The Captive (20 page)

Zacora tried to arrange herself more decorously on the silken cushions, but the Prince stopped her. “Stay just as you are,” he ordered with a smile. “You look so very lovely like that.” His dark soft hand reached out to stroke the arms which were flung above her head. This position thrust her breasts upwards, as if they were on offer to him.

The same hand had traced her long slender legs, bent at the knee and spread outwards. He sighed with sheer delight when he saw the silver wisps of her nest, parted to reveal the deep pink of the folds and proud erection of her bud. His eyes slid down to her sorely used feet, to the bandages which were loose and patched with scarlet blood spots.

“But you have not been properly prepared for me.” The Prince’s smile of admiration changed to an angry frown. “What is Paige thinking of to send you to me in this condition?”

At the mention of Paige’s name, Zacora immediately became tense and aware, ready for trouble.

“You should be swathed in gossamer, as fine and transparent as a spider’s web,” the Prince continued. “It should be draped across the delicate mounds of your breasts, to merely lift, but not hide. Each nipple should be clasped in gold rings, set with precious stones, to stimulate the rosy erection and to make you feel very special.”

The Prince’s wide soft lips caressed each nipple and then his sharp white teeth grated the tender flesh, to emulate the feel of the clamps. Zacora tried to lower her arms but she was prevented. Mapoto held her wrists with his finger and thumb, using his other hand to bind her slender upper limbs with a silken cord.

The Prince returned to stroking her splayed thighs, but he was still distracted. “What shall we do about Paige?” A frown marred the royal features.

Zacora shook her head, tumbling the silver tresses from side to side, spraying the myriad of colours in the cushions with spun threads of platinum and gold.

“Nothing?” laughed the Prince. “Surely not. She should be sent to the dungeons to take some of Freya’s medicine.”

Zacora’s hair shook more wildly. The last thing she wanted was Paige’s madness discovered.

“Kind and thoughtful as well as beautiful,” remarked the Prince. His soft touch grazed up her splayed thighs until he reached the lushness of the spun silver nest. She flinched away and he laughed lightly. “Miss Prim, of course! Your name quite slipped my mind.” He looked into the wide sapphire eyes, allowing his gaze to linger deep in the blue pools. Zacora saw him shudder, as though he saw something which caused great fear. He looked away from the pale, beautiful face which held so many secrets.

“This…” His finger traced, but did not touch, the perfection of her nether regions. “This should be draped in gossamer veils, looped lightly through a jewelled belt. Such a garment would cover, but leave each orifice available for my touch when I require it.” He smiled at her. The fear had faded from his fine features and Zacora could see lust in his dark eyes. “Would you like me to pleasure you? Shall I place you on a coupling throne?” His voice became wistful. “Will you give me an heir?”

Zacora, her hands bonded above her head, was helpless. All of her life she had searched for someone who would take care of her, but all she received was humiliation.

The Prince’s dark eyes hardened. “Place her on the coupling throne, Mapoto. Let us have no more delay.”

An uncontrollable shiver took over Zacora’s slender body as she watched the giant approach her. He was fully twelve feet tall. His massive upper body was decorated with tattoos depicting serpents and dragons interspersed with maidens being defiled by giants like himself.

He pointed proudly to a cockshaft of massive girth and length, sliding into a maiden, not dissimilar to Zacora in appearance. The maid looked ecstatic, even though the stem which pierced her was taking her life. “In my home,” he said in a deep, booming voice, “that is the custom.”

Zacora’s shivering became more violent, but she could not resist looking at Mapoto’s crotch. His sex sword, perhaps for the best, was sheathed in a golden cod piece which decorated silken trousers, loose and baggy, but gathered at his ankles.

The giant swept her up, gently this time, but the arm which held her lower body slipped between her thighs, grazing her soft sex and holding her legs wide open. A great tattooed hand, the size of a dish which would hold a Christmas turkey with ease, caressed the shuddering firmness of her breasts. The same hand held her arms above her head. The giant’s grip was firm, but gentle, almost sensual.

“The coupling throne,” reminded the Prince, jumping lithely to his feet and following his giant bodyguard to the fearsome looking seat on the dais at the far end of the chamber. He stroked it, feeling its silky perfection, kept in daily trim by Bernlada’s ministrations.

Zacora watched him warily from her high vantage, casting the sapphire eyes at the tawny shaft with its gleaming globe. It was, she had to admit, a handsome weapon, but there was something about the Prince which told her that he was not a fitting sovereign.

There was a weakness, a lack of potency in him. There was a softness about the finely sculpted features; a lack of certainty about his manner.

The small procession reached the coupling throne. Mapoto looked at the Prince questioningly.

“Place the wrist bonds over this hook.” The Prince pointed to a golden peg on the back of the chair and Zacora knew that her arms would be stretched to the limit and her breasts lifted painfully once she was captured on the throne.

“Yes, master,” intoned the giant. The slender arms were placed in position and the silk bonds slipped over the peg. Mapoto released his hold on Zacora and her long legs dangled freely. She was suspended from the peg. The pain in her shoulders was excruciating, and yet, hanging there, a strange freedom entered her silver fronded pouch. Her sex sap flowed freely, drooling over the silver fronds and down the creamy thighs. Her clitoris jutted clear of the swollen lips.

Zacora’s arms ached dreadfully, but all the time her sex became more moist, softer and more willing. Not for the Prince, she assured herself. Her thoughts flew more and more to Callan. The leather loincloth which lifted at the sight of her to show the rigid magnificence of his male shaft; that was the picture which was in the forefront of her mind.

She felt the Prince’s hands on the cushioned firmness of her bottom cheeks, placing them in the narrow saddle-like platform. His long, soft fingers lingered at the depth of her buttock cleft, spreading the deep valley open. With a cajoling smile he slipped each ankle in turn into soft leather stirrups, tightening buckles around her bandaged limbs.

She knew that she was fully open to him. That he could see every fold and every moist crevice. She knew that her silver fronds were shining with pearls of sex dew. There should have been pride in her mind for all her training had led to such a moment as this, but the Prince, though noble, was not the man for her.

Her needs were for a stricter, stronger man. A man who could tame her naturally rebellious nature.

“Prepared or not,” breathed the Prince, “you are a stimulating sight.”

Zacora lowered her eyes, only too aware of her open-ness, her availability. She felt that she was sacrificed on the alter of a god of potency.

“Look at me,” begged the Prince. His golden clad legs were straddled directly in front of her. He was holding his rigid staff with both hands, offering it to her, like some tasty morsel. Zacora licked her soft lips, letting the tip of her skilled tongue rove around the deliciously fine skin.

His eyes strayed to the velvety slickness of the folds of her pouch. His dark eyes glinted with naked lust. So piercing was his gaze that she could almost feel it touching the dew which pearled on the folds. She knew that he was focusing on her swollen bud, alive with his erection, its tip bared.

The Prince groaned as he approached the throne, poising his globe to enter her helpless body.

“NO!”

It was a loud shout from the opening door.

Mapoto turned and growled, striding towards the speaker with thunderous steps, his great footfalls echoing through the vast chamber.

Zacora saw a being, hooded with tight black leather and dressed in a skin-tight black body suit which clothed him totally. At the crotch there was a metal guard, a codpiece, large, cone shaped and shiny. The intruder was wielding a great two-handed sword which he slashed from side to side, parrying Mapoto away. His skill was such that it was inevitable that the ponderous giant would be felled.

Uncertain who the intruder might be, Zacora hung, imprisoned and passive, on the great throne. Was she to be set free? Was the rescuer Harold the Pretender, thunderously angry at his expensive loss?

Her gaze shifted limpidly to the Prince’s dark face so close to hers. He was terrified. The expression of fear was frozen on his handsome features. The once rigid shaft was softening at her warm, moist entrance, folding like a sleeping serpent into a soft coil.

Zacora’s rescuer, if such he was to be, stormed forward over the fallen Mapoto, who lay like a great felled tree in a fast spreading pool of blood. How had Mapoto been overcome? In the confusion she had missed this feat, but the newcomer had a great sword in his hands and Mapoto, huge though he was, had been unarmed.

Supple black leather, a full length suit covering the stranger from toes to fingertips, lay upon his muscular body like a second skin. All that could be seen of his face were the dark, glittering eyes and the mouth, sensuous but firm.

The Prince was flung from Zacora’s pliant body and the sword was used to split the silken bond that held her wrists to the chair. Wide sapphire eyes looked up at the black clad stranger, thanking him with parted, mute lips. Now the stirrups of the coupling throne were slashed and Zacora was free, pulled to her feet. She winced and she was immediately lifted tenderly into the stranger’s arms as he ran from the room.

The last she saw of the Prince was a writhing heap of misery at the foot of the now useless coupling throne, wailing and beating upon the floor with both fists.

As for the fugitives, nothing passed between them for many minutes. The man loped easily along the network of passageways with his slender burden in his arms and his sword resheathed at his side.

“A horse awaits at the palace gates,” he said at last, hardly breathless in spite of his exertions.

Zacora smiled up at him, leaning the tumbled platinum tresses on his broad chest and feeling comfort by his arms. The strength, the muscular body, these things spoke of Harold.

They sped across a narrow bridge which spanned the moat surrounding the palace. A splendid white charger pawed the ground in a small copse close by. With apparent ease he slid her onto the saddle before swinging up behind her.

The thought of Harold holding her close against his splendid body brought her bud to full erection against the cold of the saddle. Juices poured from her opening, creating a dark patch on the tawny leather. He had come for her. Come for her alone. There was no sign of his horrible Aunt or her diabolical son. Her life, she felt was complete.

“Shall I place you sideways in the saddle?” he queried softly, concern for her comfort plain in his voice.

She shook the silver and gold curls, her head bowed subserviently.

He looped the reins in his hand and Zacora felt the fine leather of his sleeve brush both her breasts as he urged the horse gradually into a gallop.

“In the forest,” he said, “there is an abandoned cottage. We can rest there for the night.”

Before returning to your castle, she thought. Had he told those awful relatives of his to go?

The rhythmic movement under her crotch stimulated Zacora. In her belly was a swirling maelstrom of heaviness, hot and weighty, pressing down on her most sensitive parts. She leaned back, luxuriating in the feeling. Her eyes closed and her soft lips parted. Her rescuer pinched the delicate flesh of her nipples, flicking them until tiny frissons of pleasurable pain fluttered down her body.

One of his leather gloved hands reached down to part her folds, allowing the cold evening air, moved by the swift progress of the horse, to enter the heat and moisture of the delectable entrance. Zacora wriggled pleasurably, wanting to give him delights such as he had never known.

“Be still,” he chuckled. “There will be time later.”

The voice sounded strange; not as she remembered it, but that, she told herself, was because of the leather hood. The body was strong and the touch on her body was sensual, in spite of the tightly fitting gloves.

The hand holding the reins also held a breast, cupped softly and tweaking the tautness of the nipple. The other hand spread her eager folds, abrading the clitoris with one finger while the middle finger delved deeply into the darkness of her well. Zacora rode the delicious rapture as she soared from peak to peak.

She slumped forward in the saddle, her long soft curls covering the pale fullness of her breasts, exhausted by the events of the day. It would have been better to remain in the castle, endure Megan and Gareth and, perhaps, gradually cajole Harold to asking them to leave her alone.

She could feel the odd swelling of the rigid codpiece which covered his glorious maleness. It dug into the cleft of her buttocks, parting them. His breathing was rapid and she could feel the heat of his breath on her neck where he swept the silken coils of hair over her creamy shoulders.

“We have some way to go,” he told her, “before we reach the cottage.”

Zacora nodded disconsolately as they galloped along the forest path.

“Would you like to hear how I escaped from the dungeons?”

Her heart lurched. The dungeons? Why was Harold in the dungeons?

“How I came to be in this ridiculous suit?”

Zacora half-turned in the saddle, looking into the slits of the mask; looking into the depths of the eyes. Callan! It was Callan, not Harold. Her heart sank.

“Quite a story,” he said, holding her more tightly. “Freya, the punishment woman, drugged me, and when I woke I was dressed in this suit and splayed in a torture chair.”

Zacora made no comment. Her thoughts were with Harold. Would he, indeed, come to look for her?