Babala's Correction Read online

  On shaking legs and her mind troubled by the woman’s words Babala did as she was told. The room into which she was taken was gloomy and shadowy. It was sparsely furnished with only one narrow table in its centre. Babala looked at Desilla curiously.

  ‘Up on there,’ said the woman, ‘and spread your arms above your head and part your legs. This is one of my little toys for girls who are disobedient. I punish them.’

  ‘But, mistress, I do everything you say,’ Babala protested. ‘I try to be good and to please you.’

  Desilla’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hm, when I can see you, but what about when you are out of my sight? What do you get up to then, eh?’

  She was talking about her husband, Babala was sure. The cruel woman suspected and this was why she was being punished.

  ‘Up on the table,’ Desilla repeated, and gave her a slap on the bottom that made the pert mounds quiver. The sound was like the crack of a whip and hurt almost as much, and Babala stifled a sob of woe. With tears in her eyes she climbed onto the narrow table, opened her legs wide and spread her arms.

  ‘It’s quite obvious that you make a habit of making yourself available to all and sundry,’ said Desilla, her lips thin and curved in a cruel smile.

  ‘But only because I am made to do so, mistress,’ Babala countered bravely, as her wrists were strapped hard to the upper corners of the furniture.

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, you little strumpet.’

  Babala sighed and wondered exactly what the woman had in store for her - how exactly she was to be tormented.

  ‘This is an interesting device, my sweet.’ Desilla stood at her head, looking down at her and fingering a large wheel. ‘Since you enjoy to be open and pliant this will make you more so.’ She gave a wicked chuckle. ‘Very much more so, and will please the gentlemen who are waiting to get their hands on you.’

  A click echoed through the bare-walled chamber and Babala felt a tension in her limbs as they were spread wider.

  ‘How does that feel?’ asked Desilla.

  Babala’s breasts felt taut and her nipples stiffened. Her cunny felt extremely exposed, and her sex lips were parted, her clitoris flushed and eager, aching for the touch of a finger or the chafe of a cock. She could sense the drafts in the chamber seeking it out, whispering over the golden curls and meandering like an icy stream over the heated inner flesh. ‘It feels very strange, mistress,’ she admitted, although privately she thought how deliciously vulnerable she felt.

  ‘Stretched, would you say?’ probed Desilla.

  ‘Very much so, mistress,’ said Babala. Her sex bud did indeed feel stretched, making the tension in her limbs feel as nothing of any great importance.

  ‘It will feel even more so by the time my gentlemen friends have finished with you,’ Desilla threatened. ‘And then you will hold no appeal for my straying husband whatsoever.’ She smiled maliciously. ‘You will not know who they are, of course. No, that wouldn’t do at all. They will be masked.’ She gave the wheel at Babala’s head another turn and the girl felt her belly hollow from the extra tension, felt her breasts become flatter on her ribs and felt her legs become more open. ‘Only I will know that.’

  Babala moaned, finding it more difficult to breathe as she was stretched, but despite her anxiety she felt her sex sap seep generously, warm and milky, trickling over her folds and soaking through her golden pussy curls. She twisted her head to look at the Slavemaster’s wife and cringed from the disturbingly intense expression in the dark eyes.

  It was a trick - Babala knew it. Desilla was taunting her. She’d known all the time that Maxim had seduced her in the carriage. The rack and the masked men, they were all a ploy to tease and torture Babala. Not to make her unappealing to the woman’s husband in the future, but to punish her for acts already perpetrated. And at the end of it all she would be condemned to a life as a serving wench in the kitchens, or horror of all horrors - thrown from the crag to an awful death.

  Desilla’s expression changed. She became bright and inviting as she moved away and opened the heavy oak double doors. ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ she beckoned, smoothing the supple leather of her tight corset over her shapely body. ‘The girl is prepared, and I know you will all enjoy her immensely.’

  Four men - aristocrats, judging by their expensively heavy cloaks - crowded into the room. Macabre carnival masks hid their faces, turning them into grotesque demons, and behind the masks eyes glinted avariciously. Babala could hear their breathing, harsh and rapid, eager and wanting - and somehow this increased her treacherous yearning. The Taskmaster’s training had been extremely thorough; she could feel the greater pulse of her sex bud and its growing heat. Her limbs, stretched and secured as they were, only served to increase her shameful excitement.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to open your codpieces, gentlemen,’ Desilla offered. ‘I am sure our dear girl would love to see what is in store for her.’

  The cloaks were swept aside and codpieces, the padded covers that enhanced the men’s groins, were unfastened and erections of varying length and girth sprang forth. They were already proud and turgid, the knobs bared and shiny, slippery with pre-issue. The men remained silent and stood in line, waiting their turn to ravage Babala.

  As her sapphire eyes traveled along the display of swollen members she readied herself for the onslaught. A strange pride made her look at each of the men in turn, and watch as they blatantly stroked their rigid stems, glossing their issue over their bulbous helmets.

  ‘You,’ Desilla broke the hush that blanketed the ghoulish scene, pushing forward the heavily built man nearest to her. ‘Will it be you first? Yes, I think you are a good choice. Take your turn with her. She is well prepared, as you can see. There will be no resistance.’

  ‘She looks too innocent to know how to please a man thoroughly,’ grumbled the man, but despite his objection he moved closer to Babala and began to thumb her inflamed clitoris, and she whispered her pleasure and strained to lift her hips to the man’s touch.

  ‘Well, believe me,’ said Desilla, with a cynical smile, ‘she is not, as you can see by her wanton reaction.’

  Without any more hesitation the man climbed onto the table, and Babala could hear him grunting with anticipated pleasure, and hear him panting with effort as he settled between her thighs.

  ‘You are right, madam,’ he enthused. ‘She could not remain innocent with such an appealing cunt.’

  Babala felt tears fill her eyes at this humiliating statement. She felt her cheeks flame, but still her sex felt proud and ready.

  ‘She says she was trained,’ Desilla sneered scathingly. ‘By someone called the Taskmaster, in Ellipsis. But my dear husband acquired her more cheaply than he could a whore.’ She stroked her darkly curled mound in a thoughtful manner. ‘A whore,’ she repeated, and hissed the word as she looked at Babala’s spread thighs and the man who had settled between them.

  Babala, held fast by the manacles at the head and foot of the table, her mound thrust up by the tautness of the restraints, looked stoically through her tears into the eyes behind the fearsome mask, trying to give no hint of pain or dread.

  To the man she was a gloriously inviting and passive beauty. ‘Now, my sweet,’ he grunted from behind the mask, ‘you will enjoy my pleasuring.’

  ‘Where are your manners, girl?’ snapped Desilla. ‘Answer the gentleman.’ She turned the wheel at Babala’s head another notch, but she made no murmur of complaint.

  Babala felt the smooth thickness of a cock at her entrance, felt the push as he spread her. The force of his cock pulled upon her clitty hood, baring it and making it available to be chafed by the in and out thrust of his thickness. She could not help but mew with pleasure as thrills circled around her lower belly like a whirlpool within her body. The increased stretching she felt at her arms and legs were as nothing as her cunny was opened to the full.

  The other men murmu
red appreciatively at her sounds of pleasure and pressed forward to watch the spectacle of her fucking more closely.

  ‘You see how she glories in her helplessness,’ hissed Desilla. ‘There is no hint of panic as there would be in a normal girl. There is only pride in her openness and vulnerability, and see how she parts her moist lips in invitation.’ She fingered her breasts where they spilled from the upper margins of the waist-whittling corset.

  Babala clutched the big man’s cock with her soft cunny walls as her ecstasy mounted and he grunted more loudly. ‘Tell me what you want me to do,’ he rasped. ‘Tell me crudely!’

  ‘I - I want you to fuck me,’ said Babala, in a soft and inviting voice. ‘I want to feel your cockstem pulsing within me and I want to feel your seed, hot and creamy, washing the walls of my sex.’

  ‘Oh, too much! She speaks the crude words so sexily. I cannot hold back, Desilla.’

  ‘Then let it go,’ the woman urged. ‘Let your come flood her. Don’t hold back.’

  A passion gripped Babala as the smooth heat of his cockstem nestled within her clutching folds, and her fluids soaked the invading shaft and she felt the first burst of his seed. The several fountains were copious and hot. Babala’s own orgasm flowed through her like a spiral that lifted her up and she squeezed the cock until the last drop was milked from him.

  ‘Oh, excellent!’ crowed Desilla, watching the man’s heavy body slumped upon Babala’s shapely form. ‘Now get off her.’

  With some difficulty the man clambered from Babala’s body, his mask a little awry upon his sweating face. ‘The girl is a witch, Desilla,’ he said in no more than a breathless whisper. ‘She drains a man’s strength.’

  ‘Oh, what nonsense,’ Desilla scoffed. ‘She merely drained your seed, and you will remain grateful to me for allowing it.’ She pushed the man away from the table upon which Babala lay so helplessly.

  ‘Let us carry on.’ She looked along the line of men, giving their cocks more than cursory glances, and chose the next. Babala surmised by his slender physique that he was young, although his cock was longer and thicker than the previous man’s.

  ‘Make this fucking last,’ ordered Desilla, giving the first man a withering glance. ‘She got away too easily with the first one.’

  Needful, thought Babala; her flesh was needful. It was as the Taskmaster told her it would be. She would be able to take one man and then more men and enjoy them all. She wanted the young man’s cock to slide into the silky depths of her vagina; although her body was chained and helpless, her vagina was free and willing.

  The young man smoothed his fingers up and down her parted thighs with a touch that made her flesh tremble with delight. He caressed her belly and stroked the puff of golden curls on her mound, and thumbed the full pad of flesh at the very apex of her cunny.

  ‘Oh, get on with it,’ Desilla intervened impatiently, so the young man hastily lowered between Babala’s thighs and stroked the length of his cock up and down her slit, coating himself with her juices. It nudged the tip of her nubbin, and he groaned and fumbled his cock into her opening. Such was his length and the slowness of his entry that Babala thought she would faint away with the pleasure it gave her.

  ‘Get on with it!’ the Slavemaster’s wife repeated angrily. ‘You know what I want to see; I want to see something which thrills me in my whoring chamber and so far you have done nothing but bore me. I want to be stimulated by what you do to the girl! Understand?’

  The bizarre group grunted behind their masks and the young man immediately drove his cock deep inside Babala. His strokes were slow and rhythmic, and his rigid length had a throbbing power that made the trussed girl swoon.

  ‘Let me feel her,’ Desilla ordered, and Babala felt the Slavemaster’s wife sit upon the edge of the table, could feel her bare buttocks against her own straining thigh.

  The young man plunged into her and his balls slapped against her buttocks.

  ‘Good...’ murmured Desilla, and her ringed fingers slid between the couple to finger the root of the pistoning cock and feel the spread flesh leaves of Babala’s cunny. It was both humiliating and exciting to Babala. She felt the woman’s fingers squeezing her open yet further to feel the man’s cock deep within her. ‘More,’ ordered the Slavemaster’s wife. ‘I want to feel the movement of your cock within the little strumpet.’ Although she’d demanded a longer coupling this time, her caressing of the man’s cock was too much for him to bear, and with one final grunt he came and flooded not only Babala’s cunny, but also coated Desilla’s probing fingers.

  ‘Oh, really,’ Desilla frowned as she pulled them from Babala’s cunny. ‘I told you to pace yourself!’

  ‘It was your fingers, mistress,’ the young man protested, defending his lack of staying prowess. ‘It was too much stimulation for any man to bear.’

  Wiping her hands upon a strip of silk, Desilla waved a dismissive hand. Then her eyes narrowed as she looked at the last two waiting men. ‘You,’ she said, deciding upon one of them. ‘Come here.’

  The man confidently flung off the robe he wore, and she gasped to see that his wonderfully toned body was oiled to show the sculptured contours of honed muscle. He had a slim waist although he was mature, much like the Taskmaster. His cock stood from his body like the spear that it was. The balls were trimmed of hair so that they were smooth to the touch. These and his cock were oiled too, and he allowed his fist to slide up and down the spear of flesh and cup his balls.

  But there was something about this man that was not only familiar but also intensely unsettling, and had Babala been able she would have fled the room. Her eyes flitted anxiously to Desilla.

  ‘Well, fine sir,’ the woman said huskily. ‘You have spent a great deal of time preparing your body, and in particular, your penis. Do you not wish to insert it into our young slave here?’

  It seemed to Babala that Desilla put great emphasis on the word slave, but despite her trepidation it somehow caused her an extra thrill.

  The smooth and oiled body lay upon the trembling girl. The slippery globe was positioned without any fumbling at her entrance, but even though well lubricated it was necessary for the mysterious owner to grind his hips energetically to obtain entry because of the dimensions of the organ. Babala gasped as she was opened, and the man’s hands grasped her shoulders to gain purchase and to lever her helpless body as he pushed ever inwards. Her sex was fully opened, and her bud was exposed to the rubbing of his immense cock.

  Then he drew back and sat on his heels, his cock standing upright from his groin and gleaming with the rich essence of Babala’s pearly dew. Tenderly, he pressed open her love lips, exposing her slippery inner leaves.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Desilla demanded impatiently. ‘She is a mere slave; why are you so intent on giving her pleasure?’

  The mask turned upon Desilla, but he said nothing; he was more absorbed in driving two thick fingers into Babala’s smooth opening while his thumbs slithered over the tip of her throbbing clitoris.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Desilla persisted, her anger intensifying while Babala moaned as his attentions sent her in a spiral of ecstasy. As she came she heard the man groan his own pleasure and saw his spume erupt from his throbbing penis to splash on her shuddering breasts and belly.

  ‘No!’ screamed Desilla, her venomous mood becoming dangerously intense. ‘You knew I wanted her fucked beyond endurance by each of you. You knew!’

  But the man threw back his head, his dark hair glossed with sweat, and laughed uproariously.

  Chapter 8

  Babala was dragged by her hair to the kitchen, along the dark narrow stone passages. Her body ached from the rough usage it had received for so many hours.

  ‘You will work in the kitchens for the rest of your days,’ hissed the servant in whose charge she now was. ‘That is what my mistress said and we, the cooks and the scullery men, may use you as
the mood takes us.’

  Babala lifted her hands to the roots of her golden hair to try and ease the excruciating tension. The man who took such delight in teasing both her and Desilla was Maxim, the Slavemaster, of that Babala was convinced. How he had the gall to do such a thing right in front of his awesome wife she knew not. And how Desilla had not recognised him at least until it was too late poor bewildered Babala also couldn’t understand. But it was him, she was sure. The cock was so long and thick, deliciously smooth, the globe large. She shuddered at the thought of it opening her sex to push into her tightness.

  ‘You were a fool to displease the mistress,’ said the servant, resting for a moment in the chilly stone passageway. He stroked the pouting cushions of her bottom, making her kneel on all fours on the flagstone floor so he could examine them more fully in the flickering light of a sconce. ‘Such a tight rear cleft,’ he murmured, using both hands to ease her buttocks apart. ‘And such a darling rear pit...’

  Babala felt the servant’s finger press open the tiny pleats and could not help the shiver of longing which rippled through her weary body. Those brutish guards had first breached that opening, and she could not help remembering not only the discomfort but also the soaring bliss.

  ‘It is moist,’ remarked the servant.

  ‘The dew is from my cunny, sir,’ Babala said honestly. ‘It trickled down the cleft.’

  ‘Perhaps we should add a little more,’ suggested the servant, and she felt his fingers probe into the soft depths of her sex, seeking the slippery dew. She bore back upon the intrusion, instinctively helping him, and felt additional sap seep from her folds. ‘Good,’ grunted the servant. ‘You are going to be very popular in the kitchen.’

  The fingers slithered back between her buttocks and massaged the creamy juices into her rear bud. Babala felt it give under the pressure, and the servant lifted his brief tunic to show his cockstem. She knew it was a compliment to her that it was fully bloated, with the veins bulging in a tight trail along its length. The end globe was shiny and slick with seed, and the servant was looking at her hungrily, fingering her rear bud with one hand and stroking his turgid length with the other.