The Captive (5 page)

“Aaargh!” grunted the jailer. His body was imbued with a pleasure which was almost unbearable in its intensity. He levered himself on her stretched arms, increasing the pain in the joints and, again, thrust into her. A whisper of pleasure escaped her soft mouth. It was a breath as soft as a child’s in its mother’s arms. Her freshly opened passage caressed the invading hardness, welcoming it as part of her own body. The two, the unlikely couple, were moulded as one.

The pleasure which she gave him was too much for a prolonged taking on his part. He began to pulse wildly and she knew that he would spurt his seed into her helpless body. Her clitoris was jerking wildly with each pump of his thickness into her. A swirling heat in her belly and that wonderful spiral of passion in the whole of her helpless body took her high above the pain of the rack. She was consumed with a climax within which nothing else mattered.

The jailer groaned, giving a final grind of his coarse crotch as he thrust deep into her. The first wave of his climax was so pleasurable it seemed heaven-sent. He felt his cock swell, as though it would burst, and a great gush of hot seed spumed into her, spilling out to back-flow along his own length. And again the pleasure wave came. If anything, it was greater than the last. His irrigation of her flooded more copiously. And again he was hit with the consuming fire of his orgasm, until he thought he would die from the pleasure waves.

Satiated at last he collapsed upon Zacora’s tightly fettered body, straining every joint in the girl’s tortured limbs. Tiny mews of pain escaped her parted lips, but she could not escape the jailer’s muscular weight.

His penis remained inside her, resting hotly in her still convulsing vagina. Awash with juices, hers and his, she could feel the thick, warm cocktail oozing over the sensitised cheeks of her spread buttocks.

His horny hands grasped her breasts, digging rough uncut finger nails into the tender flesh. More than anything she wanted to be free from the weight of him; free from his fetid breath and yet, had she not enjoyed his taking? Had she not enjoyed the flood of his spume into her? Did he not take away the thoughts of the terrible pain of the rack, or rather combine it with the pleasure of his fucking?

At last he lifted himself. His movements were slow and lethargic, as though he had run a great distance. “Are you some kind of witch to drain so much energy from a man?” he growled. He splashed the copious dew lingering on his penis across her prone body. She felt its heat on her face and breasts and felt it trickle over her stretched skin.

“No, sir,” she whispered politely. “It is my training which makes your pleasure so great.”

He grinned, scratching his heavy sperm sac as he walked to the side of the rack. She felt a release of the painful tension as he let go the ratchets. “Later in the night,” he chuckled. “you can use that training once more, but I must rest.” He looked down at her, admiring the pale, willowy beauty with the crown of golden hair. “This is a rare treat, my lovely, a rare treat.”

“Thank you, sir,” She gave him one of her inviting, shy smiles.

“How anyone could be so beautiful, so innocent and yet so sexually skilled,” he said, shaking his greasy head, “beats me.”

He walked away, still shaking his head in wonder, and heaped the straw where he slept.

Zacora, her limbs cramped and sore, swallowed hard. “Sir?” she said diffidently.

“What is it?” He spoke in a gruff growl.

“Could you, perhaps, release me, so that I might sleep?”

“Be quiet,” he rasped. “Sleep where you are. I’m not taking the chance of an expensive item like you trying to escape. More than my life’s worth. The punishment mistress would flay me alive.”

The cells were dark, silent and dank as the night deepened. Cold seeped like sharp knives into Zacora’s tortured joints. The copious silky wetness of the jailer’s seed mixed with her own sex sap cooled on her outspread thighs. Sleep was impossible on the discomfort of the rack and hot tears tumbled across her pale cheeks.

At first the guards seemed a little afraid of her. They eyed her suspiciously. Kept casting nervous glances at her slender nakedness, at her shining sapphire eyes, the pale hair, the peachy skin. The women of their country were dark swarthy and well-built, almost masculine in appearance and behaviour, whereas Zacora was so feminine, pliant and passive.

One of the guards, called Wolf by his friends, told her that she seemed to them fairy-like, so fragile in spite of her long athletic limbs, that if they touched her she would break or dissolve like a will o’ the wisp.

“Are you sure you’re not magic?” he asked her on the first night of their long journey. Zacora saw him looking longingly at the tautness of her pale breasts with the delicately flushed nipple centred so perfectly in each mound.

Zacora was silent, looking at his huge frame lit by the flickering camp fire. The guards had been ordered that they were on no account to unshackle her, and one of them must always accompany her when she went to the bushes to perform natural functions.

“No,” she told him, fixing her soft gaze on his raised and parted knees. “I’m not a fairy or a witch or anything magical. In my country all the girls are fair of skin and hair.”

Wolf licked his lips. “You must obey me. Do everything I say,” he said almost nervously.

“I know.” Zacora lowered her eyes as was the custom in the far off land from which she came.

The big man gulped. He wasn’t used to women who were passive; who did what they were told. Here, in Vakir, the women were the masters. He gritted his teeth angrily. It was all the fault of that wretched Prince; that weakling.

“I’m going to feel your sex,” he said, trying to keep his deep voice steady. “Lie back and keep your legs open.”

Zacora saw the other three guards shuffle across from their seating places round the camp fire to look more closely. Wolf’s words set up the familiar glow in her belly, the warm softness which she always felt in intimacy. A gentle smile, beckoning and welcoming, hovered around her lips.

“Will you scream?” asked Wolf.

Zacora shook her head. She knew her sex was wet and ready, as it always was at the promise of the touch of a stranger, specially when she was naked and chained.

“Hands above your head,” said Wolf. His voice was barely audible, whispering and husky. He watched Zacora’s shackled hands, pale and long-fingered, go obediently to a point above her shining head.

The shackles were attached to a long chain which caressed the length of her creamy body. Wolf swayed the loose links over the pouting mounds of her breasts, watching colour suffuse the pale skin. He sat back on his haunches and Zacora could see his male flesh lengthening beneath the square of leather of his loin cloth. She looked away, only to be given sight of three more dark sex swords, swaying and stiffening.

Wolf’s dusky middle finger probed between the silver puff of curls on her female mound. “Open your legs wide,” he grunted, “as far as chain will allow.”

Her ankle manacles were chained, but the chain allowed her to straddle her legs to full stretch. The body chain rubbed across her warm flesh at every breath. It was taut, stretching from her wrist manacles to the chain between her ankles.

Wolf, also breathing hard, moved to her head, carrying a heavy rock. She looked up at him, the deep blue eyes desperate with fear, but he smiled at her, holding up a stout twig. “To peg you to the ground, my beauty.”

“But I said I wouldn’t scream,” she reminded him. In her mind she could feel the brush of his rough finger against the silky curls on her sex.

“Brad, Pike and Kroll are big men,” he said with a smile which was part cruel and part apologetic.

“But you are the biggest,” sneered Pike, lifting Wolf’s loin cloth.

Zacora gasped. A shaft, almost ebony black, gleaming with its skin stretched tight over the bloated contents rose up from a crisply curled groin. She listened to the steady knocking as the big man banged the stick into the spongy woodland ground. The wrist chain was secured to the earth, making her more helpless than ever.

Her breasts pouted upwards, cleaved by the chain between them. With every pound of the rock they seemed to become fuller and tighter. There was more moisture slicking the pink inner folds of her sex.

Another tough twig was pounded in the earth between her straddled legs. She was helpless, just as she had been with the noble. A heat came from nowhere and entered her naked belly, making her melt inside while her clitoris became engorged.

The men, the four men, slid their loin cloths to the side, baring the stiffness of their male weapons. They were lit by the flickering flames of the camp fire, and, silhouetted against their dark bodies, they looked bigger and more menacing than ever.

Chained and staked though she was, Zacora felt a fever of excitement, a forbidden delight at being naked and so open and vulnerable at the men’s feet. She gave them a slight smile, curving her soft lips and parting them sweetly.

Wolf frowned. “The woman is a harlot,” he said harshly. “She beckons us.” He bent down to look at the open moistness of the silver fronded sex lips. “You see!” he said triumphantly. “How her flesh seeps sap, ready for taking!”

“You don’t understand!” cried Zacora. “In my country women must smile at men or they are whipped.” Unshed tears glazed the lustrous eyes. “Only twice has my body been taken. I could not prevent it, for I was tethered - as now.”

Wolf grinned. “In your country, they know how to treat women!” The other men laughed. “Here, we men must suffer all manner of humiliation by women. Only on such a task as this are we able to take advantage and give as good as we get.”

The man called Pike had cut several long twigs from a willow and was binding them together.

“Where first?”

Wolf caressed the prone body with his eyes, gazing long and hard between the splayed legs where the skin gleamed silkily and a jutting scarlet bud probed from silver fronds. The breasts were tempting, swollen. The slight swell of the belly sweeping down to the triangle of silver blonde curls tempted him, but then perhaps it would be better to have her pegged face down, to thrash her buttocks. He nodded to himself, making the decision.

“See if we can roll her on to her belly,” he said. “I think the body chain has enough slack.”

Rough hands dug cruelly into the flesh of her upper arms and thighs as they rolled her over. The body chain cut into the flesh of the valley between her full breasts, her belly and mound. The new position made the tension on her shoulder sockets much greater and the pale flesh of her breasts was pressed into the soft leafy ground.

“Better,” murmured Wolf. “Much better.” His big hands cupped the fullness of her bottom, stroking the lower curves and leading up to the parted crease.

“Give me the willow twigs.” Wolf’s voice was low, trembling with excitement.

Zacora glanced over her creamy shoulder. Wolf was looking at the place between her splayed thighs with the flushed pink flesh, shining with moisture and centred by a delicate bud which she knew thrust out at him. He stroked the very ends of the willow twigs across the parted hemispheres, making Zacora shiver as she wondered at her fate. Part of her was supremely excited. She felt light headed at her vulnerable predicament; pegged to the ground and held by chains. She knew that Wolf and the other men could see every detail of her sex pouch, every fold, every moist crease, but she could not see anything of theirs.

The still evening air was disturbed by the swish of the crude whip, but only the very tips brushed the lower curves of her parted buttocks. It was a tickle, a brush, a taste of what she knew was to come. Her hands grasped at the peg which held her wrists to the ground and her slim body tensed as she waited for blows yet to be received.

Silently, her soft lips parted, she mouthed a prayer of thanks to her teachers. It was they who had shown her how to be disciplined and take punishment; it was they who taught her to be passive and obedient to all men.

Her buttock flesh quivered as the willow whip struck in earnest. A faint mew of surprise whispered from her lips.

“See how the flesh reddens,” said the man called Kroll. “Each twig gives a thin stripe of scarlet.”

“Again,” whispered Pike. “Do it again.”

The lash beat down again, harder this time, and Zacora’s body arched involuntarily, bowing upwards from the mossy ground.

Was she being punished for all the humiliation that the men suffered in their own land? She could think of no other reason for them to treat her so harshly.

A rough finger slipped into the hot moistness of her naked and vulnerable sex, displayed so openly by her position on the leafy ground.

The finger slipped into her easily, sliding between the folds without resistance. Zacora felt her face flush, remembering what Wolf had called her earlier. A harlot. The word echoed in her mind, but she wasn’t, surely she wasn’t.

“Her sex sap flows readily,” said Wolf, “and her passage is open.”

Zacora felt a work roughened thumb graze over the pouting erection of her clitoris. She heard herself sigh, whispering her pleasure at the touch on that sensitive place. She bore down on the intruding fingers, for that was what she was taught to do for men. She must receive both pleasure and pain gladly, for that was what men required to obtain full release.

“The bitch asks to be taken,” said Wolf roughly. “What does she need?”

“Punishment!” said the others with one voice.

Zacora tensed, knowing what was coming. Her buttocks were greatly heated from the first lash of the willow whip. She felt that the tender flesh had been peppered with coarse sand, for there were many points of pain.

The pain was greatly enhanced at the next blow. The heat suffused her whole body as well as making her buttocks a swelling mound of fire. Tears welled up in her sapphire eyes, spilling down the peach-like cheeks to add to the dampness of the fallen forest leaves. Her soft lips curved to a perfect O as breath was forced from them.

“She likes the pain,” said Brad, excitement obvious in his voice.

It was true. In Lokara women were taught to accept discipline. But there, it was controlled pain; an exciting prelude to a man’s taking of their flesh.