Babala's Correction Page 16

  Babala knew something awful was about to happen, and she feared for Huru. ‘Please, stop this,’ she begged. ‘Both of you.’

  ‘Be quiet, whore,’ growled Maro.

  ‘I told you; don’t call her that,’ Huru repeated.

  ‘And what will you do if I—’

  Huru’s great fist swung in a vicious and surprisingly swift arc and clubbed Maro on the side of the head before he had a chance to counter with the knife, instantly silencing the man’s mocking tones and knocking him sideways. Huru’s rage was up, so he grabbed a thick bough from the log basket beside the fire.

  ‘Huru, no!’ shrieked Babala, but he brought it down anyway and cracked it against Maro’s temple, knocking him to his knees. The bough lifted, the knife flashed dangerously in the dim light, but the wood swept down again knocking the woodcutter unconscious, dropping him heavily face down on the floor.

  ‘I am sorry, little one,’ Huru said, dropping the bough and turning quickly to Babala. ‘I should never have left you alone with him. I thought he could be trusted.’

  Babala shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said sadly. ‘Maro was no different to all the others, and it is not all bad. Sometimes I like it. I was taught to like it by the Taskmaster. He said I was born to be enjoyed by men.’

  Huru winced and staggered a little, and with a gasp of shock Babala noticed his calf was bleeding from a deep gash in the muscle. Maro’s desperate lunge with the knife had caught him. ‘You’re hurt,’ she said, easing her aching body up from the rickety cot. ‘Let me tend the wound. I’ll get some clean water from the well.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Huru, putting a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘We must leave quickly before Maro recovers and sends word for Maxim’s guards to hunt us down like dogs. He is a vengeful man when crossed,’ he looked down at the unconscious heap on the floor, ‘and I think our friendship is at an end.’

  ‘But you can’t go with your leg bleeding like that,’ Babala protested, looking round for something to stem the flow.

  ‘No, we must not waste time,’ Huru insisted, sounding impatient as he wrapped Babala in a large animal pelt. ‘We must go, and we must go now.’ He picked her up and hurried out of the gloomy hut.

  After only a short distance into the forest Huru was limping badly, but he would not hear of them stopping, even for a moment to rest.

  ‘Have you any idea what Maxim’s men will do to you if they catch us?’ he warned, and hurried on as quickly as his wound would allow.

  As Babala looked back she saw the trail Huru was leaving, dark specks of blood on the carpet of fallen leaves, and she shivered despite the wrapping of fur about her.

  The forest was almost silent, even the birds had stopped their singing. The only sounds were the slightly uneven stride of Huru’s pounding feet and the brush of the vegetation as he stomped through it. His arms held her closely to his chest.

  ‘Not too much further now,’ Huru panted, his pace not letting up despite it being some hours since they had fled the hut. ‘Not long now before we reach the far edge of the forest, and then we’ll be in the sloping pasture and the town will be below us. Not long.’

  His words soothed Babala and she at last began to relax, and Huru’s steady jogging was like a rocking cradle, but no sooner had she begun to feel safe than she heard excited shouts disturbing the peace of the forest behind them. There were dogs, too - large and ferocious, judging by the sounds of their barks. Huru stopped and looked back, his eyes narrowed as he stared through the gloom beneath the forest canopy. He was limping badly now and the bleeding had not staunched.

  ‘They’re near!’ someone shouted. ‘The dogs are getting excited!’

  ‘It’s the blood they can smell,’ said Huru, as much to himself as to Babala. ‘I’ve led them to you. I’m sorry.’ He leaned back against an oak tree and Babala was frightened as she looked at his drained face. He was a horrible pale colour and seemed to have given up. They were in a small clearing and Huru was too weary to outrun their pursuers, and then a commotion made her look back and there were the hunters, their fierce dogs straining at their leashes, fangs bared and drool dripping from their jowls.

  ‘We’ve got them, lads!’ one of the men shouted, raising a hand and waving more of them over to where he stood. ‘We’ve got them! The woodcutter was right!’

  Huru set Babala on her feet and pulled the animal skin close about her. ‘Be brave, little one,’ he said, ‘as I know you always are. And whatever you do, do not let them break your spirit.’

  Babala began to weep, not for herself but for Huru, who had been such a brave and loyal companion since they left the castle. The hunters stalked around the pair, careful not to get too close to Huru, who could still be dangerous. The growling dogs strained forward, up on their hind legs, pulling on their leashes.

  Then the leader beckoned Babala to him, and Huru resignedly let her go. The man roughly turned her round, stripped the animal skin from her and cast it to the ground, where the snarling dogs pounced on it, tearing and shredding with their fangs.

  Once again Babala was naked and vulnerable, so she stood very still, waiting for whatever the hunters would do next. They looked her up and down with lustful stares, twisted her round and inspected her bottom that still bore the inflamed marks from Maro’s beating.

  They were burly men, almost as large as Huru, thick shouldered with muscular arms and legs, and dressed in the usual short tunic. They wasted no time in clipping manacles with short chains to Babala’s wrists and ankles.

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ Huru warned them as he was chained to a tree, but the hunters just laughed and told him to hold his tongue.

  ‘Are you taking us back to the castle?’ asked Babala, as a linking chain was fastened from her wrist cuffs to the ankle chains.

  The men laughed again. ‘Nothing so comfortable,’ said one. ‘When we’ve finished with you we’re to take you to the town and leave you to the lowlife that lives there.’

  ‘The girl is a beautiful sight, I must admit,’ said one. ‘I can’t imagine why Maxim is suddenly so keen to be rid of her.’

  ‘He’s decided she brings too much trouble,’ explained another. ‘He told us to track her and her halfwit friend down to send out a clear message to anyone else who might harbour thoughts of fleeing the castle without permission. But he doesn’t want her taken back.’ The man leered, and then added ominously, ‘He said we can do with her as we please.’

  Then, while Huru looked on hopelessly, Babala was laid on the damp ground and engulfed by the avaricious men.

  Her lips were prised open and an erection plugged her mouth. Her thighs were parted and another rigid column penetrated her. Countless hands mauled, and pinched and slapped. Without either of the erections disengaging or even interrupting their rhythmic pumping, she was rolled onto her side and another shaft stabbed into her bottom while hands pulled her buttocks apart.

  As the day wore on each of the men took their share of their unresisting captive more than once, with Huru having to witness their enjoyment and her shame.

  Then, when the men were utterly sated, an exhausted Babala was carried, still in chains, to the edge of the forest and down to the outskirts of the town.

  Chapter 11

  The Lady Fazath was dressed as a noblewoman, in a rich velvet gown cut low at her breasts, revealing her inviting cleavage, and a cloak that swirled from her shoulders and fell heavily to her feet. ‘But we don’t even know that she is in this wretched little town,’ she complained.

  ‘No, we don’t,’ agreed the Taskmaster. He also wore clothes that classed him as a gentleman. It was necessary, noticed Fazath, for him to make many adjustments at his crotch, for he was more used to the simple loincloth that lightly covered his cock but allowed it freedom. ‘But I’d be willing to guess that she has been taken into one of the bordellos around here, and there are plenty of them
.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Fazath, lifting her skirts to keep them from dragging in the rotting garbage strewn about the street. ‘I saw her taken away by the Slavemaster.’

  ‘And who knows what that harridan of a wife of his would make of that,’ said the Taskmaster. ‘No, we’ll search the bordellos. If the rumours of her recapture after her flight from the castle are true, that’s where she’ll be, mark my words, being used by anyone who can pay a price.’

  Lady Fazath shuddered. ‘Poor girl.’

  A tavern door was open and the noise of raucous revelry drifted out onto the street, and Fazath had to quickly dodge a man who staggered drunkenly from the doorway - but she was too late. ‘They wouldn’t let me...’ he slurred sorrowfully, stumbling to his knees and grabbing the hem of her gown. ‘They wouldn’t let me...’

  ‘Get away from me!’ she hissed venomously, trying to tug the velvet from the clutch of his filthy hands.

  ‘Wait,’ said the Taskmaster, frowning at Fazath. He bent down and smiled at the pitiful man. ‘Wouldn’t let you what?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a new girl,’ said the drunk, still pulling at the hem of Fazath’s gown while she tugged in the opposite direction. ‘A new girl in the seraglio upstairs. A beauty, by all accounts, and they wouldn’t let me see her, let alone spend some time with her.’

  ‘It’s her,’ said the Taskmaster, straightening up. ‘I’m sure it’s Babala.’

  ‘Let go!’ Lady Fazath pulled on the velvet one last time and the gown ripped, baring her legs and bottom. ‘You wretched man!’ she screamed, and attempted to wrap the cloak around her, but the Taskmaster stayed her hand.

  ‘Don’t.’ He stood back and stared at her slender bare hips and legs.

  ‘Don’t?’ Lady Fazath tried once more to cover herself, as much from the lewd stare of the drunk at her feet as from the Taskmaster and the occasional passer-by.

  ‘You look so attractive like that,’ he explained. ‘Come along.’ He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the open tavern door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lady Fazath again tried to wrap her cloak close about her, but the Taskmaster swung her round and draped her over a table, face down between the tankards and caring nothing for the chill of the spilled ale which cooled her breasts and tummy. He lifted the cloak and fully bared her bottom.

  Fazath squealed as her buttocks were suddenly on fire under the weight of the Taskmaster’s hand, and the tavern was instantly silent at the sound of flesh smacking flesh.

  ‘I believe you’re looking for girls to service your bordello,’ he said to the slob behind the counter, and then pulled Fazath to her feet.

  ‘Girls, yes,’ said the innkeeper, ‘but that one should have been retired long ago.’

  There was a burst of sniggers and coarse remarks from the drunken customers and serving wenches alike.

  ‘But she’s a handsome woman,’ said the Taskmaster, opening Fazath’s mouth to show the healthy state of her teeth.

  Inwardly she fumed. This was what the wretch had planned all along, she told herself. It was all an elaborate plan - to use her to find Babala by putting her, Fazath, to work in every bordello in the town.

  ‘Turn round, my dear,’ said the Taskmaster. ‘And over the table again.’

  ‘Don’t you dare slap me,’ she hissed.

  ‘Do you want to find Babala?’ he asked under his breath. ‘Then do as you’re told.’ He flashed a winning smile at the innkeeper. ‘A nice tight arse, you see?’ he said, pressing a finger into Fazath’s rosebud, much to her intense humiliation. ‘Turn over and open your legs,’ he ordered her.

  The Lady Fazath peered around the smoky bar and found herself gazing into the interested brown eyes of one of the wenches. So long as she kept that pretty image in her head she would not feel so humiliated and, one never knew, perhaps she and the wench might have some fun together in one of the upstairs rooms. So obediently, she lay on her back with her knees parted.

  ‘See how lithe and firm she is,’ said the Taskmaster. ‘Nothing sags here. All is toned and fresh’

  ‘And ripe!’ bawled the innkeeper.

  The Taskmaster ignored the remark while Fazath again fumed at being so humiliatingly displayed before the whole drunken rabble. She felt her sex lips being spread by the Taskmaster’s fingers, felt him tap the tip of her nubbin to show how erect it was, and felt him draw back the little hood to completely expose the sensitive part. ‘As pink and healthy as a younger woman’s,’ he remarked.

  From the corner of her eye Fazath noticed the serving wench move to the front of the crowd and lick her lips as she stared between her open thighs. A smile lifted the corner of the girl’s mouth and she parted her lips to enable a finger to be placed, in a very obviously lewd gesture, between them. Fazath returned the smile, and she could almost ignore the lecherous mob.

  ‘What do you say?’ coaxed the Taskmaster. ‘Will you take her on in your bordello?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Can she do tricks?’

  ‘What kind of tricks?’ The Taskmaster frowned at the question. He was becoming impatient, for Fazath was not the only one who had seen the pretty serving wench. His cock was swollen in the tight confines of his hose and he was forced to adjust its mighty coil to a more comfortable position.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the innkeeper. He was impatient too. This wasn’t selling any ale, nor was he collecting revenue from the bordello upstairs. ‘Let’s see how flexible her entrances are,’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Fazath snapped.

  ‘Lift your bottom,’ said the innkeeper, ignoring the question, ‘and keep your legs apart. Let us see just what you can take.’

  The Lady Fazath, quite appalled by the rude man, fixed her gaze on the serving wench, and the thought of the plump but firm young body lying quite naked under hers as she lapped at a juicy cunny took all thoughts of humiliation from her mind.

  She felt fingers spreading her bottom cheeks to reveal the tight bud of her anus, but even this did not upset her as she thought of full young breasts being cradled in her hands as she sucked first upon one taut nipple and then another.

  Something pressed into her bottom - a stubby finger, but it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ the innkeeper mused thoughtfully, like a doctor examining his patient. Then he fingered the creamy opening of her cunny, and eased two fingers deep inside, his rough palm agitating her clitoris. Fazath’s sex gently convulsed around the invading digits with secret excitement, as she let her fantasies dwell on the serving wench and imagined spanking the little minx’s bottom, which she was sure was as pale as driven snow and just as smooth.

  ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the innkeeper. ‘The woman has good strength in her cunt muscles after all.’

  ‘Of course I do!’ Fazath protested indignantly, raising herself on her elbows. ‘I have always kept myself in excellent condition.’ She gave the serving wench a meaningful look and the girl bowed her head in a gesture of delightful submission. Oh, she was going to have such fun with that one!

  ‘Shhh!’ warned the Taskmaster, pushing her flat upon the table again, and then turning to the innkeeper. ‘Perhaps you would like to proceed?’ he invited.

  ‘Hm,’ the innkeeper nodded. He caressed the open outer lips, spreading them until all huddled near enough could see the prominence of her erect clitty.

  ‘Be my guest,’ encouraged the Taskmaster, and Fazath gave him a furious glare as the innkeeper started to strum her succulent and sensitive flesh. The Taskmaster patted her shoulder in a comforting, encouraging gesture. ‘You’re doing well,’ he said quietly.

  Her eyes were again drawn to the serving wench. How she wished those pretty lips were petting her clitty instead of the crude fumbling fingers of the innkeeper. How she wished that dear little tongue could tease her anus...


  So deep in these lewd thoughts was she that at first she did not recognise a tongue lapping at her tortured clitty. It was only when the first waves of pleasure warmed her trim belly and began to make her juices flow more copiously that she realised a customer had sunk down between her straddled legs and was lapping busily at her, encouraged by the drunken rabble.

  ‘Oh, stop him,’ she moaned, trying to squirm away from the insidious tongue.

  ‘But why, my dear?’ asked the Taskmaster. ‘You know how you love an active tongue seeking out all the delicate morsels of your cunny.’ He continued stroking her shoulder.

  ‘But, please, not a man...’ She sighed, but despite her protests the sensations were turning her on incredibly. ‘I wouldn’t mind you, if it has to be a man,’ she confessed, ‘but... but, I really want her...’ and as a beautiful orgasm wracked her body and the rabble cheered and slopped ale onto the dirty floor from their mugs she managed to point with a trembling finger at the delicious serving wench who still stood, hands clasped meekly together and eyes lowered.

  ‘I’ll take her!’ the innkeeper announced decisively.

  ‘Good,’ said the Taskmaster. ‘I knew you were a shrewd man of taste the minute I set eyes on you. Come along,’ he said to Fazath, ‘upstairs with you.’

  The Lady Fazath, looking much dishevelled, slipped from the ale-soaked table with shaky legs. The Taskmaster supported her, and began to lead her to the rickety wooden stairs that led to the upper floor.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ asked the innkeeper.

  ‘To escort her to your chambers,’ answered the Taskmaster.

  The innkeeper shook his head decisively. ‘No pimps allowed.’

  ‘Pimp? I am no pimp.’

  ‘Ruth,’ the innkeeper beckoned to the cute serving wench, ignoring the Taskmaster’s defence of himself. ‘Take our new whore to the bedchambers. And wash her ready for the real paying customers.’ He waved a hand disparagingly at the ale drinkers, who, now that the excitement was over, had returned to the business of supping from their tankards.