The Captive

by Amber Jameson

  Callan stood up, thrusting his penis forward as if to confirm his mastery of the situation. “A slight rebellion on the slave’s part,” he explained. “Nothing serious, I assure you.”

  “Fine,” said the sergeant impatiently. “Let’s get on with it. Since I am the most senior of the guards, I shall go first.”

  “She is capable of taking three men at a time,” Callan said quickly.

  Zacora gasped. Excitement with a tinge of fear made her slim belly flutter. She felt the cool softness of the mossy pillow under her hot skin and bore down into it, making sure that her moist pouch was fully open and her rear mouth was readily available. She could feel the roughness of the rope between her full breasts, and to this was added the grating of the old bark. This last seemed to make her nipples more tender, more sensitive, and her whole body more receptive.

  “Three men at one time?” questioned the sergeant. A frown creased his face, handsome but weather beaten. “How so?”

  “You will note,” said Callan, “how I have forced her head up.” He squatted down, his erect penis swaying before Zacora’s eyes. She could see its eye moist, but not yet dripping. “If you, or one of your men, put legs wide and ease your cock into her mouth you will find it a wonderfully satisfying experience.” He stroked Zacora’s silky hair. She made no protest, but simply parted her lips in readiness.

  The mens’ eyes shone as the idea became clear. “And one of you can penetrate her in the usual way,” added Callan. He parted and lifted the puffy labia and pushed fore and middle fingers into the socket, then held the glistening fingers up for all to see, and the men sighed in appreciation.

  Zacora lay on the rough log, waiting. Callan was humiliating her deliberately, but she smiled softly to herself. Harold was the master, the master of humiliation, and soon, she hoped, she would belong to him.

  “And lastly, one of you will penetrate her rear,” Callan said softly. “It will be tight, and will require lubrication. This can be taken from here.” The two fingers smeared into the parted softness once more and they were brought out gleaming and dripping. Callan massaged the pert rear tightness until Zacora could not help but grip the soft intrusion.

  The eager soldiers understood how to take their pleasure quickly and were soon in position. Only one, that taking the female entrance, found difficulty in sliding under Zacora and slipping in his penis.

  Two others, too impatient to wait their turn, stood over the sex slave’s helpless form, slicking their fingers up and down their throbbing stems.

  Callan stood by, one hand on his rigid manhood and one hand, at intervals, caressing Zacora. The pale oval of her face was stroked by the soft back of his hand, which sometimes strayed to the busy lips, stretched wide around the soldier’s penis. Callan encouraged her wild sucking; encouraged the tongue which flickered tantalisingly over the man’s leaking globe.

  Occasionally, Callan’s free hand took the flesh of a breast, kneading it hard so that Zacora found herself making murmurs of both pain and pleasure. He bent to suck the extended nipple, lapping at it wetly as he stroked his mound.

  He listened to the sounds on the sensual forest path; the murmurs of sweet ecstasy, the sounds of wetness, bodies linked by the pleasure. Zacora reared as a powerful orgasm hit her, jerking her flesh with the voluptuousness which threshed through her.

  It seemed to be a signal. The two men standing, their hands grasping their cocks like enormous fleshy weapons, grunted loudly, and Callan watched as they spumed hot creamy jets over the sex slave’s body.

  Zacora, her head held back by the rope around her long slim throat, began to swallow as the man spearing into her mouth spurted into it. There was a great deal, Callan could tell, from the way the girl was forced to swallow quickly.

  The soldiers embedded deep inside Zacora were sweating profusely. The moisture ran in tiny streams down their ruddy faces. It was obvious that they were straining to hold back their pleasure; to prolong it. They rutted into her, pacing each other. One could feel the strength of the other’s insertion through her delicate flesh, but the delight was too much and with a duet of hoarse growls they pulled from the syrupy nests to pool their issue on the already slicked skin of her back.

  Zacora, head still arched back, looked up at the men. She may have been humiliated by these rough soldiers but the pride was still there on her lovely face. Callan fell upon her, unable to hold back his passion any longer. The other soldiers, those who had not taken her, took their turn. They were rough, grinding into her, scraping the tender skin of her belly on the bark.

  Callan was roughest, screwing her ferociously and mouthing obscenities in her ears. His hands gripped the tangled mass of her golden hair and pounded his weapon deep inside her. She could feel the dark crisp curls of his pubis grinding against the fine flesh of her pouting buttocks and his roughness hurt; physically and mentally. He was punishing her for discarding him, but his roughness was exciting. A molten flood of pleasure swirled in her belly, sucking her down into it until she thought she would never surface.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Well, now,” came the familiar mocking voice of Harold the Pretender. “What a pretty sight!”

  They had all been too intent upon their molesting of the captive to hear the approaching horses, which had come stealthily, not along the forest path but through the leaf strewn woodland.

  As her assailants tried in vain to hide their shame, Zacora said nothing. But the moist sapphire eyes spoke volumes. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased to see you, Harold. Look what he’s made me do. Look how he’s tied me and given me to these soldiers before taking me himself. He’s a wicked cruel man and he was going to give me to that awful Prince. I want to be your slave. Just yours!’ The words were not spoken, but her limpid, loving eyes and parted lips caressed the man who had bought her and was now about to save her.

  “There, there, my sweet,” he soothed, as if he heard her unspoken thoughts.

  He turned to the guards. “This will not do!” he thundered. “I shall report this matter to the Prince! We shall go there now and I shall put him in place for good.” He looked at her, resplendently naked and splayed upon the log. Her wrists were still bound and positioned at the very top of her buttock crease. His dark mature eyes, so full of knowledge and wisdom of the ways of young girls, took in every detail of the helpless body.

  The delicate creamy skin of the curvaceous buttocks were marked from the rough handling they had received from the soldiers and Callan. Harold smoothed these marks, tracing them as if trying to remember them forever. He replaced the rope, dampened by the splashes of the soldiers’ semen, into the depths of Zacora’s buttock crease, making sure that it was still tight along the length from wrists to neck. His smooth and knowing hand slipped under her body to feel the silver downy softness of her pubic bush. He cupped it, delighting in the way the rope chafed the pouting flesh. With two fingers, splayed into a wide V, he felt the parted labia, admiring their plump firmness, so beautifully enhanced by the tightness of the rope.

  Zacora lay still. She knew better that to move when Harold touched her. He enjoyed her body when she was still and passive, allowing him to investigate slowly and lovingly.

  He parted the damp labia yet more, forcing the rough hemp of the rope into the soaking valley of her sex pouch. Zacora was unable to prevent herself jerking as the bond snapped on to her sensitive clitoris.

  Harold’s skilled fingers stroked the moist bud which reared for him. He lightly traced around the base of the perimeter of the shaft, feeling the silkiness of the lubrication. Inexorably, the finger teased. First it rubbed the erect top of the tiny shaft, staying well away from the sensitive tip. Zacora made mewing sounds but remained still, leaving the choice of his pace entirely to him. He felt the bud move under his touch, flutter engagingly like an insect preparing to break from the imprisoning chrysalis.

  Zacora peeped over her shapely shoulder through tumbled locks, and he met her eyes, twinkling his dark knowing ones into the innoce
nce of her blue orbs. The finger stroked each side of the silky shaft. She was breathing rapidly. Her bonded arms drew back as she tried to enhance the sensations being given by Harold, by stroking her erect nipples upon the rough bark of the old oak. She wanted her release. Her buttock muscles twitched involuntarily. If only he would raise her tiny hood, stroke the sensitive tip and be done with this teasing.

  “Shall I whip these men?” Harold had almost forgotten that she and Gareth were with him until her harsh voice broke the spell. He released his hold on the damp valley of Zacora’s sex purse and rose, holding the embroidered robe tightly closed to hide the stiffness and length of his erection.

  Zacora, totally enslaved to her master, physically, mentally and emotionally, mewed piteously as he moved away from her body. She was ignored, for Harold must deal with his business before his pleasures.

  “They must be punished,” he said thoughtfully.

  The soldiers, heads bowed, stood waiting to hear their fate. They knew that they could not expect mercy for the Meleagan family were well known for their discipline, even outright cruelty.

  “I asked if I could whip them,” said Megan testily. Gareth was watching, his slight body moving from foot to foot, his hands twitching around the growing bulge in his tight breeches. He loved to see the infliction of pain. It excited him, but he was unable to stand it upon himself.

  A broad smile lit up Harold’s face. “I have a plan,” he said, “much more subtle than the sometimes inelegance of whipping.”

  Megan frowned. Gareth looked disappointed.

  “Nevertheless,” conceded Harold, pointing to Callan, “you, Megan, may remove that one’s leather breeches and flay his buttocks most thoroughly.”

  Zacora felt a new flush of excitement make her body pinken prettily. He deserved it, she thought, treating her the way he did as Harold entered the forest clearing.

  “But what of the guards?” Gareth wanted to know.

  Harold smiled again; a secretive wicked smile. “Do we have spare rope or chains?” His eyes flickered across the men, standing so meekly awaiting their fate. One of them was sneaking a look at Zacora’s still helpless body on the fallen oak. There was a tremor, a filling out, of the man’s penis. Harold’s eyes shone. It was exactly what he was expecting. “Well? Have we, or have we not?”

  Gareth was eagerly searching through the pack on his horse. “We have both,” he said, holding up a bundle of ropes and chains.

  “Excellent!” commanded Harold. “As Megan attends to the palace servant, you, Gareth, will bind each of our guards about the penis so that there can be no movement. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Gareth eagerly. “Oh, yes!” The slight figure bounced across the clearing and, Zacora, from the corner of her wide sapphire eyes, could see that the young man was grossly excited.

  The soldiers were murmuring miserably. “Will this punishment be a permanent thing, master?” asked the sergeant.

  “Certainly not,” said Harold, quite hurt at this suggestion. “Do you take me for a cruel man?”

  There were faint sighs of relief from the soldiers, but no-one answered Harold’s question.

  Megan busied herself tugging Callan’s leather leggings from his beautifully muscled body, exclaiming as each muscle was fully revealed, delighting in the taut buttocks. “These will take the whip well,” she murmured happily. She took him to a broad elm tree and, with some reluctance on his part, bonded his arms around the tree by tying his wrists about its girth. She spread his legs, delighting at his grunts of pain as she pressed his naked genitals to the trunk. His ankles were bound separately on each side of the sturdy elm.

  Harold smiled at his assembled guard, watching them shudder at Callan’s treatment. “I wonder how you will take your punishment,” he said thoughtfully. “Let us see. Gareth, if you please.”

  The lad tested a fine chain for strength and resilience. The sergeant stepped forward, his head now held proudly upwards, ready for the treatment. He shuddered a little as the cold chain touched his naked flesh. It was wrapped around his slim groin, tying his penis tightly downwards. The chain was wrapped around the victim several times, cutting into the fine skin of his sperm sac and shaft.

  With ropes and chains, each guard was treated in the same manner. Megan was flexing her whip, giving it a few peremptory flicks on the forest floor and delighting in the expressions on the faces of the guards and Callan, bound so tightly to the tall elm.

  “What now?” Gareth wanted to know. “What would you wish me to do with them now?”

  The same secretive smile creased Harold’s handsome face. “Gags for all, I think,” he said softly. The forest was hushed, waiting. Even the birds were silent, perched upon the branches looking down upon the scene. The leaves were still on the trees. Under the strength of the two suns of Vakir, the heat of mid-day was oppressive, the men, in their heavy chain mail, sweated. Moisture ran copiously, from heat and apprehension, down their faces and necks. “And, for safety’s sake, bind their wrists behind the buttocks,” added Harold after some thought. “We don’t want them running amok.”

  It didn’t take persuasion for Gareth to do his bidding.

  Megan was frowning.

  Harold turned to her. “You seem perplexed, my dear.” He was slowly loosening his richly embroidered robe.

  “It doesn’t seem much of a punishment for the guards to be bound like that,” she said testily. “They’re frightened enough about being caught with your sex slave. Their weapons are very limp.”

  Harold slipped from his robe. He wore a richly jewelled codpiece. The precious stones caught the rays of the dual suns and the effect was dazzling. He stood legs apart, displaying the rich bundle proudly, like a strutting peacock about to fan out its tail.

  The codpiece was well-filled, both between the muscular thighs and below the flat well-toned stomach. A dark band of hair bisected the flesh, giving the effect that the penis was already free from its jewelled pocket.

  Zacora’s sapphire eyes peered over her smooth shoulder in awe. The contents of the richly decorated package, she was sure, were for her. She was mesmerised by the sight. The other men in the forest clearing meant nothing to her.

  The codpiece was held in position by jewelled bands and, so slowly as to be tortuous, Harold released these from his neat waist and from between his taut buttocks. His penis speared up, thick and gleaming, and Zacora caught her breath at the sight.

  “For you, my dear,” he whispered, striding over to her, with long easy strides. As if she was as light as a sack full of feathers, he lifted her from the fallen log. “This sword of mine is for you.”

  Zacora was aware that they were being watched. The guards, gagged and with their wrists bound, their shafts chained or roped to prevent erection, watched as she was laid upon a steep mossy bank. Her arms were still bound behind her, with the rope rising between her swollen flesh lips to her chafed neck.

  The avid eyes of the guards never left her. They watched as Harold gently parted her long graceful thighs and positioned them so that the knees were loosely bent. Her buttocks were pressed up by her bound hands, giving the effect that her sex purse was offered high to Harold.

  She knew that she was wet; that moisture gathered on the pink open-ness of her sex leaves. She knew that her clitoris was darkly inflamed, the hood drawn back. Most of all, she knew that her female entrance was pulsing beautifully for penetration.

  Her breasts were swollen, tender. They, too, were offered to her master; willingly, gladly. He seemed to know and he bared his strong white teeth, grating them painfully over the erect buds.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Callan watching. He had a look of longing on his dark features. The bonding to the tree seemed to excite him for his naked buttocks were pouting and his penis, closely bound though he was, was patently rigid and eager.

  Megan was eyeing Zacora, her expression both spiteful and envious. The sex slave could not help wondering whether the envy was for her b
eauty or the attraction which Harold felt. His hands were dancing lightly over her inner thighs, spreading them so that there would be no hindrance when he finally penetrated her. Zacora placed her naked feet together, forming a circle of wanton-ness with her legs. This action had the effect of lifting her silver fronded mound, already raised closer to her adoring eyes by her bound hands at her buttocks. It also spread her moist leaves outwards, making it fully available to him.

  Harold sighed and knelt at her side, his male flesh held tightly in his hand, testing its firmness.

  “Are you ready, my sweet?”

  “Always, for you, master,” she whispered.

  He knelt, like a supplicant, within the circle of her long legs, and swayed the heavy length of his shaft across her silver mound. The fullness of his balls nestled in her wet open sex pouch.

  “Now!” she begged. “Now! Now! NOW!”

  She looked up at him, the chafing of the rope reminding her of her slavery to him. His dark head was thrown back in ecstasy, completely ready to plunge into her, but he was so controlled and so completely the master, that he could restrain himself.

  At last, he eased her legs to the fully open position. He delicately poised his swollen globe at her pulsing entrance and plunged inwards. Zacora sighed ecstatically at the deliciously full and fulfilled feeling.

  Somewhere in the distance of her mind Zacora could hear the resounding crack of Megan’s whip smacking naked flesh. It caused a great flood of sex sap to torrent over Harold’s penetrating shaft. The excess oozed hotly over her lifted buttocks and over her bound hands. In spite of her slavery the excitement gave her emotional freedom and she arched gladly to her penetrator.

  The crack of the whip came again, sharper this time, more cutting. Far away she thought she heard a groan of agony, muffled and gagged. It did not distract her, but simply heightened the delicious pleasure swirling in her belly. The swirl seemed to emanate from within herself, but also from the tip of Harold’s cockshaft. With every plunge came the sound of the whip meeting bare flesh.