Babala's Correction Read online

  The woman’s musk was strong, but not unpleasant. Babala licked the underside of her clitty stem, which was long and engorged. She heard Desilla moan in ecstasy and transferred her petting to the tip, which was bared and the hood drawn back. At the same time she thrust a trembling middle finger into the woman’s pulsing cunny.

  ‘Two fingers, my precious,’ Desilla instructed, ‘or even three, but do not make me come too soon. Make my pleasure last, or...’ she thrashed the stone floor with the whip, making Babala start and lose the rhythm of her licking. Instantly the tips of the leather strands swept down upon her bottom, making her mew into the liquid softness of Desilla’s cunt.

  With trembling fingers Babala thrust into the soft and welcoming cunny, and felt those fingers clutched by the woman’s muscular fleshpot.

  ‘Hm, that feels delicious, my darling,’ murmured Desilla. ‘Just slow down the licking, but make sure you lap from the base of my stem to the very tip. No quick side-to-side little smacks with that lovely tongue of yours.’

  Desilla began to shudder and Babala knew she was very close to her orgasm. Her cunny was saturated with juices that glazed Babala’s cheeks and chin.

  ‘Slow down,’ Desilla said hoarsely. ‘You must slow down. I do not wish you to make me come so soon. Stop it this instant...’ The whip lashed Babala’s shoulders but the blow was weak, without strength, and was a mere tickle compared to those that went before.

  Babala stopped her petting and stroked Desilla’s smooth buttocks in an almost tender fashion. The woman’s breathing slowed, but Babala became aware of the audience that had gathered and the murmurs that grew in volume as the moments passed.

  ‘She will have you opening her rear hole before you know it,’ said Rata.

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed a girl, pretty as a picture and no older than Babala. ‘That’s what she did to me, but she tires of the new girls very quickly.’

  Babala felt her cheeks flush and burn scarlet that she should be placed in such a humiliating position.

  ‘How dare you talk of me in such a fashion?!’ Desilla lashed about the watchers with her whip and they staggered back, holding their hurts and cringing at their owner’s anger. ‘I am mistress of this castle and I own every one of you!’

  The watchers scuttled away to their duties and Desilla and Babala were again alone.

  ‘Lick me again, my sweet,’ ordered Desilla. ‘But this time as I begin my orgasm touch your tongue to my rear hole, but then touch the pulsing little rose with your finger until it is drawn in by my convulsing.’

  Babala could not help wondering how she would know these exact moments; how she would know when to lick and when to finger. ‘How...? she began, a curious frown on her flushed face.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ Desilla’s face wore a wry and sarcastic smirk. ‘Come now, don’t pretend that you have no knowledge of such matters. My husband, the Slavemaster, gave me to understand that you are well-versed in such matters.’ She lay back, resting on one elbow and stroking her open flesh pouch with the soft strands of the whip. ‘What was the word he used?’ She made a pretence at frowning. ‘Used? Yes, that was it... used. Fit for nothing except a whore house or this kitchen where the cooks can use you as they wish.’

  Babala bowed her head to hide the spots of scarlet that blossomed on her cheeks. How could she help it if the guards used her day after torturous day? She had been too weak to defend herself and the Lady Fazath was bonded to the cave wall. ‘I did not intend to—’

  ‘But you did, didn’t you?’ Desilla mocked, waving the whip that now smelled so strongly of her musk. ‘But we waste time. You know what I want of you and I want it now.’

  Once again Babala began to lick, her petting firm, just as Desilla desired. The fingering, too, seemed to please the mistress of the castle for she groaned and shuddered, pressed her cunny closer and closer to Babala’s smeared mouth.

  ‘Yes!’ gasped Desilla. ‘I am very close now. You may pet my bottom hole, but very gently. Let my climax last for... let it last for eons.’

  Babala felt a sob rise in her throat and tears wet her cheeks. How could anyone make an orgasm last forever? For eons? And if she did not please the mistress what terrible punishment would she receive?

  The bottom hole was tight and Babala’s tongue could feel the tiny pleats gathered at the minute hole. She caressed it, pushing two fingers into the pulsing cunny at the same time. These became coated with a slick cream that slithered over the heel of her hand. Her tongue-tip slipped into her mistress’s rose-hole and she felt the woman arch in pleasure. She moaned, and the moan became a wail.

  ‘A finger in there, you stupid girl. Don’t you listen to my instructions?’ Desilla was thrashing her lower body from side to side upon the cushion and Babala was hard pressed to finger the rose-hole or the pulsing and dripping cunny, but she managed it although her hands were trembling uncontrollably.

  At last it was over and Desilla lay back upon the cushion, the colours of which were darkened with her sap. ‘Not the best of petting,’ grumbled the woman. Babala drooped her head, hiding her tearstained face and the soft lips which were sticky with her mistress’s juices, fearing the sting of the lash upon her bottom, still sore from Rata’s heavy hand and the quickness of Desilla’s whip. ‘But not the worst, either. I think you could be trained to please me greatly. Would you like that?’

  Babala was at a loss to answer. She was a slave, taken from the auction by the Slavemaster and of little worth at that. She had no choice but to agree.

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ she said meekly, in a subdued manner.

  ‘You don’t sound entirely convincing.’ Desilla was stern and Babala watched her fingers twitch about the handle of the lash.

  ‘I am trained, madam.’ Babala’s voice trembled as she spoke. Perhaps those words would have been better left unsaid.

  Desilla frowned and straightened the short skirt of her black leather tunic. ‘But only by a whoremaster, surely?’ Her handsome features were distorted in a supercilious smile.

  ‘No, mistress,’ said Babala, trying to ease the aches in her cramped body, which was so tightly held in the clutches of the smacking stool.

  ‘Who then?’ Desilla’s dark eyes became slits and her full lips became thin and pursed. ‘The guards?’ She threw back her head and let out a mirthless laugh.

  ‘The Taskmaster,’ admitted Babala. ‘He trained me beautifully at the palace of Ellipsis.’ The very thought of the Taskmaster’s expertise made naughty little frissons of delight quiver through her tortured body, but at the same time tears of longing for her old life filled her sapphire eyes and tumbled down her pale cheeks like liquid pearls.

  Chapter 6

  Sharp slaps brought the Lady Fazath to her senses, but as her consciousness returned she screamed and a large hand cupped her mouth, muting her cries.

  ‘Be quiet, you fool!’ hissed a deep voice. ‘Do you want the whole forest, the whole of Brentasi to know we’re here?’ He loosened his grip upon her mouth and chin, but immediately he did so she screamed once more.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this,’ said the man, ‘but needs must when the devil drives.’ With two long strides he reached the other side of the tiny cottage and took a bullwhip from a hook on the rough stone wall. ‘You asked for it... in fact, you have been asking for it these many days. How dare you take Babala from the palace? How dare you? All my weeks of training to make her a pliant girl were for nothing, and she was for the Prince, not you.’

  The whip snaked over his huge shoulders and thrashed down upon her, cutting a swathe of scarlet across the tawny skin of her naked back.

  ‘Oh, Taskmaster!’ moaned the Lady Fazath, for with the disguise thrown off it was clearly him. ‘I had to have her! She is so beautiful, so sensual, and so very feminine. Don’t you understand? She was the sort of girl a woman like me could not resist.’ The Lady Fazath looked repentant although still pr
oud and upright. ‘I am sorry, Taskmaster.’

  The bull whip cut through the air once more and the sound of its thrashing echoed against the walls of the cottage so many times that it seemed there were a hundred whips flying through the small space.

  ‘You will be, my lady,’ hissed the Taskmaster. ‘I promise you that. If I was to take you to Ellipsis this moment and hand you to the Prince...’

  He stood over her, so large and powerful, so virile in his jewelled loincloth, and Fazath knelt at his feet, clutching him around the calves in a most uncharacteristic manner.

  ‘Please, no! He will execute me. My head will fall. Surely after all we have been to each other - such close friends - you would not do that to me?’ Her heavy breasts brushed against the roughness of his hairy legs and she felt her nipples become painfully stiff. She was surprised at her own sudden submissiveness.

  ‘It is what you deserve!’ he snapped, but he pulled her to her feet and drew the handle of the folded bullwhip beneath her bare breasts. She shuddered but did not protest; dared not, even when one of his large hands cupped the toned firmness of a breast. ‘I always found you desirable, Fazath,’ he said, and he spoke softly, almost lovingly.

  ‘But I do not...’

  ‘I know - it’s always been the girls that attract you.’ He looked into her eyes and the smouldering lust in his made her shudder in his arms. She could feel the strength of his need beneath his loincloth. It was stiff and thick, pulsing, and she felt the end globe, bared of its hood and damp with pre-issue against her belly. For the briefest of moments Fazath felt a yearning, which made her legs lose their strength and her belly become heavy as if a great weight was suddenly dropped within it. Her cunny felt heavy and she felt moistness and heat, a sudden opening of her folds and a thrill in her clitty.

  ‘Stop this,’ she said, pulling away from him. ‘You know my tastes. You know why I took Babala. Didn’t you hear me; hear me tell you that she became an obsession with me?’

  ‘Because she was the most beautiful girl in the Prince’s harem.’ The Taskmaster pulled her to him once more and there was no possibility of escape so great was the strength of his grip. ‘But tell me, Fazath,’ he said, an ironic smile twisting his handsome features, ‘which would you rather endure?’ He stroked the edge of his thumb down the contour of her cheek and jawbone, smiling into her eyes all the time. ‘Execution, or my cock?’

  The Lady Fazath gasped and again tried to escape the iron strength of his grip. She could not speak for several seconds. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth and felt dry as dust, but at last she regained the power of speech. ‘I have no choice.’ She looked at him steadily, her dark eyes narrowed and her lips thinned in distaste.

  ‘No, you have no choice, Fazath,’ said the Taskmaster, ‘but you endured the guards, so surely you would not find me too much of a trial?’ He looked almost sad as he said this, his eyes shone with moisture, but the expression was gone in a flash and his lips hardened in a tense smile. ‘Will you?’ he added.

  ‘I suppose not,’ admitted Fazath. ‘How would you like me? Bound and resentful or free and submissive?’

  ‘I want you resentful, Fazath,’ he told her, ‘so that when it is all over you will be so grateful that you will do exactly as I wish.’

  The Lady Fazath shrugged. ‘What will you bind me with? Ropes, manacles? I have endured all of that with the guards. Nothing could be worse than what they did to me.’

  ‘Really? I have a chair here, which will imprison you as you have never been imprisoned before. Once you were dominant and lording it over the girls in the harem...’ His hand traced the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the neat mound of her belly and once more Fazath felt the wicked thrill of desire surge through her. ‘Now what are you?’

  ‘Your slave, Taskmaster,’ she said, in a voice she did not recognise as her own.

  ‘Yes, bought and paid for.’ His words were punctuated with a chuckle. ‘Let me show you this chair.’ He took her hand and led her to a shadowy corner of the room, and there stood a tall chair, reached by two steps. There were straps on the arms to hold her wrists, and at the base to hold her ankles wide apart. Standing up from the seat of the chair was a large phallus constructed of hardened black leather; causing her terrible consternation, and she turned to question the Taskmaster.

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I shall not leave any orifice of yours un-stimulated, my dear. I shall do things to you I would not have dreamed of doing to your girls. You will beg for mercy. Your orgasms will come thick and fast and there will be pain, my dear. Oh, yes! There will be a great deal of pain, but this will only enhance your joy.’ Again he held her to him, her upper arms clamped in his vice-like grip, and his mouth raped hers in a kiss that left her breathless and weak. ‘I have longed to do that for years, Fazath, but you were so untouchable I did not dare.’

  Anger gave her the strength to release one arm from his hold and her hand swiped his face in a resounding slap, jerking his head to one side.

  ‘You will pay for that, Fazath,’ he said slowly, glowering at her. ‘Believe me, you will pay.’

  His strength made her own seem puny and he pushed her roughly to the chair. With swift and decisive movements he strapped her ankles to the wide apart wooden legs, leaving her sex vulnerable, the black leather phallus standing lewdly between her thighs, brushing her cunny but not entering it.

  ‘What torture is this, Taskmaster?’ Fazath was scathing, her lips twisted in an ironic smile. ‘The phallus does not enter me, but its stalk merely kisses the very tip of my clitty.’

  ‘Be patient, my love,’ he said as he tightened the leather straps at her wrists, and Fazath winced as the leather cut into the tawny skin of her arms. ‘I have always loved the secretiveness of a bottom in a handsome woman,’ he said. The chair was designed in such a fashion as to push her buttocks forward and open the cheeks to fully display Fazath’s secret hole, and the Taskmaster ran his thumb across the wrinkled tightness, which flexed involuntarily. He chuckled. ‘There is something very forbidden about a woman’s bottom hole. I was always careful to resist Babala’s; to leave it for the Prince should he wish to breach it, but because of your stupidity it was well used by the guards. I am determined to make you pay dearly for that indiscretion.’

  With many questions in her dark eyes Fazath watched as he smeared the black leather phallus with a sweet-scented balm. It made the leather shine and gleam in the candlelit gloom.

  ‘Raise yourself up in the straps,’ ordered the Taskmaster.

  ‘But I’m too tightly bound,’ Fazath objected.

  ‘No, no; you will find there is just sufficient leeway for you to lift your bottom.’

  The straps cut more tightly into her skin as she strained against them to lift herself, and felt the Taskmaster adjusting the angle of the phallus so that the bulbous tip was positioned exactly at her rear opening. There was a slight pressure as the globe pressed open the tight pleats, and then an increasing fullness as the black leather length pushed into the tightness. Fazath moaned, not from the pain, but from the pleasurable sensation as her clitty and sex were stimulated from within.

  The Taskmaster gently rubbed three fingertips around the open moistness of her cunny. He massaged her nubbin with her own juices, and with the pressure from within and the gentle stimulation on the outside she felt her legs become weak and heavy in the bonds.

  The Taskmaster laughed. ‘Oh, I have not finished yet, my love. I want total submission from you, and to get that I know I must go much further.’

  Red-hot pain shot from Fazath’s nipples as toothed clips were fastened upon the tightly erect buds. She groaned and tried to slump deeper in the chair, but the wrist straps and the phallus plunging deeper into her bottom held her fast.

  ‘I have more of these,’ he said, rattling a metal container before her eyes. ‘I have always found the toothed clips a great he
lp in subduing reluctant girls.’

  ‘I’m not a girl!’ managed Fazath. ‘I’m a woman.’

  ‘But one who will be a great deal more womanly if taught to be submissive.’

  ‘Oh, be quiet...’ Frissons of bliss shot through her body, making her taut and muscular belly ripple. She felt pearly dewdrops gather on her sex lips and more juices trickle down between her buttocks, and froze as a neat string of tiny clips were attached to her inner folds, fastening them to the plump outer leaves. He had made her more open than ever.

  ‘This isn’t my style,’ she gasped. ‘You said yourself that I’m dominant.’

  ‘But not when the guards used you,’ he rasped. ‘Shackled you to the cave wall; did all manner of things to your handsome body.’

  The Lady Fazath hung her head, just as she had seen Babala do many times, both at the harem and when captured in the forest. Was the Taskmaster truly making her submissive, as he had threatened to do?

  ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, and she saw him staring at the open flesh of her sex and saw his penis throb beneath his jewelled loincloth. The clips, she knew, made her sex more available, revealed it more clearly.

  She gasped as the length of a finger tested her sex, felt the width of her opening. ‘Good, Fazath,’ he said softly. ‘You are becoming womanly. Your cunt is acting as a woman’s should. It is ready for a man’s cock.’

  Fazath’s eyes blazed and she pursed her lips, gathering spittle in her mouth, and spat at him. But his only reaction was to laugh heartily.

  ‘I think I can find a better use for those lovely lips,’ he said, and she could only watch helplessly as he climbed athletically upon the arms of the chair and pushed the jewelled loincloth to one side to expose the magnificence of his penis. The satiny globe, slick and purple, pulsed with intent before her eyes. She was mesmerized by the oozing pore at its tip, which swiftly stretched her lips apart, slipping deeper and deeper into her throat until she had engulfed the whole length. The taste was less bitter than the spume of the guards, almost wholesome, and she gladly engulfed it until her lips were nestled in the crisp curls of the Taskmaster’s pubis.