Chapter 10
Swift footed, Zacora began to run from the looming hulk of the vast castle, and the cruelty of its Mistress.
Soon she was deep in the forest, running free. The path was stoney and fallen thorns spiked her feet and branches reached out to cut her naked skin, but she was determined to continue her quest.
So intent was she on her escape that she did not hear the rumble of wheels on the rough path. She was unaware that she was being followed until a whip snaked around her naked running figure. It caught her cruelly around the fullness of her breasts, making her cry out as her erect nipples were pinched by the flexible plaited device. The finer end slapped the swell of her belly, caressing the proudness of her mound and curling under the fullness of her pubic arch.
She was captured! Held fast, probably by one of the Meleagan household. She was lost.
An imagined dart of pain shot through her nubbin. The very place at which she experienced the greatest pleasure. That would be cut out, all over. She hung her head in shame and self pity.
"Now, my beauty," said a strange booming voice. "Where do you go to in the cold dawn?" Her captor gave a light laugh. "Dressed so, and at such a pace?"
The delicate oval of her chin was lifted by strong fingers and she found herself looking into a handsome face, but she struggled in her bindings, wriggling to free her arms. The man laughed and tugged the whip tighter, pulling her to him. His skin was warm, although naked and taut over finely honed muscles.
A gasp escaped her dry throat. She could feel his male shaft, thick and hot, rising high from his groin. She tried to look down to see the object of her curiosity. It felt strange, ridged and sharp edged.
The low laugh disturbed the night sounds of the forest and he pushed her away, posing the object of her curiosity by thrusting it out to her. She was still bound by the whip and the soft leather seemed to be tightening around her, flattening her breasts and cutting into the flesh of her belly. Her breathing was swift and shallow in her confinement.
She could not drag her gaze away from his male sword. A network of fine thongs girded the magnificent organ. He held it out to her lewdly, cupping the heavy sacs below it with one huge hand.
"Yes, this is for you, my pretty," he leered. "For you!"
Zacora mewed a wordless plea and struggled in the ever tightening coil of leather, but in spite of her fear and the loathing she felt for this stranger, there was the familiar flood of heat in her sex purse. Silky moisture seeped around her folds which swelled deliciously. Her nubbin was greatly enlarged. She could feel it probing from the plumpness of the silver fronded labia.
A flush of embarrassment suffused her creamy features. Surely, she thought, he must see the swellings. She tried to turn away, presenting the pale moons of her bottom to his gaze. She heard his laugh and felt a knowing hand between her thighs.
"No!" she cried.
"Such modesty from a woman born and raised to be pleasured," he sneered. "Do you mean it?"
Zacora knew that she did not. She wanted to be taken by this forceful rough man. Every instinct told her that she wanted to bear down on his questing fingers and open willing thighs to admit his thonged member into her opening. She frowned. He seemed to know a great deal about her.
"Who are you?"
His fingers stroked her sex leaves, parting them to expose her nubbin to the chill dawn air.
"My name is Gungdir."
He pulled her closer. His chest was broad and smooth, massively muscled and he stroked her tightly bound breasts with rhythmic movement of his body
"The atavar, the wizard who helps Odin, the god of the men of the North?" she queried fearfully.
Laughingly, he whirled her away. She spun free from the coils of the whip so fast that she thought that she would spiral to infinity. At last she fell heavily into a bed of bracken and looked up at him, her wide sapphire eyes pleading that he let her go.
His hair was long and thick, blonde like hers, but darker. The colour could be likened to spun toffee rather than spun gold. His eyes were blue, but paler. The colour was of the June sky on a cloudless day. His features were chiselled by a Norse sculptor. They were sharp as the edges of the Arctic world. On his head he wore the horns of a helmet, but they grew from his scalp, spearing from the lushness of his hair.
Zacora tried to rise from the bracken, but he waved a hand and immediately she found that she was pinioned to the ground by intricate networks of cross gartering, fastened by stakes: it happened in one magical instant.
"Why?" she muttered, lifting her head to stare up at his towering figure. "Why do you do this to me?"
The light leather thongs bit into the softness of her breasts, thrusting hardened nipples upwards offering them to the wizard. The gartering spread her legs to their fullest extent, making the silver fronded nest part fully and offering the moist flesh to his cold blue gaze.
"Quite beautiful," he murmured. "Do you feel beautiful? Yes, of course, you do. There is nothing you desire more than to be bound and humiliated, and also to be beautiful."
Zacora opened her mouth to protest, but her parted lips were plugged with a muslin bag filled with herbs. A heady perfume seeped into her nostrils, swirling into her consciousness until she entered a dream world.
A dream world in which only her sexual fulfilment mattered...
An orgasm began in her erect nipples, flowed to the tips of her tethered fingers and on down to the spread of her open legs. Only then was there the familiar molten feeling in her belly. She looked up at Gungdir, pleading that he gave her the release of his magical climax.
"You are the daughter of a Norse King," she heard. His voice boomed through the morning sounds of the forest. "Odin sent me to impregnate you with some sense."
Obediently, Zacora thrust her fully open sex pouch up to the atavar. A king! She was the daughter of a king. Was she right to want Harold after all? Should it not be the prince who should take her?
Gungdir sank between her splayed thighs and positioned his massive globe at her entrance. The silkiness of it made her gasp and she took in a great gulp of herb-tainted air. Dream images entered her mind. Ogham was tearing into her vaginal entrance, ripping open the gateway between innocence and knowledge. A pain, like a hot knife, tore through her, just as it had been when Ogham entered her. It was a pleasurable pain; one of wanting and of need.
An orgasm, swift and intense, made her pinioned body convulse. The clutching walls of her passage sucked on Gungdir's shaft, engulfing it hungrily.
"Yes, my pretty," the wizard hissed. "Ogham took you through your innocence."
Zacora flushed with embarrassment, but arched to suck harder on Gungdir's stem.
"And the slave master's wooden phallus," he went on, reminding her of her continued foolishness. "Ream upon my cockshaft as you gave that imposter your copious juices."
The more insults and humiliating memories he reined down upon her, the more she climaxed. She flooded his impaling weapon with a never ending stream of her sap. She heard again the crowd at the auction crowing their appreciation of the slave master's plundering of her body.
"Let me see," said Gungdir, slowly withdrawing his thickness from her heat, admiring the droplets of pearly dew clinging to the leather bindings on his shaft. Shining droplets mingled on its globe, her sap and his, running together on the smooth skin. "Yes," he said. "You have spumed for me quite nicely. Was it enjoyable? Did you attain orgasms such as the jailer gave you on the rack?"
Zacora stiffened at the memory of the rank filth of the cells mingling with the pungent odour of that filthy man lying atop of her. She remembered pleasuring him, felt the heaviness of his scrotum stroking her splayed buttocks, felt the hot spray of his issue drenching her helpless passage.
"Such pictures I see in your mind," whispered Gungdir, plunging into her again. The roughness of the leather bindings around his shaft grated on the soft skin of her passage, increasing the stimulation.
She opened wide her sapphire blue eyes to gaze into his ice pools, wondering if there was anything she could hide from him.
He lay on her, tweaking the pouting flesh which peeked from the network of thongs. "You seek love from Harold," he reminded her. "Just as you sought lust from the boy Ogham; excitement from the jailer and strength from the sedan bearer Wolf."
He sighed.
"You stupid girl! You clutch at a penis as though it was a magic totem to give you powers which you already possess. Methinks your training was too thorough and has made you forget your natural talents."
He bit hard on one of her erect nipples. The pain was fierce bringing tears to the sapphire eyes.
Then he began to plunge deeply into her helpless body. "My issue," he panted, "will inject some wisdom into your trustful beauty."
Zacora's mind whirled. Would she regain her noble position in the land?
He panted, pushing into her satiny folds, butting the very limits of her sex pouch. She gasped at his deep intrusion, revelling in the pleasure produced by the rough bindings about his shaft.
"You will suffer." Slick sweat dropped from his luxuriant hair at his efforts.
I already have, she thought dreamily, meeting the abrupt rhythm of his thrusts.
"Many trials will befall you." His thickness was pulsing, making the thongs grate at each inward thrust.
But I shall be a noblewoman, she thought happily, clutching his wondrously plunging flesh.
"Only then may you marry the man destined for you." He grunted loudly, pleasurably, deep and loud and she heard the copious splashes enter her.
Zacora soared. Her nubbin swelled, throbbing and burning. Her passage, swilled with his fluid and pulsed convulsively. Her orgasm was unbearably intense. It came not once, but many times until she thought she would go mad with pleasure.
At last he pulled from her and with a wave of a hand her bindings were gone, her dream over...
Her mouth was free of the herb gag...
More dreams assailed her...
Dreams that came and went; of Harold, of Gungdir. When she awoke, if she had slept, for she could never be sure, the Vakaran dawn was full. Birds sang and the spectre of Gungdir hovered above her head. She seemed to hear his voice, deep and echoing. She reached out with a creamy arm, beckoning with slim fingers, wanting him.
"You do not need me," came a whisper in her ear, so soft as to be unreal. "You have the power to rule: to be anything you wish to be."
Afraid but excited at the same time, Zacora ran on, searching for she knew not what. 'Anything you want to be,' she murmured to herself, over and over.
She was running, she knew not why.
Then at last, feet torn and bleeding, she lay panting on a mossy bank, arms outspread behind her head and long creamy legs apart, baring her silver fronded sex...
Again she slept...
Until...
"A beauty indeed, Highness." The voice was cultured and soft. "Shall we have the sergeant-at-arms take her for the harem?"
Zacora opened startled eyes which darted anxiously from one to the other of the men. She heard a gasp as they saw the deep blue of her wide orbs.
"And this, my lord ..." One of the men was stroking the softness of the silver curls between her legs. "A prize indeed! So different from the duskiness of the Vakaran women."
"Open her up fully."
Zacora looked up at this last speaker. Although he was dressed for the hunt he was clearly of noble birth. She saw his eyes glitter as they rested first on the full mounds of her breasts and then upon the silver fluff of her bush, pouting and glittering in the morning light.
"Open her up," he repeated. His voice was lowered in a husky whisper which held the firmness of command.
One of his aides knelt between her parted legs and, using both hands, pulled apart her puffy sex lips. Zacora knew that such exposure would make her nubbin swell and thrust upwards. Her sex sap oozed from the open folds.
"Delightful, my lord, is she not?" The aide turned to look at his master. "So willing to please. Surely a prize for your harem, my prince."
Zacora gave a secret smile. 'Anything you want to be.' The magical words echoed in her ears. Was this her chance to be a princess? The wizard had confused her by giving her choices.
"It would seem so," said the Prince. "Perhaps an heir will come from this meeting," he added wistfully.
The aide who held her pouch open slipped a gauntletted finger into her pulsing vagina, raising his eyebrows at the strength of the clutching. "She is but a sex slave, sire." He withdrew his finger to examine the slick. "She is unworthy of your highness. She is a trained slave."
Zacora's mind screamed at him: I am a noble, the daughter of a King. But she remained silent.
"Do you think so?" The Prince frowned. "She looks too refined, too noble." He bent to stroke her creamy skin, grazing the softness of a breast. "The Auction!" he exclaimed. "I knew she was familiar. I tried to buy her at the auction and was outbid by some merchant." He smiled triumphantly. "Bind her and have her prepared for me. His loss is my gain."