The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  In the square there was silence apart from quickened breathing amongst the crowd and the occasional metallic chink of the slave’s chains. Harold, himself, leaned from his carriage, with Megan at his side.

  “Can we have her?” said Megan. Her plump breasts, rising from her brief dress, were flushed with excitement and they rose and fell rapidly.

  “I’ve said so, haven’t I?” His tone was terse, for his male sword was painful in its wanting. “But we must see how the auction goes.”

  “Oh, we’ll outbid anyone here,” said Megan confidently.

  Harold nodded to the soft featured Prince, gazing longingly at the girl. “Don’t be too sure,” he said.

  Megan tossed her head in disdain and turned to more interesting sights on the podium. The blonde girl, hair streaming in soft shimmering coils down her naked back, was in the full throes of orgasm. The polished wooden rod was slicking back and forth, in and out of the girl’s convulsing entrance.

  Harold groaned softly in delight as he saw the phallus withdrawn and held up to the crowd. It was thickly coated with the girl’s love sap. She gave a soft whimper of pleasure. Her chained wrists were linked behind her head and Harold saw them tighten as she reached her peak.

  The crowd gave a communal sigh and the slave master rose to his feet, holding the steaming phallus in his raised hands. Everyone could see the liquid from the depths of the girl’s body dripping hotly down the slave master’s raised arms.

  A great cheer went up and, seeing the enthusiasm which the slave master’s demonstration raised, the auctioneer stepped forward, anxious to start the bidding while so much interest was aroused.

  “Zacora,” he introduced, pulling the blonde girl forward by a thin gold chain decorating her waist. “Of noble birth, so we are told and betrayed by a noble young squire.” The last few words brought scattered laughter among the crowd.

  Harold’s eyes did not leave the girl’s willowy, but ripe, figure. Zacora, he breathed. Even her name was beautiful, mystical, magic. The deep sapphire eyes stared over the heads of the crowd, the soft lips parted and moist. The proud breasts were high, forced so by the position of her arms behind her head. The nipples were pinched by the silver devices held by cunning clips and teeth.

  The auctioneer traced the gentle curve of the waist, so cleverly enhanced by the simple addition of the gold chain. He stroked the tiny swell of the belly before turning her round to sweep his hands over the fullness of the bottom cheeks, parting them to show the tight pinkness of the rear mouth with delicate wrinkles like the spokes of a wheel. “Tight, you see, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “so wonderfully tight.”

  The bottom mouth flexed involuntarily and Harold felt his groin tense. He loved the secretiveness of buttocks in a beautiful girl. There was something forbidden about their loveliness which he found it hard to resist.

  The girl was made to open her mouth, to draw out her tongue to show its pink cleanliness. The auctioneer nodded to the slave master as a signal.

  The slave master lifted his richly woven robe to expose the magnificence of his penis. Zacora was pushed to her knees and her mouth was forced wide. The satiny globe, slick and purple, was pressed into the available orifice. It seemed to Harold that the shaft was being swallowed eagerly as the girl massaged the tightness of the rim with her soft lips. The agile tongue flicked back and forth over the slipperiness until, very slowly, the thick girth was swallowed and Zacora’s soft lips nestled in the crisp curls of the slave master’s pubis.

  A communal sigh of satisfaction was drawn from the crowd. Zacora’s lips slid up and down the thick shaft, caressing it at each slick passage. She gave his sperm sac a pat with her tongue at the end of a caress. The magnificent organ began to throb and, suddenly, he pulled from her, turning to the crowd and holding his shaft proudly in both hands. A great fountain shot from it, splashing the nearest onlookers with hot, creamy jets.

  Zacora, head held proudly and hands linked in her tumbled hair, allowed the slave master’s spillage to lie upon her pale cheeks. A pearly droplet hung upon her soft lower lip and she sucked it lovingly into her mouth.

  “A thousand drachma!” The voice was loud, urgent.

  The crowd looked towards its source. A Prince in a suit of cloth of gold and a solid gold codpiece stood close to the podium. He held a leather bag, thrusting it at the auctioneer.

  “Two thousand!” Harold remained in his carriage, unlike the anxious Prince.

  Bidding became fast and furious. No such sums had been taken for sex slaves before. The crowd murmured delightedly. It reached thirty-five thousand and the Prince shook his head as he walked dejectedly to his carriage. The horses were whipped furiously by the driver and the carriage scattered the crowd as it hurtled from the scene.

  “We got her!” exclaimed Megan. Her plump figure, covered only by a very brief black silk dress, jiggled excitedly. Her breasts were fighting each other under the silk like warring little animals. “I’ll use her to teach my clients a few new games.”

  Megan, much to Harold’s disapproval, had set herself up as part-time harlot. “It’s a hobby,” she told him. “I’m not efficient as a housekeeper, so I can’t help you very much round the castle and I’ve got have something to keep me out of mischief.” It went much against the grain to agree for it did not help Harold’s social standing in Vakir and he had ambition, great ambition. The Meleagans would be the top family in the land before very much longer. He had sworn an oath to that.

  “Yes, my dear,” replied Harold at last. “It has been a very satisfying morning.” He turned to Megan’s son. “Gareth, my boy, order a sedan to pick up the slave first thing in the morning.”

  “Why is it always me?” grumbled Gareth.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Zacora watched the carriage drive away from the market place. The audience, too, slowly drifted to the neighbouring villages, leaving debris of rotting fruit, mouldering in the hot sun. She sighed. It was all so different to the tranquil existence she had led before.

  “What are you waiting for, stuck up bitch?” hissed a voice behind her.

  She looked round. One of the other girls, small, dark and scowling with venom, was glaring up at her. “Suppose you think you’re something because you fetched a big price.”

  Zacora shrugged miserably, her eyes lowered.

  “Well, you’re not, see.” The girl, quick and lithe, slipped her hands, manacled with the links of chain, around Zacora’s slender body, catching the nipples in the links. The pain made tears glaze the sapphire eyes, but Zacora kicked backwards, feeling her toes sink into moist sex flesh.

  “Stop that, you hellcats!” boomed the slave master. A whip snaked around the two struggling young naked bodies. “Get down to the cells to await transport.” The whip lashed again as the two girls disentangled themselves, catching Zacora across the softness of her breasts and the other girl across her small pert buttocks. The lash struck again, not for any other reason than to give the slave master pleasure.

  The cells were dark and cavernous. A jailer greeted the group of girls as the slave master ushered them into the rank filth of the cells.

  “Auction finished?” The jailer, wearing only a scrap of worn leather, gathered to a pouch, looked up smiling. He scratched at his groin with a huge key hanging from a bunch on his wrist.

  “Get this place cleaned up,” ordered the slave master. “It stinks.”

  The jailer, a huge man, shrugged, using the key to scratch his long, thick greasy hair. “Don’t matter. Slaves don’t matter.”

  “They matter a great deal!” yelled the slave master, so loudly that the noise, echoing through the stone cells, made Zacora’s ears ring. “They are sold goods. They have to stay in good condition.”

  Zacora felt a rough hand close upon her upper arm. She flinched, looking up into the grinning dark face of the jailer.

  “This is an unusual one,” the big man hissed. “All these golden curls and this…” He caressed the fluff of her pubic bush
.

  Zacora stiffened, but the soft silver curls of her mound were automatically thrust forward. Her long legs, muscles tense and nervous, were splayed as far apart as her ankle manacles allowed.

  The jailer cupped Zacora’s sex, stroking the valleys where her thighs met the silver fronded lips. “Nice and full,” he remarked, “for such a slender girl.” He slid the flat of his palm along the lips, so delicately sprinkled with fine silver curls. “A virgin, I suppose?” He consulted a list given to him by the slave master. “Must be at this price. Thirty-five thousand! A record, isn’t it?”

  The slave master nodded. “It’s a record to be sure, but she isn’t a virgin.”

  “She isn’t?” A heavy sheen of perspiration broke out on the jailer’s face and body and his rough fingers prised open the fullness of Zacora’s sex lips, feeling the slippery coating of sex sap oozing along her folds.

  “Lost her virginity to a noble’s son, stupid wench!” sneered the slave master. “So she ended up here. Told some lies about being betrothed to him.” But Zacora looked back at the slave master proudly, knowing the truth of her terrible betrayal.

  “The Meleagan sedan will pick her up first thing in the morning,” the slave master advised the jailer, who was licking his lips with eagerness.

  The other bought slaves slumped down against old walls, slimy with oozing damp and green with a heavy growth of algae. Some settled down to sleep as they waited to be taken to their new owner’s homes and some sobbed quietly, making the chains which held them captive rattle metallically. Only Zacora stood proudly, as still as a statue.

  The jailer circled round her, his rough, gnarled hands reaching out to touch when he noticed a part of her body which interested him. The smooth under swell of her breasts attracted him first and she tried very hard not to flinch when a clawlike finger stroked upwards to the nipple. She even tried to smile, for he was, after all, a man, and as such, should be welcomed by her.

  “You like to be caressed, my beauty,” he croaked. “Do you not?”

  “It is my duty to accept it, sir.” Her smile was tremulous and uncertain. The jailer was not like any man she had met before. He was filthy. His hair was unkempt and thick with grease. The teeth remaining in his mouth were broken or black with rot, but his physique told her that he was young and very virile. His life, down here in the darkness of the damp cells, had aged him beyond his years.

  “I knew you liked it when I touched your cunt,” he croaked. “It was wet; dripping wet.”

  “I am trained to give pleasure to a man,” she said softly.

  “So you’ll pleasure me?” The jailer’s voice was barely audible. He grasped her breasts, massaging them cruelly and pinching their nipples. The gnarled hands went down to her belly, squeezing the taut flesh and digging one finger into the depths of her naval.

  Her smile was unwavering. Her sapphire blue eyes remained soft and inviting. The lithe body bent to his will, allowing him to touch it as it pleased him.

  “Answer me, wench?” he said loudly, lifting her hand and clipping her ear.

  All her training taught her that she should answer him and agree with his request to be pleasured, but his odour was unclean and, although his body was young, his demeanour was old, as old as Satan himself.

  Zacora remained still, her smile there but fading. They were suspended in time as she pondered on how to answer him.

  “Very well then,” he said, before she could speak. “I must teach you a lesson in how to behave with your betters, since you seem to have forgotten your training.”

  The golden hair was grabbed into a thick hank and a small mew of pain escaped her lips as she was dragged across the filthy straw-strewn floor. Through tear-blurred eyes she saw other girls taking notice, waking from sleep or wiping faces streaked from weeping. The small dark girl who had showed so much envy when they were brought to the cells was pointing a finger which mocked.

  “Miss High and Mighty is truly fallen,” she sneered. She thrust her pelvis forward, lewdly opening her sex lips to show the contents and thrust a finger quickly in and out. “That’s what you’ll get from that old bastard,” she laughed, “except it won’t be quite so comfortable as my finger.”

  “Shut up, bitch!” the jailer growled.

  They reached a low platform and he threw Zacora on to it. The manacles and chains at ankles and wrists made it easy to fasten her to a strange device which brooded there, sinister and waiting for a victim. Within seconds he had hooked her to bolts upon it and her arms and legs were widely splayed. Even on the gallows, in clear sight of everyone in the castle, she had not felt so vulnerable and open as she did in the clutch of this wicked machine.

  The dark girl came to look down on her, touching her intimately and laughing. “You’ve got her now,” she gloated. Roughly, the girl slid two fingers into the well-splayed folds of Zacora’s sex. She pulled them out again, looking at them in the smokey light of a tallow candle. “If she’s scared she doesn’t show it,” she said, stroking the running juices with her other hand.

  The vulnerability which Zacora felt was enhanced by the strange device. On it she seemed more open and defenceless than ever before.

  “Turn the handle,” begged the girl. “Let me hear her scream. Stuck up, bitch!”

  It was only then that Zacora realised that she was on a rack, one of the most diabolical instruments of torture ever devised. How far would the jailer dare to go with it? If she died her new owner wouldn’t be pleased. He’d paid a fortune.

  “Witch!” rasped the jailer, rebuking the dark girl. “Are you mad? I’m not turning that handle.”

  The girl looked disappointed. “Then why’ve you put her there?” she wanted to know. “Waste of time.”

  “You will see!” The jailer deftly untied the thong which held his pouch in place, releasing an organ magnificent in size, but horribly grimed with dust and caked semen. It was erect and the eye gleamed with a pearl of his seed.

  “No!” said Zacora.

  The jailer had leapt between her long splayed thighs and was slicking his hands up and down the spearing thickness.

  “You dare to defy me, my beauty?”

  There was little humiliation which Zacora would not take. Her behavioural training encompassed everything, but she would not, could not, take this monstrous unclean penis into her body.

  “Whip her into submission first,” advised the girl.

  “No,” the jailer grinned. “Turn the handle after all. Only three notches, mind.”

  “Oh, yes!” hissed the girl gleefully. She took the handle in both her small hands, her face a mask of spiteful joy.

  “No more than three,” murmured the jailer again. A drool of spittle made a slow trail through the grime of his unshaven but roughly handsome face. His tongue flicked around his lips as he looked down at the golden beauty, stretched out at his mercy. She hid her fear well, for the deep blue eyes stared up at him proudly, daring him to do his worst.

  The golden body was so mouth-watering, splayed out openly below him, that he knew not where to start. Deep in thought, he stroked the heaviness of his balls, feeling their weight and readiness. Never had there been such a beauty at his disposal. They were all the dark tough little women of Vakir, bought for the vulgar work in their master’s houses. Bossy in the extreme, sex with them made him feel inferior.

  Very occasionally a virgin would be brought to auction; fair of skin and subservient like this one lying there tightly stretched upon the rack beneath him. But they were out of bounds for him. They were virgins, too valuable to be used by a mere jailer.

  Except for this one!

  His penis throbbed as he looked at the open flesh of the woman’s sex. The lips were swollen, inflamed and parted. The silver curls were sparse and neatly trimmed, making the contents of the pouch more available. The inner lips fluttered, which, he had heard, was a feature of the women from Lokara. They were trained to pleasure a man to the full by petting his cock with these highly mobile lips. He s
huddered with desire, reaching into the wet depths just as the little dark maid pulled on the handle to engage the third notch.

  The sound of the ratchet was loud, echoing through the vast cell block. Only a tiny mew of pain came from the splayed girl. They usually screamed loud and long, even the men. He felt a flood of sap soak his intruding finger. A smile creased his uncouth features. She was enjoying herself.

  The long creamy arms were splayed wide, stretched to the limit. The legs, too, were taut. This had the effect of hollowing the belly and he caressed the deep cleft of the naval, pressing it inwards and feeling the softness of the organs beneath. The mound, delicately fleshed and decorated with silver curls, pouted upwards. This again was the effect of the rack, stretching the fine bones of the beautiful pelvis.

  Against his orders the ratchet engaged a fourth time, and he thought he saw a flicker of panic in the girl’s eyes, but it was only momentary. The pride returned to the beautiful face and the soft lips parted in a most inviting manner.

  Two fingers were easily accommodated at the soft liquid entrance and the inner lips gave a cossetting caress to the uninvited digits.

  Yet another notch clicked on the rack. It was done in a spitefully quick manner and Zacora made a soft moan. “Prissy bitch!” the dark girl spat. “Sex is sex. We don’t make a religion out of it here.”

  “More’s the pity!” said the jailer, pushing three fingers fully to the hilt into Zacora’s fluttering sex purse, revelling in its wetness and pampering cushion of its walls.

  For a while his rough hands roved over her tight frame, glorying in its tenseness, its inability to avoid his intimate probing, the way his crude mauling of her body seemed to excite her further, whether she wanted it or no.