any moment it would pierce her skin and slide to block her throat with its icy coldness. The finger started moving downwards, tracing out the line of her breastbone. His face moved closer, and in that brief movement, his gaze had faltered, the spell was lifted, and Anya closed her eyes.

  "Open your eyes and look at me," his voice came, soft and crisp, like winter footfalls on frosted drifts of leaves. Anya could hear Marella behind her, wheezing and shifting her feet. "Now keep your eyes firmly fixed on mine," he whispered. "And do not move." He laid his icy finger down along the line between her breasts, causing shivers down her belly, and making her pull back. His eyes then widened threateningly and his jaw, already angular, now set firmly to a point. "Keep still, I said," he hissed, and it echoed round the passageway. "Now do not try my patience any further ..."

  "Sir," Marella tried to interrupt, "she is ..."

  "Keep quiet, woman." But he never took his eyes from Anya's while he shut Marella up, and his voice was never raised above a whisper.

  His fingertip was tickling the underside of Anya's breast, moving slowly up, then down the tender skin just below the nipple, barely touching, just teasing very gently, until she could feel her flesh begin to gather against her will. But he just kept up the stroking till his finger ran smoothly against the tightness of the underbelly, and her nipples reached to brush against the velvet of her cloak, which undulated softly with the shaking of her shoulders. And now it seemed that, locked as she was in the gaze of those cold blue eyes, her body did not belong to her - it reacted as it chose, so she was compelled by it to welcome each unwanted ripple of illicit delight that the brushing tickles gave to her. The hand next moved lower, searching back and forth until at last it stroked into her navel. Then his thumb was fitted in the well, while the finger stretched on downwards. "Keep your hands behind you. Arch your back and push your belly outwards. I want you to present yourself correctly for my touching." Her skin felt drum-tight, sensitised, and the thumbpad sank in deeper, until it felt as if his thumb was pushed inside her belly. The reaching finger touched her just above her fleshy lips, then pulling back the skin, it pressed slowly from side to side, making her want to close her eyes and push her hips out further against the pleasure of the pulling. She felt her desire begin to drip, warmly and heavily, deep inside her belly.

  "Don't move - not yet, sweet child of lust." His voice was barely audible. "For it seems your lord has found your measure, and now we must take our time, to pleasure you yet more fully."

  Now Anya hated herself more than she hated him; she hated her body for reacting in this way, but still she could not help herself, for she was burning up with shame and hate and so much fear and wanting.

  The fingertip was kissing her, right against her flesh bud. It kept pressing it then releasing, pushing it back inside her body then waiting till it pushed itself out again more stiffly than before; it was palpitating her gently, tapping, turning, flicking, sweetly probing, making her fleshpot swell hot and soft and liquid, and yearning with desire.

  Anya began to feel that she was drifting, her body almost floating in a pool of oily lust. She wanted to press against the hand, to let it take her last remaining weight and lift her feet right off the floor, to concentrate the pressure and the pleasure in that spot. She began to sway, gently in the tide of her desire; she heard murmurings, like some distant calling creature in a strange and far off land. Then suddenly the hand was gone; Anya dropped to earth and nearly overbalanced. As she was turned around to face the door, she caught a glimpse of Marella, who was standing back from Anya with a very strange expression, as if perhaps she no longer recognised this woman.

  "Spread yourself against the door," the man had said quite simply, and Anya did it freely. She welcomed the firmness of the wood - she extended her palms against it, until she felt the metal chain links trapped and pressing sweetly in her belly. She minded not that her cloak fell open from the neck, in fact she wanted that to happen, so she could press her belly and thighs more closely to the fabric of the door. She wanted to be urged against it, from behind, from her shoulders to her buttocks, until her nipples were forced out to the sides and her flesh nub touched the woodwork. She wanted to be held like that, just rocking gently, until the reverberations of the music and the dancing soaked through the wood into her nub and set her smouldering lust alight.

  "Stretch your hands up; mould yourself more intimately to the grain." He lifted her cloak away from her body and gathered it around the back. He must be looking at her, Anya thought. "Now spread your legs and lift up on your toes. I want you more accessible. Hold yourself in that position ..." He knelt behind her; Anya heard a soft, deep sigh. His finger stroked down inside her thigh at one side, then the other, then he sighed once more and released the cloak so it brushed against her bottom. He stood up again behind her, yet although she wanted him to, he did not press against her. His hands moved lightly up her sides and tickled her armpits.

  "Press your cheek against the wood," he said. Turning, Anya's edge of passion was tempered now with guilt as she faced Marella, whose eyes were downcast, as if she could not bring herself to watch her charge being subjected to such debasement. The hands moved round to Anya's front and up, to ease her breasts apart, so they pointed to each side. Then Anya heard him catch his breath. "My luscious, black-tipped beauties ... let me watch you in your swellage," he sighed, then he was flattening her against the door; the bellies of her breasts were distended underneath her armpits. He leaned his weight against his palm, which pressed between her shoulders and prevented her from moving. He pushed the fingers of his other hand into Anya's mouth and underneath her tongue, saying: "Wet them with your spittle." She could smell herself and even taste her saltiness upon them. He took them out and wiped them round the fullness of her teat until it went slick and shiny with her own saliva, then he worked and pulled the nipple wetly till the pleasure made her tongue slide out and stroke her bottom lip. He kept alternating from breast to breast, changing hands and pausing only when his fingers dried, to wet them once again, or when he wanted to slap the nipples with the pad of his middle finger, or sometimes just to roll them in-between his finger
and his thumb, while keeping them at all times wet, until Anya was beside herself with the pulling tickling pleasure. "I want your nipples soft; I like to shape them ... I'm going to shape that other flesh tip now - I want to sharpen up your nub," he whispered up against her ear, and Anya felt a sinking shiver down between her legs.

  "Now stay like that, and keep up on your toes." She almost overbalanced when the hand was taken from her back. She had to fight to hold herself against the woodwork. She willed her skin into the grain; it felt as if she was balanced on a narrow ledge, out above a chasm: she was terrified of falling, and yet in that fear it seemed she fell a thousand times, until at last she wanted so desperately to fling herself out and back to let the abyss swallow her up; her muscles ached; her body yearned to take its sweet release.

  Then from behind and underneath, his hand pressed up against her, at the joining of her thighs, and moulded to her body like a saddle. "Lower yourself, and spread your fillets out upon my palm," he said. "I want to feel you in the heat of your desire." He worked her flesh lips open with his fingers and held them with a finger flat against each one, so Anya's nub stood out, defenceless and burning hot, against the cool caresses of the air. She wanted him to touch her there with his long and delicate middle finger, to brush just the ridges of his fingerprint against her taut and polished nubskin, back and forth and side to side until her nubbin thrummed gently with desire. Then he could shape or draw it as he wished, or turn her round and close his lips around its base and suck it till it burst ...

  "My dear, your flesh is dripping wet upon my fingers. Hold still and I shall try to stem your flow." His middle finger entered her, sending shivers up her core; her body tensed away at first, then her slickness gloved around his finger. "Now rock your hips, and you may milk my finger with your flesh." Anya squeezed and tried to draw her legs together. "No, no my sweet - you have much to learn," he reproved her very gently. "You must keep your legs apart. Do your milking with your fleshpot. Now try once more, only this time you shall grunt ..."

  His lordship then addressed Marella, who had remained, unspeaking, rooted to the spot: "It seems your training is remiss, matron, in this respect at least." His remark seemed to shake Marella from her private thoughts.

  "But she is new, my lord," she explained in mitigation. "Her training is not yet begun."

  "Hmm, new, you say?" He sounded doubtful. "Not new to this, I'll warrant. Not new to lustful ways ..." Anya's cheeks were flaming now; his thumb was in her bottom groove and was stroking at her rim. "Not new to lickerishness, I'd say." Anya shut her eyes in shame, and she wished she could have closed her ears off too. How could he say it? It was not true! "Not new to lewd desires - your drippings tell me that, my dear. Your nectar is too copious."

  Now Anya was mortified to have him say such things out loud, and in Marella's presence. Yet he would not stop: "Now tighten - squeeze your flesh around me; use my finger for your pleasure. Your training in the avenues of lust shall start right now, with my finger as your tutor." She was burning up with disgrace and heat to hear him speak so plainly, to have such private needs and cravings displayed for all to see. Her breasts and belly felt full and heavy, as if hot oil was running in and slowly weighing down inside them. Her sex felt swollen with desire; the leaves were filling up with blood which pulsed against the pressure of his fingers held against them in a pleasure-ache that throbbed up to her throat. She felt she could not breathe; she had to arch her neck and open her mouth so she could gulp the air more freely. Anya squeezed until her sex could feel the knuckles of his joints, and then she contracted tighter, to a knot, which forced her pip out from her body and locked his finger rigidly. Then she relaxed again, and panted very deeply.

  "Good," he said, But I did not hear you grunt ... For, you see, my lascivious one, you shall express your pleasure. Now this time, keep your legs spread wide, and remember - I'll be listening." Anya felt so ashamed at what she was being made to do, and with Marella here as witness; it seemed this lord was taking pleasure from her degradation, as if he wanted her to behave, not only wantonly and lewdly, but like some animal braying in the byre. She wanted it to be over as quickly now as possible, but she could never bring herself to make such debased sounds as a sign of inner pleasure. Such things were private, intimate, to be taken with a bitten lip, a catch of breath, or a gentle muffled sigh, and a face pressed in a pillow perhaps. Or sweetest yet, she guessed, a lover's palm pressed to her mouth at her moment of deliverance, so she could show her strength of pleasure silently, in the way she sucked and bit him ...

  So Anya squeezed again and held him, trying to crush his bone, and then she heard the groan, a wrenching sound from deep within her - an animal in her throat. "Good, now grunt again, each time I oil your nubbin." The finger then slipped out and joined the others to oil her flesh and squeeze it till she grunted; it dipped again into her pot, then worked her wetness over and around the pip and underneath the hood, until she became too slippery to hold, though he kept trying while she squelched between his fingers, and she grunted now without having to be told, until her body balanced on that peculiar edge of pleasure which made her grunting change to a continuous pleading moan, causing finely misted sprays of heated droplets to bead her upper lip, her neck, and back, and then behind her knees. The fingers withdrew, so he could savour her ecstasy and keep her teetering on the brink, while he held her thighs apart and very gently rocked her, until she wanted to plead with him, to beg him to finish her there, with his fingers or his knuckles pressed against her.

  "Throb, my sweet," he murmured softly, "and relish now that salt dry taste of lust, which thickens your saliva and swells your tongue, and soon shall block your throat ... Reach up, my child, push your belly to the woodwork and take your pleasure now ..." And with that he slowly slid two stiffly curving fingers into the warm liquidity of Anya's fleshpot and tried to hold her open; yet her body closed around them, sucking them and drawing them to herself, in that first tightening honeyed half-contraction which took her breath away and made her stretch her limbs and squeeze, and even rise up on her toes that she might press her mound against the door to assuage that delicious burning.

  His other hand pressed flat against her, at the tip of Anya's backbone, so her weight was taken; she was pinned against the door. And now she reached instead and stretched her arms out backwards so that her back was arched and she was floating, out above her chasm of desire. Her breasts felt heavy and rolled out, weighted, to each side, making her nipples pulse and tingle as if soft slow lips were sucking them in rhythm with her breathing. She wanted the hand that pressed her back to turn her to one side, then the other, so that in its turning it would rotate her body back and forth about that one most intimate of points, her tiny fleshy rod of lust, would make it twist against the wood grain in its gripping until her cry was drowned in giant gasps of pure delight.

  The fingers pushed more deeply up inside her. "Now stir your fire, my darling, push and roll; charm out your pleasure very gently, so I may feel the swelling of your desire and then again its waning, each tiny ripple you suppress to let it draw again more deeply; each tightening of your thighs, each nervous breath which quivers your breast; your flesh glove moulded to my finger; your stiffening as at last you lose control and can no longer bear it, and you cry out loud for all to know your ache of wanton pleasure ..." Then his fingers, curving inside, up and forwards, found the core of her delight, and pressed, to force her nubbin outwards from her body.

  Anya hung defencelessly. The fingers reached and stroked her flesh bud wetly on the woodwork, once, then waited till her pulsing ebbed, then stroked once more its oily slick, then paused until she'd stopped contracting, then pushed it till it scarcely touched the surface, and held it without moving. Her pulsebeat now took charge; it brushed her pleasure out in a long persistent tickle, until she felt her breathing shallow and her belly tighten to a slowly splitting drum. Her nectar, dripping hot around his fingers, splashed upon her thighs; she did not move; she waited f
or her lust to take her in its own good time; the fingers tapped her slowly, very gently from behind, until the palpitations merged and formed into a bolt of bittersweet surrender. She thrust and wrenched and cried and pushed until she felt her pleasure burst, its burning tendrils licking up inside her, to root and draw at first behind her nipples and then deep within her womb. A wave of warmth rolled up from Anya's toes and enveloped her in its softness; she sank slowly to the floor.

  Then Anya heard a very distant voice amid the gentle humming in her ears.

  "... Anya, you say her name is, matron? Hmmm ... this girl is full of untapped passion. Yet we must temper it, I feel, and teach her more control, for she is too impetuous by far. I shall speak on it to Ildren. You may continue now about your business, and I thank you for your efforts, matron. An interesting diversion ..."

  "Thank you, Lord Aldrid," Marella said. She waited till he had disappeared down the stairway, before turning round to Anya, whose head was buried in her hands, from shame and degradation. What would Marella think of her for allowing her body to be used this way, without a single word of protest, for taking her pleasure wantonly, and at the hands of a perfect stranger?

  "There, there my doe," Marella said and put her arms around her. "Lord Aldrid has been very cruel to force his will upon you. The Taskmistress shall hear of this ..." She placed her palm to Anya's face; Anya's eyes were pools of loving blackness. "Oh, your forehead and your cheeks feel hot - my darling, you're fevered with starvation. Let Marella help you up again; we'll get you to the kitchen."