The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  “Beautiful!” whispered Megan. “Take the middle finger away to show us how it jerks.” There was the splendid nubbin, swollen to twice the normal size and glowing with heat. It danced on the moist flush of the silky sex bud, pulsing with energy. The tip jerked out from the hood, looking almost angry as well as joyful. Megan could not resist giving it a playful flick with the very tip of the lash.

  Gareth was panting and his sex sword throbbed in his hose. He reached out to the still open sex pouch, feeling the heat and generous streaming of moisture produced by the girl. “We’ve never had one as willing, Megan,” he said hoarsely. “She’s the one that Harold has been looking for all these years, isn’t she?”

  “She’s what we’ve all been looking for,” said Megan wistfully.

  The heat from the kitchen seeped from the partially open door and there was the spitting sound of a large piece of meat being cooked on a spit. There were voices, one man’s voice raised in anger and several girls laughing and chattering.

  Megan flung open the heavy door and her large presence was sufficient to stop the noise. The chief cook, like all the male servants, wore only the small loincloth. He was busy smacking a maid servant, thrown across his knee, her many frilled coarse petticoats drawn to her waist. Her chubby naked bottom glowed with the friction created by his hands and the tremendous heat from the huge kitchen range.

  “Problems?” asked Megan, pushing Zacora before her. Her blonde head hung low, allowing the silvery curtain to sway about her oval face.

  “The usual,” said the cook. He pushed the little maid from his lap and stood, tall and proud. He was looking eagerly in Zacora’s direction. “This young madam,” he said, prodding the toe of his soft leather boot on the reddened bottom of the maid, “fancied giving herself a little pleasure with one of the master’s carrots.”

  Gareth gaped; his eyes wide with lust. “Is it still there?” He turned the maid over, revealing her lush dark brown thatch. Disappointment was patently obvious on his thin face to find that no root vegetable protruded.

  “Is this a new girl?” The chef reached out, feeling the firm flesh of Zacora’s breasts, testing their weight and meatiness. He turned her round, cupping the cheeks of her buttocks. He made Zacora feel that she was so much meat being tested for roasting. “She must have clothing or she may be damaged.” He gave her another sharp perusal. “I’m surprised you wish her to work in the kitchen. She is such a beauty I should have thought that she would be more suitable for the bedchamber - for Harold.”

  “We’re giving her lots of tests,” piped up Gareth, “and one of them is to be in the kitchen. There are so many varieties of toys in kitchens, are there not?”

  The chef smiled. “Indeed there are, young master.”

  Megan tutted in annoyance. “We’re wasting time. I still have my lash to use and my drumstick.” She looked around. “May I use your milking stool, chef?”

  “Of course, mistress.”

  Megan moved the milking stool close to the range with the blazing fire and the turning spit. “Kneel over this,” she ordered Zacora, “and make sure that your breasts are nicely separated over the stool.”

  Zacora knelt by the fire. Heat blasted from the cooking fire and she could feel her pale skin flush and sweat break out in tiny pearly beads on her naked skin. Submissively, she swept her long arms behind her and wriggled slightly to position her breasts as Megan required.

  “Bottom raised, if you please,” Megan said crisply.

  The heat was unbearable and Zacora looked up at her tormentors, pleading for a cooler place to receive further beatings, for she was sure that was to be her fate.

  “Now, now,” chided Megan. “This will not do.” She placed firm hands on the arches of Zacora’s hips and lifted the full buttocks high. She cossetted each breast very precisely on each side of the stool, patting them lightly as if they were soft scoops of butter, fresh from the churn. Firm hand on the tumbled softness of the golden hair, she forced the girl’s head down to the stone floor.

  She watched Zacora flinch, waiting for further blows. “Shuffle your knees apart, thighs wide,” Megan ordered.

  The girl’s body was gleaming with sweat; slick with it. Silvery streams joined and flickered in the dancing light of the huge fire.

  Tendrils of hair, soaked now with sweat, sprang into tight curls around her oval face. Her body glowed as though every inch had taken severe punishment, but, obedient and pliant as ever, she remained as she had been placed.

  Megan rolled her smooth wooden drumstick along the hollow of the captive’s back, wetting it in the pools of perspiration gathered in the hollow between shoulders and buttocks. She placed the polished globe at the entrance of the girl’s body. This was slick with a slippery mixture of sweat and love sap. Megan played the globe between the wet silvery lips, feeling how these clutched tenderly at the intrusion.

  The kitchen staff gathered to watch the diversion and seemed not to mind the severe heat blasting from the fire. “Lift further, my dear,” Megan urged. “Let your admirers see how prettily your pouch opens for an audience.”

  Zacora, humiliated though she was, arched her buttocks as high as they would go, knowing that she would love the swirling sensation of a watched orgasm. She could feel her nubbin pressing hard against the drumstick, delighting in the polished smoothness. Suddenly, the wooden globe was pressed forward by Megan and Zacora gasped at the sudden thick intrusion. It was what was needed to bring her to her climax

  The assembled audience gasped as they watched the large globe enter the gaping, milky gateway and the glowing, erect nubbin jerk ecstatically on the polished stick.

  “Shall I remove it?” asked Gareth, reaching forward.

  “No!” said Megan sharply. “I wish it to be left in for the next stage.”

  Gareth stroked the girl’s glowing body. “She’s burning,” he said.

  Megan shrugged. “So am I.” She ran her sweating hands down her black dress, clinging tightly to her ample curves. She took the long thin lash from the top of her stocking, where she had placed it to leave her hands free. It made a sharp crack as she tested it upon the stone floor. The kitchen staff stepped back, not wishing to be in the path of the lash when it was cracked again.

  The finely cut leather whipped across the splayed buttocks and the girl murmured softly. It wasn’t a moan of pain, for the bulbous drumstick was still inserted. It was a moan of strange pleasure, hissed out between clenched teeth.

  “Again,” hissed the chef. “Let us see you measure her buttocks with the lash again.”

  The spread bottom tensed, ready for another lash of pain. Zacora could feel her breasts, one each side of the stool, become tender and swollen with the surfeit of desire. Hot liquid took slow streams along the deeply inserted drumstick and she knew that she presented a most lewd sight. Somehow this thought made the molten heaviness in her belly all the greater.

  The lash snaked around her tender body; first from one side and then the other. The thin strip of leather was becoming wet as it soaked up the salty fluid of Zacora’s sweat.

  Light-headed and satiated, she softly murmured that her orgasms were many. The stone floor around the stool was dark with a mixture of fluids. Her golden hair was saturated, falling in many tiny ringlets around her.

  “Enough,” said Megan.

  The kitchen workers fell back, returning to their tasks. The chef stared down at the girl, gleaming and shining in the firelight; stared down at the buttocks striated with fine red lines; stared dawn at the polished intrusion in the liquid heat of the sex pouch. His climaxes had come fast and furious as he watched the lashing and he too was now satiated.

  Gareth could not restrain himself. In watching the lovely Zacora take her discipline, he found it necessary to seek out the kitchen maid. Petticoats swished high over her head, he flung her face down upon the scrubbed deal table and took her from the rear. To mimic Zacora he made the pretty little buttocks hotly inflamed with the flat of his palm before spre
ading them to their limit.

  The female entrance of the maid was creamily lubricated, open and ready and Gareth plunged in with gusto. She wriggled her bottom, which encouraged him to go in to the hilt. He could feel her cushiony flesh stretch with his wide girth and he could feel his male sword pulsing, almost before he was fully inserted. His spume gushed before he was ready. He tried to prevent it, by pulling back from the warm pouch. Nevertheless, it fountained over the burning skin stretched so tightly across the proud hillocks.

  At this juncture, Zacora was still receiving the light flicking of the thin whip and within moments Gareth was erect again. Using his own hot seed, he massaged the struggling maid’s rear entrance, opening it up first with one finger, then two and then three. She was bearing down her lovely bottom, which urged him to intrude into the tight little hole. She moaned loudly, especially when he reached around her to spread her nether lips and tickled her nubbin.

  At last, Zacora, still chained, was taken from the kitchen and given a place to sleep. It was a narrow cot, to which she was tightly tethered, her wrists stretched high above her head and ankles pulled wide to each side of the iron frame. A rough blanket was thrown over her to keep out the cold, but it also served to irritate her punished, tender skin.

  She lay awake for many hours in her discomfort, but in those sleepless hours she thought about the strength of the man she saw in the carriage; his smile, confident and powerful, He was the man she wished to pleasure for the rest of her life.

  But she did not know him. He might be cruel, like this evil Aunt of his and her repugnant son, wishing to inflict pain without the pleasure of love.

  Her mind flashed back to the jailer and she shuddered at his crudeness, but she must admit that he gave her pleasure.

  The sedan bearers used her, but were they any worse than Ogham who took away her innocence and ruined her life? No-one believed in her nobility and everyone she met treated her as a slave. Would it always be so, for the rest of her life?

  As the dawn broke she fell into a fitful sleep full of strange dreams.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the second day of Zacora’s slavery in Meleagan castle she was taken to the room in which Megan entertained her clients. Harold appeared and Zacora smiled at him; that soft inviting smile which melted a man’s heart and stiffened his male sword.

  She was dressed in a gossamer gown which swirled around her luscious legs as she walked. Her sun-streaked hair was brushed to a glittering sheen and around her waist was a low slung belt of finely plaited silver cord. Attached to the cord was a flask, also made of silver. It was thin and light, but polished to blinding brilliance.

  Harold escorted Zacora and Megan to the whoring chamber and the girl thrilled at the touch of his strong hand on her silk clad elbow. She could feel his strength, his depth of purpose. If only she could please him and him alone. Somehow she must arrange that. She sighed softly as they walked.

  What thrills lay in store for him tonight, Harold wondered. He would delight in watching Megan with the customers and this new slave. He smiled down at Zacora and was rewarded with a smile of an angel.

  The chamber into which they entered was dimly lit, the walls hung with red plush, giving the room a cosy glow, but Zacora shuddered.

  For the first time since her capture she was free from chains, and she stretched her arms high, pressing her free breasts against the translucent gossamer of her gown. Harold watched her, very aware of the thrill he got from the delicious sight of her. She was so perfect in every way. He gazed at her willowy beauty so visible in the diaphanous gown. She circled the chamber, examining every detail of the strange room. Harold watched her buttocks and the grace of her hips, emphasised by the silver cord hanging from the arches of her pelvis.

  Zacora held up the goblet hanging from the cord, looking at it curiously, turning it in her long-fingered hands. A tiny frown line of curiosity creased the smooth skin of her forehead.

  “You are wondering about the purpose of that device?” asked Harold, smiling at her.

  She nodded, returning his smile.

  He led her to a luxurious sofa, holding up the silver cup and admiring the fine craftsmanship which went into the making. “Megan wants you to excite her customers to the extent that they join in a contest.”

  Megan sniggered, rubbing her plump sex lips through the black silk of her dress.

  Zacora was still at a loss and she looked at Harold to enlighten her.

  “The customers stand in a line…”

  “Customers?” she interrupted.

  Harold sighed. “Megan likes to play at being a harlot.” The whole charade was irritating for him when he wanted, so much, to take Zacora for himself, but until he he had news from the palace the time was not right.

  “The customers stand in a line at the ready,” he explained. “Stiff and rigid!” Harold smiled at her again, taking out his own equipment from his richly embroidered gown.

  “Oh,” sighed Zacora. “Must I pleasure them with hands and mouth?”

  “You do neither!” said Megan curtly. “It is for me to cosset my customers with my mouth or stroke them with hands dressed in leather, silk, fur or velvet. Whatever pleases them. You will be chained to the wall as an added bonus to my pleasuring.”

  Harold nodded. “The goblet is to collect the spume of their lust.”

  Zacora looked at both her captors. “But it is a drinking goblet.”

  “And you shall drink, my dear,” said Harold, lying back on the sofa.

  Zacora’s sapphire eyes, lashes lowered, focused on the beauty of his penis, rearing mightily from his lower belly. Since Ogham stole her virginity her experience of male organs had increased enormously, but Harold’s was beautiful. It wasn’t simply its size, but the throbbing power which it exuded. The sight of it made the melting feeling spread from her belly to her whole body.

  The huge oak doors of the chamber swung open and three men swaggered in. “Ah, Megan’s first gentlemen callers of the evening,” said Harold, raising to greet them. “Please feel free to be casual,” he invited, letting his own gown swing open again. He turned to Megan. “And begin the girl’s preparation.”

  Megan strutted across to the visitors, her plump body lush in its near nakedness. The tight suspender belt cut into the flesh of her waist as the attachments to her black stockings framed the darkness of her bush. She posed her heavy breasts and fingered her huge nipples to hard erection. Harold gave her pillowed buttocks a playful pat and she grinned at him coquettishly as she passed. The three arriving customers were given the full treatment!

  Zacora bowed her head as Megan had instructed her and unfolded her willowy body to stand upright. The diaphanous gown was held closed by only three fastenings at the front so it was a simple matter to slip it from her shoulders, leaving her clad only in the belt and goblet. This silver item lay a little below her silver fronded mound. In the subdued lighting the flesh and the metal seemed to blend into one glorious whole. The new arrivals gasped in sheer delight and hurried to make themselves comfortable and casual as Harold suggested.

  Megan led her new sex slave to a shallow alcove lined with red plush. There were silver cuffs at four places in the alcove and at the centre of those four points there was a solid silver ring, large enough to be snapped around a small waist.

  “Will you hold her ankles?” Megan asked two of the newcomers.

  They were only too eager. “We shall be placing her upside down, you see,” Megan went on to explain. “Legs nice and wide to fit in the upper cuffs.”

  The silver cuffs were snapped shut. Zacora was trapped with her long legs splayed wide open. The plush tickled the fine skin of her back. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but she could feel the blood rushing to her head and she could only see vague shadows of the men through her silver curtain of hair.

  “Hm,” murmured Megan, “yes, a delightful sight.” The dew of mild excitement was gathering on the silver fronds of Zacora’s sex. Between swelling flushed
leaves could be seen the tender bud jutting from the fine silk of the hood.

  “Mistress,” groaned Zacora, “my ankles … my legs.”

  “Hush, my dear,” warned Megan, “you must show these nice gentlemen how you enjoy our little games.”

  The hanging girl arched her supple body, using her free hands to part the curtain of hair, to look up at the mistress and her men. “I find them stimulating, mistress,” said Zacora, “but the ache…”

  “Very well,” said Megan, quickly clasping the tight waist band to give more support. “The girls today,” she grumbled, “no stamina.”

  The two men nodded vaguely in agreement, but their eyes were focused firmly on the moist silkiness of Zacora’s open sex.

  The sapphire blue eyes, taking in the scene of the softly lit room in a reversed position, saw Harold lie back contentedly to stroke his rigid shaft. Zacora felt proud of the pleasure she was so obviously giving him. She saw his eyes rest on the tight belt which clinched her waist. Breathing deeply, she felt her firm breasts peak with flushed and hardened nipples. She saw him smile as he focused on the depth of the valley between her creamy hillocks. Their firmness meant that the valley was unmarred.

  She watched his hand slide over the moist globe of his penis. He looked down upon it, his eyes bright with self satisfaction. Zacora’s body ached to feel it plunged inside her, her flesh enclosing it eagerly to pleasure him.

  Megan, aided by the men, was clasping Zacora’s slender waist in such a way, with elbows bent close to the plush wall, as to increase the pouting of her breasts. She gloried in her display. Her eyes turned to Harold, wanting him to admire the way she was displayed, so open for him. Although there were others in the room, they did not matter to her.

  She saw his eyes rest on the goblet, hung on the fine silver cord. Zacora could feel it resting between her breasts and knew that it enhanced the depth of the valley. It seemed to lie there, waiting to be filled.