Captive (16 page)

‘I also. It is thin and sour. My nurses often had to threaten the cane before I would take it. So it is likely to be a balancing agent, perhaps to reduce lust engendered by the troll’s sperm. It is not indispensable to the elixir. Do you suppose there are trolls hereabouts?’

‘Perhaps, it might be too dry, but that is to the side. How do you propose to milk a troll of his sperm, much less an enraged one?’

‘I do not. Do you really imagine, I, the daughter of a royal earl, could submit myself to a troll? I have been you lover, but you must respect my rank. You will do it, and as to enraging him, I will think of something presently.’

‘I…,’ Aisla began and stopped, reflecting that however sweet and pliable Sulitea might be during sex she was still the haughty high-demoiselle at heart.

With no troll at hand it seemed fruitless to argue the point and she contented herself with a shake of her head. Returning to more practical tasks, she checked the camel’s gear and climbed to a nearby crag. All around her a wilderness of peaks. Chasms and great barren slopes stretched away, north, south and east to the horizon, broken in the west to show the distant glimmer of the sea. Only a few sparse trees where visible, and these in hollows, although to the north larger patches of green were visible against the red rock of the mountains. Of the men who had pursued them there was no sign and she decided the chase must have been abandoned as hopeless. She returned to Sulitea, who was seated on a rock, still gnawing olives.

‘No trolls,’ she announced, ‘and no madmen. I suggest we continue north for An-Jhorai and keep to high ground.’

Sulitea nodded and they set off, with Aisla leading the camel. For the rest of the day they moved slowly north, keeping to shelter and shade as much as possible. Sulitea continued to discuss trolls and insisted on Aisla looking into caves and copses of sequacia in the hope of finding one, a job Aisla complied with reluctantly. Despite her misgivings it was impossible not to think of how she had felt under the influence of the elixir.

With the sun starting to sink down to the western horizon they reached a basin between two peaks and were delighted to find a small tarn among a grove of gnarled, stunted chestnut. The silence was absolute, the place invested with an air of peace and more loneliness even than the open mountain, but as Aisla guided the camel down the slope she caught a hint of thick, musky scent. She stopped, thinking of goblins, half-scared, half-wanton at the thought of how she could expect to be used if they caught her. Sniffing the air again she decided the scent was not that of goblins, which brought a pang of regret immediately followed by one of shame.

‘What is the matter?’ Sulitea asked. ‘Can you smell something? Could there be a troll?’

‘A bear perhaps,’ Aisla answered, nervously scanning among the trees for signs of life.

Nothing moved. The trees stood immobile in the still air, the tarn unruffled by any breeze, a perfect mirror reflecting the blue of the sky and the red and grey of the surrounding rocks. She looked again, beyond the tarn to where a single dark grey rock stood among a cluster of red boulders, and as she looked it moved, unfolding, stretching, to become a large, very obviously male troll.

Sulitea screamed, the camel bolted and Aisla was jerked from her feet to sprawl face down among the rocks. As she scrambled up she heard an angry bellow from behind her. Her foot slipped, sending her sprawling face down on the steep ground. A loud splash sounded behind her and she struggled to rise. She made it, only to find the troll almost on her. With a desperate lunge she tried for the top of the slope, fell, landed in a kneeling position and the next moment her ankle had been seized in an unbreakable grip.

The troll began to draw her in, grunting and muttering strange half-words, ignoring her screams and struggles. Her burnouse was torn off her bottom with a single motion, exposing her. His huge hands fastened to her hips, so large that the thumbs were pressing down her buttocks and the fingers touching across her belly. Fear welled up in her, only for something firm to nudge her bottom. She felt a desperate relief that he was not simply going to crush her, then shock as an impossibly large cock head jammed into the mouth of her vagina.

The troll grunted and pushed. She felt her vagina begin to fill, his huge cock stretching her open, filling her until she was wide eyed and gasping. Then the whole, fat bulk of his erection was in and he had began to fuck her, using a firm, deliberate motion that drove all thoughts of trying to stop it happening from her mind. Her breasts began swinging as she was fucked, making her nipples pop out as they brushed the rocks and foliage beneath her. He had lifted her, leaving her long legs clear of the ground, splayed out to either side of his torso as he drew her body back and forth on his erection, grunting each time it was slammed into her body. Each shove sent a wave through her and jammed her bottom against his front, slapping her buttocks as if being spanked and fucked simultaneously.

She had lost all control, thrashing and writhing on the huge cock, gasping and clutching at the ground until she was sure she would faint, only for the troll to give one final shove that seemed to jam her womb into her throat and then come. Aisla gave a choking cry as her vagina suddenly filled to capacity with troll’s sperm and then it had burst out around his cock, spraying her thighs and his belly. He grunted, pulled his cock out and dropped her, then simply ambled off.

Full control of her body returned only slowly, and in a welter of emotions. She had been ravished by a wild troll and every muscle from her waist to her knees ached. Yet she was alive and uninjured. Part of her wanted to feel used and horribly ashamed, but was overridden by relief and pride in what she had managed to take. Talithea had had sex with Simooth, but Simooth was tame and used to sex with nymphs. Her troll was wild and bigger still, a true mountain troll, and she had taken its cock.

All this went through her head as she crawled up the bank. At the top she turned, finding the troll standing in the centre of the tarn, casually washing his genitals. He gave her an unreadable look, perhaps warning, perhaps curiosity, perhaps some lust. She scrambled away as fast as she could, walking and then running across the mountainside until she saw where Sulitea had managed to bring the camel under control a good league along the slope. Sulitea waved and Aisla slowed to a walk, her body stiff with exhaustion. Several times she looked back, but there was no sign of the troll.

‘There,’ Sulitea remarked as Aisla came up with her, ‘you have discovered the answer. Simply invade the territory of a male troll and he will become enraged. Flaunt your bottom and he will mate you. How much sperm did you get?’

For days they continued through the mountains, picking their way among bare peaks, never daring to approach the sea. Occasionally they would cross some high spur or boulder field, from which the coast could be seen far away and below. Several times they glimpsed villages, always with a square white hut on a nearby hill. Sometimes humans could be seen, working placidly among fields and on beaches, showing no evidence of madness or unreasonable ferocity.

With their hunger growing it became increasingly hard to resist approaching. Sulitea reasoned that the village near which they had been attacked might have been an isolated colony of maniacs. Aisla was more cautious but equally hungry. More and more she found herself thinking of the old perfume vial Sulitea had given her for the troll’s sperm, and which now nestled safely in her vagina. If the effect worked as before, a quick raid and retreat would be easy, while the memory of how she had felt at the celibentuary was also compelling.

Once more Sulitea’s mood had altered. Aisla had expected absolute submission after what she had done to Sulitea in the hut. Instead Sulitea’s attitude became teasing, challenging almost, as if determined to make Aisla take charge and punish her by sheer strength. Aisla began to suspect that this was how Sulitea reacted to her equals, although there was still a certain superiority about her for all her grovelling acceptance of the most lewd and debased acts during sex. Deciding that she would probably never understand the complexities of Sulitea’s character, Aisla contented herself with the pleasures of a less unequal friendship and sexual dominance.

On the third day they reached a point where a deep gully cut down from the mountains, forcing them to lower ground. Despite her concern, Aisla found herself grateful for the chance of more succulent food than the tiny, bitter mountain olives, and when they came out high above a vineyard it was more than she could resist not to make a raid.

Leaving Sulitea with the camel, she stole down the mountainside, giving a wide birth to the squat white hut on a nearby outcrop. She reached the vines and sampled a grape, half-ripe, but bliss after days of raw olives and water. Crouched low among the thick green foliage, she began to eat voraciously, stuffing the bunches into her mouth until the juice ran down her chin.

By the time her initial hunger was satisfied the ground around her was littered with bits of stalk and grape pulp, while her face was a sticky mess. So was the top of her burnouse, with the juice plastering the thin material to her breasts and the nipples showing through. Giggling at her own enthusiasm, she cut a fresh bunch, took two good bits and with a sudden jolt of lust squeezed the remainder onto her chest, feeling the succulent fruit burst against her skin.

Masturbating had suddenly become irresistible. Pulling her burnouse high, she exposed her naked body to the air, squatting with her knees wide and her breasts pulled out. Squeezing fresh bunches against her now naked breasts, she closed her eyes in bliss as the warm, wet juice trickled down over her skin. Her nipples were hard, her belly wet with runnels of juice.

For a while she teased herself, holding back from touching her tuppenny as she moulded and fondled her breasts. At last it was too much and she slapped a large bunch between her thighs, sighing as grapes burst against her clitoris and between her bottom cheeks. Several had gone inside her, and as she squeezed her vagina she felt them pop around the sperm vial, then the warm trickle of juice around her hole. Keeping one hand on her breasts, she began to rub at herself, occasionally taking more fruit to squeeze onto her sex or putting a handful into her mouth. Smeared from mouth to anus with the gloriously sticky pulp, she let herself come, slowly, feeling the orgasm build, holding it and then letting it burst with a long sigh of pure ecstasy.

Giggling happily over what she had done, she skipped quickly to a shallow stream, stripped and washed. Feeling contented and more at ease with herself than she had for a while, Sulitea’s sudden scream from up the slope came as a greater shock. Aisla ran, naked but for her boots, axe clutched in one fist, dripping burnouse in the other. Sulitea screamed again and Aisla heard angry, male shouts. Scrambling over the broken ground and stumbling in her haste, she made for the ridge, then ducked low behind a boulder as she reached it.

Below her, Sulitea was spread on a rock, a man clutching each of her limbs. She was struggling, but to no effect. Most of her captors wore crude smocks, but two had white robes and carried hammers. Aisla ducked down hastily. Pushing a finger into her vagina, she drew out the vial of troll’s sperm, opened it and swallowed, grimacing at the slimy texture. As she lifted her leg and bit into the tongue of her boot she was praying the effect would work, but knew she would have to try and help her friend in any case.

The effect came even as she braced herself, confidence, assurance, anger, then blind anger as she got to her feet and saw what was happening. The priest had his hammer to his crotch, making it project like a monstrous phallus, and he was about to enter Sulitea. She was struggling, writhing her hips and screaming abuse at her tormentors, who simply laughed at her. The hammer shaft dipped, touched Sulitea’s vagina and Aisla hit the robed man, sweeping him to the side with one blow. The second hammer wielder lunged at her, only to have his blow caught in her flapping burnouse and to fall to the back swing of the axe. The other men fled as one, screaming of she-demons and earth spirits as Aisla took Sulitea in her arms.

Later, lying in the exhaustion that followed her use of the elixir, with Sulitea cradled into her arms, Aisla reflected on how her fear had vanished and how slowly others had seemed to move. The sense of confidence and power had also been wonderful, and well worth the price of congress with trolls and the debility that followed.

Chapter 7 – The Merchants’ Sluts

Two days later they crossed a high ridge and came out over a town, which Aisla, after consulting the map, declared to be An-Jhorai. The scene was as placid as it was possible to imagine, the townsfolk unhurried at their business, smoke drifting lazily up from the chimneys, children playing in the streets, the calm blue surface of the Ergan Deep stretching away to the horizon. Closer, among an area of cultivated land an elderly man was tending a patch of vineyard, cutting away excess growth with a knife that glinted in the sunlight.

‘We met a merchant of An-Jhorai across the Deep at Port Ergan,’ Aisla said after a pause. ‘He was calm and sensible, indeed, one of the few good people we came across.’

‘Perhaps the madness has come since?’ Sulitea suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Aisla answered doubtfully, ‘they appear sane enough, yet so did those who attacked you. Still, let us approach that old peasant. Even if he leaps at us on sight we can retreat in good time.’

Sulitea nodded agreement and they started down the slope, cautiously at first, ready to mount and ride at the first sign of trouble. Coarse grass and sequacia gave way to olive and chestnut, then to vineyard as they descended the slope, until at last the old man noticed them. Rising to his feet, he gave a pleasant nod, showing no signs of aggression whatever.

‘Travellers?’ he queried as they drew close. ‘And not Hai, though little more than girls.’

‘Is this An-Jhorai, good peasant?’ Aisla asked.

‘And where else would it be?’ he answered with such good humour that Aisla felt the tension immediately began to drain away.