The Slave of Lidir

by Aran Ashe

  "Good!" Cook said. "I like a man with spirit." This turn of phrase, heard once again, but in this very different context, made Anya wonder how she could be safe at all beneath this woman's fickle wings.

  The guard now made a move; his hand stretched out across the table top to try to open Anya's cloak, which she had held tight closed against just such an unwelcome advance. Cook spotted him and rapped him sharply on the knuckles with the spoon end of her ladle. "Finish your drink now, and be off with you, or the Captain shall hear of this. This girl is under my protection."

  Anya was thankful for this timely intercession; perhaps she might have misjudged Cook after all. The guard grunted some complaint and then left quietly, after one long withering look at Anya. It made her hope that she would never have the misfortune to cross his path again.

  Cook turned to the man. "Now, would you care to mount the Horse, so we may see what you are made of?" she asked in a very polite voice. The man still had not spoken when he stepped astride the beam. He had to use his hands to steady himself, for the height was such that his feet would not reach the floor. Although the beam was well padded, Anya knew it could not be comfortable with all his weight concentrated in that single spot at the joining of his thighs. She imagined herself spread like this astride the Horse; it made her belly sink at first with fear and then with a tiny wave of excitement. She opened her thighs very slightly, to focus her weight more clearly in that self-same spot and let the plank on which she sat press more firmly up against her saddle.

  His roll of flesh was visible; it looked full and heavy, lolling to the side. It had a strange effect on Anya - she had never before thought of that part of a man as in any way desirable; yet somehow on this man, it seemed so very different. She could not understand her feelings - why her heart was in her throat; was it fear she felt for him, or was it something else? She wanted to protect him - that was it - to gather his lolling vulnerability in her palms, to cup it and to stroke it, like she would a nervous crippled bird. And though she was fearful of what might happen to this gentle bird, this dove of her desire, yet she could not move to help him, and now she dared not even blink, as if convinced her gaze was his sole protection.

  "Here girl - tie his hands back; you might as well begin." The bond-girl was still shaking as she took the thongs, though her sobbing had died down. The young man helped her by placing his hands behind him; his wrists stretched back beyond the end of the beam to where an iron ring was fastened to its underside. Anya had not noticed this before, but now she saw that rings were anchored to the Horse in several strategic places, both below the beam and on its supports. The girl secured him quickly to the ring, and Anya's heart sank at that, for then she knew that to these slaves the Horse was indeed a quite familiar instrument of discipline.

  His back was arched now; his muscles were placed in tension. The flickering torchlight played upon his skin, which seemed to ripple with his breathing; his gold chain caught the light and, once more, Anya experienced that peculiar feeling. In a sudden flash of wanting, she saw herself stretched out along the Horse, its padded beam pressed firmly to her back and hips, while he, poised above her lowered himself very gently, kissing her with his deep brown eyes, until at last she felt his dangling gold chain brushing first against her skin then sinking into her belly in that precious moment of sweet anticipation before his weighted rod of flesh would touch and push and split her, and her burning oil would spill to drown him in the heat of her desire ...

  Yes, she felt that she could willingly open her heart and body to a man like this one.

  Then Anya experienced a very great surprise, which shattered the illusion of her dreaming. The girl, of late so cowed and mindful of her fate, now stretched up to her full height. She seemed suddenly ennobled, as if the simple act of tying bonds around the man had freed her from the thrall of fear and steeled her in her purpose. Her hair hung down to bridge, almost, her curving arch of back; the heavy locks reached down and swayed above, yet did not touch, the outcurve of her bottom; fine downy hair, soft and blonde, coated her back and outer thighs and the taut skin of her buttocks, like a hazy mist upon which a lover's tongue might browse in sensual delectation. Her belly curve was smooth and round and her nipples pointed upwards; no freckles broke the flawlessness of this perfect girl's complexion. And Anya knew, although she could not see, that this woman's secret self was tight-lipped, pink and tender, and projected from her mound. She knew this from the way the woman said so - with her posture - as she stood before the man and watched him stiffen, while she pouted.

  Anya suddenly wanted to test that length of hair, to pull and stretch it down until she made it bridge the gap, if it needed all her weight to force it, and even if that forcing made that perfect neck curve backwards until Anya's hand could close around that tender throat and choke it ... for she was jealous; it seemed to her this bondslave was a rival - albeit for a man that Anya had not even met.

  She bit her lip - she wondered what was happening; how could she harbour cruel thoughts like this? The girl was innocent after all, and forced to do these things against her will, and at the cook's direction. It could just as well have been Anya there before the Horse, had the circumstances differed, and then what would she think - and do, if placed in that position? Would she hate herself for looking wantonly upon his manly stirrings?

  The room was quiet now, even Cook stood quite unmoving. The bondslave raised her chin and kept looking into the man's eyes, while she very slowly felt her way and climbed astride the beam. The two sat facing - the woman free, the man's hands tied behind his back, his stem erect. Her hair was hanging down in front; her nipples peeped between the strands, as if inviting him to kiss them, in their impudence, through the springing tickling wetness of her hair. She fixed her gaze upon him while he watched, seeing only in her mind's eye his slow insistent burgeoning of desire, as carefully, and with progressive readjustments, she spread her moist and tender clinging pinkness more closely to the beam. Anya was beside herself to witness that a woman's pleasure could be take thus - from the reflection of her own desire within her lover's eyes.

  The woman gripped her thighs tightly around the beam, and placed her hands behind her, clasped together, in a mirror of his restraint, then bent forwards till her outstretched tongue could touch and lick around his nipples. The tongue next traced a line precisely down his middle, to the point at which her chin was almost resting on his thickness. She lifted briefly, wet her lips and closed them round the end, and sucked him very slowly, making prickles in the back of Anya's neck run up into her hairline, for she was imagining what it might be like if she were doing this. His taste - would it be the same upon her tongue as her own fingers, salt-savoured with her seepage at her height of silent pleasure, as she slaked her body's burning need beside the dead log of her husband?

  Anya glanced round, beheld the cook, and suddenly was frightened.

  Cook's face had changed from one of silent contemplation of the two; it now seemed set and grim, as if this gentle scene was not as she'd intended. Anya wanted to make some sign to warn the lovers, but their eyes were closed, their bodies touching, searching out delight - her gripping thighs, her neck outstretched, his hips pushed strongly forwards - loving lips on rigid flesh in sucking, suckling pleasure.

  Cook's hand descended in a cracking slap across the woman's upturned bottom; the shocking sound of it brought everyone to their senses.

  "You slaves are all the same," she cried, "forever bent on pleasure. But I'll soon bring you down to earth. I'll pop your bubble." She tapped the man's upstanding sex with the handle of her ladle, while she continued to lash him with her tongue. The girl sat upright, very still. Her eyes were darting from side to side, as if searching for escape. "That's why they send you here - to me - because they can't control you. But Cook has her ways, as you'll find out. I'll have you counting the hours until your week is up. You shan't be back here in such a hurry, that much I'll warrant." And she whacked him even harder. "Now you," she
hooked him in the crook of the ladle and tugged him without mercy, "since you take such pleasure from your idle impudence, shall stay like this for the time you're here, only I'll see to it you're bigger. Your flesh shall never feel respite, or loll or angle idly, for you shall remain always at attention." Then she slid the crook down his length and pressed the skin back to the root, until the end looked tight and polished. "And you shall be drawn off thrice per day - at morning, noon and evening - and also at such other times as my servant girls direct; except, that is, for tonight, when the drawings shall continue by the hour until such time as your well flows drily three times in succession."

  The cook seemed calmer now. The man was shaking visibly, although Anya noticed, his stiffness stood undaunted by the woman's threats; in fact it now seemed thicker. "And should your flesh unsinew ..." Cook tugged his stem again. "Well ... we'll leave that much unsaid for now. But there are many ways to charm a snake against his will, as I'm sure you can imagine."

  Now Anya was very concerned indeed at what she'd heard; her mind was racing. For if the man was treated thus, how might they use the woman? How would they ensure that she was kept always at attention? And on those occasions, thrice per day, how might they draw her off, What cruel and public display of lust would she be made to suffer in subjection? And at whose hands? The servants', women's or worse yet, the men's - or worst of all, her own, while all were gathered round to watch her? And where might this abasement happen - at the Horse or on the table? So many fearful questions, so much potential for shame; no wonder that the girl upon the Horse now looked really very worried. Anya hoped that Marella would come very soon to save her from the chance of any such kitchen duties.

  But the cook still had not finished. "This girl now shall work your cock until it swells to bursting, but be warned, do not let it burst until I so permit it." She turned to the girl and shook the ladle until the girl shrank back in fear of being hit. "Now work him till I call a halt, and do not stop before that - but first, restrain his ankles." She made the bond-girl tie back each ankle to the ring which held his wrists, so his body bowed forwards and rotated to focus his weight more firmly through his root zone, as doubtless the cook intended that it should. The pressure in that tender area made the veins in his stem stand out. The girl checked his bonds for tightness, then resumed her place astride the Horse, and once more readjusted her position; she spread her flesh upon it with her fingers, then closed her eyes and slowly rocked into position. And with each rock, her pleasure nub must surely have pressed against the padding. Anya wondered if the cook had let this pass, or perhaps she had not understood the significance of the bondslave's gentle swaying movement. The girl opened her eyes and reached for him, but the rocking still continued - her fingertips pushed beneath his stem to tease his bag from underneath, and spread it to the sides. Then she worked him, with her fingers, as instructed.

  She did not kiss his lips or lick around his nipples, or stroke his belly with her tongue-tip; neither did she close her lips around his end nor suck his ballocks gently. No tenderness, no loving touch, was shown on this occasion.

  Instead, she used her finger and her thumb to pinch him shut and stretch him while she flicked him with a fingernail, working slowly upwards from the base, and only on the underside, until at last her snapping finger reached his plum. She kept flicking him in that single spot, until his skin had stretched so tight his plum turned livid purple, and the only sounds within the room were his laboured breaths and the rhythmic snaps which echoed from the ceiling. The finger flicked back down towards the bottom of the stem and hesitated, then flicked again, continuously in his root zone. Her other hand released its squeeze then pushed his cock tip back until it touched against his belly. The cockstem now seemed longer in its arching, as if the bond-girl had in some way drawn that extra length from deep within his body, perchance for her inspection and further ministration.

  The flicking then resumed, again precisely at the root, though on that part that formerly had lain inside him, or at least, well out of reach beneath the joining of his thighs. Cook seemed pleased so far at the way the punishment was progressing.

  Anya wondered why the bond-girl had chosen this particular way to work him, why her finger snapped only against the underside of his flesh - which now, of course, lay uppermost, by virtue of his curving - and why she should have concentrated only on those spots, the root zone and the plum. She wondered also what it might be like if someone were to do this thing to her, to press and stretch her up and flick her - but softly - with a finger. It made her want to close her eyes, like the man had done, and ease apart her thighs and then to test the flicking on herself, whilst - and this was quite important - imagining the fingers were a stranger's. But she dared not close her eyes, for she was mindful of the cook, and she was interested, despite her fears, to know exactly what would happen next. Very gently, Anya pressed a finger to her mound, which stretched her flesh leaves upwards, under cover of her cloak, for she wanted to know how the man might feel, in his tension and his wanting, although she could not bring her self to touch her flesh directly, to stimulate her nubbin wantonly as the bond-girl was still doing.

  The woman spread her leaves and rocked herself more vigorously against the padded beam, then clasped her hand around the man's flesh and moved it very quickly, sliding him about his inner stem; his end appeared to swell and tighten at each and every downstroke. She kept doing this until she had elicited a moan, whereupon she pressed a single collared finger round his base until his skin was stretched back tight enough to split him. His cock swayed heavily in its moorings; the tip moved very slowly in a circle. His breathing could be heard - it came in long slow indrawn breaths and rapid exhalations.

  "Slap him - smack his pleasure, work his flesh more roughly," the cook demanded, now the pace had slowed.

  The woman smacked two fingers once upon its undersurface; it jerked; he groaned, and so she smacked again; then carefully she timed her smacking until she'd found his rhythm. Each jerk he made set off another smack until it almost seemed his cock was bouncing off her fingers of its own accord. Then she closed her hands around it, as if it were a bird, and as Anya had wished to do under rather different circumstances. This woman, it seemed, would kill the bird by squeezing out its life, then rolling it between her hands to stretch and shape its body. The man was gasping and straining against the rubbing of her hands, as she kept pushing his swelling tightly through her fingers. His bag was lifted by his force of thickness; his fleshy bumps gripped firmly up to the stem.

  "Stop!" Cook cried. "I shall test him."

  The bond-girl sat back away from him at a safe distance, while Cook examined him. "Hmm ... He's very swollen," she said and trapped his flesh against the beam with the handle of her ladle, then pressed until a bead of fluid issued from the end. "Tut-tut," she said and shook her head, "it seems your flesh is leaking ..." and she squeezed the end again. He held his breath, and Cook was almost smiling now. Quite clearly she enjoyed taking him to task like this. "You must learn to hold your saltings better yet than this - however full your bag may be." She released her hold. His stem sprang stiffly up again.

  "Good," she said. "Your cock is now much thicker ... though not thick enough, I fear. Now squeeze yourself; let your pumping swell your cock and draw very deep inside you - but do not spill one drop, I warn you. And do it now and do not stop until I so require you."

  Anya watched in puzzlement as his flesh stem moved unaided. The man was fastened, hand and foot, his eyes shut tight; his muscles seemed hard and knotted; the tendons in his neck stood out; his mouth was open in a silent cry. He looked as if he were harnessed to an ox-cart, the strain seemed so intense; the sweat was beaded on his face and chest and down across his belly, which tightened so the gold chain shifted. The cockstem moved again; it pulsed as if an invisible hand were squeezing it.

  "Strain, my slave, and let your blood pump through it. Keep squeezing ... There, that's much better ... perhaps after all, you can respo
nd to training. Now keep like that - very stiff and tight, and Cook shall prove your thickness."

  She held the ladle by the spoon and crooked him in the handle. His cockstem now seemed almost too large to fit, which meant she nearly had to force it. Then she worked it slowly up his length, as far as it would go before his swollen plum prevented further progress, whereupon she pushed it down again until it snuggled up against his bumps and threatened to strip them from his stem. She made him squeeze again, in rhythm with her working, only slowing when she heard him moan, but even then, not stopping.