The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  “And I say she should not,” said Harold firmly.

  A servant was called to lead Zacora to be sponged down. The golden haired beauty stood, head meekly bowed, awaiting whatever her owners now wished. The servant, a plain girl modestly dressed in home spun garments, eyed her charge with some distaste. Zacora ignored her stares, thinking only of Harold and the excitement which he elicited in her. It was a delight to feel the sticky heat of his issue trailing over her buttocks, her puffy sex lips, and the fine inner skin of her thighs.

  “Take her to be refreshed,” he ordered.

  Zacora lifted her golden head as she was led from the games room. She deliberately added a more provocative sway to her walk, swinging the pouting buttocks which she knew were liberally slicked with Harold’s silvery spume. She enjoyed the moistness he had conjured in her sex folds. With a little effort she could massage her nubbin with that copious lubrication. She was beginning to feel that she she had been born to please, yes, but not just men, all men, any man at all: no, she had been born to please Harold, and that is what she would do!

  The sapphire eyes smiled secretively as she glided along the stone passage. She could imagine Harold sinking onto his sofa, luxuriating in sensuous dreams of their coupling interrupted by Megan. She knew that she had to find some way of separating him from the influence of this unpleasant and domineering Aunt of his and her obnoxious son. Somehow she must find a way of having Harold to herself.

  She let her mind drift to his wonderfully mature body. The broad shoulders tapered to a waist which was firm and not too narrow. His stomach was flat and hard, ridged with bands of muscle. A line of dark curls led from his navel to a crisp triangle. Spearing, always spearing, was his magnificent sex sword. It was dark and smooth, summited by a bursting globe. Below were his male sacs, taut and bursting with life. He kept them smooth of hair as he did the cleft of his firm buttocks.

  Zacora knew of his very sensitive place at the rear of the sacs. She would have touched it to enhance his orgasm to yet more glorious heights had Megan not interrupted their play. Her Master in the school room in Lokara taught his girls of the ecstasy to be obtained by a man when this place, hidden behind the heaviness of the sperm sacs and in front of the rear mouth, was pressed gently.

  Was the combination of her beauty and her expertise enough to ensure a permanent place at Harold’s side?

  The dowdy little servant pushed Zacora through a low door into a dark cavernous room. Tallow sconces guttered in the walls. A perfume hung in the air, sweet and dreamy, making her feel sleepy and heavy limbed. The aroma was carried by wisps of smoke puffed from channels bored deep into the old stone walls. The swirls caressed her body like insubstantial fingers, pampering each tender place until she thought she would swoon with delight.

  “Up on the bench,” the servant grated. The woman’s sharp fingers dug cruelly into Zacora’s buttocks parting the twin hillocks. She gave a cluck of disgust - or was it envy? - as she slicked the copious juices up and down the deep cleft. “Face down,” she added giving the girl a vicious push to the high stone platform.

  The pleasant dreaminess was replaced by apprehension as Zacora struggled to obey the servant’s bidding. Her hands touched metal manacles sunk into the cold stone and the woman in charge of her gave an unpleasant chuckle as she imprisoned slim wrists in the unyielding metal. Zacora felt her long legs being pulled roughly wide apart and her ankles fettered tightly.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked plaintively.

  “I have my orders,” said the woman, giving nothing away.

  Zacora’s mind whirled with unhappiness. Surely Harold would not, after his recent tenderness, cause her any hurt. So what was this woman doing to her?

  Her arms and legs were held at full stretch by the fetters. The warmth of her breasts and belly was chilled by the cold stone. The heavy perfumes pervading the room were no longer pleasant. A vice seemed to squeeze her temples, crushing her mind, numbing it until she could barely think.

  A torrent of icy cold water was thrown viciously on to her body, making her gasp with shock. It did not end there. It was followed by another and another. At last the torrents ended, but freezing rivulets trickled down the hollow of her spine, seeped around the pressed mounds of her breasts and soaked the hot valley of her bottom. The long golden tresses were saturated, lying in wet ropes around her head.

  Zacora began to shiver miserably.

  “You girls have it too easy,” rasped the woman.

  “Why are you being so cruel?” asked Zacora through chattering teeth. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

  “Orders,” said the woman sharply. “You’ve got to be cleaned inside and out.”

  Zacora tried to turn her head, but she was too stiff and cold and her fetters held her too tightly.

  The woman went about her tasks silently, refusing to say any more. Zacora felt pressure between her splayed legs. Front and rear openings were pressed open by the bony fingers. She felt the smoothness of oil being slathered liberally at the openings and she wriggled her nether regions in anticipation of pleasurable invasions.

  The servant cackled evilly and Zacora felt her vagina being plundered by a wide tube. She felt chill air whisper into the heat of her sex flesh. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It was strange. A narrower tube entered her rear mouth so that she was completely open and vulnerable at both entrances.

  “The inner cleansing is about to begin,” said the servant gleefully. “The opening tubes will be removed after the flushing and you must retain the cleansing fluid within your body until I tell you that you may release it. Do you understand?”

  The servant delved between the tubes, seeking the pouting heat of Zacora’s clitoris. To her shame the girl found herself urging towards the questing boney fingers. The opening up of her body was exciting her, making her want stimulation even from this cruel woman.

  She nodded, acquiescing to the woman’s order, feeling the chill of water trickling from her soaked hair.

  A flood of warmth entered her body through the tubes, gushing and foaming over her sensitive inner skin. The tubes were swiftly withdrawn and Zacora contracted her well trained nether muscles to retain the perfumed fluids. She felt them gurgling around her intimate passages, swilling away all traces of her own and Harold’s fluids. The urge to bear down was intolerable and she felt, at any moment, that she must release the contents of her vagina and her bowels. Tears joined the water already lying on her peachy cheeks, for the sensation was too great to resist.

  “Hold it!” rasped the servant, clutching the flesh of Zacora’s sex pouch. “It must be held until I give you permission.”

  In her shame the girl felt her nubbin swelling, butting at the woman’s clutching hands. The sensation of the swirling fluids within the intimate passages were both painful and stimulating.

  “Oh no!” groaned Zacora, feeling the growing heat in her nubbin. Her captive body strained to be free of the shackles, but the imprisonment simply added to her excitement.

  “Yes, my pretty,” the servant whispered in Zacora’s ear. “Let your pleasure flow. Let me feel your nubbin jerk upon my fingers.”

  The voice had become tender, wanton, so different to the harshness of only a few short moments before. Zacora allowed her orgasm to wash over her, consume her in wave after wave of pleasurable heat.

  “Yes,” whispered the voice. “Oh, yes!” The servant’s voice was husky now with longing. “You may let the fluids gush from your body.”

  With a grateful sigh Zacora relaxed her nether muscles and felt the hot foaming liquids run from her vagina and her bowel. She also felt her swollen clitoris, still jerking intensely, washed by the copious torrent of fluids.

  The wrist and ankle bonds were released and the servant gently turned Zacora face up. She felt her cold, taut breasts petted by the strong hands and she looked up into features which seemed to have softened.

  “My name is Hera,” the servant said. “Would that I could have the re
lease of orgasm.” The woman sighed sadly. She stroked the damp silver fronds of Zacora’s bush, parting the plump lips to search out the nubbin. She gazed at the inflamed bud, stroking back the hood, a strange expression of envy on her pinched features.

  “Why not?” said Zacora, smiling up with inviting soft lips. How odd, she thought. Why couldn’t Hera have orgasms?

  “Once I was a sex slave like you.” The woman began to fasten Zacora’s wrists and her splayed ankles back into the manacles.

  Zacora frowned wonderingly.

  “Oh, I know I’m not beautiful now,” said Hera, as if reading the questioning thoughts. “Bitterness is a destroyer of beauty.” She began to dribble perfumed oil on Zacora’s cold nakedness. The oil was warmed and caused a pleasurable shudder to ripple her taut flesh. Firm hands began to trace soothing circles around the mounds of her breasts. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the lethargy of the massage.

  “I wasn’t like you,” said Hera. “I was a virgin when I was sold into slavery at the auction. I wasn’t beautiful, just a little bit pretty and Mistress Megan gave me to one of her customers. He was rough. He raped me and it hurt.”

  Zacora’s mind drifted back to Ogham. Her penetration, although a little painful, had been pleasurable. Her orgasms had been many and beautifully intense, but then all her training had prepared her to enjoy coupling with a man. Poor Hera, it seemed, had no such preparation.

  “So I ran away,” said Hera. The memory was obviously very painful to her, but she continued to massage the tiny swell of Zacora’s belly. Her strong fingers strayed down to the proud plumpness of the girl’s mound, petting it and stroking the fine silver curls.

  Her touch was so firm, but so sensual, that Zacora found herself urging up for more stimulation. “But they caught you?” she asked breathily, wishing her hands were free to splay her outer lips, baring her moist opening and her jerking nubbin.

  Hera’s own hands spread the needful parts and Zacora felt the softness of the woman’s breath on her oozing flesh. A hot tongue lapped at the pouting tip of the girl’s clitoris.

  “My punishment was the final humiliation.” Hera’s voice was muffled,bitter now. Her tongue lapped expertly along the whole length of Zacora’s yearning sex flesh. It darted into the dark wetness and out again to caress the jerking pip. The lapping became more urgent, more rhythmic.

  “They circumcised me!”

  Hera stood up, her thin face slick with sex sap, shining in the guttering light of the sconces. She looked down at Zacora’s fettered body, watching the silver pad of her mound throb with orgasm. “Right here on this bench. They disfigured me here. And they ripped my pleasure bud from me.”

  At that moment profound climax convulsions hit Zacora’s slender body, again and again. The sensations were so strong that they over-rode the horror which she felt in Hera’s torture. The woman was calmly brushing the silky golden curls which streamed over the stone bench. She could never have such a climax.

  There was a moment of heavy silence before Zacora spoke. “How dreadful! Will they do that to me?” She heard the tremor in her own voice.

  “I do not know. You please Harold the Pretender but…”

  “But what?” The sapphire eyes were wide with fear as they looked up at Hera.

  “There is Megan also. Be warned. Megan is cruel and influential. Do not displease her.”

  The words rang in Zacora’s ears as Hera returned her, bathed and scented, to the Master’s presence.

  To the master’s presence! What bliss that was!

  Zacora’s hair fell in a silken sheen to the curve of her buttocks. Submissively, she placed her hands on her head, but kept her eyes lowered. Hera had fluffed the silver-fronded mound and she thrust it forward in a delicate pout, offering it prettily to Harold.

  She heard him give a sigh of delight as he gestured that Hera should bring her to him on the sofa. He reached up to stroke the lush sex curls, feeling the fine coating of oil which the servant had given them as a final touch. His soft fingers were firm, but sensuous as he slipped them between the slightly parted thighs.

  “Did Hera tend you well, my dear?” he asked. She felt him touch the pad of his forefinger on the tip of her nubbin.

  Nodding, Zacora eased her thighs further apart, offering the whole of her sex purse to him. She tried to remain passive as he slipped a finger into her fully cleansed depths, but her lips parted in a soft oval.

  “You want me to spear you, my dear?” The finger slithered in and out of her silky depths, investigating and exploring every crease and pocket.

  Zacora nodded eagerly, thrusting the open, shining pouch on his questing hand. Her slender pampered body was arched; her pouting breasts full and offered gladly. Her stance, with hands clasped behind her head, made her a voluntary prisoner. Her helplessness increased her desire for his body.

  Looking down, her eyes became riveted on the splendour of his male sword, rigid and dark, ready for her. It preened for her, it seemed; magnificent in its vigour.

  “Cloak me with your randy flesh, my dear,” he said huskily. “We shall join, you and I. My issue will flood you.” His handsome ageless face creased in a smile which was almost loving, but Zacora shuddered. Hera’s tale hung heavy in her memory.

  “I shall be ruler of this and neighbouring lands,” he told her, “and you shall be my consort.”

  Again she shuddered as she prepared gracefully to straddle the magnificent shaft. She kept her eyes fixed on the turgid darkness of the weapon, positioning herself over the fully stretched globe, pearly with its ooze of semen. Hands on her head, balanced on widely splayed legs, she allowed the slick globe to rest at her offered opening.

  She tried not to think of Hera’s terrible tale. She was sure that it was not Harold who had ordered the servant’s body to be disfigured, her pleasure cut off. It must have been Megan. She was the cruel one, Harold too lenient towards his Aunt in matters of punishment.

  In spite of the threat of torture on the stone slab, the loss of sexual pleasure, she knew she had to escape. If Harold truly loved her, he would not punish her when he recaptured her, but love her all the more. Her flight would make him realise how deeply she was troubled by his relationship with his evil Aunt. There was no other way to convince him of this.

  She pampered his globe with her mobile labia, allowing them to flutter around his male flesh. They petted the thick stem, guiding it into her depths. Zacora heard him sigh with pleasure as he held the beautifully formed arches of her hips, to grind her down upon him.

  It would be a test, she decided, clutching his thickness with strong caresses. If she escaped it would be a test that his promises of wealth and kingdoms were true. She suppressed her own sighs of longing and gave herself up to pleasuring him.

  Later, when the candles had burned to waxy pools and the night was velvety black, she slid from Harold’s sleeping arms. She listened. The sounds were all of deep slumber. Megan and Gareth snored softly, creating a chorus of night croaks while Harold’s breathing was slow and even.

  For long minutes Zacora listened to the sounds, wondering if her decision was wise. At last she decided.

  Barefooted, she padded across the room to the massive doors, hoping that they would open easily. They did and she gave a silent sigh of relief.

  Peeping out she saw that the long corridor was empty, peopled only with shadows thrown by the guttering sconces. The whole castle seemed silent and sleeping.

  With pounding heart, Zacora sped lithely along the cold stone flags. Her golden hair, freshly washed, streamed behind her. Her full breasts were firm though heavy and gave no hindrance to her progress.

  At the open portcullis she saw the shadow of a guard leaning on his pike. She halted, eyes wide with fear and ears alert for any challenge. But there was nothing. The man was asleep. She bit her soft lower lip in sympathy. His punishment would be far more severe than even Hera’s. She shuddered. The sadistic ways of the Meleagans were well known, but Zacora also knew that Harol
d, cruel though he might be, was the disciplining father figure she sought. She felt the warmth of his copious issue drool down her thighs. And he was so sensually gifted. She allowed herself a smile at that.

  It was almost dawn. Zacora shivered in her nakedness. The sapphire blue eyes blinked at the sinking bright moons of Vakir; the three silver sisters. The sky was clear and a million stars twinkled in the purpling sky and she breathed the sweet fresh air.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Swift footed, Zacora began to run from the looming hulk of the vast castle, and the cruelty of its Mistress.

  Soon she was deep in the forest, running free. The path was stoney and fallen thorns spiked her feet and branches reached out to cut her naked skin, but she was determined to continue her quest.

  So intent was she on her escape that she did not hear the rumble of wheels on the rough path. She was unaware that she was being followed until a whip snaked around her naked running figure. It caught her cruelly around the fullness of her breasts, making her cry out as her erect nipples were pinched by the flexible plaited device. The finer end slapped the swell of her belly, caressing the proudness of her mound and curling under the fullness of her pubic arch.

  She was captured! Held fast, probably by one of the Meleagan household. She was lost.

  An imagined dart of pain shot through her nubbin. The very place at which she experienced the greatest pleasure. That would be cut out, all over. She hung her head in shame and self pity.

  “Now, my beauty,” said a strange booming voice. “Where do you go to in the cold dawn?” Her captor gave a light laugh. “Dressed so, and at such a pace?”

  The delicate oval of her chin was lifted by strong fingers and she found herself looking into a handsome face, but she struggled in her bindings, wriggling to free her arms. The man laughed and tugged the whip tighter, pulling her to him. His skin was warm, although naked and taut over finely honed muscles.

  A gasp escaped her dry throat. She could feel his male shaft, thick and hot, rising high from his groin. She tried to look down to see the object of her curiosity. It felt strange, ridged and sharp edged.