Babala's Correction (7 page)

‘Only if she's stupid and struggles,' said Graf, after a pause in which he sneered at his captive. He cupped one of her breasts, caressing the lower swell and thumbing the teat again. Fazath bore the humiliation with gritted teeth, thinking of Babala. ‘Make a noose, lad, slip it over her head and let the excess hang down her body.' The sneer became a grin, leering and lustful, as he watched Peli form a loop and, somewhat anxiously, slip the hemp rope about Fazath's neck.

As the rough cord abraded her skin and the noose was tightened, she swallowed hard and painfully. The rest of the length swung between the deep valley of her breasts, rasping first one and then the other. As she took many rapid and shallow breaths the rope dangled against her taut belly and brushed the triangle of blue-black pussy hair. She felt humiliated and used by the men and despised herself for being so pliant, but she was so for Babala, hoping they would use her more kindly.

‘Hold your wrists together,' ordered Graf, still grinning. ‘Grab her elbows, Peli,' he added over his shoulder. ‘I don't want any bruises marring my handsomeness.' He let out a loud guffaw at his own wit, but the laughter faded as Fazath gave him a threatening glare.

Cruelly, he tugged on the rough rope, pulling it tight about her neck and wrapping it around her wrists. She winced as it rubbed against the wounds left by the manacles and gave several feeble coughs as she tried to catch her breath.

‘Now down over your belly and between those sex lips,' he said, an evil chuckle punctuating his words. ‘It will tickle that nubbin of yours and become wetted with your juices in no time.' He slapped her inner thighs apart with one hand while taking his time in positioning the cord between her sex folds so that it would rub her clitty at the slightest movement. ‘And now,' he added, sliding behind her and making sure his cock probed between her buttocks, ‘feel how deliciously prickly it feels against your bottom bud.'

Fazath made a feeble attempt to struggle against his attentions, and blushed as she admitted privately that the strands of the cords stimulated her rear opening.

‘And finally...' the rope was twisted around her slender waist, lying against the swell of her hips. ‘Of course, we must leave your feet free from bonds until we reach the auction. We don't want to tire ourselves by carrying you. We'll save our strength to spend the takings of your sale in the tavern.' Again he let out a loud guffaw before pushing Fazath towards the cave entrance.

The way out of the cavern seemed perilously steep, and she tried to turn her head, pleading for help from the two men, but only succeeded in half-choking herself.

At the foot of the steep slope she saw Babala, water streaming from her golden hair and shimmering on her pale skin. Her hands were bound but otherwise her body was free from bonds. The sapphire eyes widened when she saw her mistress and she opened her lips to protest, but Fazath gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, warning her to hold her tongue.

 

The town square of Brentasi was thronged with onlookers; mostly peasants come to bring their produce to the market, but some to watch the auction of slaves, which was always good for an hour's entertainment. The crowd grew bigger as hundreds more entered the square.

They were roughly clad in brief tunics which, as they balanced the baskets of fruit and vegetables upon head or hip, rode up to bare their unfettered genitals. The girls and men alike took the opportunity to fondle each other. Slender feminine fingers ringed stiffened cocks while stout fingers, rough from farm work, slipped into warm and willing cunnies.

And it didn't end there. The day was hot and it heated the blood. Several couples sank to the cobbled square, the girls with their thighs parted and the men impaled within them. There was nothing like the auction to stimulate a good fuck.

Babala, tired from the two day march to the town and what had gone before, looked dully at the scene. Even the sounds of couples grunting their pleasure did not arouse her interest, although she heard the excited murmurs of the crowd as she and the Lady Fazath were pushed roughly into the square by the guards. Hands reached out to feel her naked breasts and went further, pushing between her thighs to stroke her fleshpot.

‘You can't afford that one,' said Bart, giving the perpetrator of the intimacy a sharp blow on the shoulder with his whip. ‘Don't touch.'

‘And this one?' said the peasant, cupping Fazath's breasts and not at all put out by Bart's rebuke. ‘She looks well used. Maybe I could afford her.'

His companions sniggered and gathered round to join in the fun, their hands reaching between Fazath's thighs, feeling the rope that had buffed between her sex lips for these two long days. They remarked how saturated the cord was, how hard her clitty had become, how deeply the bond had cut into the valley between her bottom cheeks.

‘Enough of this!' growled Capel. ‘Bid for the woman if you want her, but we warn you, she's a wild cat.'

As if to confirm this Fazath made a flying leap with both feet, knocking two of her tormentors to the cobbled ground of the square.

The Slavemaster, hearing the disturbance and noting the two spectators dragging themselves to their feet from the blow, was quick to leave the podium and stride to the scene. In his hand he held a long whip; leather, softened from years of usage. The handle was intricately carved and bulbous at the end.

‘What is all this?' he demanded, the whip cracked ominously, and he eyed her up and down, noting the fading marks on her breasts and belly. ‘Are these women for the auction?' He used a finger and thumb to inquisitively grasp one of Babala's nipples and lift her breast. She whimpered at the action, but held her head high and gave him a defiant stare.

‘Yes,' said Bart. ‘We've walked two days to get here. Is there space?'

The Slavemaster used the handle of his whip to trace the dip of Babala's waist and the luscious curve of her hip. ‘Are they obedient? Arch your body, girl, so I may inspect your sex.'

‘Very obedient,' Graf said quickly. ‘As you can see, sir.'

The Slavemaster grunted and used the folded whip to probe between Babala's thighs.

‘She should fetch a good price, sir, eh?' said Bart eagerly.

The Slavemaster used the bulb of the handle to open Babala's sex purse to its fullest extent. He thrust it back and forth within her and thumbed the tip of her clitty. ‘She's been well used,' he decided. ‘Very well used, and her skin is marked by the lash.' He turned to the men, but did not halt the thrust of the carved wood within Babala. ‘Are you sure she's obedient?'

‘You can see how willing she is, sir,' said Graf.

‘Maybe too willing,' said the Slavemaster, noting Babala was in the throes of a gentle climax she could not control. The whip handle was pulled from her body unceremoniously, and Babala hung her head in shame at being so easily pleasured before the rough crowd.

‘Still,' he conceded, ‘perhaps some merchant will take her for his plaything. One never knows how these auctions will go.'

‘I'm sure she'll fetch a mountain of shekels,' persuaded Bart.

‘Really?' The Slavemaster raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Well, I am not. And as for this harridan...' He gave an ironic smirk as he turned to the Lady Fazath. ‘Well-developed muscles,' he commented, squeezing Fazath's biceps. ‘Is she, perchance, of military background? She could be of use in Brentasi's guard.' He used his whip to part the woman's buttocks and to examine her rear hole. ‘But perhaps not,' he concluded, answering his own statement as he fingered the opening to knuckle depth. ‘This has been overused. A military woman would fight for all she was worth to preserve that chastity.'

The men looked at each other sheepishly and gazed down at their feet, shuffling them uncomfortably in the market debris.

‘Why is she bound so?' asked the Slavemaster, fingering the rope that went from Fazath's wrists, down over her belly, pressing into the fleshy pad of her pussy mound, causing it to tighten about her neck and over her belly. Fazath coughed, but her expression was far from plaintive; rather her anger was plainly marked on her features and she hissed between gritted teeth at her tormentor.

‘A wild cat,' commented the Slavemaster, but showed no concerns as he inspected her sex, easing the rope to one side and fully parting her sex folds.

‘Careful, sir,' warned Bart. ‘She's lithe on her feet.'

‘I noted the disturbance among the crowd,' said the Slavemaster, but did not halt his inspection. ‘A good length on the clitoris,' he commented, as he pushed back the hood to bare the tip. ‘That's always a favourite with the women who delight in their own kind.' He continued to roll the slip of skin back and forth, thumbing the tip as he did so. Fazath grated her pubis in a rhythm that matched his attentions and Babala noted that her mistress's eyes became heavy about the lids.

When he was satisfied the woman was close to her climax he stopped, giving Fazath's cunny a pat as he did so. ‘Yes, she will be greatly sought after by certain women.'

‘Finish it, you fiend!' hissed Fazath, her dark eyes flashing wildly. She tugged at the rope, trying with all her might to reach her cunny with her bound fingers, but she only succeeded in tightening it about her neck.

‘But you will want to be in a state of heightened sensuality, my dear,' said the Slavemaster, ‘to persuade the prettiest of women to buy you, will you not?'

‘Let me!' Babala exclaimed, throwing herself at her mistress's feet. ‘Let me help her. Let me bring her to her climax.' The Taskmaster had warned that her kind nature and willingness to please could get her in trouble, but Babala's soft lips were parted and her tongue-tip protruded between her white teeth. ‘She has been tortured by these—'

The crack of the whip echoed above the babble of the crowd and Babala was lifted off her feet by the force of the blow as it snaked about her waist. The guards looked on in astonishment. Capel, in particular, narrowed his eyes in envy at the skill the Slavemaster demonstrated with his whip. Babala, the breath sucked from her body by the tightening of the supple leather around her waist, found herself looking into the cold grey eyes of the Slavemaster, for the coils of the whip had drawn her close to him. She could feel his cock hardening under the richness of his satin robe, embroidered in silks to depict all manner of lewd scenes, and it made her more aware of her own nakedness and vulnerability.

‘How dare you presume to even suggest help for that woman.' His voice was low, hissed in her ear. ‘You are a slave. Don't you understand that? And by the looks of things, born to be one.' Babala felt his fingers opening her sex, slicking them through her moistness, and rubbing her nubbin in rhythmical strokes. ‘Answer me,' he whispered huskily, ‘or am I to add dumb insolence to the rest of your crimes?'

The sweet heaviness of limbs came upon Babala, that which she was taught to enjoy by the Taskmaster. Breasts swelling and nipples hardened to taut buds, she leaned against the Slavemaster. ‘Yes, sir,' she murmured. ‘I am insolent. I deserve whatever punishment you give me.'

‘You do not deserve this,' he rasped as his hand wormed between her thighs. ‘You know that, don't you?'

‘Yes, sir,' Babala whispered. ‘I am aware of that.' It was as if she was mesmerised by the heat of his body, the smell of his masculinity, and she gave an involuntary gasp as strong fingers entered her, slipping into her warm moistness.

Everything around her; the Lady Fazath, the guards, the noisy crowds, were as nothing as she pleasured herself on his skilled fingers. Using the muscles of her sex she petted them and moved her hips in a rhythm that matched his hand. At every inward thrust he chafed her clitty and she could not hold back her mews of pleasure. It did not occur to her that she was writhing like an animal in a very public place; she was merely doing what she had learned from the harem and the Taskmaster.

‘A pity the girl is so used,' he sneered derisively as he pushed her away from him, and she hung her head in shame as she staggered, buffeted and surreptitiously mauled by the encroaching crowd. She was disgraced, but even so, something in his eyes told her that he was not dismissing her so lightly as it seemed. He fingered the silken tresses of the cascade of golden hair, stroked the taut underswell of her breasts, and released the leather whip from her waist in an almost tender manner.

‘Had she not been so marked and her body so penetrated by cocks from goodness knows where,' he said, as if speaking to himself, ‘she would have fetched a pretty price.'

‘How much?' asked Bart, his eyes eager and bright.

‘Oh, easily a casket full of shekels, but as it is...' He turned away, but beckoned over his shoulder to the guards. ‘Bring them to the podium. We'll see what we can get for you.'

Babala was pulled through the sniggering crowd by her bound wrists. Hot tears stung her eyes. The Slavemaster enjoyed her, that much was plain, but then threw her from him like a used dishrag. For the first time in her life she felt shame in her talent for giving pleasure to men. Even the guards had not made her feel so humiliated, for all their cruelty and taunting.

As she stumbled through the square, led by Bart, men lifted their tunics and thrust out their cocks lewdly. Women spat at her and spread their thighs, arched their hips, or stuck their fingers between their sex lips, pushing them in and out like cocks.