Babala's Correction Read online

  ‘More or less, sir,’ the hateful jailer confirmed, lacking the intelligence to concoct a more convincing lie of his own, whilst wiping his cock with the greasy square of leather that scarcely covered the thick length.

  ‘Please, that’s not true,’ Babala protested, tugging in vain at the iron that shackled at wrists and ankles. She managed to arch her bottom from the carved wooden pillow, as if this would help to release her, and in the gloom she could see two more shadowy figures and hear the clink of chains.

  ‘However, it is true,’ said the Slavemaster, ‘that you enticed the jailer to fuck you with his huge and filthy cock once he had shackled you to the rack. Is it not, my dear?’ He idly slapped the fullness of her breasts as he pondered aloud.

  ‘No,’ Babala denied, rolling her head from side to side on the table, ‘it isn’t.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Slavemaster, a quizzical eyebrow raised. ‘Then what of this?’ With a look of distaste he trailed the handle of his whip through the spillage pooled on her flat stomach, and allowed some excess to drip in chilly trails upon her breasts.

  ‘Stop that, you filth!’

  Babala’s eyes widened at the sound of the Lady Fazath’s commanding voice, and widened still further at the sound of flesh slapping naked flesh.

  ‘Mind your own business!’ ordered a croaking voice. ‘You’re mine now and you have no right to tell the master what he can and cannot do. If you speak again I shall gag you until you can learn to hold your tongue.’

  ‘That’s the way to treat a disobedient woman, crone,’ said the Slavemaster, with a chuckle.

  ‘Unfasten the maid’s shackles and wipe the filth of your issue from her,’ he ordered the jailer, and then turned back to the old woman who clutched the Lady Fazath. ‘And I wish you well with that one; a wildcat if ever I saw one.’

  Chapter 4

  Babala was placed in a cage much like that used to transport animals destined for the travelling circuses that roamed the lands around Ellipsis. Filthy from the stink of the jailer, she huddled in a corner of the cage, shivering with cold in her nakedness.

  As she was prepared for her journey, manacled at feet and ankles, her new owner, the Slavemaster, had taunted her unmercifully.

  ‘Well, I certainly got a prize in you, my dear, did I not?’ he said with a triumphant grin.

  ‘You tricked the guards,’ she said meekly. ‘By telling the buyers how worthless I was you gained me for nothing.’

  The whip snaked out and lashed the rounded hillocks of Babala’s bottom, leaving a bright stripe of scarlet on her pale flesh. ‘Insolence! That is what you get for insolence and, no doubt, my servants will delight in giving you more of the same.’

  Babala hung her head, but whispered, ‘Where are you taking me?’ The flesh of her bottom burned and she knew that each buttock would be flushed while the long welt would be swollen, standing proud and dissecting the twin globes.

  The Slavemaster pulled her to him and she could feel the blessed coolness of his satin robe against her whipped rear. She could feel his cock, stimulated to thickness and length, pressing into her heated flesh. ‘Up there,’ he said, pointing to a high crag.

  The sapphire eyes were drawn to the place to which the Slavemaster pointed. The distant castle was dark and brooding, with many turrets and meandering castellated walls, and seemed to be perched perilously on the crag.

  ‘But how will we reach it?” she asked.

  The Slavemaster lifted his robe and Babala could feel his cock butting between the burning and rounded hillocks of her bottom. ‘There is a way,’ he said thickly. ‘The carriage is well sprung and my horses are surefooted.’

  A slick and silky globe butted at her rear hole, forcing the tightness to open, and the glow from the lash of the whip seemed to increase as he thrust his length into her. His hands cupped her fleshpot, massaging the soft pad, fingers opening it and entering between the folds. They slithered in the wetness left by his cock and that of the jailer’s. They slid over the hard point of her nubbin, making Babala tremble with pleasure.

  ‘How delicious you find it, my dear,’ he murmured, lifting the silken tendrils of her hair to whisper in her ear. ‘And this...’ he pushed deeper into her rear entrance, making her moan, partly in pain and partly in ecstasy. ‘Come for me, my dear girl. Let me feel your bottom clutch my cock as you shudder with delight.’

  Babala flung her head back to rest upon his shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips parted and moist. Fingers squeezed the soft fullness of her breasts, tweaked each nipple until tears spilled down her peachy cheeks.

  He pushed deeper.

  ‘I am so grateful to the man who opened this tight ring of yours,’ he murmured. ‘So very grateful. Used you might be, but used deliciously.’

  ‘Th-the guards used me,’ admitted Babala, her tones hushed. ‘They were sent to return the Lady Fazath and me back to the palace, but they kept us imprisoned in a cave for days.’

  ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘And fed you on their come, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Babala as he began to work his cock slowly in and out. ‘And very little else, sir.’

  ‘In the kitchens... at my castle... you will be fed handsomely,’ he grunted, his breath rasping as he fingered the silky wetness of her cunt and butted hard into her bottom.

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir,’ she murmured, having difficulty in holding back the spasms of bliss which rippled through her body.

  ‘Providing... you do as you are told by my cooks.’ Laughter lurked in his throat, Babala could tell, even though he sped to his orgasm. She felt him pump into the darkness of her bottom, his cock throbbing against her own spasms. Her nubbin pulsed under his fingers and juices seeped from her cunt as it, too, squeezed in and out.

  ‘I - I am to work in the kitchens, sir?’ she panted. She was beginning to suspect that the Slavemaster felt some concern for her and what she had suffered at the hands of the guards.

  ‘Where else?’ He pulled from her. ‘And if you say a word to my wife about what we have done...’ He looked to the peak of the crag. ‘Well, you would not be the first girl to be hurled to the rocks below.’

  Thus, naked and shivering, Babala was thrown into the cage while the Slavemaster wrapped himself in furs against the chill of the high peaks and the night, before making himself comfortable in the deep leather seat of the carriage.

  ‘What is this place?’ asked the Lady Fazath, her limbs aching after days of being bound in the coils of hemp rope.

  ‘My cottage,’ said the crone. Using a knife that glinted in the firelight and was held just a little too close to Fazath’s skin for comfort, the wizened creature cut the bonds that noosed about her neck and wrists.

  The relief was almost as delicious as an orgasm that had been a long time coming, and Fazath moaned with the pleasure of it. The crone cackled and reached to cup each of Fazath’s firm breasts, and such was her relief from bondage Fazath did not pull away from the gnarled hands that had an amazingly smooth and sensual touch. The moans became more frequent and rhythmic and Fazath drew closer to the creature, for all she found her revolting in the extreme with her bent body, frazzled grey hair and wrinkled visage.

  ‘Who are you?’ she murmured, as her breasts were fondled in a disturbingly delightful manner.

  ‘Does it matter?’ croaked the harridan, slitting the rope around Fazath’s waist and fingering the reddened mark the bondage had left. ‘I bought you fair and square at a very reasonable price. The Slavemaster made it quite clear that your taste veered towards women.’ One gnarled hand moved and slipped between Fazath’s thighs to cup the full fleshpot that hid there. ‘It didn’t matter a jot to me that you’d been well used by men.’ The bent fingers parted the fleshy leaves and slipped between them. Fazath arched her lithe body, giving the old woman free access to her cunt, moving with her as the fingers rubbed back and forth over the nubbin
and feeling it grow under the touch.

  ‘There,’ croaked the crone, ‘what a well-developed little bud. Let’s see if we can lengthen it further by slipping back the hood.’

  It did not seem at all strange to be fingered so intimately by this strange creature. The fingers were the most sensual Fazath had ever experienced, very knowing and skilled in the ways of women. Her nubbin had never felt so sensitive and yet the crone kept her hovering on the very brink of an orgasm, allowing her to anticipate it rather than to experience the full delight of it.

  ‘Yes,’ moaned Fazath, ‘make me come.’

  With a low cackle the harridan led her on legs that were barely able to support her, to a low cot spread with tumbled blankets, which might have been grey or green with mould for all Fazath cared in the ecstasy to which the woman had brought her.

  ‘Spread your legs,’ croaked the crone, ‘and lift your knees. Let them fall outwards on the bed.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to bare yourself?’ asked Fazath, somewhat tentatively. Why did she ask that question? The old woman looked bad enough in her tattered rags; the heavens only knew what she would look like naked. It was the hands that were so amazingly sensual - the fingers that applied just the right pressure at her most sensitive points.

  The crone cackled as she crawled between Fazath’s parted legs. ‘When the time is right,’ she said, ‘and only then.’ Once more, with fingers so soft that Fazath felt she wanted to scream at their sensuality, her flesh folds were spread open and her nubbin was cosseted to its full erect length. The hood was pushed back to its fullest extent, making the tip feel raw and exposed.

  ‘Yes...’ murmured Fazath, more urgently than before, but the crone kept her hovering close to her orgasm. It was amazing, she thought vaguely, that such an elderly person should have such patience and sexual knowledge.

  It was when the tip of a skilled tongue flicked the raw tip of her nubbin that Fazath really whimpered. The spasms of delight rippled through her, but they were those of a pre-orgasm when the body feels heavy and lethargic, the breasts feel tender and swollen, juices wet the flesh folds and the female entrance flutters open.

  ‘You are ready, are you not, my beauty?’ croaked the crone.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fazath felt tears course down her cheeks. ‘Won’t you release me?’

  ‘In good time.’ The harridan bent her grey head and Fazath felt the coarse hair brush her open thighs, and even this seemed pleasurable to all her heightened senses.

  The tongue flicked out again and snaked about the root of Fazath’s nubbin, teasing the frill of fine skin that was the hood. It lapped at the tender tip, but stopped at the very moment when Fazath felt her orgasm rise up and begin to consume her with sensual fire.

  ‘I can’t stand it!’ screamed Fazath. ‘Please let me come!’

  The crone licked her lips, savouring the musk of Fazath’s juices. ‘In good time.’ The tone was more severe, almost masculine in its depth. ‘Be patient,’ the harridan added, the tone once more soft and cajoling. ‘You cannot say you are not enjoying what I do to you.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Fazath. ‘But it is torture!’

  The crone laughed and the laughter seemed to echo about the small room. The sound seemed somehow familiar, but Fazath could not think from where.

  ‘You are my slave,’ she was reminded. ‘I can do anything I wish to you. I can pleasure you, torture you, whip you, clamp those teats with devices which will keep you slavish for as long as I wish...’ The crone pinched Fazath’s nubbin, drawing the little hood back and forth in a way that was delicious torture. ‘I can finger this...’ the sensual fingers spread Fazath’s buttocks to bare her bottom hole. ‘Finger it, introduce the thickest phalli into its darkness...’

  Fazath shivered.

  ‘This, for example...’ A white candle shaped like a huge cock, with a frighteningly thickened bulb at its end, was waved before Fazath’s eyes. ‘How does this excite you?’

  Again Fazath trembled and yet at the same time her cunt pulsed with unbidden pleasure. Her bottom hole, too, clutched on the imagined wax phallus and she pressed against the crone’s teasing fingers. ‘Do it,’ she pleaded. ‘Do it all!’

  A long drawn out howl of laughter came from the crone’s throat and she bent once more to tease Fazath’s open cunt. She slipped a filthy pillow beneath her buttocks, lifting her to make her more vulnerable, more open and revealed. Fazath groaned as her cunny lips were sucked in turn and pressed fully open. Soft lips engulfed her nubbin and palpated it in a pleasing rhythmic way.

  She felt the great bulb of the wax phallus being twisted in the cup of her sex pouch, being coated with creamy juices. It was pushed deeply into her cunny and thrust in and out at the same time as her nubbin was expertly caressed with lips and tongue.

  ‘I cannot hold back,’ groaned Fazath, her toned body writhing against the tongue, lips, and the wax phallus.

  ‘You can and you will,’ ordered the crone, and the bulbous knob was pulled from her, still dripping with the copious juices she’d produced.

  ‘Oh, please...’

  ‘You plead after all the many times you have teased girls?’ The crone’s voice was deeper, threatening, and Fazath’s dark eyes flashed open and her mouth dropped in surprise.

  ‘How do you know that I...?’

  The lubricated knob of the wax phallus was pressed at her bottom opening, stretching the tight muscle. ‘Never you mind how I know. I just do. I know how you stole Babala.’

  ‘I suppose the Slavemaster told you that,’ said Fazath. The pressure at her rear opening increased, but she had to admit it was not unpleasant. It simply enhanced the sensations that came from her nubbin. The pressure became greater and Fazath moaned, but arched her back as if seeking greater stimulation.

  ‘It will soon be in your bottom, my dear,’ croaked the crone, who rubbed the soft open folds of Fazath’s fleshpot with the heel of her hand as she drove the wet thickness of her tongue into her pulsing cunny.

  Fazath’s moans became louder and she butted her cunt against the crone’s hands and tongue.

  ‘There’s my good little slave,’ murmured the old creature. ‘There’s my good little sex slave. Now you know how those girls in the harem felt when you made them clamour for more of your attentions.’

  How did she know that? But the question was fuzzy in Fazath’s mind as the bulb slipped fully into her bottom and the thick wax phallus followed, increasing the pressure on her cunny and trembling nubbin. ‘I’m coming,’ she gasped. ‘I cannot hold back any longer. Oh, it is so wonderful! Are you watching the throb of my cunny, the jerk of my clitty, how my opening sucks in and out? Is it as beautiful as it feels?’

  ‘Indeed, my dear,’ said the crone. ‘Your cunt is performing deliciously. The nubbin is jerking just as it should. The folds flutter, and are deliciously swollen, much inflamed. Your opening is pulsing, waiting for a cock.’

  The Lady Fazath’s eyes, which had for many minutes been hooded with desire and heavy with lust, flickered open. ‘A cock?’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ said the crone, with a deep throated chuckle. ‘That which men carry between their thighs; that which thickens and lengthens when a woman seduces them...’

  ‘Me? Seduce a man? Perish the thought!’ She struggled to close her thighs. ‘Never! Never has it been known.’

  ‘And the guards in the cave?’ asked the crone, and her voice sounded yet sterner; not at all womanly, but Fazath did not particularly notice that. She was too concerned with the fact that the crone knew of the awful days in the cave.

  ‘You know about that?’ She wished with all her heart she could hide her naked body while only moments ago it was delicious to display it to the full.

  ‘You were followed,’ said the old woman, her voice again ancient and cracked, ‘you and Babala, from the time you left the palace and ran through the forest.’


  ‘Oh,’ groaned Fazath. ‘You saw everything?’ This old woman had seen how she and Babala had been humiliated and used by the guards; how she, Fazath, was held in restraints while the brutes took her one after the other.

  ‘Not me, but one of my helpers.’

  Fazath peered about the gloomy one room cottage. ‘You have helpers? Employees?’ The place reeked of poverty. In fact, Fazath wondered how the woman managed to purchase her at all.

  ‘Oh, enough of this,’ snapped the crone. ‘We were talking about cocks. Men and the wonderful thickness they have between their thighs.’ The old one sat on the edge of the cot and stroked the open folds of Fazath’s sex pouch.

  ‘Wonderful thickness?’ Fazath grimaced.

  ‘There were times when you enjoyed your bondage in the cave and what the men did to you. Isn’t that true?’ The gnarled fingers petted the creamy moistness between Fazath’s thighs. ‘And don’t tell me you did not enjoy my wax phallus, because I know you did.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Fazath, with a pout. ‘You are a woman and you played with my sex in a womanly way.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The crone began to help Fazath from the cot, stroking each breast in a very sensual manner; a manner that made Fazath’s eyes become heavy and the lids draw down over the dark orbs.

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ she asked huskily. ‘What’s happening to me?’

  ‘Merely demonstrating that there is more than one sex...’

  ‘I know that, you stupid old woman—’

  Pain, like fire, shot through the muscular hillocks of Fazath’s bottom. Again the pain whipped her fleshy mounds. So quickly did the whip fall that she had no time to cry out. Her buttocks burned as the whip cut across the full cushions of her bottom, and the breath was sucked from her body as the lash fell again and again.