by Aran Ashe
When Anya was allowed to turn, once the last murmurs had subsided, she saw the smoothly curved back of the body beside her, the black hair being stroked by one man while the feet were tickled by the other, and she saw both stems still erect and one of them shiny wet; she saw again the wetness at the back of the girl's thigh; she could smell the milt. And she felt the ache of wanting so deep inside that it sucked upon her womb until it hurt. She felt the sinking in her belly when a pot of oysters was brought and the two men moved to her side.
That night, Anya acquired a taste for oysters, which hitherto she had hated and would not even look upon in their jellied, open state, let alone touch. But now, she had the juice of oysters dripped into her mouth, and more deliciously, dripped upon her nubbin and sucked, and more deliciously still, she fed oyster flesh to the men from the soft-shelled cup of her open sex. Her hips would be lifted on Shanam's thighs; she would be open - her thighs, with the tight bands clinging wet; the lips of her sex, held open with Ranil's thumbs pressing to either side; and her mouth too - reaching for those large round ballocks dangling up above her. She would hear the cracking as the shell was opened, the scraping of the knife and then her lifted belly would shudder with the first freezing drips that splashed upon her sex lips and within - cold trickling stings upon the soft warm inner pinkness. The roughness of the shell would touch as it was tipped and momentarily, she would turn to stone, frightened of a sharpness that might cut. She would feel the flood of cold liquid, then the cold wet weight, soft coldness slipping in its sea of salty juice, then Shanam's tongue slipping underneath it, lifting, scooping and the juice overflowing, wetting the skin bands, wetting her belly, making her belly arch to feed that tongue, her neck arch, her tongue slip out in lewdness to press into the divide between those ballocks up above her and to lick a wet line up and down the curving soft-tubed undersurface of the salted stem - to feel it shudder in its turn, as she had shuddered last night.
Each time she tried to take the cap of the cockstem in her mouth, it retreated, as if afraid to enter and spill its thickness over her tongue. She knew he was very near; she could feel the trembling and she could feel his thumbtips shaking as they opened her between her thighs, for the oyster to drop and make her shiver as her lips were sealed about it and it moved against the warmth inside her, slipping deep within the neck of the cup while the ocean liquid spilled to wet the gold ring through her nubbin, to wet her curly hairs and to soak into the thin skin belts that squeezed the tops of her legs. And with the oyster deep inside her, she was played with and lifted higher, that her bottom might be touched. The oyster warmed and the liquid continued to trickle out and down the groove. From above, her wetted fleshy lips were rubbed; the ring was teased out and gently turned until her pleasure welled; the lips were opened, then sealed again. She felt warm breath against her; she was sucked. And now she could not bear the deliciousness of the feeling. Her tongue arched up again, licking between the open legs above her, lifting the ballocks. Even as she whimpered with that first deep drawing feeling as she felt one tongue-tip press through the ring from above and lift, a second tongue began the slow licking journey upwards from the tip of her backbone to the mouth of her uplifted bottom, collecting every drop of liquid that had spilled into the groove. Her nipples turn rigidly hard. She felt the nearness of the pleasure of the person up above her and she touched those heavy ballocks with her fingers, splitting them, lifting them to the sides that her moistened tongue might continue to follow that smooth but shuddering centre line from the plum, down the undertube, pushing between the spread-apart ballocks and on and back towards the smooth hard curve of flesh that descended into his groove. And when Anya licked that curving bridge of smoothness, back and forth between his legs, keeping it wet and slippery, she felt his tongue-tip shiver in the ring that pierced her nubbin; she felt his ballocks tighten; then she felt him start to pump. Her tongue, broad now, flat against this bridging curve, felt the milt flow through the tightly tubed polished skin; she felt him coming though she touched his cockstem not at all, with any part of her body; she simply held the ballocks drawn apart, maintaining that line of tightness with her broad warm tongue pressed against the rounded bridge that led up to his bottom. When the first splash of milt fell upon her breast, she shuddered; when the second enveloped her nipple in a warm wet gluey coat, her own tongue hardened to a rigid point; when the tongue that licked her bottom entered her, she came. The milt continued pumping, the point of her tongue moved up and pressed into the base of the soft undertube, to feel that pulse, to try to trap it and to make the owner wriggle. Her nubbin was nipped; she screamed; her fleshpot squeezed and the oyster was delivered on to the waiting tongue below.
They never entered her body or her mouth with any part other than their tongues. She was allowed to play with their cockstems or to cup a plum between her thighs and to press it to her moistened flesh lips, which would form a sucker to the underside of the plum. She would seal the join with spittle and press two fingers down upon the top surface and rub it to make it come. Sometimes she would press the mouth of the cock against the gold ring and the spurting would precipitate her pleasure. The sticky milt would be rubbed into the creases of her thighs, or cupped and rubbed into her nipples; then she would be massaged until she dried or until a further batch of milt was spilled. In ways such as this, her second night passed much more quickly beneath the repeated attentions of these two men.
In the late morning, Anya stepped from the hut to find even the outdoor air heavy and humid. The lake and the sea beyond were silent and blanketed in a pure white mist which formed a wispy wall at a stone's throw from the platform's edge. As soon as she was clear of the hut, a voice called from the end of the causeway. Anya recognised the voice and, staring hard, made out the slim form of Ikahiti, afraid to come any closer but beckoning to her through the mist. Anya glanced over her shoulder to make sure that none of the men had noticed, then she crept over. But she was not sure that she wanted to leave yet: she had come to realise the pleasure that such constant close solicitude can bring - not simply sexual pleasure, real though that was, but also the much more enduring tenderness and warmth. She was surer now than ever that the kinds of things that the Princess and Ikahiti did to the men that they had captured was cruel; they took pleasure from it in a way that Anya never could. But even so, she had really missed her friend.
Ikahiti stared at Anya and Anya, suddenly recalling the way that Ikahiti had run away and left her, knowing how afraid Anya had been, did not greet Ikahiti by taking her hand as she had intended to do but looked away, towards the sea, enveloped in its mist. Anya continued walking on, beyond the camp and round the lake, examining her feet now, watching them press into the soft dry sand. Ikahiti continued by her side without speaking. Then she stopped, faced Anya and planted her feet apart. She held something up. Ikahiti did not look at it herself but, frowning deeply, watched Anya's eyes moving down and focusing, then growing wider and wider with excitement and disbelief.
'He lives ...?' she stared at Ikahiti and she knew it, though Ikahiti did not speak. 'He lives?' Anya then repeated. Between Ikahiti's shaking fingertips was a thick gold ring; it bore the Sword of Lidir - the Prince's signet. Anya's knees felt weak. She reached to take it but Ikahiti snatched it away. 'The Prince!' Anya cried it out this time, her eyes growing wider and more shining, filling with tears. 'But Ikahiti, is he here? Where is he?' Ikahiti turned away. 'Please - is he safe? Is he in the village?' And then she thought of him taken captive, and was suddenly afraid. 'Is he all right? You have not hurt him? Ikahiti - Please?' But Ikahiti continued stone-facedly ignoring her and trying to walk onwards while Anya tried to hold her back and plead. Finally, Ikahiti flung the ring into the sand and Anya grovelled after it.
'I-rin-asiirt!' Ikahiti cried. 'Shiri-ne!' And she pointed back the way they had come, 'Ta-lata rin asiirt!' heaping abuse on Anya, kicking the sand up and storming off in the opposite direction. Anya found the ring, though she could hardly see it for her tears.
She ran, stumbling, back past the bridge to the men's camp, not stopping though people shouted in surprise. Across the rocks she hurried then up the face and through the hole and down again across the rocky ridges of the small inlet and finally back on to sand. But she did not see the tracks. Something snaked across the sand in front of her and she tripped over it, falling forward into the sand. Before she could scramble to her knees she was grabbed and pinned. These were not the villagers - even through her tears she knew that. She saw the ragged clothing, heard the guttural chuckles, then looking up, saw pushing through the group the creature that she dreaded most. She was released but cowered on her knees. The voice was very quiet:
'Why, Princess - can it be? - and why in such a hurry?' But even the shore party, tough as this group were, winced at the smack across the face that knocked the poor girl back to the ground before Travix dragged her by the hair to the water's edge and threw her in with the other nubile captives cringing in the bilges of the boat.
[13]
Loving Retribution
She had had one real chance: on the beach, she could have screamed and fought with the men who held her; it would surely have drawn someone's attention. But in an instant, terror had sucked the very breath from her throat; those cruel, evil eyes and the vision of that severed lip had made her freeze. Once Travix had laid her hands on Anya, it was too late. She turned limp; Travix wound Anya's hair round her hand and would not let it go. 'For fear you should vanish yet again,' said Travix - and like a she-wolf with her teeth into her sapless prey, she dragged her trophy back to her lair.
On deck, the captive girls were distributed thus - two for the captain, three for Kasger on the slave deck, leaving one remaining, the runaway. Travix asked the captain what should be done with her. The captain pursed his lips. He looked at Anya, forced to her knees now, her open belly splayed, with Travix above her, one hand in the middle of her back, forcing it downwards, the other pulling and cruelly twisting the hank of hair. Then he turned to the pair of young girls standing in wide-eyed terror to his right. He studied their smooth bronze naked skin before he spoke. He looked upon their rounded, pear-shaped breasts and their perky little nipples. He noticed that between her legs, one of them wore a gold ring, the other wore a tiny bone. He wondered: why this difference?
'I'm sorry, Mister Travix - what?' he eventually replied.
'The runaway, sir - the one that jumped ship ...?'
'Ah yes ... As you think appropriate, Mister Travix; as you deem fit. But be sure it is a punishment she will cherish and not forget.' He watched the slim, full-breasted body shudder at these words. He looked at the pleading eyes, caressing them from a distance with his own. As the gentle lips began to tremble, to beseech with silent words, he nodded. 'Yes, be sure it is a punishment that will bite,' he whispered, then he sighed. Would that he were there to witness it. But a captain must of necessity retain that element of detachment from his crew. He would taste her body later; and he would get her to explain. Again, the captain sighed and looked upon her once more before departing with his prizes.
The boat was again dispatched. The few crewmen remaining on deck retreated to a safe distance, for the expression on the face of the master's mate was at once arrogance, cold hate and evil satisfaction. Anya was terrified and naked, at this woman's mercy. Without letting go of her hair, Travix moved round to her front, so Anya's head was twisted back and to one side.
'And now, Princess,' said Travix, enunciating very precisely, 'where was it that we were?'
'Please ...?' Anya whispered. She could see the woman only from the corner of one eye; her neck ached; her back was breaking; the muscles of her thighs were cramping.
'No,' said Travix. 'Let us take time to recall. I believe you were attempting to explain exactly what you thought of me. You may do so now. Go ahead.'
'Oh, please,' Anya could only repeat, more plaintively yet, but Travix would not let up.
'Tell me,' she insisted. Anya's fingers writhed, curling tight in anguish then stretching out again in hopeless desperation. Travix spoke through gritted teeth. 'Yes - use your fists again if you prefer.'
'Nooo ...' she whined, disowning her own hands now, placing them back behind her. 'Please, I ... I beg of you, please?' she added very softly, and at those words a shudder came in Anya's belly and the hand that held her hair so tightly suddenly relaxed.
The sun had pierced the mist. It enveloped the deck in warmth, but Anya was shaking. Travix stood back. She called to the men in leather shirts. Anya, her hands still kept behind her and moving only when she shook, began to cry. Her shoulders hunched to protect her breasts, so full, so defencelessly exposed. Then her hair fell forwards to cover her face; heavy tears rolled down the cheeks that now lay hidden behind their curtain of copper strands. But Travix saw those luscious droplets splash upon the deck - and she felt an inner warmth, more sweetly warm than wine. It was this gift that Anya gave her that would in time secure her full forgiveness. Many times that day, her perfect body would yield this sweet redress. Travix would savour it, drip by drip - now, when she was punished - smacked breathless through the ship, then delivered to the men and later, and most delectable of all, in Travix's bed, when her tears would well freely and again to wet the clean fresh sheets and to mix with the warmth of her emissions. Travix looked upon the breasts now - full, like her own, and suddenly the urge was upon her - to see their freckled fullness fuller yet.
'Lie down on your front - on the deck. No! Keep your hands behind your back.' And she watched the distraught innocent bowing her belly forwards, not knowing how to make the manoeuvre yet struggling to comply. 'Keep your knees apart - wide. Put your shoulders back. Tighter. Fold your arms behind your back.' And now the full breasts lifted, swelled and pointed out and to the sides. Travix moved round to see their bulging shapes in profile. 'Now lie down, as I told you. Do it slowly.' She watched the soles curving, the toes curling in desperation on the upturned feet, the knees gradually edging apart, the supple backbone flexing, unflexing, then flexing hard again. The buttocks opened, the sex projected underneath - and then she saw it, the glint of gold against the black. 'Wait!' she cried. 'Stay still.' The girl trembled. Travix approached quite deliberately from behind, that the girl would not see and would not know until she was actually touched. Travix's left hand slid, palm upwards, along the deck. The middle finger lifted and touched metal bedded between moist and clinging skin. The girl jumped, but it was true - she was pierced. The finger withdrew and Travix stood up and moved back. 'Move over - to the side a little. Keep your hips to the floor.' The girl, open-thighed, inched crabwise over the deck until her bottom balanced above a seam in the planking. 'Stop,' said Travix. Seen from behind now, the perfect bottom bulged, bisected by the deep incision of the groove which, to Travix's eye, appeared continuous with the split in the flesh lips and below them, with the line of separation in the woodwork. 'Now continue. I want to see those thighs spread wider. Your lips of lust must touch the floor.' The girl shuddered yet she obeyed; her buttocks moved in a slow gyration, bedding downwards; Travix watched the flesh lips brush the wood. The hips lifted slightly. 'Down, I said,' and the flesh lips pressed against then slipped into the groove between the planks. 'Good,' whispered Travix. She strode round to the girl's front. It appeared to Travix that the expression on that face had changed and that behind the pleading in her liquid eyes was a smouldering sensual need. 'Keep your shoulders back.' The breasts lifted again. How Travix wanted to smack them now - with bare hands wetted to the ruffled wrists in clear cool water - but in love, in Travix's kind of courtship, the first punishment must never be hurried. It must enmesh with the sweet tears of submission and the burning warmth of arousal. Then the greater the punishment, the crueller the abuse, the more soft and luscious, the more open and loving would be that body afterwards to punishments of a more intimate kind. A courtship must be conducted properly if love is to be enduring.
'If you defy me once more after today, you shall be secured, in the position
you now assume, with the trinket you display so lewdly pinned down to the floor, while your breasts are birched and your bottom is whipped to bleeding point through the application of the cat. Keep still!' she screamed. 'Now do you understand?' The body shook; the shoulders hunched even more; the tears began to well again. 'Then lie down - slowly. I am waiting.'
Travix moved to the side again. 'Keep those arms folded behind you.' Slowly, the knees moved out, the hips broadened, the back arched in a smooth tight curve and the belly bowed. It kissed the woodwork, then the breasts touched, separating, as Travix had intended and pushed out, hard and full, to each side. That vision was exquisite. 'Now put your arms down on the deck - flat. Spread them. Move your knees out - keep them on the deck.' Travix walked round the body that was stretched out, pressed like an open flower to the timbers, then she halted by the girl's right side. She looked at the face turned to the side, the tearstained cheeks, the freckled shoulders and the perfect hollow beneath the arm - with its nestled, dark red curls - which fed out to the sumptuous swelling of the breast and the polished black nipple pushed out horizontally an inch above the grain. She touched this nipple with the soft wet toe of her velvet boot, wet from the girl's faint struggles in the water as Travix had dragged her backwards to the boat. She used this moistened toe to press the nipple to the wood and to roll it back and forth while the girl trembled. Yet still there was a weak resistance to her shame; her fingertips tried to claw clandestinely against the wood. 'Keep still,' Travix ordered very softly and the girl obeyed; the ineffectual fingertips stopped. What Travix really wanted was to take her boot off and to taste the sun-warmed roundness of the breast with the soft skin of her instep, curved until it cramped to match the roundness of that teat, and to tickle the curls beneath the armpit with her toes. But she contented herself with this gentle rolling of the nipple beneath the cool moist tip of velvet.
