Dream Captive Page 14

Marcellus smiled; quite certain she would never again lie to him. ‘And what do you imagine when you are touching yourself?’

  His finger slid down her tummy, like fire and ice at once, making her moan and shiver. The girl was a hot one and would give much pleasure to her masters in the future, whoever owned her.

  ‘Please, do not make me...’ She attempted to thrash her head, her words dissolving as he began to finger her clitoris.

  ‘You will tell me,’ the pirate persisted, scraping his fingernail in such a way as to turn her insides to jelly.

  Ameliadora’s knees buckled. ‘I think of men. Strong men, having their way with me.’

  ‘Be more specific,’ he continued working her to a lather, ‘which men and what do they do to you that arouses you so?’

  ‘My guards. Those strong soldiers I stand beside each day and who must defend me with their lives,’ she said, the confession oozing from her soul like the moisture from her cunt. ‘I imagine that things are different, that they are free to do with me as they wish.’

  ‘And what do they wish, do you suppose?’

  ‘I’ve seen the look in their eyes. They would want to have me, to strip me of my clothes, to use me as a whore. To put me through paces as a bitch, making me spread my legs for them, making me...’

  ‘Say it,’ he coaxed the suddenly resistant girl.

  ‘I... I... oh, please, I am going to climax.’

  ‘You will not.’ He pulled back. ‘Not until I say so. Now answer the question; what do they make you do?’

  ‘I have to... to suck them,’ wept the fourteenth daughter of the Talassian emperor. ‘On my knees, and when they shoot their seed I must take it in my mouth and swallow it or else they will beat me. With whips or rods.’

  ‘This does not sound like the sort of treatment imposed upon a free woman,’ he speculated.

  ‘No, it is not.’ She blinked back the tears.

  ‘Nor even that due to a whore who is paid for her services.’

  ‘That is just it; no free woman deserves or wants such things.’

  There was horror on her face, but also deep need.

  ‘Perhaps you are another sort of woman.’

  Ameliadora resumed her useless struggles, her body still under his complete and utter control. ‘No, I am not; I am a princess, of the blood of the royal house of Talassia.’

  ‘Would you like my finger, royal princess,’ he asked pleasantly, ‘back inside your royal cunt?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes!’ Her eyes lit up as she answered without thinking, without gauging the ramifications in their game, a form of human chess, as it were, with her body being the board.

  ‘Beg for it.’

  She came to her senses. ‘No, I cannot... I will not.’

  He released her, allowing her to fall helplessly at his feet. ‘Go then; I release you.’

  She looked up at him through disheveled hair, her fine make-up ruined, her body flush with the evidence of sexual play. ‘What manner of trick is this?’

  ‘None, Princess Ameliadora, I am setting you free. You have resisted me. The bet is won. I shall provide you escort home. Now if you will excuse me, I grow weary.’

  She watched in visible disbelief as her imperious captor retired to his bed, reclining upon it, and in a matter of moments, fingers interlaced beneath his head, he was snoring.

  As he knew she would she remained in the room, watching him, and eventually she made her approach. ‘Are you sleeping?’

  He swatted at the voice in his ear like a mosquito.

  ‘Captor,’ said she a bit more loudly.

  ‘Why,’ he opened one eye, ‘are you yet here?’

  ‘I was hoping,’ she replied, recovering what dignity she could, ‘that we might make love first.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am not a Talassian noble nor one of your fantasy guards. Go home, princess. You do not belong here.’

  The princess’ expression softened. ‘Please?’

  ‘I do not make love to free women.’

  ‘As a whore, then.’

  ‘I cannot afford your beauty. You said so yourself. Besides, pirates do not pay for what they can take.’

  ‘Then take me,’ she shook out her raven curls boldly, ‘pirate.’

  ‘If I take you,’ he warned, ‘you will not be as you are now.’

  Ameliadora’s hand was at her cunt. She was too far gone; too caught up in what she thought was just another game. What the proud beauty did not know was that the rules were no longer of her own making. ‘I do not care,’ she breathed, bending to touch him. ‘I only want to be fucked. By you.’

  He seized her wrist in a grip of iron, denying her the right. ‘There is a whip on the wall,’ he told her. ‘Go and fetch it.’

  The girl smiled catlike, her eyes narrow slits of desire. Marcellus did not think she had a clue what was to follow, but she soon would.

  ‘Do you like my arse?’ she paraded for him, moving to do his will.

  ‘You will return on all fours,’ he replied, ‘the whip between your teeth.’

  The dark-haired, white-skinned princess obeyed, crawling prettily for him, naturally, the way a female does upon approaching a male to whom she wants to submit. Taking the whip from her mouth he tapped her arse, the one she was so proud of.

  ‘On the bed. Remain on all fours. Facing the wall.’

  Marcellus gave her five light stripes, more an aphrodisiac for himself than a genuine introduction to corporal punishment. That would come later for the girl, following her branding. Nevertheless, for a spoiled girl such as she it was a heavy load indeed. Clutching the sheets with her fingernails, sobbing and shaking, she begged him the whole time to stop.

  She did not, however, move to rise or defend herself. Again Marcellus found this natural behavior, the female seeking, whether or not she knew it, some proof of the male’s power over her, a visible sign that he was both capable and worthy of her domination. The pirate king had never in all his experience seen a girl who was not softened, made wetter and more ready by mild abuse at the hands of her lover. What else was one to make of the female body, after all? The way it yielded so perfectly. Nipples tightening before a man’s eyes, begging to be pinched and hurt. The curve of the back, drawing the attention to the arse, that wonderful expanse of unmarked territory that cannot help but give a man ideas. And her limbs, more slender than his, so easily fitted for cuffs, and the graceful throat round which he yearns to lock his collar and affix his leash.

  Such a pretty bouncing thing she is, breasts in his face, intelligent eyes, laughing mouth, skin sweet smelling. Like a rabbit to be hunted. A fleece to be had. The man is her hunter, and she his prey. But it is not her death he desires, the flesh from her bones, but only her subjugation, her domestication, that he might coral her like any other animal. And she, for her part, must accept whatever comes, for it is not only her lot but also her desire. No woman can respect a man if he is not strong with her, if he gives her own way instead of stamping his own upon her. Of this power, too, she needs signs.

  Drusia was never hotter than after a night chained in the punishment hole, never more ardent than after being forced to submit to the male slaves or to take upon her flesh an undeserved beating. This is how it was between them and why it would never change. Freedom, Drusia had told him once, was unbecoming a woman, as well as frustrating and confusing for males. Perhaps she was right. Which was why he had given the order for Tesra - Yellow Pelt - to be branded. That she might know the peace of slavery, and he himself might no longer be tormented by his conflicting feelings for her. Besides, as his property it would be more clearly understood now that her visions belonged to him so that when it was time to use in the search for more treasure - and that time would come sooner rather than later - there would be no lingering doubts as to whom those powers belonged.r />
  Besides, a woman looked better branded. It was a pleasant sight, and good to the touch. Often while penetrating her he would run his hand over Drusia’s brand, pressing his thumb into her hot flesh, reminding them both of her perpetual sexual captivity. The orgasms were good this way. Very good.

  ‘No man has been here,’ said Ameliadora, panting, feeling him at the doorway to her virgin lips. ‘It is a gift I give to you, my pirate.’

  ‘No,’ Marcellus thrust himself to the hilt, showing no mercy, ‘it is a pleasure I take.’

  The spasms hit her almost at once, the cruelty of his words seeming to arouse her as much as the feeling of his cock in her wet, virgin hole. Though he did not lose control Marcellus felt something of the heat of the moment, finding release from the tension of battle in the princess’ warm depths. She was a more than adequate vessel, as well as a willing proxy as he continued to wrestle with this troubling matter of Tesra.

  Was he doing right in marking her a slave? Might this traumatize her all over again? And why had he opted for such a draconian move when only yesterday he was fawning on her, nursing her back to health?

  ‘Submit,’ demanded the pirate king, forcing the sweat-soaked head of the woman down into the sheet.

  ‘I submit,’ came the reply. ‘I am yours.’

  ‘Your slave,’ he completed for her.

  Ameliadora tensed, as if to fight, but there was no serious resistance left. They both knew where this would end, for it was what they both had wanted all along. ‘I am your slave,’ she moaned, the largest orgasm yet overtaking her.

  Marcellus emptied himself into her womb, thinking as he did of his grandfather and how that infernally lucky young pirate had once had his way with the maidens on the Isle of Dreams, coming at will into their bound bodies, possessing them again and again till each was found to be with child. How many daughters did the man count for himself this way? And how many granddaughters? And what of the other pirates who’d found their way to the island to be pressed into this rather unusual service? Did any of them remember their bliss? If so, they would have ached in their hearts and never again been satisfied with life, just as was the case with his grandfather.

  For it seemed that sadness followed a man’s visit to the place, and that any who touched its shores inevitably suffered melancholy afterwards. Himself included.

  Marcellus was on his back now, contemplating. The freshly conquered slave was crawling onto his lap, licking his thigh, trying to interest him in having another go.

  ‘Leave me,’ he brushed her away, though in truth the delicious girl could arouse him again in short order. ‘I am no longer in the mood.’

  ‘Sir?’ She looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Are you deaf? I said to go away.’

  ‘B-but where?’ she asked in a small voice, the vista of her future opening for her quite suddenly and uncertainly.

  ‘You might find Montrego for starters,’ he shrugged, ‘and have him brand you. After that you can cool your heels in the slave hold.’

  The girl’s blood drained from her face.

  ‘Must I repeat an order, slave? Was the one whipping not sufficient?’

  Ameliadora looked as though she might faint. ‘It was, sir, but please, how can I... how can I face them?’

  ‘Face who, girl?’

  ‘My handmaidens.’ She shuddered. ‘They shall see me like this, no better than they.’

  ‘And are you better than them, slut?’

  She swallowed hard. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go and begin your new life among your fellow slaves, thankful that you have been given this chance to live.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said weakly. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Marcellus watched the departing arse, less haughty in its undulation than before, though twice as delicious for being marked and possessed. He could only imagine the revenge that would be meted on it, too, by her former servants once they got the princess in their grip in the slave hold below.

  Was Tesra down there by now? Or was she yet being used, as was the custom following a girl’s branding. He should not care, but he did. Rising sulkily from the bed he retrieved the bottle of rum, taking a healthy gulp. After this followed another, and then another. By the third the room was spinning.

  Strange, he thought, that the liquor should affect him so quickly. He must be more tired than he realized, or else he was growing old like his father and grandfather. Intending to sit in the chair he leaned forward, only to fall headlong to the floor, the bottle crashing beside him with a splash of dark brown liquid. It was like the vision, plunging back to earth, only now it was real.

  Knowing himself to be poisoned, using his last conscious breath, the pirate king called out her name. It was her life he feared for the most. Having brought her here, into such danger, he would not now abandon her to his enemies.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, his voice cracked and fading, ‘my nymph of many names.’

  Never had a female come so close to the iron and escaped. Her tummy already pushed down on the barrel, Tesra could feel the heat of it, burning her even through the intervening air. A matter of inches, a few seconds more and her world would be fire and terror and burnt flesh.

  But it was Rodrigo who intervened, much to the surprise of everyone, the blonde nymph most of all.

  ‘There is a change of plans,’ said the king’s second. ‘The yellow-haired slut does not kiss the iron this day.’

  ‘On whose authority?’ demanded Montrego.

  Tesra heard the smooth, clean sound of metal sliding on metal, a blade withdrawn from a scabbard.

  ‘The authority of steel,’ said Rodrigo, the threat backed by the drawing of other blades, many, sharp and vicious.

  ‘You defy the will of the king,’ the outnumbered Montrego observed, though he had backed away, giving clear indication he was willing to negotiate.

  Rodrigo hauled Tesra to her feet. ‘Perhaps,’ he concurred. ‘Then again, it may be that I am merely concerned to see, before it is too late, if the king has changed his mind on this matter.’

  ‘He has been behaving strangely of late,’ Montrego agreed, accepting the subtle invitation to resolve the matter without bloodshed. ‘It would be wise to confirm the matter with him.’

  ‘The king is sleeping heavily,’ said Rodrigo, his words seeming to carry some meaning Tesra did not comprehend. ‘He may well sleep till morning.’

  ‘I see.’ Montrego nodded significantly. ‘Perhaps you should settle the matter with him... in the morning. Keeping the girl of course, in the mean time.’

  Rodrigo was already slapping her in irons, hands behind her back. ‘I had not thought of that, Montrego,’ he said, though clearly he had. ‘I accept your suggestion.’

  ‘What is going on?’ demanded Tesra, her relief at not being branded suddenly overcome by her rising alarm over the safety of the king. ‘I demand to know. Where is Marcellus?’

  Rodrigo wasted no words. Grabbing her by the throat he squeezed, just hard enough for her to see how easily he could choke the life out of her. ‘Listen to me carefully, bitch, and we will get along just fine. I happen to have need of your body right now, but not your tongue. If it wags again I will cut it out. Got it?’

  Tesra, on tiptoes and gasping for air, was not at liberty to give much response. But apparently her desperate gurgles were sufficient as he released her back down to her heels.

  ‘Do not I think I spared you the branding out of any sort of mercy or pity,’ said the hawkeyed, shaven-headed pirate, attaching the leather collar rudely to her neck. ‘It is simply that I must have you clear-headed tonight. By morning, I assure you, it will be a different story.’

  Rodrigo was tightening it too much, but Tesra dared not tell him. However slim her life chances were now, and they seemed slim indeed, they lay
in the hands of this man, the cruel lieutenant of her pirate king.

  ‘Tonight, my precious cunt,’ he attached the leash and stroked her cheek in mock affection, ‘we shall make sweet love together, like you and Marcellus under the moonlight. How do I love thee,’ he slapped her breasts, one after the other with vicious swats. ‘Let me count the ways.

  ‘Behold,’ he called dramatically to the crew, those few still congregated on the deck, variously engaged in wenching, rumming and treasure barrel diving, ‘I am your king; and this is my mermaid queen.’

  There were peels of laughter, raucous and very male, the hostility, danger and treason thick in their voices as they egged on the sarcastic Rodrigo.

  ‘Oh, witch queen,’ Rodrigo knelt before the chained, leashed wench as though she were a goddess, ‘pray tell, where am I to find treasure upon the high seas? Tell me. What is it you say? I must ask your magic muff? Very well, then.’

  The pirates were egging him on, enjoying richly this lampooning of their king, the mercurial, of late oddly fixated Marcellus.

  Tesra bit hard on her lip. He was actually doing it, pretending to speak into her yellow tuft, his tongue dipping teasingly between her thighs. At first glance it might seem a submissive posture for the man, but there was no mistaking his confidence, his power. Even in this position, Tesra was his victim.

  ‘Ahoy, mateys!’ he exclaimed with great relish, having engaged in a brief and hilarious conversation rendering Tesra weak and desperate with desire. ‘The muff speaks to me. It tells me where to look! Honor the muff, oh my brothers, worship it!’

  Tesra fell forward against him as he left her on the brink of orgasm.

  ‘Listen up, you swags,’ he lifted her, flinging her over his back. ‘Listen to the magic muff that has dragged us halfway across the deep.’

  The crew was closing in.

  ‘The muff,’ Rodrigo kept on saying, spinning her about so as to display her backside and sex. ‘Pay it homage, let it rule your life!’

  ‘Honor this!’ a man smacked her hard with the flat of his hand.

  ‘And this!’ cried another.