The Captive (13 page)

“Oh no!” groaned Zacora, feeling the growing heat in her nubbin. Her captive body strained to be free of the shackles, but the imprisonment simply added to her excitement.

“Yes, my pretty,” the servant whispered in Zacora’s ear. “Let your pleasure flow. Let me feel your nubbin jerk upon my fingers.”

The voice had become tender, wanton, so different to the harshness of only a few short moments before. Zacora allowed her orgasm to wash over her, consume her in wave after wave of pleasurable heat.

“Yes,” whispered the voice. “Oh, yes!” The servant’s voice was husky now with longing. “You may let the fluids gush from your body.”

With a grateful sigh Zacora relaxed her nether muscles and felt the hot foaming liquids run from her vagina and her bowel. She also felt her swollen clitoris, still jerking intensely, washed by the copious torrent of fluids.

The wrist and ankle bonds were released and the servant gently turned Zacora face up. She felt her cold, taut breasts petted by the strong hands and she looked up into features which seemed to have softened.

“My name is Hera,” the servant said. “Would that I could have the release of orgasm.” The woman sighed sadly. She stroked the damp silver fronds of Zacora’s bush, parting the plump lips to search out the nubbin. She gazed at the inflamed bud, stroking back the hood, a strange expression of envy on her pinched features.

“Why not?” said Zacora, smiling up with inviting soft lips. How odd, she thought. Why couldn’t Hera have orgasms?

“Once I was a sex slave like you.” The woman began to fasten Zacora’s wrists and her splayed ankles back into the manacles.

Zacora frowned wonderingly.

“Oh, I know I’m not beautiful now,” said Hera, as if reading the questioning thoughts. “Bitterness is a destroyer of beauty.” She began to dribble perfumed oil on Zacora’s cold nakedness. The oil was warmed and caused a pleasurable shudder to ripple her taut flesh. Firm hands began to trace soothing circles around the mounds of her breasts. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the lethargy of the massage.

“I wasn’t like you,” said Hera. “I was a virgin when I was sold into slavery at the auction. I wasn’t beautiful, just a little bit pretty and Mistress Megan gave me to one of her customers. He was rough. He raped me and it hurt.”

Zacora’s mind drifted back to Ogham. Her penetration, although a little painful, had been pleasurable. Her orgasms had been many and beautifully intense, but then all her training had prepared her to enjoy coupling with a man. Poor Hera, it seemed, had no such preparation.

“So I ran away,” said Hera. The memory was obviously very painful to her, but she continued to massage the tiny swell of Zacora’s belly. Her strong fingers strayed down to the proud plumpness of the girl’s mound, petting it and stroking the fine silver curls.

Her touch was so firm, but so sensual, that Zacora found herself urging up for more stimulation. “But they caught you?” she asked breathily, wishing her hands were free to splay her outer lips, baring her moist opening and her jerking nubbin.

Hera’s own hands spread the needful parts and Zacora felt the softness of the woman’s breath on her oozing flesh. A hot tongue lapped at the pouting tip of the girl’s clitoris.

“My punishment was the final humiliation.” Hera’s voice was muffled,bitter now. Her tongue lapped expertly along the whole length of Zacora’s yearning sex flesh. It darted into the dark wetness and out again to caress the jerking pip. The lapping became more urgent, more rhythmic.

“They circumcised me!”

Hera stood up, her thin face slick with sex sap, shining in the guttering light of the sconces. She looked down at Zacora’s fettered body, watching the silver pad of her mound throb with orgasm. “Right here on this bench. They disfigured me here. And they ripped my pleasure bud from me.”

At that moment profound climax convulsions hit Zacora’s slender body, again and again. The sensations were so strong that they over-rode the horror which she felt in Hera’s torture. The woman was calmly brushing the silky golden curls which streamed over the stone bench. She could never have such a climax.

There was a moment of heavy silence before Zacora spoke. “How dreadful! Will they do that to me?” She heard the tremor in her own voice.

“I do not know. You please Harold the Pretender but…”

“But what?” The sapphire eyes were wide with fear as they looked up at Hera.

“There is Megan also. Be warned. Megan is cruel and influential. Do not displease her.”

The words rang in Zacora’s ears as Hera returned her, bathed and scented, to the Master’s presence.

To the master’s presence! What bliss that was!

Zacora’s hair fell in a silken sheen to the curve of her buttocks. Submissively, she placed her hands on her head, but kept her eyes lowered. Hera had fluffed the silver-fronded mound and she thrust it forward in a delicate pout, offering it prettily to Harold.

She heard him give a sigh of delight as he gestured that Hera should bring her to him on the sofa. He reached up to stroke the lush sex curls, feeling the fine coating of oil which the servant had given them as a final touch. His soft fingers were firm, but sensuous as he slipped them between the slightly parted thighs.

“Did Hera tend you well, my dear?” he asked. She felt him touch the pad of his forefinger on the tip of her nubbin.

Nodding, Zacora eased her thighs further apart, offering the whole of her sex purse to him. She tried to remain passive as he slipped a finger into her fully cleansed depths, but her lips parted in a soft oval.

“You want me to spear you, my dear?” The finger slithered in and out of her silky depths, investigating and exploring every crease and pocket.

Zacora nodded eagerly, thrusting the open, shining pouch on his questing hand. Her slender pampered body was arched; her pouting breasts full and offered gladly. Her stance, with hands clasped behind her head, made her a voluntary prisoner. Her helplessness increased her desire for his body.

Looking down, her eyes became riveted on the splendour of his male sword, rigid and dark, ready for her. It preened for her, it seemed; magnificent in its vigour.

“Cloak me with your randy flesh, my dear,” he said huskily. “We shall join, you and I. My issue will flood you.” His handsome ageless face creased in a smile which was almost loving, but Zacora shuddered. Hera’s tale hung heavy in her memory.

“I shall be ruler of this and neighbouring lands,” he told her, “and you shall be my consort.”

Again she shuddered as she prepared gracefully to straddle the magnificent shaft. She kept her eyes fixed on the turgid darkness of the weapon, positioning herself over the fully stretched globe, pearly with its ooze of semen. Hands on her head, balanced on widely splayed legs, she allowed the slick globe to rest at her offered opening.

She tried not to think of Hera’s terrible tale. She was sure that it was not Harold who had ordered the servant’s body to be disfigured, her pleasure cut off. It must have been Megan. She was the cruel one, Harold too lenient towards his Aunt in matters of punishment.

In spite of the threat of torture on the stone slab, the loss of sexual pleasure, she knew she had to escape. If Harold truly loved her, he would not punish her when he recaptured her, but love her all the more. Her flight would make him realise how deeply she was troubled by his relationship with his evil Aunt. There was no other way to convince him of this.

She pampered his globe with her mobile labia, allowing them to flutter around his male flesh. They petted the thick stem, guiding it into her depths. Zacora heard him sigh with pleasure as he held the beautifully formed arches of her hips, to grind her down upon him.

It would be a test, she decided, clutching his thickness with strong caresses. If she escaped it would be a test that his promises of wealth and kingdoms were true. She suppressed her own sighs of longing and gave herself up to pleasuring him.

Later, when the candles had burned to waxy pools and the night was velvety black, she slid from Harold’s sleeping arms. She listened. The sounds were all of deep slumber. Megan and Gareth snored softly, creating a chorus of night croaks while Harold’s breathing was slow and even.

For long minutes Zacora listened to the sounds, wondering if her decision was wise. At last she decided.

Barefooted, she padded across the room to the massive doors, hoping that they would open easily. They did and she gave a silent sigh of relief.

Peeping out she saw that the long corridor was empty, peopled only with shadows thrown by the guttering sconces. The whole castle seemed silent and sleeping.

With pounding heart, Zacora sped lithely along the cold stone flags. Her golden hair, freshly washed, streamed behind her. Her full breasts were firm though heavy and gave no hindrance to her progress.

At the open portcullis she saw the shadow of a guard leaning on his pike. She halted, eyes wide with fear and ears alert for any challenge. But there was nothing. The man was asleep. She bit her soft lower lip in sympathy. His punishment would be far more severe than even Hera’s. She shuddered. The sadistic ways of the Meleagans were well known, but Zacora also knew that Harold, cruel though he might be, was the disciplining father figure she sought. She felt the warmth of his copious issue drool down her thighs. And he was so sensually gifted. She allowed herself a smile at that.

It was almost dawn. Zacora shivered in her nakedness. The sapphire blue eyes blinked at the sinking bright moons of Vakir; the three silver sisters. The sky was clear and a million stars twinkled in the purpling sky and she breathed the sweet fresh air.

Swift footed, Zacora began to run from the looming hulk of the vast castle, and the cruelty of its Mistress.

Soon she was deep in the forest, running free. The path was stoney and fallen thorns spiked her feet and branches reached out to cut her naked skin, but she was determined to continue her quest.

So intent was she on her escape that she did not hear the rumble of wheels on the rough path. She was unaware that she was being followed until a whip snaked around her naked running figure. It caught her cruelly around the fullness of her breasts, making her cry out as her erect nipples were pinched by the flexible plaited device. The finer end slapped the swell of her belly, caressing the proudness of her mound and curling under the fullness of her pubic arch.

She was captured! Held fast, probably by one of the Meleagan household. She was lost.

An imagined dart of pain shot through her nubbin. The very place at which she experienced the greatest pleasure. That would be cut out, all over. She hung her head in shame and self pity.

“Now, my beauty,” said a strange booming voice. “Where do you go to in the cold dawn?” Her captor gave a light laugh. “Dressed so, and at such a pace?”

The delicate oval of her chin was lifted by strong fingers and she found herself looking into a handsome face, but she struggled in her bindings, wriggling to free her arms. The man laughed and tugged the whip tighter, pulling her to him. His skin was warm, although naked and taut over finely honed muscles.

A gasp escaped her dry throat. She could feel his male shaft, thick and hot, rising high from his groin. She tried to look down to see the object of her curiosity. It felt strange, ridged and sharp edged.

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.