Babala's Correction (10 page)

‘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.

‘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.

 

 

 

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 fooled 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.'