by Aran Ashe
"Hush now; enjoy it very quietly, but do not take your pleasure yet - just squeeze it very nicely." His cock looked fit to burst now, and it suddenly started twitching; his head went back; he gulped the air, but Cook reacted very quickly. She pulled the handle off his stem and used it once again to trap his tip hard against the beam, and held it till the pulsing slowed and he gave a long deep sigh.
"Another leak!" the cook declared. "You're very slow to learn." She turned to face the girl, who had remained very quiet throughout. "I think we'll need to train him further. Would you care to baste him now, and put him to the plug?"
Anya was horrified at what she thought she'd heard. How could Cook be so cruel? After having taunted him almost to distraction, and in such a tender part, she now would have him beaten; not only that, but she would force the bond-girl to execute this very evil deed. This made Anya very angry; it seemed so wickedly unfair.
"Release his wrists, girl, and lie him down - so his buttocks are to hand. No ... his ankles must be left secure to hold him steady for the basting."
The man was stretched along the beam, with his cheek pressed to the padding; his wrists were retied underneath the beam, as also were his knees and elbows. It kept his body firm against the Horse and his buttocks spread apart; his fleshy stem was pointed downwards, curved against the padded end of the beam. He was exposed in a very intimate way, Anya thought; he was totally defenceless. It made Anya very sad for him, and also rather frightened, for she knew in her heart that Cook would never hesitate to do this even to a woman.
A tray was brought, upon which several items lay. The servant held it apprehensively, as if he wanted to be rid of it as quickly as possible, as if perhaps he were nervous of the contents.
"Don't give it to me, you stupid dullard," the cook cried angrily, then looking round, she spotted Anya, who held her breath and closed her eyes, for she knew well what was coming. "Here girl, you can earn your supper, and see him take his medicine into the bargain. Take this tray and stand just there. You can learn how idle meat is basted."
Anya was forced to stand behind the slave and witness his abasement. His buttocks seemed spread wide enough to split him; his stem looked heavy, thick and livid from his recent punishment. His fleshy bumps were still shrunk tightly up against him, as if held thus by his fear, which was trying to retract them. And Anya could see his secret tender tightness contract at intervals, as if the man could scarce contain himself against his inner tension. It made Anya almost want to touch him in that deep dark cleft, so she could thereby feel his strength of wanting. A strange feeling then came in Anya's belly; it made her look away, in shame for having allowed herself to dwell on such thoughts.
Her gaze fell on the contents of the tray - no whip was present - she was relieved, at least, at that. A silver jug sat on the tray and several short wooden rods of differing length and girth. These devices must be the 'plugs' to which Cook had referred. Each was carved after a similar fashion - a stem of polished wood, thick at the end and tapering downwards then flaring out again into a flattened base. Anya guessed what was in the jug; she could smell the aromatic fragrance of the oil. Her heart was beating fast in her anticipation of what she would now be compelled to witness. She looked once more at the poor slave, so open in his spreading. Even the smallest plug of wood looked large - too large for the place for which it surely was intended.
The bond-girl took the jug of oil and spread his cheeks more widely, then poured it in a long thin stream directed against the high point of his furrow. It trickled quickly down, and Anya heard him moan, then it ran on, welling down the stem and running round the rim. The woman caught the spillage as it dribbled from the end, and swept it smoothly up his length and back inside his groove, while the pouring continued unabated from the jug. Her fingers opened him and worked the oil into his body, making him moan once more, this time a long-drawn moan of deepest wanting. "Good," said the cook. The bond-girl held him open next while she poured the stream inside him, till at last he tightened shut against her persistent ministrations. "No," the cook said firmly, "he must not be allowed to refuse your fingers access to his person. For that he shall be punished. Now, smack his cock, and work him till your fingers slip in and out quite freely."
And then to emphasize her point, she took the woman's hand and held it before the man's upturned face. Stretching out the first two fingers she said, "your body shall accept these to their full extent and without question - but first, they shall chastise you without mercy. Yet, I warn you once again, do not let your swelling flag or suffer an emission. Now kiss the hand that shall administer your correction." The poor slave was forced against his shame to press his lips to the bond-girl's well-oiled fingers. "Now proceed."
The bond-girl dipped her fingers in the jug of oil and then began to slap his very rigid cock, working up and down the exposed undersurface of his length, then concentrating on the plum, using only the tips of her fingers in a rapid smacking which caused his body to jerk against his bonds, until his moan came very softly. It was clear to Anya that the girl very much enjoyed what she was doing, for she took her time. Each tiny blow upon his flesh was precisely placed for maximum effect; her other hand was used to brush a dangling fingertip very slowly down his spine. How his anguished body must be suffering, Anya thought, under such contradictory feelings: that all-pervasive delicious tickling; his pleasure drawing deep inside; those tiny intermittent bursts of pain below the cocktip of his swelling; and in the background, all the time, that aching pressure-ball of tight delight which was threatening to burst him. The smacking stopped; the woman dipped her fingers in the oil again, then placed their tips upon the spot which she had only just been slapping. She slid the fingers very slowly along his curve, up past the root, and then into his groove. The fingers caught, then hesitated; the pressure was increased until at last they slowly slid inside him, making him moan once more. The girl kept pressing until they had slipped in to the knuckle. The man's breathing seemed to come in short quick gasps; Anya wondered if the woman's fingertips were perhaps moving deep inside him. The bond-girl withdrew them very smoothly, though not smoothly enough, it seemed, for his muscle seemed reluctant to release them. The smacking had to be repeated. This time her fingers, moving up his length and past his bumps, slid into him more easily; it appeared he was learning to control the reflex of his more intimate contractions.
Yet Cook still was not satisfied; she insisted that he needed more correction, to the point where his maleness next began to spasm, though somehow he managed to prevent a direct spillage. The cook seemed pleased at this. "Now, keep very open this time, while her fingers test your tightness." And this time - though Anya could not guess how he could possibly have managed it - the fingers slid quite uninterruptedly back and forth, through his fleshy rim. The cook was quite delighted. "A lesson learnt well at last - I'd say he's ready now for plugging."
Anya watched with mounting apprehension as the girl checked each device in turn, then finally selected the largest one of all. This bond-girl must be very cruel, she thought, for any reasonable person would know that a plug so wide as this would surely split him. The girl lifted it and squeezed it and slowly ran her fingers down it, then tested it for girth by trying to close her finger and thumb around it at its widest part; she failed to make the closure, as Anya had predicted that she would. Then Anya realised with horror that this failure, far from making the girl reject the plug, had instead caused a smile of satisfaction to spread across her face - she meant to use it anyway. The bond-girl tried to dip it in the jug: it would not fit. Instead, she had to smear the oil upon it with her fingers. She placed the head precisely to his rim. Holding it there, she very slowly turned it whilst the jug was held above him, dripping oil upon his point of contact. The pressure then increased. The oiling continued, accompanied by the slow insistent turning, back and forth until, with a groan, he opened just sufficiently for the plug to gain a purchase on his inner self. The girl moved the jug downwards, and used the l
ip to lever his sex away from the padded beam and into the mouth of the jug; then she very firmly pushed the plug, by leaning all her weight against it. His gasp came very deeply. The plug slid slowly into him; the jug was made to swallow his length and filled to overflowing. When the woman's palm was lifted from his buttocks, the base of the plug was all that could be seen, held tight against him by his strength of gripping.
Throughout this spectacle, Anya could not help but wonder whether this cruel degradation was reserved purely for the male slaves; she feared it likely that people such as this might also want to use it on the girls. If this was true, would the devices be scaled accordingly, to take account of a woman's differing dimensions, and if so, where might they be introduced - at the back, like this, or towards the front, inside her sex, or - her belly quivered at the possibility - surely not in both?
"You have done well," the cook complimented the girl. "Now, massage his flesh quite slowly, and take him to the brink of pleasure; I shall do the rest."
The woman gripped his well-oiled stem and worked him in slow motion; her other fingers probed about in several different places, oiling his bumps and squeezing them, then pressing at the root, tracing out his lines of tubing up towards the plug, then tapping it repeatedly in precise time with the working of his sex, until his body tightened and his stem began to jerk. The girl released him and waited till the pulsing ebbed away. She lifted his length away from him, until it lay almost horizontally backwards, then held her hand out towards Anya. Anya frowned; she had no idea what the girl could possibly mean. The girl frowned back, and pointed to the tray. Anya still did not understand what it was she wanted. At last the woman helped herself - to a second plug, which, although much narrower than the first, was certainly longer. She took it by the base, between her thumb and finger, and holding it directly over his stem she swung it down and tapped him very firmly underneath his root zone, exactly where his curving flesh and stiffened tubes reached up into his groove. Her other hand kept him stretched out horizontally, while she tapped him once more, in that self-same spot. And then, she stretched his cockskin back and held it tight against the root, while she tapped him slightly harder. His sex pulsed; she tapped him and he pulsed again; she stretched his skin back tighter; a droplet was forming at the end of his stem and slowly stretching downwards.
The bond-girl kept the male slave in this attitude of tension; his muscles were tight and shining with perspiration as he tried to fight back his burgeoning pleasure, against that persistent stretching of his skin about his stem, and the slow insistent tapping in that single spot underneath his sex. His salted liquid slowly welled; the tapping still continued; like the pumping of an extra heart it was drawing deep inside him, pulling slowly at his bursting bag of pleasure. The cook watched and waited, until at last a swaying length of glass-like liquid broke away and fell across the floor.
"It seems his idleness is ready to deliver. Quick! Sit him up, so he may feel the full benefit of the plug."
The slave groaned as he was untied, lifted upright and his weight was concentrated in that tight-filled space. Yet the cook was still unsatisfied with this; she insisted that a length of wood be passed beneath the Horse and shackled to his ankles, to keep his legs apart and so prevent his thighs from gripping the beam and thereby relieving some of his weight, which was now entirely taken by the plug. His stem rose rigidly and the veins stood out; it looked like it might burst. His hands were fastened once again behind his back.
"You see," the cook said cruelly, "It will help to keep you firm by pressing from inside." She tapped his stem, which Anya noticed was now so hard it scarcely moved at all. "Now deliver up, my boy," she said. "And do not stint, for Cook requires good measure." With that, she levered quickly underneath him with the spoon end of her ladle, so his sex was cupped inside it at the base and still projected stiffly upwards. When Cook tilted the handle of the ladle away from him in a very slow pumping action, it made him murmur very softly. Anya knew that the lip of the spoon must be pressing underneath his sex, and up against his pipework.
"Now pump and squeeze - keep pumping till you burst. Your essence must fill my ladle good and full."
And at these words, the bondslave bit his lip and gasped and pushed his belly forwards, then cried out loud - whether from pain or pleasure, Anya could not tell. Cook began quickly levering the ladle back and forth. His cockstem convulsed repeatedly, as if trying to shake off the continuously bubbling stream of fluid which issued from the tip and, running down his length, at last collected in the ladle. Cook waited until the twitching died away and she was sure that all his spurts and dribblings had welled into the spoon. Then very quickly, before the man even had time to realise what was happening, she tilted back his head and pinched his nose, then tipped the ladleful down the poor man's throat; she held him until he'd swallowed every choking drop of his emissions.
Anya felt the blood draining from her face and neck. She was really very frightened. She could not understand how anyone could be so cruel as to subject a slave to that.
"Good," Cook said. "Your medicine is well taken - which is fortunate, for you shall need your strength again within the hour." Then Anya was certain that this woman was a very evil one indeed.
"Right! Who's next?" Cook said grimly.
Anya almost dropped the tray. Could Cook then read her thoughts?
Anya had realised with shock and horror that Cook was looking directly at her now, her face set in that very purposeful expression.
6
A Preparation for Pleasure
Anya started trembling as the cook advanced towards her.
"And what did you think of our little display?" Cook asked her. "Our brand of kitchen humour?"
Anya did not know what to say; she assumed it was a trick - regardless of whether she said she approved or whether she told the truth, she was certain that the cook was so deranged that she would force Anya to try it for herself. So she chose instead to keep her eyes downcast, and not to speak at all, while she waited for the cook to make a move. Her neck felt warm and clammy where her cloak was fastened round it, and the tray suddenly felt very heavy under the weight of that woman's gaze.
"Speak up! Cook has ways of dealing with a wench that's very sullen."
Anya felt very frightened now; there was nothing she could say, or do, to get herself off the hook. And even worse, she did not dare look up, for she was fighting back the tears that welled inside her.
"Do you like Cook's Horse?" the cook persisted. "Perhaps you'd care to ..."
The woman was interrupted by the sound of footsteps running down the steps behind her. Anya now looked up. A bondswoman, dressed exactly like herself in a purple cloak and leather boots, walked confidently up to Cook and, bending, whispered something in her ear. Anya's heart leapt to her throat - she hoped and prayed that this woman was her saviour, sent by Marella to rescue her from the cook's cruel clutches.
Cook looked at Anya while the woman spoke, and then finally she frowned.
"Well, my tongue-tied hussy; now you really are in trouble. You're wanted upstairs straight away, and you're already late for duty. So be off with you at once. Do not clutter up my kitchen a moment longer with your worthless self."
But Anya was already on her way; she didn't need telling twice. "And remember what's in store for you, if you show your face again - be warned!" the cook shouted angrily after them, as the woman disappeared up the stairs with Anya very close in tow. Anya certainly had no intention of ever coming here again.
The bondswomen ran at breakneck pace, so Anya's cloak flew open. "This way," gasped her rescuer, and led her, not the way she'd come, but to the right and through a maze of passageways, then up some winding stairs, until Anya was totally disorientated. They finally emerged onto a wide and brightly lit hallway which overlooked the darkened courtyard, and only then did they pause for breath. Anya could make out, through the swirling snow, the light spilling from the Great Hall to her left, and then in the distance, alm
ost straight ahead, the dimly lit towers of the gatehouse where she had entered the castle. To her right, as far as the eye could see, the dark shapes of the castle buildings stretched until they merged into the vastness of the night.
"We can relax now, Anya," the woman smiled. She had very short black hair. "I'm Axine." She kissed Anya on the cheek. "Come on. I'll show you where we live." And she took Anya by the hand again and led her down the hallway until they reached an entrance, almost like a gatehouse in scale, with two huge panelled rectangular doors covered in gold leaf. It was guarded by two enormous men who were nude apart from loincloths. Their heads were shaven and their arms were folded across their chests. They stood as still as statues. Anya was very wary of them, but Axine just ignored them; only their eyes moved to follow the women as they entered the Bondslaves' House.
Anya was standing in the centre of a very large room - the lounge, Axine had called it - which stood on several levels, linked by marble steps and separated by intricately carved balustrades and columns, and was carpeted throughout in soft, deep red. The walls were decorated with a mural extending right round the room, showing female nudes dancing and playing in a leafy summer landscape. The room was so large and was partitioned in such a way that it did not appear crowded, yet many slaves were present, some dressed in purple cloaks, like Anya's, though most were nude, and all of them wore the golden chains of bondage. They stood in laughing, chatting groups, or lay on couches, sat around tables, playing cards or sewing, or simply lay upon the floor. Anya was surprised to see that several girls were looking at books of ciphers, almost as if they might understand their meaning.