Babala's Correction Page 11

  ‘The new girl,’ said Rata, halting the cart. ‘I have orders to take her to Desilla’s quarters.’

  The man who had stopped them, a courtier, raised his eyebrows. ‘Then I had better make the most of this beauty. There are some who say that girls who are taken there never come out again.’

  Babala shuddered, wished she was clothed more fully and was less tightly chained. If only she could somehow escape.

  Reacting to an unspoken command Rata obediently tipped the cart up and back so that the courtier had less far to bend and Babala’s cunny was at a convenient level for him to inspect.

  The courtier pushed the square of cloth to the side with a gold-headed walking stick, which he used more for show than to help any infirmity. The gold knob was stroked across Babala’s sex curls, the richly dressed gentleman clearly enjoying her helplessness and vulnerability.

  At the thought of being displayed in this public place Babala felt her juices begin to flow. She struggled against such a wanton reaction, but it was useless. Her arms and legs were held immobile by the chains and bars. If only the courtier knew that her sap flowed because she was trained to please! Tears fell unchecked from her lashes, spilling down her cheeks and onto the upper slopes of her breasts, glistening like morning dew.

  The courtier, about to open Babala’s sex lips with the gold head of his walking cane, looked puzzled. ‘Why does she weep?’ he asked of nobody in particular. ‘Is she shy? Is she a virgin?’ His eyes glinted with excitement at this latter thought. The gold knob, as bulbous and perfectly round as a man’s cock globe, hesitated between her plump sex lips.

  ‘Sadly, sir,’ said Rata, shaking his head, ‘no, she is not a virgin. Maxim obtained her for free because she was so used, but Desilla seems to have taken her for herself.’

  Shrugging, the courtier pressed open Babala’s sex folds, rather eccentrically pushing them from side to side to peer within. ‘Ah, now,’ he murmured, to himself again, ‘she is a truly delicious morsel.’

  ‘Indeed she is, sir,’ agreed Rata, moving round to the front of the cart to ogle Babala’s open sex lips as though he had not seen them before. He rubbed his crotch beneath his tunic as his cock stiffened and tented the short garment.

  ‘Have you had the girl?’ The courtier pressed the gold knob deeper between the folds until Babala felt it caress the hard fullness of her nubbin.

  Rata looked shamefaced and hung his head.

  ‘Have you?’ persisted the courtier. Others joined the small group standing by the cart, courtiers and servants alike.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ admitted Rata, after some hesitation. ‘She is easy and eager for men to take her, especially in the heat of the kitchens.’

  Babala’s tears fell faster. That was so unfair! She had no choice but to allow Rata to take her. Why was he being so cruel?

  The crowd around the cart murmured excitedly and pushed closer to her. The gold knob was thrust deeper into the soft moistness of her cunny and she gasped as she felt it butt the limits of her womb.

  The murmurs grew in volume. ‘Thrust it in and out!’ someone urged from the back of the crowd. ‘Let’s see her come.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ enthused a woman. Babala heard hands being clapped gleefully, and no matter how she tried to stem her tears she could not and they fell like pearls, splashing the smooth swells of her breasts. Rata seemed to be enjoying the humiliation she was suffering, and she had been beginning to consider him an ally.

  The cane was thrust rapidly in and out of her cunny and Babala could not help but clutch the hard and unyielding rod. She knew her juices flowed heavily and would glisten upon the dark wood. Her clitty jerked spasmodically at each rub of it. She knew her orgasm was close and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. The crowd was silent, waiting with baited breath. Some of the men were openly rubbing their cocks, slicking the smooth skin up and down their stiffened rods. One woman, her mouth open and her tongue lapping about her lips, lifted her skirt and pressed open her pussy lips to rub at her clitty with obvious relish.

  ‘She is nothing but a whore,’ said the courtier who had first stopped by the cart. ‘She shows such great pleasure in having objects thrust into her cunt, she can be nothing more than that.’

  Despite the cruel words Babala could not help the waves of pleasure as her climax took her over. The watching eyes of the crowd, the courtier and Rata, meant nothing to her; for those few moments nothing mattered but the ecstasy of her orgasm.

  ‘And what, may I ask, is going on here?’

  Desilla’s voice broke the silence and all eyes looked in her direction. She was dressed in a tightly laced corset that whittled her waist to unbelievably tiny dimensions. It was fashioned from black leather, shiny and supple. It reached the tops of her thighs, leaving her sex bush bare, which Babala could see she had taken great pains to have her maid groom to perfection.

  Her boots were fashioned from the same lustrous black leather. The toes were pointed and the heels high and spiked. Unlike the boots she had worn in the kitchen, these only reached her calves, where they fitted snugly. From the lower margin of the corset hung several objects, the use of which Babala was sure she would experience very shortly.

  ‘Did I not tell you to bring that girl to my chambers?’ Desilla demanded of Rata. ‘Immediately.’

  ‘I was doing so,’ he said nervously, ‘but the sire here showed great interest in her and wished to be shown her attributes.’

  Desilla snatched the gold knob from Babala’s cunny and viciously thrashed everyone about her with the rod. ‘This girl is my slave! Do you understand?’

  The courtier cowered under Desilla’s onslaught and begged forgiveness. ‘The girl has such beckoning eyes, simply asking to be satisfied, madam!’

  Babala gasped at the lie and tried to blink back her tears, her cunny tender from the rough treatment with the cane.

  ‘Bring her now!’ ordered Desilla, still seething. ‘I have several experiments I wish to try on this girl.’

  The crowd parted to allow the cart and Babala, who lay helpless upon it, to pass. Desilla led the way, her taut buttocks peeping from beneath the tight black corset and swaying seductively as she walked on the tall heels. The tools that hung like tassels at the lower border of the corset swung rhythmically, tantalisingly, and made Babala quake with trepidation. They looked so fearsome, carefully crafted from polished metal and leather.

  ‘You will probably enjoy Desilla’s little games,’ whispered Rata, trying to comfort Babala as she fearfully watched Desilla’s proud strut down the long passage.

  ‘No,’ she said sadly, ‘I don’t think I will. Desilla does not like me. Indeed, she hates me.’

  ‘It’s not that she hates you,’ assured Rata. ‘She is a little afraid of you, that’s all.’

  ‘Afraid of me?’ she said incredulously. ‘What is it that can possibly make her afraid of me? I am just a weak girl, a slave who must do everything she commands.’

  Desilla whipped her head round, her face thunderous, her thighs apart and her hands placed on her hips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she spat from pursed lips, ‘you are pliant enough it is true, but there is a hint of rebelliousness about you that must be driven out before you can be a true slave.’

  Pale of face, Babala looked up at Desilla, and her mind ran riot as she tried to imagine what the woman was thinking.

  She was soon to find out.

  ‘In my whip case,’ said Desilla, ‘I have a very pretty collection of playthings,’ and trembling, Babala watched as the woman stroked lengths of leather of different thicknesses. ‘Your flesh just begs to be caressed by my toys,’ she continued. ‘It is so smooth and silky...’ The woman’s dark eyes became positively sultry as she eyed Babala’s restrained body, and it was as if she had already forgotten whipping her in the kitchen.

  ‘But before I caress you with my little whips...’ Desilla bent from the waist, her
eyes narrowed and questioning. ‘I shall take you to my bath chamber and have you scrubbed. I know this lowly fellow had you,’ she threw a withering glance up at Rata, who looked shamefaced, ‘and goodness knows who else before you came here.’

  Face aflame, Babala swallowed guiltily. The Slavemaster! Did she know about the Slavemaster - her husband? She surely couldn’t. Who could have told her?

  ‘Come along,’ ordered Desilla. ‘Enough of this idle chatting; I want her in my bath chamber - now.’ She turned on her spiked heels and strutted swiftly along the passage, and Babala watched that haughty bottom swaying from side to side beneath the leather corset.

  Her own buttocks made tender by the rough cart and her limbs aching through the long incarceration in the restraints, Babala sighed. ‘Is it much further?’ she whispered to Rata, turning her sweet face upwards to look into his eyes.

  ‘No, we are almost there,’ he told her, and bent to stroke a wisp of golden hair from her pale cheek before pushing the heavy cart around the corner. The castle was huge, thought Babala. It was almost as big as the Prince’s palace and certainly as luxurious; the Slavemaster must be a very wealthy individual.

  ‘Here we are.’ Rata stopped in front of a pair of large oak doors, one of which was ajar.

  ‘Bring her in.’ Desilla sounded impatient and imperious. ‘And then I want you to go,’ she said to Rata. ‘Goodness knows what you’d get up to with my girls if I allowed you to stay.’

  Light chatter and giggling reached Babala’s ears as the cart was pushed into the first chamber of Desilla’s quarters. The room was large and clad in polished marble. Girls, dressed as scantily as Babala, watched as Rata pushed the cart into the centre of the floor. The girls, all pretty with a variety of hair and skin colouring, giggled at the sight of the captive.

  ‘Is she very naughty, mistress?’ asked one with vibrant red hair.

  ‘Is that why she is chained so tightly?’ asked another.

  A blonde stroked Rata, tracing the bulge of his biceps and allowed her hands to stray over his hips to the very hem of his tunic. Her dainty fingers were about to dip beneath it to touch his balls and cock, which was beginning to strain upwards.

  ‘Stop that!’ snapped Desilla, and the blonde was thrown across the marble floor by a vicious slap. ‘And didn’t I tell you to get back to the kitchens?’ she said, prodding Rata’s chest with stiffened fingers. ‘Now go - you’re a bad influence on my girls.’

  As he left the bath chamber Desilla stood over Babala, and beckoned some of the girls closer. ‘I want her placed on the examining table,’ she said.

  ‘But we might hurt her,’ protested the redhead. ‘Her restraints are so hard and unyielding and she is already in discomfort.’

  ‘Do as I say,’ said Desilla.

  The girls were gentle, but the blonde who was slapped could not resist a spiteful pinch of Babala’s bottom as she helped to lift her onto the marble table.

  ‘Do you wish us to unfasten her chains now, mistress?’ asked the redhead.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Desilla said, shaking her head as she eyed her lovely prize. ‘Why are you so concerned about her?’

  ‘Because you used me in much the same way when I first arrived here,’ the redhead responded, her chin held high.

  ‘And will do so again if I have any more of your cheek,’ said Desilla, turning to search a shelf. ‘Where is my strainer cup?’ she asked, picking up first one implement and then another. ‘Have one of you used it?’

  ‘No, mistress,’ chorused all the girls.

  ‘We would not presume to take something of yours,’ added a girl with hair as black as night. ‘And what use would we have for your strainer cup when we rarely see a man?’

  ‘Less of your cheek,’ Desilla snapped, before continuing with her search.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ she eventually said, picking up a tube as thick as a large cock. It was made of a hard but clear substance that shone in the candlelight.

  The marble was cold and hard beneath Babala’s bottom and it struck a chill into her flesh. The manacles rubbed the tender skin at her wrists and ankles and the spacer-rod made her thighs ache.

  ‘Lift her buttocks with this,’ Desilla ordered, and the redhead was handed a wooden device, carved to take the fullness of bottom cheeks. The mistress stood, thighs gracefully apart, holding the strainer cup.

  ‘I’ll try to be gentle,’ whispered the redhead, pushing the wooden pillow beneath Babala’s buttocks, and although she was as good as her word, Babala could not help but give a mew of discomfort as the shaped wooden block was pushed beneath her. It was not that the pillow caused her pain; it was the strain it put on the rod and chains that held her captive.

  ‘This will not hurt,’ promised Desilla, and the strainer cup, which was not a cup at all but a syringe, was placed at Babala’s opening. Desilla pushed forward with the implement and Babala felt her flesh pouch being pressed open. She parted her lips and gasped.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ chivvied the woman. ‘You’ve welcomed many cocks bigger than this, I’m sure. It cannot be hurting for you are slippery as can be; juices seeping very nicely to lubricate your passage.’

  ‘It is hard and cold, mistress,’ whispered Babala. ‘And it opens me shamefully wide.’ She looked up shyly at the girls who watched her humiliation with such interest. ‘And they are all staring at my cunny.’

  ‘Stop making a fuss, girl,’ sneered Desilla. The strainer cup was fully inserted and Babala felt a sucking sensation that made her draw in her breath. The sucking seemed to go on and on, but at last the strainer cup was withdrawn and Desilla held it to the light of a candle.

  ‘It is full,’ Desilla’s voice was no more than a whisper. ‘And I sucked a great deal from you.’ She gave Babala a sideways glance, her eyes narrowed slits of suspicious. ‘Rata gave you all this seed?’

  Babala said nothing, but wished the floor would swallow her up. Could the syringe be full not only of Rata’s issue but Maxim’s as well? Was there any way Desilla could know?

  ‘Who else has fucked you?’ asked the woman. ‘Tell me, who?’

  The other girls were silent, huddling together, their soft breasts pressed close and their hands clutched together as if their closeness would give them comfort.

  ‘Well, you little strumpet,’ Desilla persisted, ‘what have you to say for yourself? Did Rata receive money from a courtier or two for your services as he brought you here? Is that it?’ She stroked the iron restraints at Babala’s ankles, and then her fingers thrust into the girl’s exposed sex. ‘They took advantage of your helplessness, I suppose.’

  ‘No, mistress,’ murmured Babala, her voice trembling with dread that Desilla might discover the truth; that Maxim had fucked her in the carriage on the way to the castle. She wished she dared wriggle away from the thrusting fingers, but to do so was to invite punishment, she knew.

  Desilla sighed and let her fingers slide from Babala’s wetness. ‘Oh, very well then,’ she said, her tone one of irritation. ‘But if I ever find out you’ve put your cunt where you should not...’ She drew her forefinger in a cutting movement across her own throat and smiled evilly as she watched Babala shiver.

  ‘Take those restraints from her,’ she ordered. ‘I have the key.’ The redhead reached out to take it, but the dark girl was quicker, and bent down next to Babala.

  ‘It was the master, wasn’t it?’ she whispered.

  Babala darted frightened eyes in Desilla’s direction, but the woman was busy at the bench setting out the toys that she unclipped from the lower margin of her corset.

  ‘He does that with all the girl slaves if he gets the chance.’ The dark girl kept a wary eye on Desilla as she released the wrist restraints from Babala. ‘And madam always suspects, but rarely proves anything.’

  ‘Leave the leg chains in place,’ Desilla said suddenly, and the dark girl looked wary, clea
rly fearing she’d been overheard. ‘Lift her into the tub and make sure she is properly scrubbed.’

  The girls hurried to do madam’s bidding and Babala felt some relief as she was lowered into the warm and perfumed water. Aching and tired from her long restraint in the manacles, she closed her eyes and let her hair float in a golden fan on the milky surface. The girls used perfumed soap and soft cloths to scrub under and over Babala’s breasts, paying special attention to the sensitive nipples that sprang up like little pegs.

  It was the dark girl who attended to Babala’s cunny, made available by the rod that still spread her thighs. ‘You have lovely fleshy lips,’ she whispered as she dipped into the warm swirling water and soaped Babala’s golden curls. Babala said nothing, but the gentle massage was making frissons of pleasure spark within her lower belly, making her feel relaxed, and could not help but moan as her outer lips were peeled open and the dark girl’s knowing fingers teased her sensitive nubbin.

  ‘I know what you’re up to,’ Desilla said, interrupting the moment, and the dark girl yelped and cowered as a whip licked around her slender and bare shoulders. ‘I do the pleasuring, not you girls. You have been my body slaves long enough to know that.’

  ‘I am sorry, mistress,’ said the girl, ‘but her cunny pouts so invitingly.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Desilla purred. ‘Take her out. I want her now.’

  Babala moved awkwardly in the leg irons, but the girls managed to help her out of the tub and dry her with many soft cloths, and then at last the restraints were unfastened and her legs were free.

  ‘You girls may leave us now,’ said Desilla, her predatory eyes fixed on Babala. ‘I want her alone. There is much I need to know about this one.’ There was a look in her eyes that unnerved Babala. ‘Oh, there’s no need to look like that,’ the woman mused, toying with her prey. ‘I have a treat in store before I send you back to the kitchen...’

  The girls had gone and the bath chamber echoed with Desilla’s next ominous words. ‘According to my husband you have been well used before, so what I have planned for you should not be a trial at all.’ She strutted towards a door. ‘Follow me,’ she ordered.