Babala's Correction Read online

  At the back of her tongue she could feel the smoothness of Bart’s globe and taste the first driblets of his come. The Taskmaster had taught her the taste, a pleasant bitterness that was a compliment to a woman’s skill with her lips and tongue. She almost gagged as Bart thrust deep into her mouth to the very entrance of her throat, but she relaxed her muscles and the thickness slipped back and forth easily.

  Graf’s tongue was fully inserted in her bottom hole and was dipping in and out, but Babala felt no shame at this secret opening being breached, only pride that she had learned yet another technique to please a man. Soon, she knew, she would have the honour of taking Graf’s cock into this secret opening.

  Had her mouth not been so full of Bart’s pulsing length Babala would have gasped at the next pleasure she was afforded. Another tongue, Peli’s, entered her cunny, slipping in and out and sucking at her copious juices. Though she tried she could not take more of this, and much as she attempted to hold back her climax, she could not.

  And it came, in great body shaking waves. It seemed it would never stop, that she would die from pleasure. It left her limbs weak and trembling. She spread her legs to their fullest extent and felt her sex clutch upon Peli’s tongue and her bottom hole suck upon the three fingers Graf had gradually inserted into its tightness, and without fully realising it she drank down the copious gush of Bart’s spunk, swallowing its creamy warmth.

  ‘She is ready,’ grunted Bart, as he pulled his thickness from her mouth. ‘Throw her over upon her back, Peli.’

  They spread her, her arms and her legs to their fullest extent, tying her wrists with cords and pegging them to the sandy floor with their daggers. It was not as if she had the will to run, she thought, as Graf positioned himself beneath her, prodding her prepared bottom hole with his newly stiffened cock. That done Peli trembled above her, taking quick stabs at her still throbbing cunny with his own shaft before finally sinking into its silky depths. Again Bart thrust his own flesh sword between her lips and welcomed the caress of her tongue.

  Babala was glad she had been relieved of the problem of choice. Bound to the floor she had no option than to lie there and allow the men to have their way, to do whatever they wished to her. And if she thought the straining efforts of the three men caused an orgasm to end all others, she was not wrong. They took her to the verge of madness with their pleasuring and her body welcomed their energetic release.

  Chapter 2

  The roguish guards took the two women over and over again. Babala felt an ache in her bottom and a soreness in her cunny caused by the pumping in and out of erect penises.

  During their imprisonment in the caves the two were used again and again. In frustration, the men took up their flails or whips and lashed the women if their cocks did not rise to full stiffness, so Babala was marked with dark welts upon her bottom, the slight swell of her tummy and the fullness of her breasts. The Lady Fazath, too, bore the marks of whips upon her tawny skin and, although she had fought like a tigress, she was no match for the four trained guards.

  At last the men fell into an exhausted sleep and Babala, too, was allowed to rest. The Lady Fazath crawled across the floor of the cave and took the girl in her arms, cradling her golden head upon her full breasts.

  ‘There, my sweet,’ cooed her ladyship, ‘sleep now and remember what I told you of the coarseness of men. After this I doubt you will ever wish a man to touch you again.’ The woman cupped the sore and heated pouch of Babala’s cunny, holding it softly and smoothing away the drools of male come with her own gentle fingers.

  But they were not all coarse, thought Babala. Peli was especially gentle with her, and he had turned his eyes away when Graf and the others lashed her; the brutes delighting in the sight of her pale skin being marked with flails and whips.

  As she sank into a troubled sleep, her lovely face nuzzled between the Lady Fazath’s breasts, she remembered her excitement as she waited, only days ago, to be prepared by the Taskmaster. There was a tingle of excitement in her belly, the flesh rippling at the very sight of the master’s manhood.

  She’d waited in a queue of girls outside the preparation room. Some wept and some were taken to the punishment box, over which they were thrown to be whipped into submission. Some, who were especially naughty, were taken into the castle grounds and put between the shafts of small pony carts. Babala had watched all of this and saw how the girls were lashed to the shafts with leather thonging and driven naked along gravel paths until abrasions marked their feet and the lashes wielded by the punishment guards reddened their backs and bottoms.

  She watched as they were brought back to the preparation room and serving woman soothed their wounds with salve. They were dressed once more in fine lawn shifts, sheer as gossamer, which all the girls wore as they waited their turn.

  Babala looked at them with pity, saw the trembling breasts and the dark shadows of their pussy mounds clearly, prettily fluffed up with special combs by the serving women. If a girl’s bush was too full it was trimmed and the upper thighs were shaved to smoothness no matter how much they protested. If they still continued to weep and hold back when they were called to take their turn with the Taskmaster they were thrown into the dungeons and chained to the damp and mossy walls until they came to their senses.

  When at last it was her turn, Babala entered the anteroom and bowed her head as she had been taught. She placed her hands upon her golden waves of hair to show that she was entirely submissive and willing, and only then did she lift her head to look into the dark eyes of the man who would take her maidenhead.

  He complimented her upon her willingness to please. ‘Good girl,’ said the Taskmaster. ‘Excellent.’

  She stood passively as he stroked the fullness of her breasts through the fine material of the gown. With her hands upon her head these were lifted prettily, inviting his caresses. Unlike the naughty girls she was looking forward to his taking of her innocence, and her destined life in the Prince’s harem.

  Boldly, with her sapphire eyes invitingly wide, she smiled at him. He was a huge man and towered above her, naked apart from a square of jewelled leather tied about his narrow waist with a thong. The skimpy garment scarcely covered the upright thickness of his cock. He slipped the leather to the side, giving her sight of it. Even with her excitement heightened the way it was Babala had to gasp at its length and girth, at the almost spherical globe that was bare of foreskin and gleaming with his pre-issue.

  ‘Are you ready for this, my girl?’ he asked in his deep tones.

  It was then that he did the test with the looking glass, making Babala lift her gown and part her legs, thrusting out her mound and spreading her sex lips. When she carried out his orders obediently he was pleased and knelt before her, giving her little kisses upon her open cunny.

  Babala’s legs shook with anticipated pleasure and she could feel her cunny pulsing with pre-orgasmic shudders.

  At last he rose to his feet. ‘What a pleasure to have such a yielding girl; it has been a difficult morning and I fail to understand why these girls present themselves to be part of the Prince’s harem if they must be punished to make them amenable.’

  Once more he petted her breasts, feeling their heaviness and the smooth lower slopes. He fingered each teat through the gossamer, pulling them to tautness. ‘These are beautiful,’ he said, his voice full of genuine admiration. ‘The very sort in which the Prince delights.’ He ripped open the fine cloth, making Babala blush at this sudden exposure, and placed his lips about each. Then he draped the sheer material over each and began to suck the pink teats through it, until the wet cloth clung to her nipples, showing the qualities that would please the Prince to perfection. The touch of his lips was incredibly sensual and Babala thought she might swoon with pleasure if he continued.

  ‘Time to relieve you of the gown, my girl,’ he said at last, lifting his head and smiling into her eyes. He walked away from her and
took a pair of scissors from an instrument table, and Babala could not help wondering: why bother with scissors when he had ripped the gown open to her waist?

  After a moment’s hesitation he took up something else, items that glowed in the flickering light of the many candles set about the room.

  Trembling as the gown was cut from ankle to throat and fell away to lie about her feet in a soft puddle of white, Babala ventured a look at the table from which the Taskmaster had taken the scissors. It was covered with many instruments; manacles, dainty whips, porcelain pots of salves and balms, as well as lengths of chain, the sight of which made her shudder, not from fear, but with breathless apprehension.

  Naked before him, her hands again obediently clasped and linked upon her head, Babala could feel the brush of his cock upon the skin of her lower belly. She felt a quiver of longing ripple through her fleshpot and hoped he would not notice it and think her forward.

  ‘These may pinch a little, my dear,’ he said, and Babala lowered her eyes and saw silver clips in each of his large hands. There were tiny teeth on each prong of the clips and she shivered as she imagined the pain. He opened them and stroked the sharp teeth against the base of each puckered bud of her nipple. She shuddered again, but it was not from fear, she was sure. Very slowly, the Taskmaster closed the clips over each bud, and Babala gasped.

  ‘The pain is quite exquisite, is it not, my love?’ he whispered huskily. ‘Delicious... you cannot believe how those tiny pains will enhance the beauty of my entrance into your body.’

  A scarcely audible mew came from Babala’s full lips as the clips tightened upon each teat. She felt her breast flesh swell, the skin of her lower belly flutter and a moistening of her fleshpot.

  ‘You look more beautiful than ever, my sweet,’ said the Taskmaster, admiringly. His hands rested for a moment on the curve of Babala’s hips, feeling the gentle shelf of them. ‘And now it is time for me to examine your potential.’

  He led her from the anteroom to another inner chamber. It was darker than the first, with fewer candles placed about. Exotic scents filled the air that made Babala’s head spin and her legs scarcely able to support her.

  A shadow in the furthest corner of the room shaped itself into a chair as Babala approached it. Her arms ached from being held so long upon her head. Her breasts became more swollen and her teats sore with every step, and yet it did not feel like torture. It was a much more delicious sensation.

  As they reached the chair, the clear sight of it made Babala’s belly become liquid with excited apprehension. The back of the chair sloped steeply away, and at each corner of the tilted seat were stirrups upon which dangled wide leather straps.

  ‘To spread your legs nice and wide,’ he explained unnecessarily, and her imagination ran riot over what she would feel once strapped in the chair. She already felt a coolness in her fleshpot as if it was already fully open, and strange draughts of cool air wafted over the heated lips and inner leaves.

  He lifted her into the chair. Babala felt the chill of the leather seat upon her bottom and felt her buttocks spread open. The Taskmaster’s eyes twinkled as if he knew exactly the sensations she was experiencing. An involuntary quiver ran through the whole of her body as he placed one ankle into a stirrup and tightened the broad leather strap, and then her feeling of helplessness increased as the second ankle was placed in position and strapped in place.

  ‘A pleasing sight, my dear,’ he said, his eyes never leaving her nest. ‘And you please me by leaving your hands so meekly upon your head. The Prince likes his girls to be naturally passive and vulnerable.’ He trailed a finger about the swollen perimeter of each breast, nodding with satisfaction as he noted how well the clips were doing their job. He gave each a little tweak and Babala felt the slight thrill of pain draw down to her cunny, and this seemed to make her pout her mound higher as if in offer. ‘Some girls struggle and I am forced to strap their hands to the back of the chair as well as fix their ankles in the stirrups. Most aggravating.’ He frowned. ‘You will not force me to do that, will you, my dear?’

  Babala shook her head vigorously, making her golden curls tumble about her shoulders.

  ‘Excellent. I think you are ready for the balm. It is my own recipe of fragrant herbs and spices and exotic unguents. It soothes the path of my cock, you understand, and makes you very amenable.’ He paused, the pot ready in his hands, and smiled at Babala. ‘Not that you aren’t one of the most amenable girls I have had the pleasure to prepare.’

  A shy smile curved Babala’s lips at the compliment, but at the same time she felt a certain apprehension. What would this balm do to her cunny? She dared not lower her hands to hide her fleshpot or the master would think her wickedly disobedient like the other girls for whom he had no time.

  Had she been able to move she would have trembled as the Taskmaster positioned himself between her spread thighs. He inspected her flesh leaves perhaps more minutely than was absolutely necessary, and remarked upon the contrast of the dark folds to the pinkness of her nubbin, erect and hard.

  ‘Juices slick this delicate pot already,’ he murmured, and Babala felt the quick lap of a tongue across the very point of her nubbin. ‘There is nothing like the taste of a maiden, so fresh and sweet and yet so beckoning.’

  Babala blushed at this and at the intimacy of the tongue kiss.

  ‘No, no,’ said the Taskmaster, rather crossly. ‘Do not blush. I thought you were different from the other girls; innocent but willing.’ He rewarded her with a finger slap upon her already tender breasts, but his anger quickly dissipated as he sniffed the open pot of balm.

  An exotic perfume filled the room; more heady than those she perceived when she first entered it. It made her head swim and her fleshpot become more open and ready. She felt her sex leaves pout and swell and her nubbin grow, probing eagerly from its little hood. As the cool balm was spread into every crevice she felt her eyes close and her lips part. Her pink tongue-tip circled her lips very slowly in outright invitation, and the Taskmaster was quick to notice this, pressing his mouth against hers. She felt a smooth hardness caressing her eager cunny and teasing the still closed entrance. Her breath came softly, but quickly she realised it was his cock that nudged her entrance. It teased the cup of her fleshpot, mixing his own juices with hers that came in steady droplets, urged, no doubt, by the balm which made her cunny tremble and tingle.

  ‘And how is that little nubbin now?’ he asked, rather unnecessarily to Babala’s mind, since he could surely feel her bud hot and throbbing against his cock, which he eased up and down, tickling the urgent tip of her core.

  ‘It feels very ready, sir,’ admitted Babala. ‘It throbs and tingles unbearably.’

  ‘Not unbearably,’ said the Taskmaster, in a teasing tone. ‘Is it not a delicious sensation? A sweet warmth which builds up in this little belly of yours?’ The ball of his thumb pressed the bud in question, rubbing from side to side, but stopping just as Babala thought she would scream out her climax. He seemed to know instinctively how close she was to the brink, but he kept her hovering in tortured anticipation.

  Babala was gasping in readiness. She could feel her maiden entrance pulsing with need and her nubbin jerked under every stroke of his thumb.

  ‘I must now see the state of your pit,’ he said. ‘Just a quick inspection, you understand. Lift your bottom a little higher, my dear, so that I might touch the wrinkled bud.’

  Babala closed her eyes in shy humiliation as his finger stroked the tightness, trailing back and forth over the tight pleats. She lifted her bottom higher and opened her eyes, just a fraction, saw him nod in satisfaction, and could not help the feeling of pride that washed over her. ‘I shall leave the Prince to that delight,’ he said, with another nod. ‘And now, my dear...’ He slicked his fingers up and down his cock and Babala noticed that the thickness was slippery with the same balm he had massaged into her fleshpot. She could not help
but shiver, imagining the sensation this would cause within her.

  ‘There will be no pain, my dear,’ he promised in a husky whisper. ‘Merely pleasure such as you have never known before. Feel free to scream, to thrust against me as your fleshpot opens like a flower in bloom as I pierce it.’

  Babala’s eyes were riveted to the vastly swollen globe that shone wetly in the dim light of the dancing candle flames. The length of the Taskmaster’s cock and the ball of his globe seemed to increase as he approached her cunny with its stiffness. When the round smoothness actually touched her entrance she found herself butting forward to greet his thickness.

  ‘Good, my dear,’ he murmured, and kissed her once more, probing his tongue into her mouth. His fingers tweaked the silver clips and made her arch upwards, greeting his body, welcoming the intimacy. Her fleshpot seemed to spread itself to enfold his thickness. His length grated against her nubbin and she tried to murmur her pleasure, but his open lips muffled the sound.

  There was no pain, only a mild feeling of being stretched open and her nubbin throbbing with delight. Again she tried to murmur, but was gagged by his lips and tongue. He drew back, and had her hands been free she would have held his broad shoulders to beckon him back deep into her cunny. Immediately he thrust deep inside her once more, his cock butting the very limits of her womb. Again and again he sank into her, making her delicate body shake with the force of his entrance. She felt her come draw up from the very soles of her straddled legs, felt his flesh slap heavily against hers and felt his crisp bush grate against the glossy wetness of her own curls.

  Her freshly opened passage throbbed with pleasure and petted his thrusting length. His breath rasped in his throat and blew into her mouth, and then a fountain of heat sprayed her creamy passage walls and spilled outwards over her spread buttocks. Again and again he erupted into her as if he had never taken a girl before, and yet she knew the Taskmaster was the most potent of men in the castle. His job was to fuck all the maidens to prepare them for the Prince who was, in truth, a lazy indolent man...