The Captive (22 page)

The intrusive finger slid down to the delicate membrane of her entrance, feeling the silky wetness and the inviting portals. She shuddered as the finger penetrated deeply into her, driving in until the palm was pressed upon the downy cushion of her mound. The heel of the young hand, rough with hard work, grated on the hard projection of her nubbin. She could not help but move with him and soon she found her body arching back to take the full pleasure. The big horse twitched under her and she knew that her sex sap was wetting the big creature’s smooth coat.

The young man slumped over the stallion’s rump and Zacora knew that touching her, seeing her fully disclosed sex and feeling its reaction under his rough hand, had been too much for his male package. It had spilled its contents within his tight hose.

“We must go,” said Callan. “Too much time wasted. We are chased by those who say they own this beauty.”

It was full daylight with the suns warming the forest path. Zacora shook back her cascade of golden hair shot with silvery lights in the sunshine and pouted her full breasts to take the full benefit of the warmth of the suns.

The rough rope chafed the tender skin of her bottom cleft, irritating the membrane of her rear entrance. She wriggled, for the roughness made her remember the gnarled feeling of the young man’s work roughened hands. It wasn’t unpleasant, that memory.

Suddenly, Callan reined in. “Listen,” he said, keeping the horse very still. At first all Zacora could hear was the gentle rustle of the breeze through the branches of the trees, but then another sound infiltrated into the noises of the forest. Hoofbeats, steady and moving fast.

Callan kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and the big beast moved off quickly. The rhythmic movement of the wide back under her was both stimulating and comforting. Her warm liquid oozed out of the open lips copiously and wetted her already excited clitoris.

The sound of hoofbeats, a group of horses, was much closer now. Zacora also heard the sound of laughter; very loud, male laughter. Men were talking as they rode.

“We’ve got to hide!” said Callan. “They’re riding fast and they’re very close now.” His voice was low and breathless. “It will be the Prince’s soldiers!”

Zacora, gagged by the piece of rag, was unable to comment. Callan reined in, looking round frantically. The forest was dense, but the horse was big, not an easy animal to hide, He jumped down, quickly untying Zacora’s ankles and helping her dismount. In doing so, one hand brushed the softness of her downy thatch and felt the moist strands where the puffy lips parted. He raised his dark eyebrows, a knowing smile on his lips. His hands remained where they needed to be to lift her willowy form from the horse, his thumbs grazed the side swell of her full breasts, and his fingers slid to cup the warmth of those mounds. He heard her sigh behind the gag and she lowered her thick lashes.

He took this as an invitation and slid his hand over her belly, behind the rope which bound her wrists to her slender neck. His fingers slid down to cup the moist silver fronds, to part them and to enter the silky valley in which female treasures lay. She sighed again and her body flushed with heat as he touched the hardened love bud.

Her sapphire eyes gazed up at him. Her breasts were hard against his broad chest and she could feel her nipples become tender with their tension; the fine erectile skin gathered to hardened nubs. Her bound arms, the wrists chafed by the rough thick rope, caused her breasts to press closer to him. The spiky hemp rubbed roughly into the moist leaves of her sex, sensitised her nubbin, making it jut further from its hiding place. The rope caressed the plumpness of her mound, skimmed the slimness of her belly and up to her throat. Its tautness held her head bowed and, when she looked up, it cut cruelly into the wet skin of her sex leaves.

“Ah-ha! And what have we here?”

The gruff voice broke the spell between Zacora and Callan. They had been so engrossed with each other that they had not realised that they had been seen.

“A runaway perhaps?” It was the same voice. The speaker jumped down lithely from his horse and approached the two. He wore the uniform of a sergeant: light chain mail over a short leather jerkin. He rubbed the chain codpiece protecting his male package, grinning loudly.

“A beauty,” he grunted. “A real beauty.”

“She ran from the Palace - I am returning her.” Callan’s tone was firm and decisive. “No doubt there will be a reward.”

“Is that right?” The sergeant tested the firmness of Zacora’s bonds and nodded approvingly. “We shall escort you, then.” His large hands tested the weight and softness of the breasts so tautly pressed out by the ropes binding her slim wrists. A finger grazed down the bond cutting through the valley of her breast flesh and down to the pouting silver mound.

Other men gathered round, watching the sergeant’s actions avidly. He tugged on the rope, enjoying the way its roughness sliced into the drooling valley of the sex purse, parting the swelling lips and grating the bud of the clitoris. Without any thought of how the delicate skin of her cunt might be chafed, he pulled harder on the rope so that it pressed into the depth of her bottom flesh.

“She looks like the slave…” The sergeant hesitated, turning Zacora round to examine the peachy fullness of her buttocks, admiring how the binding dipped deep into the cleft. “The new slave that we have all heard tell of, the one Prince is so pleased about.”

The gag was torn from Zacora’s mouth, baring the very kissable lips. “It must be her!” said the sergeant gleefully. “There cannot be two such beauties! The reward will be large!”

There was laughter among the men, specially from one who had pushed to the front of the group and was eyeing Zacora avidly; her proud breasts, the soft blue eyes, the flowing golden hair and the always parted lips. In her bonds she looked so vulnerable and yet so willing as she flicked her gaze from one to the other of the men. “Who will know if we have borrowed a woman whose role is purely sexual?” said the bold one.

The sergeant nodded. “Aye,” he agreed, “who will know?” he turned to Callan. “We’ll bind this man, her protector, and deliver her ourselves. When we have finished with her. Fetch chains, ropes, anything.”

“There is no need,” Callan said huskily. “I shall not stop you, nor claim any reward, I will go my own way. But first I shall join you in whatever you wish to do to this woman.” His penis throbbed at the thought of completing that which was thwarted at the cottage. It was erect and ready; already dewy on the globe. He stroked it slowly, grazing the tautness of the balls at each side of the peak of the shiny end.

“We’ll leave her bound,” said the sergeant, already removing the chain mail codpiece from his own throbbing erection. The other men drew around Zacora, grinning with anticipation.

There were ten men, including the sergeant. Each was in his prime; heavily muscled, tall and in peak condition. They all wore helmets with visors over the eyes, but their lower faces were free. They wore hose, in the fashion of the time. Knit in fine wool homespun, it showed off their superbly muscled legs and the heavy bundles of their masculinity to perfection. On active service, they wore armour in the form of chain mail which would make repulse but the sharpest swords. Preparing for entry into Zacora, they had bared their male weapons. All were rigid and throbbing.

Zacora, her arms still bound and the rope tightly holding her sex lips apart, looked up at the tall group of men, allowing her lips to curve in a sweet smile. There was a nervous tremor about the smile, for she had never been called upon to take so many men before. They were all so big. Their cockshafts were wide and long. She shuddered at the thought, but in her belly there was that excited swirling feeling of molten anticipation.

Callan pointed to a massive fallen oak. The trunk was as wide as the horse’s back; the bark rough and gnarled. It rested on thick broken branches so that it did not lie flat, but slightly at an angle.

“If she was positioned correctly, that might be a useful addition to our needs,” suggested Callan formally.

Hand resting slightly on the slippery silkiness of his globe, the sergeant looked at Zacora’s lovely open face; at the luscious curves of her figure, at the way the rope disappeared so invitingly into the softness of her sex. “Yes,” he agreed, “you could be right.” He frowned as a thought crossed his mind so heavily involved in plundering the beautiful body. “Do we need to tie her?”

Callan shook his head. “She is quite pliant.” His eyes narrowed, became darker as he gazed into Zacora’s wide blue ones. “She desires to be violated and to pose for her plunderers.”

Zacora knew that he was angry with her for being so bold, but it seemed to be in her nature. It wasn’t what she chose to be. It was what she was.

“Ah-ha!” The sergeant nodding his head eagerly. “She is a born sex slave.”

“So it would seem,” said Callan softly. “But she can be tied if you wish?”

“If YOU wish. You seem more knowledgeable in these matters,” said the sergeant. “What is your position in the palace?”

“Official Procurer of Potency to the Prince,” Callan said, almost under his breath.

A sigh of admiration whispered through the small group and they watched carefully as Callan placed Zacora on her stomach, facing down the massive trunk. Her long legs were splayed around the rough bark. The rope was tight around her wrists and her head was pulled back as the truss disappeared into her clefts, front and rear. He placed a pillow of gathered moss under her belly so that the front and rear orifices would be available as he pulled the rope to the hollows between thigh and body.

“I loved you,” he hissed in her ear as he made adjustments to her position.

“You are merely a slave.”

“So are you!”

The sergeant and his men were becoming impatient. “What’s going on there?”

Callan stood up, thrusting his penis forward as if to confirm his mastery of the situation. “A slight rebellion on the slave’s part,” he explained. “Nothing serious, I assure you.”

“Fine,” said the sergeant impatiently. “Let’s get on with it. Since I am the most senior of the guards, I shall go first.”

“She is capable of taking three men at a time,” Callan said quickly.

Zacora gasped. Excitement with a tinge of fear made her slim belly flutter. She felt the cool softness of the mossy pillow under her hot skin and bore down into it, making sure that her moist pouch was fully open and her rear mouth was readily available. She could feel the roughness of the rope between her full breasts, and to this was added the grating of the old bark. This last seemed to make her nipples more tender, more sensitive, and her whole body more receptive.

“Three men at one time?” questioned the sergeant. A frown creased his face, handsome but weather beaten. “How so?”

“You will note,” said Callan, “how I have forced her head up.” He squatted down, his erect penis swaying before Zacora’s eyes. She could see its eye moist, but not yet dripping. “If you, or one of your men, put legs wide and ease your cock into her mouth you will find it a wonderfully satisfying experience.” He stroked Zacora’s silky hair. She made no protest, but simply parted her lips in readiness.

The mens’ eyes shone as the idea became clear. “And one of you can penetrate her in the usual way,” added Callan. He parted and lifted the puffy labia and pushed fore and middle fingers into the socket, then held the glistening fingers up for all to see, and the men sighed in appreciation.

Zacora lay on the rough log, waiting. Callan was humiliating her deliberately, but she smiled softly to herself. Harold was the master, the master of humiliation, and soon, she hoped, she would belong to him.

“And lastly, one of you will penetrate her rear,” Callan said softly. “It will be tight, and will require lubrication. This can be taken from here.” The two fingers smeared into the parted softness once more and they were brought out gleaming and dripping. Callan massaged the pert rear tightness until Zacora could not help but grip the soft intrusion.

The eager soldiers understood how to take their pleasure quickly and were soon in position. Only one, that taking the female entrance, found difficulty in sliding under Zacora and slipping in his penis.

Two others, too impatient to wait their turn, stood over the sex slave’s helpless form, slicking their fingers up and down their throbbing stems.

Callan stood by, one hand on his rigid manhood and one hand, at intervals, caressing Zacora. The pale oval of her face was stroked by the soft back of his hand, which sometimes strayed to the busy lips, stretched wide around the soldier’s penis. Callan encouraged her wild sucking; encouraged the tongue which flickered tantalisingly over the man’s leaking globe.

Occasionally, Callan’s free hand took the flesh of a breast, kneading it hard so that Zacora found herself making murmurs of both pain and pleasure. He bent to suck the extended nipple, lapping at it wetly as he stroked his mound.

He listened to the sounds on the sensual forest path; the murmurs of sweet ecstasy, the sounds of wetness, bodies linked by the pleasure. Zacora reared as a powerful orgasm hit her, jerking her flesh with the voluptuousness which threshed through her.

It seemed to be a signal. The two men standing, their hands grasping their cocks like enormous fleshy weapons, grunted loudly, and Callan watched as they spumed hot creamy jets over the sex slave’s body.

Zacora, her head held back by the rope around her long slim throat, began to swallow as the man spearing into her mouth spurted into it. There was a great deal, Callan could tell, from the way the girl was forced to swallow quickly.

The soldiers embedded deep inside Zacora were sweating profusely. The moisture ran in tiny streams down their ruddy faces. It was obvious that they were straining to hold back their pleasure; to prolong it. They rutted into her, pacing each other. One could feel the strength of the other’s insertion through her delicate flesh, but the delight was too much and with a duet of hoarse growls they pulled from the syrupy nests to pool their issue on the already slicked skin of her back.