The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  The low laugh disturbed the night sounds of the forest and he pushed her away, posing the object of her curiosity by thrusting it out to her. She was still bound by the whip and the soft leather seemed to be tightening around her, flattening her breasts and cutting into the flesh of her belly. Her breathing was swift and shallow in her confinement.

  She could not drag her gaze away from his male sword. A network of fine thongs girded the magnificent organ. He held it out to her lewdly, cupping the heavy sacs below it with one huge hand.

  “Yes, this is for you, my pretty,” he leered. “For you!”

  Zacora mewed a wordless plea and struggled in the ever tightening coil of leather, but in spite of her fear and the loathing she felt for this stranger, there was the familiar flood of heat in her sex purse. Silky moisture seeped around her folds which swelled deliciously. Her nubbin was greatly enlarged. She could feel it probing from the plumpness of the silver fronded labia.

  A flush of embarrassment suffused her creamy features. Surely, she thought, he must see the swellings. She tried to turn away, presenting the pale moons of her bottom to his gaze. She heard his laugh and felt a knowing hand between her thighs.

  “No!” she cried.

  “Such modesty from a woman born and raised to be pleasured,” he sneered. “Do you mean it?”

  Zacora knew that she did not. She wanted to be taken by this forceful rough man. Every instinct told her that she wanted to bear down on his questing fingers and open willing thighs to admit his thonged member into her opening. She frowned. He seemed to know a great deal about her.

  “Who are you?”

  His fingers stroked her sex leaves, parting them to expose her nubbin to the chill dawn air.

  “My name is Gungdir.”

  He pulled her closer. His chest was broad and smooth, massively muscled and he stroked her tightly bound breasts with rhythmic movement of his body

  “The atavar, the wizard who helps Odin, the god of the men of the North?” she queried fearfully.

  Laughingly, he whirled her away. She spun free from the coils of the whip so fast that she thought that she would spiral to infinity. At last she fell heavily into a bed of bracken and looked up at him, her wide sapphire eyes pleading that he let her go.

  His hair was long and thick, blonde like hers, but darker. The colour could be likened to spun toffee rather than spun gold. His eyes were blue, but paler. The colour was of the June sky on a cloudless day. His features were chiselled by a Norse sculptor. They were sharp as the edges of the Arctic world. On his head he wore the horns of a helmet, but they grew from his scalp, spearing from the lushness of his hair.

  Zacora tried to rise from the bracken, but he waved a hand and immediately she found that she was pinioned to the ground by intricate networks of cross gartering, fastened by stakes: it happened in one magical instant.

  “Why?” she muttered, lifting her head to stare up at his towering figure. “Why do you do this to me?”

  The light leather thongs bit into the softness of her breasts, thrusting hardened nipples upwards offering them to the wizard. The gartering spread her legs to their fullest extent, making the silver fronded nest part fully and offering the moist flesh to his cold blue gaze.

  “Quite beautiful,” he murmured. “Do you feel beautiful? Yes, of course, you do. There is nothing you desire more than to be bound and humiliated, and also to be beautiful.”

  Zacora opened her mouth to protest, but her parted lips were plugged with a muslin bag filled with herbs. A heady perfume seeped into her nostrils, swirling into her consciousness until she entered a dream world.

  A dream world in which only her sexual fulfilment mattered…

  An orgasm began in her erect nipples, flowed to the tips of her tethered fingers and on down to the spread of her open legs. Only then was there the familiar molten feeling in her belly. She looked up at Gungdir, pleading that he gave her the release of his magical climax.

  “You are the daughter of a Norse King,” she heard. His voice boomed through the morning sounds of the forest. “Odin sent me to impregnate you with some sense.”

  Obediently, Zacora thrust her fully open sex pouch up to the atavar. A king! She was the daughter of a king. Was she right to want Harold after all? Should it not be the prince who should take her?

  Gungdir sank between her splayed thighs and positioned his massive globe at her entrance. The silkiness of it made her gasp and she took in a great gulp of herb-tainted air. Dream images entered her mind. Ogham was tearing into her vaginal entrance, ripping open the gateway between innocence and knowledge. A pain, like a hot knife, tore through her, just as it had been when Ogham entered her. It was a pleasurable pain; one of wanting and of need.

  An orgasm, swift and intense, made her pinioned body convulse. The clutching walls of her passage sucked on Gungdir’s shaft, engulfing it hungrily.

  “Yes, my pretty,” the wizard hissed. “Ogham took you through your innocence.”

  Zacora flushed with embarrassment, but arched to suck harder on Gungdir’s stem.

  “And the slave master’s wooden phallus,” he went on, reminding her of her continued foolishness. “Ream upon my cockshaft as you gave that imposter your copious juices.”

  The more insults and humiliating memories he reined down upon her, the more she climaxed. She flooded his impaling weapon with a never ending stream of her sap. She heard again the crowd at the auction crowing their appreciation of the slave master’s plundering of her body.

  “Let me see,” said Gungdir, slowly withdrawing his thickness from her heat, admiring the droplets of pearly dew clinging to the leather bindings on his shaft. Shining droplets mingled on its globe, her sap and his, running together on the smooth skin. “Yes,” he said. “You have spumed for me quite nicely. Was it enjoyable? Did you attain orgasms such as the jailer gave you on the rack?”

  Zacora stiffened at the memory of the rank filth of the cells mingling with the pungent odour of that filthy man lying atop of her. She remembered pleasuring him, felt the heaviness of his scrotum stroking her splayed buttocks, felt the hot spray of his issue drenching her helpless passage.

  “Such pictures I see in your mind,” whispered Gungdir, plunging into her again. The roughness of the leather bindings around his shaft grated on the soft skin of her passage, increasing the stimulation.

  She opened wide her sapphire blue eyes to gaze into his ice pools, wondering if there was anything she could hide from him.

  He lay on her, tweaking the pouting flesh which peeked from the network of thongs. “You seek love from Harold,” he reminded her. “Just as you sought lust from the boy Ogham; excitement from the jailer and strength from the sedan bearer Wolf.”

  He sighed.

  “You stupid girl! You clutch at a penis as though it was a magic totem to give you powers which you already possess. Methinks your training was too thorough and has made you forget your natural talents.”

  He bit hard on one of her erect nipples. The pain was fierce bringing tears to the sapphire eyes.

  Then he began to plunge deeply into her helpless body. “My issue,” he panted, “will inject some wisdom into your trustful beauty.”

  Zacora’s mind whirled. Would she regain her noble position in the land?

  He panted, pushing into her satiny folds, butting the very limits of her sex pouch. She gasped at his deep intrusion, revelling in the pleasure produced by the rough bindings about his shaft.

  “You will suffer.” Slick sweat dropped from his luxuriant hair at his efforts.

  I already have, she thought dreamily, meeting the abrupt rhythm of his thrusts.

  “Many trials will befall you.” His thickness was pulsing, making the thongs grate at each inward thrust.

  But I shall be a noblewoman, she thought happily, clutching his wondrously plunging flesh.

  “Only then may you marry the man destined for you.” He grunted loudly, pleasurably, deep and loud and she heard the copious splashes enter
her.

  Zacora soared. Her nubbin swelled, throbbing and burning. Her passage, swilled with his fluid and pulsed convulsively. Her orgasm was unbearably intense. It came not once, but many times until she thought she would go mad with pleasure.

  At last he pulled from her and with a wave of a hand her bindings were gone, her dream over…

  Her mouth was free of the herb gag…

  More dreams assailed her…

  Dreams that came and went; of Harold, of Gungdir. When she awoke, if she had slept, for she could never be sure, the Vakaran dawn was full. Birds sang and the spectre of Gungdir hovered above her head. She seemed to hear his voice, deep and echoing. She reached out with a creamy arm, beckoning with slim fingers, wanting him.

  “You do not need me,” came a whisper in her ear, so soft as to be unreal. “You have the power to rule: to be anything you wish to be.”

  Afraid but excited at the same time, Zacora ran on, searching for she knew not what. ‘Anything you want to be,’ she murmured to herself, over and over.

  She was running, she knew not why.

  Then at last, feet torn and bleeding, she lay panting on a mossy bank, arms outspread behind her head and long creamy legs apart, baring her silver fronded sex…

  Again she slept…

  Until…

  “A beauty indeed, Highness.” The voice was cultured and soft. “Shall we have the sergeant-at-arms take her for the harem?”

  Zacora opened startled eyes which darted anxiously from one to the other of the men. She heard a gasp as they saw the deep blue of her wide orbs.

  “And this, my lord …” One of the men was stroking the softness of the silver curls between her legs. “A prize indeed! So different from the duskiness of the Vakaran women.”

  “Open her up fully.”

  Zacora looked up at this last speaker. Although he was dressed for the hunt he was clearly of noble birth. She saw his eyes glitter as they rested first on the full mounds of her breasts and then upon the silver fluff of her bush, pouting and glittering in the morning light.

  “Open her up,” he repeated. His voice was lowered in a husky whisper which held the firmness of command.

  One of his aides knelt between her parted legs and, using both hands, pulled apart her puffy sex lips. Zacora knew that such exposure would make her nubbin swell and thrust upwards. Her sex sap oozed from the open folds.

  “Delightful, my lord, is she not?” The aide turned to look at his master. “So willing to please. Surely a prize for your harem, my prince.”

  Zacora gave a secret smile. ‘Anything you want to be.’ The magical words echoed in her ears. Was this her chance to be a princess? The wizard had confused her by giving her choices.

  “It would seem so,” said the Prince. “Perhaps an heir will come from this meeting,” he added wistfully.

  The aide who held her pouch open slipped a gauntletted finger into her pulsing vagina, raising his eyebrows at the strength of the clutching. “She is but a sex slave, sire.” He withdrew his finger to examine the slick. “She is unworthy of your highness. She is a trained slave.”

  Zacora’s mind screamed at him: I am a noble, the daughter of a King. But she remained silent.

  “Do you think so?” The Prince frowned. “She looks too refined, too noble.” He bent to stroke her creamy skin, grazing the softness of a breast. “The Auction!” he exclaimed. “I knew she was familiar. I tried to buy her at the auction and was outbid by some merchant.” He smiled triumphantly. “Bind her and have her prepared for me. His loss is my gain.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The girl was beautiful; achingly beautiful.

  “What’s she called?” Callan eased his leather loin cloth to accommodate his swiftly growing erection.

  “Zacora Prim,” said Bernlada with a giggle. “And she is - very prim.”

  Callan’s black eyes glinted as he stared at the girl, helpless in her induction chains. The sight of her made his muscular body tauten, ready to spring upon her. Her incredible sapphire blue eyes turned upon him, pleading for mercy. Callan shuddered as the tension in his male sword grew to the point of pain.

  “How did the Prince happen upon her?” asked Callan. He placed his large hands on the glass of the viewing chamber as if he wished to break through and take the girl in his arms.

  Bernlada, so long Callan’s helpmate, gritted her teeth angrily. “He found her on the forest path, exhausted with her feet torn from a long run. She’s escaped from somewhere, but no-one knows where.”

  “A neighbouring kingdom,” said Callan vaguely. The girl was lovely, luscious and ripe, but slender and willowy.

  A cloak of shimmering golden curls fell to her waist. The jewel-like eyes were fringed by thick dark lashes. Her nose was straight and long. Soft lips, wide and with a sheen of moisture, were parted to show white and even teeth. The high-boned cheeks were flushed in the pale face.

  Callan’s eyes flickered down to the naked breasts. Their upper swell rose and fell as she breathed quickly. The flushed nipples were erect and pert while the fullness beneath seemed to beckon him to cup them in his hands.

  Her long slim arms were stretched tautly, one to her rear and one to the front, shackled between her widely spread thighs. The feet, so sorely used through her run through the forest, had been bandaged by a serving maid, but were, nevertheless, manacled to prevent escape.

  Silvery blonde fronds escaped at each side of the wrist manacles. The curls were soft and dewy, shining in the soft lights of the induction chamber. Callan gulped. How he longed to spread that bush, open the cushiony lips to reveal the female petals and bud beneath.

  His cock was at full stretch, probing open the loose loin cloth to reveal itself. He saw the girl looking at it, her eyes shining - with what? Longing? Fear? Disgust? He couldn’t tell. He held his shaft loosely in both hands, displaying its length and thickness. The fingers of one hand strayed to the fullness of his sperm sac, bursting with life and power. The fingers of his other hand stroked the thickness of the end globe, spreading issue from the single eye.

  He saw the girl blush, the thick lashes fluttered on the fired cheeks, but she looked at him proudly. The sapphire blue eyes focused on the display of his manhood.

  Bernlada pressed against him, squeezing his body and rubbing her rounded little belly up and down his hot length. “You don’t want her,” she rasped in her low gravelly voice. “You and I have mated these many years past. We have weaved the magic of sex within the Prince’s gates and he has never failed in the rewarding.”

  Callan smiled down at her small, eager face. “And we shall continue to do so,” he assured her. Bernlada’s body was always willing, ready and open for him. It was a vessel into which he had spilled many fountains of his seed and, by doing so in full display for the Prince, had released his Highness’s inhibitions.

  “Zacora Prim!” scoffed Bernlada, turning to look at the captive in the glass induction room. “Have you ever heard such a stupid name?” Her dainty little hands were cossetting Callan’s beautiful rod; stroking tiny fingers up and down the silky tightness and testing the ropey veins which curled around it like a snake taking its prey.

  Callan’s eyes strayed back to Zacora, marvelling at her beauty. Never had he seen skin so pale and unblemished. It was so fine as to be almost translucent. Was she even of this world? Drawn to her widely splayed legs, his black orbs focused on the silver spray of her pubic curls. It was lush and prolific, but he could tell that the texture would be soft and white, unlike Bernlada’s crisp blackness. If only he could enter the induction chamber, but it would be impossible until the Prince gave his permission and, even then, Callan would not be allowed to touch the gorgeous creature.

  It was a torture to be so close to such lusciousness and be unable to satisfy himself, to spurt all his desires into her.

  “Let me suck you to satisfaction,” pleaded Bernlada. “You produce so much, so quickly, that the Prince would never know if I drank it down.” The small impis
h woman was beginning to hate the Prince’s new plaything. She knew that her own beauty, great though it was, was no match for the fettered prisoner behind the glass. She held up her heavy breasts, stroking the saucer-like nipples to swift and hard erection and brushed them coaxingly against the muscular width of Callan’s chest. He smiled at her again and took her in his arms before pushing on her narrow shoulders.

  “Drink me down,” he agreed, but he did not look at her. His handsome black eyes were focused on the haughty beauty behind the glass. Would that it was her milky skin brushing his tall and muscular smoothness. Would that it was her hands clutching his leather thronged calves and lifting his loincloth.

  Bernlada’s black mane brushed his thighs as she nuzzled into position and and Callan shuddered. The brisk little beauty had served him well over the years as his helpmate, but he needed a change and the ripe peach behind the glass would suit him nicely, if only he could find some way to persuade the Prince that she was not for him.

  The soft moist caress of Bernlada’s tongue made its first essay on the tense sperm sac drawn up between Callan’s thighs. He shuddered. She had a magic touch. Indeed, there was a time when he thought that she was the assistant of Hell, the goddess of Death, but it was her appearance, her swarthiness and her healing touch which made him think thus.

  Now the sperm sac was engulfed entirely by Bernlada’s full mouth. Callan squatted, urging her with rhythmic writhing of his perfect body, to take all of his maleness into her accommodating mouth. Slowly, like a python engulfing a victim, she swallowed the length and girth of his shaft, adding it to his balls in the sucking maw of her mouth.

  Callan felt a feeling of triumph as he watched Zacora shift in the chains which held her bandaged feet. Was it his imagination or was she gently swaying her wrist chains back and forth through the silvery fronds of the forest between her spread thighs? Could he truly see the dew of excitement shining on the soft strands? Was her female bud probing through the blonde curls jerking for attention, and were the protective lobes swelling around the tight chains that kept her arms fast between her legs? She gave him a soft smile and he could take the strain no longer. He felt his penis jerk in the depths of Bernlada’s throat and she pulled back, an angry snarl distorting her dark beauty.