The Captive (21 page)

The night was coming. The two suns of Vakir sank simultaneously, making the sky blood red in both directions. The trees of the forest, silhouetted against the darkening sky, seemed to be cut from black card and stuck to a scarlet backdrop. As the suns set it became colder and Zacora snuggled against Callan.

“My rampant beast was her undoing.”

Zacora sighed. Callan’s bragging tone was boring her. She wanted Harold, who would take her without all this talk of his magnificence.

“I persuaded her to loose me so that we could place my devil where it belonged. It wasn’t long before she released me after that, I can tell you.” He gave a triumphant laugh and Zacora gave an almost imperceptible sigh. “I gave her a taste of her own medicine. Had her clamped in the chair before she knew what hit her.”

Zacora gave him a bored smile.

“The cottage is just ahead.” She gave a horrified gasp at the sight of the old dwelling. It was tumbledown and half hidden in an overgrown garden. Callan dismounted and turned to lift Zacora from the charger. “We’ll rest here for the night,” he said, holding her clasped in his arms, “and decide our plans tomorrow.”

He did not see her grimace of distaste. She knew her plans for the morrow did not include him, not if she could help it.

The search was going badly and Megan was out of breath and thoroughly out of sorts. Her favourite hat, the black one with the wide brim and the high pointed crown, was dusty and crumpled, her long brown hair mussed and tangled.

“There’s a cottage beyond the rise ahead.” she said to Gareth, who was lagging behind. “We’ll check there. If no-one has seen or heard of her, we’ll camp there for the night and go on in the morning… but look - surely there’s smoke above the trees?”

She began a stealthy approach and soon they both were peering through a dirty window.

Sure enough, there were silver curls spread upon a pile of animal skins. Zacora’s sapphire eyes were closed.

The cottage was lit by a single candle. Someone seemed to have given the girl clothes. Megan snarled angrily. She liked her favourite slave to be naked and totally available. Still, she consoled herself, the clothing was very brief.

A dress stitched roughly from a striped skin covered one full breast. The other was as bare as ever; full and pouting with the pink nipple erect. The skirt of the rough dress was brief, not covering the sex pouch. Wisps of silver curls escaped beneath the skin. A belt cinched the narrow waist and it was made from plaited vines.

Zacora moved, easing her long legs provocatively open. Megan could see the silver wisps gleam in the flickering light of the candle. They were moist; that was obvious. Mistress Meleagan frowned, but licked her lips as she savoured the memory of the girl’s taste. She’d had her where she wanted her then.

Something moved in the shadows. A man! He was tall, broad and devilishly good looking, from what they could see of him, which wasn’t much. He was dressed in black, black leather. His cock was bare, however, spearing towards the girl’s widening legs.

Zacora was raising her buttocks.

“In!” she ordered. “Quick! Get her!”

Megan was already filling the doorway with her considerable girth, preparing to approach the couple in the cottage. “I’ve got the ropes,” she breathed cheerfully.

In spite of his strength Callan was no match for the skilled ropemanship of the two Meleagans. He and Zacora were soon trussed at ankles and wrists, their slim bodies arched backwards. Gareth fondled the girl’s naked breast, squeezing the nipple between his first and second fingers. He felt her wince as his teeth grated the tender flesh, but it also became more erect.

“You love it, don’t you?” he whispered.

“She hates it!” gritted Callan.

“Gag this one,” ordered Megan. She turned to Zacora, gazing down at her bound vulnerability as rag was jammed into Callan’s mouth. How she loved to fondle Zacora’s moistness, spread her folds to fully expose her pink clitoris. She turned to the slave’s bound lover to trail her fingers along his smooth erection.

Megan had a string of beads round her smooth her neck. She was playing with them thoughtfully, looking at Callan’s thickness. The globe was already moist, gleaming in the soft, flickering light. The eye drooled a pearly drop of dew, in spite of the pain which her tight trussing must have caused him.

She smiled as she unfastened the necklace, letting the beads trail through her hands slowly. “Roll her on to her stomach, Gareth,” she ordered. Gareth obeyed, keeping a pleased eye on Zacora’s bare buttocks peeping from the brief dress. They looked pale, firm and very enticing as the slave rocked on the dirt floor of the cottage.

The beads were dangled before the sapphire eyes. “Do you know what I’m going to do with these, my sweet?”

Zacora’s eyes widened and her lips parted. The mouth was so enticing; so open, so ready.

Gareth’s sex weapon was heavy in his hand. He stroked the rigid member, caressing the silky skin and smoothing its own dew from the globe and along its own length.

Zacora nodded, showing that she knew exactly what was to be done to her. It was humiliating, but her pleasure always soared readily when it was time.

Her bound lover watched, his dark eyes angry, and yet there was another expression, excitement. He, too, knew what was to be done to the arched girl.

Megan gently stroked the smooth round beads through the hot moistness of the silver female cleft. The bound slave felt the beads judder over her hard bud over and over again. Zacora felt her eyes close with the lethargy of need; felt her body go heavy and molten from the inside.

Her open mouth was suddenly plundered with the thickness of Gareth’s weapon, filling her throat. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, even though he was rather rough; probing back and forth to the very depths of her throat.

“He loves to watch,” chuckled Megan, referring to Callan. “We must do something about that.” She took a device from the belt around the suit of armour. It was a codpiece of chain mail to be fixed around the wearer with a padlock.

Callan was not in a position to struggle. His throbbing sex weapon was rigid with excitement and the fit in the codpiece was far from easy. His eyes widened as the devilish device was fitted around his sac and the stiff length of his flesh.

“There,” she said, sitting back with an expression of satisfaction on her face. She could see the straining flesh through the mesh of the chain, calling to mind a caged serpent.

Zacora’s eyes were hooded as she soared to her climax, ready to take the hot, creamy issue to be poured into her throat. Gareth was pumping into her hard.

As the girl soared up and up the slicked beads were placed one by one into her rear mouth. Megan was watching carefully; watching the pulsing of the sex folds, watching the throbbing clitoris.

It was time. Megan knew by the juices pouring from the pink folds. She quickly popped the beads from the rear mouth, from the clenching sphincter and, deliciously, she plunged a finger into the creaming front entrance.

Gareth grunted, saturating Zacora. He spilled over her lips and she allowed it to trickle like a pearly stream down her chin and neck.

Zacora was humiliated, but when she looked at Harold, she knew that it did not matter. He found it stimulating to see her pleasure thus.

Megan sighed, kneeling with her fine plump thighs well splayed. Her short dress, the black silk dusty now from the rough floor, was hitched to her bare wide patch. She felt her own well developed nubbin become very urgent.

She looked at Zacora. The girl was a delicious plaything; so passive and pliant, almost eager to be humiliated, and yet she had run away, and, as a result, they had to spend the night in this dreary cottage.

Taking off her hat, Megan lay, disgruntled and splay legged, hands delving for comfort into the moist heat of her nest. Each forefinger pressed open the pouting thickness of the lips. Each second finger splayed the swelling slickness of the inner folds and Megan knew that her nubbin jutted high and taut.

Eyes closed, her mind drifted back to happier times when Zacora was first brought to the castle. She was very shy and so beautiful. A glorious heaviness settled upon Megan’s breasts, making them swell against the black silk. Soon she slept. Gareth, satiated, was not far behind her.

Zacora lay on the filthy floor of the cottage. The bonds at her wrists and ankles were rubbing uncomfortably and she sighed.

“What’s wrong?” she heard Callan whisper. “Are you in pain?” There was a pause, and she could feel him shuffling and trying to help her.

“I’ve made three recent mistakes in my life,” she whispered, wishing his fingers would keep out of the way.

“What are they?”

She sighed again. He was deliciously handsome, but he was a slave and not the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

“One was running away from the Meleagan castle.” She listened to the soft sounds of sleep issuing from their three captors. “Then I thought perhaps the Prince was the man I wanted, but I was wrong.”

“Well, you have me to look after you!”

“You were the third mistake,” said Zacora sadly. “I’m ambitious and I’m noble.” She could feel her wrists becoming free. “Take me to Harold the Pretender.”

“But -“

“I wish to go with you, not with these two that impose upon him.”

“But -“

“Come, while they sleep. There are three horses in the garden. Let us go.” The Meleagan steeds were placidly silhouetted against the dawn sky.

Callan was unsure how to cope with this suddenly dominating young woman, who sounded so like Bernlada, his previous helpmate.

“And take this awful animal skin from me.”

“But you’ll be cold,” he protested.

“Rather cold than smelling to high heaven.” She stood still as he snipped the fur from her nakedness. She wriggled gratefully, delighting in regaining her freedom.

Callan looked longingly at her luscious body.

“Hurry!” she said impatiently, picking up the discarded ropes. “Into the garden.”

Moving quietly they left the cottage, hearing the Meleagans grunt at the slight sound of disturbance. How she longed for Harold to realise her motives!

“Right,” she said efficiently. “I want you to use these ropes to tie me to one of the horses.”

Callan gasped at her disbelievingly. “Tie you to a horse?” he questioned at last.

“That’s right.” It was difficult for Zacora to hide her irritation. “Take me as a prisoner, for who knows who we may meet on the way? If soldiers, you may say you are returning me to the Prince.” She was stammering with irritation. “Hurry up!” She waved a hand at the sleeping Meleagans. “They’ll wake up any moment.” Zacora took Callan’s hand and led him to the low door.

It was wonderful to be out in the fresh air after the stale air of the tiny cottage. Callan stood a yard away from her, eyeing the mouth watering sight of her.

“Please, hurry,” she said, her voice becoming softer and less dominant as she handed him the ropes. “Make sure that my hands are tied behind my back and I am facing the rear of the horse.”

“The rear?” Callan sounded astonished.

“You must humiliate me as much as possible,” she explained. “Put the rope between my buttocks, between my legs and around my neck.”

Reluctantly, Callan did as she wished, placing her on Harold’s huge stallion so that her legs were fully splayed. “Now tie my ankles, to spread my legs yet further,” she ordered, “and lastly, use a piece of cloth to gag me.”

Once she was settled in place, with her tumbled golden curls falling over her shoulders to caress her proud breasts, Callan reached up to stroke the soft slope of her fine belly, but she edged away, her eyes lowered humbly, again the passive embarrassed maid.

Callan, lithe and athletic, swung on to the big stallion, revelling in the feeling of the beautiful naked buttocks against his leather-clad body. The dual suns of Vakir, one in the east and one in the west, broke over the horizon together, bathing everything in rose and purple light.

Within minutes Zacora’s precautions were justified. They met a young traveller who, after making pleasantries with Callan, insisted in trailing behind them, gazing up at Zacora in awe. “Are you taking her to the auction?” he wanted to know. “That isn’t until the day after tomorrow.”

“She’s a runaway sex slave,” said Callan sternly. “I’m returning her to her owner.”

“I wish I owned her,” said the young man, stroking the growing bulge in his tight hose. “She wouldn’t run from me. I’d keep her busy.”

“That’s what they all say,” said Callan, playing his part.

The young man looked increasingly uncomfortable. It was a very large bulge which was ascending in his tight hose, making his jerkin flare like a short skirt. “May I touch her?”

“Very well,” agreed Callan. They stopped to allow the young man access. Zacora sat very still on the broad back of the horse, looking straight ahead while the young man gazed admiringly at her fully revealed sex.

An arm, clad in a torn homespun shirt, reached up to the gaping moistness of Zacora’s cunt. She was open to him, available, and the thought made her tremble. The emotion was not fear, but excitement, she knew. A stranger was reaching up to caress her pouting labias. The silver fronded lips seemed to arch out to him from the broad back of the horse.

“One moment, kind sir,” the young man said in a hoarse, urgent voice. “I cannot reach the slave’s beautiful nest, but I have a box in my pack which will aid me.”

“Hurry then,” said Callan impatiently. “The morning is well broken and we are anxious to be on our way.”

The box placed in position, Zacora lowered her soft blue eyes to the young man and watched his fingers gently push the rope to the side. It had chafed her clitoris which rose to swollen, inflamed erection, the tip arched pertly. The young man gasped with delight and used a grubby finger to touch the heated little nubbin. Zacora felt her body flush at his touch. She knew she was wrong to have encouraged strangers to take such action, but it was the only way to return to the palace without Callan being severely punished.