Babala's Correction Read online

  ‘Must I remind you that you are my slave?’ hissed the crone. ‘You are mine, to be used as I wish.’

  Rubbing her buttocks, Fazath bowed her head. ‘You’ve made your point,’ she said, although her words were far from meekly spoken, and then she raised her head and was shocked at what she saw.

  The crone had thrown off her rags. The grizzled grey hair was gone and long dark locks fell to manly shoulders. The muscular chest was bare and tanned. The waist and hips were narrow and were thonged with a strip of fine leather from which hung a small square of cloth, heavily encrusted with jewels, and the skimpy garment was raised by the contents it scarcely hid.

  ‘But... but you’re a man!’ Fazath gasped.

  ‘Very much so.’ The voice was no longer disguised, but was deep and rich.

  ‘I know you...’ Fazath tried to back away from the towering figure.

  ‘You should do,’ said the man, with a chuckle. ‘We worked closely together at the palace before you absconded with Babala.’

  ‘No... no!’ cried Fazath, as she slumped to the floor in a faint.

  Chapter 5

  Babala sobbed as though her heart would break. The smacking stool, over which she was arched, although shaped to take the roundness of her tummy, was hardwood and cupped her mound as if in a clamp. The hands that smacked her bare bottom were as hard as tanned leather, and the blows came rapid and heavy.

  Her buttocks were unbearably tender from the blows and the skin glowed, she knew, as if on fire, but for the first time since the Lady Fazath had taken her from the palace she had been provided with an item of clothing. It was skimpy, it was true - a mere square of rough cloth that scarcely covered her sex pouch and swayed enticingly from side to side when she walked.

  The smacking stool was positioned beside the great kitchen range, which was filled with burning logs. The other kitchen maids had told her that there was to be one of the Slavemaster’s regular banquets that night, and there was much to do. That was earlier in the day, before Babala refused one of the cooks her body, before she was punished upon the smacking stool.

  The heat from the fire was as great as the heat in her buttocks and perspiration ran in rivulets between her breasts which were, because of the position the smacking stool kept her, her bottom raised high, free to quiver as each shuddering blow was delivered.

  ‘I’ll teach you not to deny me my rights, my pretty young lady!’ said the cook, Rata. ‘We’re worked so hard in this kitchen that having you girls is one of the only perks. You’re supposed to open your legs and lift your cunny whenever we need it, which is often in this heat. Didn’t the Slavemaster tell you that?’

  ‘I think so,’ Babala murmured meekly between sobs.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ he yelled. ‘Trying to get out of it with your excuses.’ The next blow was heavier still and his middle finger slipped into her cunny hole, which Babala knew was wet with her juices. As always the punishment had excited her to the extent that she was open and her clitty stiffly erect. Blushes stained her cheeks with scarlet and she licked her lips nervously, wondering if the cook noticed.

  ‘Excited, eh?’ The cook’s breathing became noisier and more rapid. So, he had noticed! His leathery hand remained still on her beaten bottom, while his thick middle finger slipped deeper into her wetness and the ball of his thumb agitated her nubbin.

  ‘Now why, I wonder,’ began Rata, ‘since you refused my advances, would you be so excited?’

  Babala’s sobs receded a little as naughty frissons of pleasure began to swirl in her belly, which was cupped in the smacking stool. ‘I do not know, sir,’ she answered, untruthfully. ‘Truly, I do not know.’

  The smacks began again, harder this time, and the fingers drifted deliberately lower to slick between her parted cunny lips. As they reached her flesh pouch they caressed rather than smacked, drawing up fine strings of her juices that coated her castigated buttocks, and the scarlet stains upon Babala’s cheeks became deeper as she realised that Rata could feel how very stimulated she was.

  ‘Now will you allow me to fuck you?’ he whispered, bending to her ear. He was a handsome man - tall and dark-skinned, his biceps bulging from his sleeveless tunic and his stout thighs strong beneath the short hem. It was very obvious that he was greatly excited by what he had done to Babala. His cock tented his tunic and drove forward under the coarse fabric.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she conceded quietly. ‘I should like you to fuck me.’ Would the Taskmaster be pleased if he heard her say that, or would he shake his head sorrowfully?

  Rata knelt behind her and kissed her flesh folds, allowing his tongue to slip deeply into her cunny, and she could not help but shudder at the sensuous lapping.

  ‘Very hot and juicy,’ remarked Rata. ‘You wanted me to fuck you all the time.’ He gave her a light and playful slap upon her bottom, which even so enhanced the previous beating and Babala could not help but give a little mew of pain.

  ‘But I tease you and there is work to be done,’ he continued. ‘A great deal of work for the Slavemaster’s banquet tonight.’

  Babala shuddered as she felt the cook’s hardness at her entrance. His globe was thick and it thrust into her in a rush. It opened her fully and her own juices slicked its length to ease its passage. It butted back and forth and her buttocks were slapped by the cook’s naked and hirsute belly. The hairs prickled her castigated bottom and increased the soreness caused by the beating. He clearly knew this and seemed to take great delight in rubbing his belly from side to side at the same time as thrusting his cock into her.

  Babala could not help the little mews of pain and pleasure, which issued from her full, moist and parted lips. The cook, too, was not entirely silent. He grunted with satisfaction. So noisy were their sounds of sexual activity that other cooks and other maids began to gather round the rutting couple. Not that it was at all unusual for the castle kitchen staff to indulge in copulation over the smacking stool, upon the great pine table, on the floor or against the whitewashed walls, but Babala was a new girl and beautiful at that, with her long golden curls tumbled over her pale shoulders, and the cook had spent a good deal of time upon making her compliant with his wishes.

  As the cook drew back for yet another thrust the gathered watchers saw Babala’s bottom; saw how blotchy it was from the smacking and how abraded from the grating of the cook’s coarse hair.

  ‘A deliciously swollen fleshpot,’ commented the pastry cook. ‘You’ve done a fine job there, Rata. She seems to be enjoying it, too. I’ll take a turn when you’re finished.’

  Looking over his broad shoulder and pausing in mid-thrust, Rata, his face flushed with effort and glossed with a fine film of sweat, grinned and gave a brief nod. ‘She’s a passive girl... amenable when she’s been shown the way... juicy and very skilled in clutching a man’s tool.’ He continued to plunge and Babala closed her eyes in humiliation at the wet noises of their coupling.

  At last, Rata gave a final grunt of contentment and she felt him spend into her in several aggressive thrusts. Then she heard the sucking as he pulled from her tightness and she bowed her head in further shame, her cascade of golden hair brushing the filthy floor of the kitchen. She tried to raise herself, but the smacking stool held her tightly, cupped in its hollow.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said Rata, grinning down at her, as if she had a choice. ‘My friend the pastry cook, Marlin, is anxious to try you out.’

  ‘And me!’

  ‘And me!’

  ‘And I’ll enjoy giving the little strumpet what she deserves!’ This last voice was a woman’s, sounding stern and angry. Babala dared to look up from beneath her tumbled hair at the newcomer, and shivered with fright at what she saw.

  When the Slavemaster first brought her to the castle he took her into the vast front hall and pointed to a portrait hung at the foot of the great stone staircase. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Don’t be foole
d by her beauty; she is a cruel woman, especially towards someone she suspects might be bedding me.’

  The woman was indeed beautiful, thought Babala, looking up at the portrait. She was dark, like the Lady Fazath, with the same fine aristocratic features. Slender, but graciously full at the bosom, she wore her fine clothes well. In the portrait she was dressed in velvet, the bodice of which was encrusted in tiny pearls. The long skirt fell in elegant folds, but at the woman’s nipped waist there were several instruments that made Babala shudder. She had looked at the Slavemaster, her sapphire eyes questioning.

  ‘Her little toys,’ he’d said with a wry smile. ‘No doubt she will demonstrate them to you, given the opportunity. Desilla never misses a chance to use her toys, especially on my new girls, but remember what I said; don’t give her an inkling that you and I have coupled.’

  Now the woman was here, standing before Babala in the kitchen where she had been so used and humiliated, and where she was held fast on the smacking stool, her bottom raised high and glowing red from its treatment by Rata. Babala tried to close her thighs to hide her sex folds and Rata’s copious juices, but the smacking stool was so designed that it would not allow her to hide that part of her body. No matter how she wriggled and squirmed she was held fast by the gripping cup about her tummy.

  ‘Get on with your work,’ Desilla ordered, ‘or it will be the worse for you... all of you!’ The cooks and maids scattered and pretended to be busy with their chopping and kneading of pastry.

  Desilla stood over Babala. Shiny black leather boots, thought the girl. She hadn’t worn those in the portrait, but dainty pumps such as ladies wore for dancing. Babala raised her head, straining her neck to observe the rest of Desilla’s outfit, but was rewarded by a pain that made her arch her back in an attempt to escape the smacking stool’s clutches and bite her lip until she tasted blood to mute the scream of agony that rose in her throat.

  ‘Stare at me, would you, you little strumpet? screamed Desilla. ‘How dare you?’

  This time Babala saw the many-stranded lash as it rose through the air. It seemed to move in slow motion and she tensed as she anticipated the pain upon her already tortured bottom. It was worse than anything she had experienced before. It was like cuts with many red-hot knives slicing across the tender flesh of her raised and vulnerable bottom.

  ‘Oh, please madam!’ she begged.

  ‘More? You want more?’ said Desilla in a husky voice. ‘That’s good. I like a girl with spirit.’

  Babala heard giggles coming from the darkest corners of the kitchen and knew it was the other maids laughing at her distress. ‘No, madam,’ she managed. ‘If it pleases you, madam...’

  Desilla knelt before her and Babala could see more clearly what the woman wore. It was a very fine black leather tunic; short, reaching only to the very top of her shapely thighs. The boots were long and the cuffs chafed the woman’s full pussy lips at every movement. These, the cunny lips, were darkly bushed like the Lady Fazath’s, but where her thighs met them the skin was cleanly shaven, seeming to make the cunny lips stand out more prominently.

  ‘Well, girl,’ Desilla said huskily. ‘Do you like what you see? For you will be seeing it very intimately in a moment or two.’

  The kitchen maids working in the shadows giggled again, but Babala blushed and hung her head. She had not meant to stare at Desilla’s cunny. It was just that she could hardly help it with the woman crouching so close and almost thrusting it into her face.

  ‘I think those pretty lips of yours will fit very nicely about my cunt; will do delicious things between my open thighs, but for the time being you can remain clutched in the smacking stool.’ She looked about the kitchen and frowned. ‘Rata, come here! You’ve had your fun with this girl and now you can do something for me.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’ Rata was almost grovelling as he hurried over to do the mistress’s bidding. ‘How may I serve you? Perhaps give the girl another taste of your splendid lash?’

  ‘You can leave that to me,’ said Desilla, her words shrill with suppressed anger. ‘Bring me a cushion so I do not have to sit upon this filthy and cold floor while the girl services me.’

  ‘Indeed, mistress, at once.’

  ‘And make sure it is made of something soft... velvet or cool satin,’ Desilla called as Rata hurried away.

  ‘When you have serviced me to my satisfaction I have all manner of treats for you, my dear,’ the woman continued, turning her attention back to Babala, her voice dripping honey. ‘What do you say to that?’

  ‘I am very grateful, madam,’ the girl said humbly.

  ‘And so you should be.’ A shadow appeared by their side; Rata, head bowed in submission and a black satin pillow held out in front of him.

  ‘Idiot!’ screamed Desilla. ‘If I had wanted black I would have given you strict orders for black, would I not?’

  Rata looked cowed. ‘I-I suppose you would, madam,’ he agreed, in a quavering voice.

  Desilla rose to her feet, her strong legs parted to steady her, and lashed out at Rata with her whip, striking him on his broad shoulders. At least, thought Babala ruefully, he wore a tunic to save the full smart of the blow, whereas her bottom caught the full wrath of the wicked instrument.

  ‘Bring me something pretty, something which will show off my cunt to the full as this girl services it with her tongue.’ Desilla dismissed him with a wave of her hand and bent to crouch before Babala once more. She wagged a warning finger at her young charge.

  ‘I want this done diligently, young miss,’ she said. ‘You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, mistress,’ said Babala. Hadn’t she received the same instructions from the Lady Fazath those long days ago in the forest before the guards caught them?

  ‘Gentle caresses with your tongue and lips,’ Desilla went on, ‘and you must not mind if the cooks and maids gather round. I enjoy an audience when my cunny is being serviced. It makes it more exciting, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ answered Babala, already shaking in the clutches of the smacking stool at the task ahead of her. She knew that if she did not pet Desilla’s cunny to her satisfaction it would be the worse for her; that she would feel the lash on her bottom and shoulders until they were raw.

  ‘Ah, here comes Rata with my cushion,’ Desilla gushed delightedly, clapping her hands.

  Rata bowed and held out a plump satin cushion the colours of which were like jewels - emerald, sapphires, ruby and topaz. They seemed to shimmer and meld into one until Babala blinked her eyes at the brilliance of them.

  ‘That’s better, Rata,’ Desilla cooed. ‘Now place it on the floor in front of the girl and make sure it is close to her so we are in a position nice and close to each other.’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ said Rata, bowing obsequiously, and Babala caught a glimpse of his cock as he bent in front of her. It was stiff and upright under the short tunic and he grinned at her, surreptitiously rubbing it as he placed the cushion in position before Desilla.

  ‘I saw you, Rata,’ the woman warned, as she positioned herself on the cushion. ‘But I am prepared to ignore your randy little ways on this occasion, you wretch. Now get on with your work.’

  Rata bowed deeply as he walked backwards away from the imperious woman, but grinned wickedly at Babala.

  Desilla spread her legs, lifting the short leather tunic to give Babala a full view of her flat and muscular stomach and neatly trimmed bush. ‘Can you reach my fleshpot, my dear?’ she asked. ‘Or shall I move closer?’

  Babala looked at the pouting outer sex leaves, which framed a flushed cunny, and knew the woman was intensely excited. ‘Just a little nearer,’ she said submissively, stroking her tongue around her lips to moisten them for the task ahead.

  Desilla lifted her knees and spread them outwards, giving Babala full access to her cunny. She leaned back on her elbows, her eyes heavy w
ith anticipation of the joys to come.

  ‘You may pet my bottom hole, my dear,’ said Desilla, as though bestowing a great favour upon Babala, ‘but make sure you do this when you have fully serviced my cunt.’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ said Babala.

  Tongue generously coated with saliva, Babala touched Desilla’s clitty with the very tip and stroked the pouting outer leaves of her flesh pouch.

  ‘Not like that!’ Desilla was incensed with fury. She sat up and fumbled for the lash, which she had placed behind her head. ‘Stupid girl! What do you think I am - a piece of china that will break at the slightest touch?’ The woman arched her arm back and the long strands of the lash beat upon Babala’s tortured bottom, making her strain and mew with pain.

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry, madam!’ she managed, trying desperately to catch her breath, which seemed to be beaten from her by the lash. ‘I shall try to do better!’

  ‘Not try, girl!’ Desilla spat. ‘Do! Do! Understand?’ She was already repositioning herself before Babala, legs spread and knees raised, but she kept the lash loosely clasped in her long fingers, ready to beat the girl given the slightest excuse.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Babala whimpered, swallowing a sob, for she knew that sobs would simply anger Desilla more.

  ‘Now lick me, girl,’ ordered the woman, ‘tenderly but firmly. Lick my clitty; go deeply into my opening as if your tongue was a little cock, stiff and thrusting. Do you think you can do that?’ This last was said as if Desilla was speaking to someone lacking in normal intelligence.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ whispered Babala, her voice quivering with trepidation. She raised her head to look at the woman. More than handsome, she was almost beautiful with her raven hair and her dark eyes gleaming with pent-up lust. Her lips were full and red, although this was natural rather than painted with carmine, as some aristocratic women were wont to do in Brentasi. They curved and parted in a sensual smile as her free hand entangled itself in Babala’s hair, urging her to bury her pretty face into the openness of her cunt.