Babala's Correction (13 page)

‘Don't you like being a woman?' he asked in a teasing manner. He kissed the tip of her clitty and she could not help but whisper a long sigh of pleasure. ‘Don't you, Fazath?'

‘Of course I do,' she whispered breathily. ‘But you know what I am; what I like.'

‘I'm beginning to wonder.' He kissed her again, this time closing his lips around her throbbing clitty and allowing his tongue to lap back and forth against its root. Fazath tried to butt against his caresses, urging him to do more, but her open flesh muffled a deep-throated chuckle. She felt a finger thrust into her, heard the noise of her juices against the intrusion. The finger drew back and forth and, despite what she had so recently told the Taskmaster, Fazath felt a fever of excitement at her own nakedness, her helplessness, her open vulnerability.

‘Your flesh seeps, Fazath,' he said, and drawing back he held up the finger he'd pushed into her. It was coated heavily with her dew, slick and shimmering in the candlelit gloom, with trails of pearly cream following one after the other down the finger to its base.

He touched the tip of the digit to her lips. She could smell her own musk, heavy and wanton, and her nostrils flared at the scent of it.

A knowing smile lit his handsome features. ‘You delight in the smell of a woman.'

‘I've made no secret of it.'

‘And the taste?' He forced open her lips and thrust the finger deeper. At the same time he petted her spread sex lips, the scarlet jutting bud which lay in its centre and the black tip of leather that protruded from her bottom.

Fazath sucked greedily on the finger, sighing; how she yearned for the sweet taste of a woman!

Suddenly the stifling air in the little cottage was cut by the swish of a whip. The long length of supple leather caught Fazath beneath the breasts while the tip of it caressed one of her nipples, twitching the silver clip that held it fast. A faint mew of surprise escaped her lips as the finger was removed from her mouth. Her dark eyes widened and then flashed angrily.

‘I wasn't aware I'd done anything to displease you,' she said. ‘Wasn't I being womanly? Wasn't I being submissive?'

‘You were enjoying your own taste.' The whip beat the air again, flicked her body and lashed her belly, which pouted because of the leather phallus pushing from within.

‘Is that not allowed?' Fazath's dark eyes were not cowed, but defiant even when the whip made her body arch with the force of the third blow.

‘I want you womanly, as a female should be to a man.' He stood over her, muscular legs astride, the loincloth tented by the fullness of his cock and the whip raised to give her another blow. ‘I want you to see my cock as something magnificent, something to be revered.' He pulled the jewelled cloth to the side to give her full sight of it spearing upwards from his dark pubic bush, with his full and heavy balls slightly drawn up between his tanned thighs.

‘Then you will wait forever,' she vowed, her wide lips curved in a sneering smile. ‘I can never do that.'

‘You may regret that one day,' he warned, and his voice was menacing. He flung the whip into a corner and stood with his back to her, busy with something upon a crude shelf, and she had to admit that his rear view was attractive. His buttocks were taut, bare and clothed only by the thong of leather that spanned his waist to hold the loincloth in place.

‘What are you doing?' she felt compelled to ask.

‘All in good time,' he said, she heard the clink of metal, and the sound was sinister and made her shudder.

‘What little toy are you going to tease me with this time?' She knew there was a sneer in her voice and she was probably heaping more pain and discomfort upon herself, but she could not help it.

‘This is no toy, believe me, my dear.'

‘Oh, the suspense is killing me.' Fazath, for all her helplessness in the chair, the pain at her wrists and ankles, her vulnerable and open sex, could not help taunting her former colleague.

‘It will not kill you,' said the Taskmaster, turning to face her, his hands lovingly clasped about an iron object, ‘but it will keep you quiet.'

Fazath cringed as he approached her. It looked like a helmet, but it was far more intricate than merely that.

‘The scold's bridle, Fazath,' he said, standing over her. ‘You've probably heard of it.'

‘But I'm not a scold!' Fazath strained against the leather restraints.

‘That's for me to decide.'

Fazath felt the cold hardness of the metal against her scalp, even through the lustrous thickness of her black hair. She thrashed her head back and forth in a vain attempt to escape the bridle, but he was too strong for her and the lower part of the wicked helmet slid down over her forehead.

‘No need to worry, my dear,' said the Taskmaster, in a tone that made her distinctly uneasy. ‘You will be able to breathe and see...'

‘But not speak!' finished Fazath.

‘Quite right.' The helmet slid further and she could feel the chill of the iron against her cheeks, her mouth. He fastened straps beneath her chin so that her head was imprisoned, as was her body. ‘And finally...'

She tasted iron on her tongue as a plug of metal was pressed down upon it, and iron also pressed tightly about her lips and cheeks. Her face was kept entirely immobile.

‘There is just one drawback with this charming little device,' he said, admiring his handiwork. ‘I cannot use your delightful lips to caress my cock, but then...' He began to release the tiny clips that held her sex.

Dearly would Fazath have delighted to sigh with relief, but the bridle kept her tongue still within her mouth. Her sex lips remained fully open and her nubbin was hard and erect in the moist bed of her pouch.

‘Can you guess what I am going to do now, Fazath?' She shook her head, her eyes wide behind the mask. The clips were removed from her nipples, a fingernail flicked each and shots of pain speared through the full taut mounds. ‘This...' He pulled the loincloth to one side and revealed his stiffness. ‘This again needs some relief, and since I have locked up your mouth, what else can I do but use you as a woman should be used?'

It would do her no good to struggle - Fazath knew that. Her wrists and ankles were already chafed by the tightness of the leather restraints. The iron lever clamped her tongue. She could not even scream, but did she wish to do so?

Dark eyes riveted to his upright shaft, she felt her inner lips quiver. She could feel her cunny open and inviting. Her sap seeped over her bottom cheeks, wetting the leather that was still firmly inserted within her rear hole.

Lithely, he climbed upon the chair again and slid his legs about her waist. She could feel his globe caressing her slick entrance, petting her clitty, which throbbed eagerly. Why did she feel like this? She was almost willing! Was it really because he had made her helpless and vulnerable?

He rubbed his cock tip up and down her wet slit. ‘Is this not much nicer than the dildo you use upon yourself and the girls in the harem?' He played the thick length up and down her slippery opening, never once dipping into her cunny.

Fazath remained very still. If she was to tell the truth, the touch of his organ on her sex flesh was stimulating. She would have liked to urge him into her, but it went against her grain since he had gone to such lengths to make her helpless to do this deed. Her arms ached intolerably, imprisoned by the straps. Her legs too, stretched open for such a long period, pained her beyond bearing. Her tongue captured by the lever was dry and she tasted the cold metal, but still she bore it without protest. It was so unlike her. What had he done to her - to her mind as well as her body?

With his thumbs he spread her sex lips, which were still tender from the spreading open with the clips. He dabbed his thick globe at her opening and, had she been able, Fazath would have gasped at the sensation. It was so smooth, so turgid. The feeling was quite different to the dildo she had so often used upon herself. It was hard, thick, living flesh that, as he pressed forward into her seemed to meld with her own. She wanted to arch up towards his thrust, but she was held fast by the leather bonds. If she could only scream her needs, but this, too, was denied her.

‘Are you enjoying it, Fazath?' he asked, pressing her open as he pushed forward.

She could feel the heated throb in her clitty as it was chafed by his turgid girth; could feel the glorious sensation of liquidity in her lower belly. In her female opening there was a sensation that she had never felt before - the beginnings of a climax.

‘You are, aren't you?' The Taskmaster was almost fully embedded in her now and she could feel the rub of his lush pubic bush rasping against hers. She tried to shake her head, to deny her pleasure, but he grasped the long cascade of black hair that escaped from the iron bridle, arching the pale length of her throat and thrusting the fullness of her breasts upwards. Still impaled within her he lowered his head and took the pliant flesh of her breast within his mouth, sucking and biting.

‘Don't deny the pleasure I'm giving you,' he said, lifting his head. He tugged harder on her hair, arching her body further, thrusting fully into her. Behind the mask her lips were forced open, bonded by the iron, but she knew he wanted to kiss her, to ravage her mouth, cruelly and yet tenderly. It was a strange knowledge.

She also knew her orgasm was close. Pleasure seemed to radiate from his cock, from her clitoris, from her pulsing cunny.

‘It will be very soon now,' he grunted. ‘My come will fountain into you. I will possess you at last, Fazath. You will be truly my slave and you will do my bidding for the rest of our lives together.'

A heaviness, a weakness came over her as her cunny petted his thrusting cock. Was this what she wanted after all?

He gave a triumphant cry and she felt him stiffen, and her own pleasure sent her soaring high above the chair where she had been bonded for so long. Vaguely, she felt her cushiony walls suck upon his thickness, draining every drop of his manly fluid into her depths.

 

 

 

Desilla was leaving the kitchen. Her hard but beautiful face was distorted by a frown. Looking over her shoulder she stared at Babala, her eyes questioning and her mouth drawn into a cold hard line.

‘Take her from the smacking stool and chain her,' she said. ‘There is something about that girl I don't trust.' Babala shuddered at her tone and was aware of a quake of fear in her belly as Desilla gave her another penetrating look and spoke again. ‘Chain her securely and then bring her to me.'

Babala felt herself trembling from head to foot with fear. She remembered how the Slavemaster had warned her to keep silent about what they had done in the carriage. But surely that was not her fault? She was his slave and as such must obey him. She had said nothing; nothing that could possibly give the woman any inkling of the intimacy that took place between her and the woman's husband.

With some difficulty she was lifted from the smacking stool, her belly tender from where the device had clasped her for so long. She stood on legs that would barely support her, and the toned flesh trembled.

Rata stood before her. ‘You're in trouble now, young miss.'

‘But I've done nothing wrong,' protested Babala. That was not quite true, she admitted to herself, but there was nothing that Desilla could know.

‘You are young and beautiful,' said Rata. ‘That's the problem.' He touched her breasts. ‘These have the perfect roundness of youth and yet...' he hefted each mound in turn, feeling the lower swells. ‘And yet they are heavy with maturity. A delightful combination.'

Babala felt a flush of embarrassment stain her cheeks at the compliment.

‘And this...' Rata touched the tender swell of her belly. ‘Rounded and yet not overly so, and such a neat little navel.' He pushed the square of cloth that was Babala's only item of clothing to one side and dipped a fingertip into the pleasing little hollow, before trailing it down to the triangle of golden curls. ‘And this nest is perfection.'

Again Babala felt a flush of heat stain her cheeks and she lowered her head, but this only made her predicament worse for she could see his hands stroking the place where her thighs met her pubis, caressing the delicate flesh.

‘It pouts so prettily and the golden curls upon it do not hide the lovely darkness within.' A rough fingertip slipped into the valley between the plump lips and Babala could not help but arch against the intrusion. ‘All this beauty is the problem, you see,' explained Rata, and Babala frowned, silently questioning him. ‘Desilla is envious of your youth and beauty,' he went on. ‘She thinks you will steal Maxim - the Slavemaster, her husband - from her.'

‘But that's silly,' protested Babala. ‘I'm nothing but a slave, and a used one at that. She has nothing to fear from me. Nothing.' She lowered her head once more and her golden curls curtained her face. ‘What can she possibly fear from me?'

Rata shrugged. ‘Who knows what goes on in Desilla's mind?' His rough hands caressed the contours of her body, the swell of her breasts and the sharp dip of her waist and the curve of her hips. His touch made Babala tremble for it was delightfully sensual for all its roughness. ‘But I have to obey her orders.'