Bridled Lust Read online

  ‘You are one damned fine pony woman, Princess Tits,’ he chuckled, bending beside her to release the buckles that held her to the cart shaft on that side. ‘Good long, strong legs, strong hips and a good back.’ He patted her between her shoulders and then ran his hand down the long mane of dark hair that was all that now remained flowing from the centre of her scalp.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he mused, his fingers trailing down through the thick tresses, ‘when all this is over I shall ask Gul to name a price for you. Maybe in time we can give you a few pretty foals to suckle on those beautiful teats, eh? Would you like that, Tits?’

  Corinna strove to suppress the shudder that was her immediate reaction to this prospect. There was little - nothing in fact - she could do about it if she did remain a prisoner of these ruthless people, she knew, but for the moment there were more immediate things to concern her, not least the fact that she could already be pregnant, either by the captured bandit youth Sprig, or even by Pecon, the mercenary trader who had abducted her after the assassination attempt on herself and Savatch.

  ‘You’re certainly a fine specimen, Tits,’ Halit grinned, moving around in front of her to attend to the harness on the other side. ‘And a bit special at the moment, so I hear tell. Seems you look a bit like the daughter of the Protector of Illeum, eh? Now, isn’t that something?

  ‘I wonder how a grand lady like that would feel if she were in your hooves right now though, eh? Probably wouldn’t handle it at all well, if you ask me. Probably be crying her aristocratic little eyes out and falling down in a dead faint.’ He released the right hand shackle and reached up to cup Corinna’s breasts in his two hands. The tiny nipple bells clinked hollowly.

  ‘Step forward,’ he commanded her, quietly, pulling her heavy globes to emphasise the instruction. Slowly, Corinna obeyed, eyeing him steadily from beneath hooded lids, fighting to keep her features impassive, though his touch was sending a succession of fiery darts down through and into her lower stomach.

  ‘Good girl,’ he breathed. His own expression was a mixture of wanting and mockery, wanting her very badly now, Corinna knew, yet at the same time disdainful of her helplessness and knowing that he could simply throw her down, remove the leather triangle from between her legs and simply take her on the spot, as she’d seen happen with other handlers and other girls throughout her brief period of training.

  ‘You want it too, don’t you, pony slut,’ he chuckled. His fingers and thumbs squeezed her soft flesh and Corinna barely stifled a gasp. ‘Yes, I can see it in those beautiful eyes, Princess Tits,’ he said. ‘The Lord Fulgrim gets first rights with you, so my master tells me, but I suspect he may have other things on his mind this night.

  ‘Come, my little pony, let’s get you settled for the moment.’ Halit released his grip and reached instead for the short lead rein that hung from the ring to the right side of Corinna’s bit. He gave it a short tug, indicating for her to turn right and began leading her to join the other slaves among the trees.

  ‘I’ll let them feed you and wash you down first, I think,’ he continued, wrinkling his nose. ‘Then, when you’ve rested a while and smell a bit sweeter, if his lordship hasn’t claimed you for the night, then I most certainly will.’

  Another pony girl slave - a pony woman, to be more accurate, for she is far more mature than poor Corinna/Flix, approaching her middle years, though still handsome, with a firm figured body and finely chiselled, aristocratic features, though these are distorted by the cruel bit gag she is forced to wear.

  Her shaven head has a band of stubbly hair running across from front to back, re-growth from where her skull was completely shaven some days previously, although the sides have since been shorn again. The stubble will eventually grow into a mane, as dark as Corinna’s, but naturally so and not dyed as camouflage of her identity.

  Apart from her current near hairless state, the pony woman slave is adorned as Corinna now is, indeed as all of the pony slaves are. Rings hang from her pierced nipples, supporting bells that sound at the slightest movement. Her new masters delight in reminding their charges of their lowly status and she detests the mocking tinkle that accompanies her progress.

  She stands now at the end of a long day. Like Corinna - like several hundred fellow sufferers - she has been between the shafts, hauling a cart, the contents of which are not known to her, nor are ever likely to be, for it is not for a pony slave to know her purpose other than that she is a beast of burden and a sexual possession to be used at the whims of those who own and control her now.

  She has been still further abased, for now her once lightly tanned skin has been stained a much darker brown and the white blaze the Colrasian slave woman painted down her face stands out against this most starkly.

  They have not yet allowed her to see an image of her new self, for they know that she knows the spectacle she now presents. In her bridle and harness, perched on her elevated hooves, her breasts heaving from her breathing exertions, she is a helpless and pitiful creature, a captive animal being trained to serve and obey without question.

  They have not even given her a pretty name, for she is now called Gol. In Karliean the word is a vulgarism for a woman’s sex, or vagina. It amused Lord Fulgrim, her former prisoner, to name her so, to whip her, to give her to the common soldiery of his Vorsan army.

  Gol the pony.

  She was once the Lady Dorothea of Varragol, a member of the ruling family of Illeum. Now she is simply Pony Cunt and soon they will come for her and there will be little rest this night...

  Demila crouched motionless in the corner of the room, gazing out at the proceedings through the small eye openings in the tightly laced slave hood in which Pecon had now kept her for almost three days. He had also gagged her upon arrival in the village and her mouth bulged around the tightly wadded leather plug, now soaking wet from her spittle.

  The slave belt about her waist felt painfully tight - Pecon had drawn it in another two notches - and her wrist cuffs had been secured to the two rings at the back, rather than those at her hips, which was more normal for when they were travelling, but her master had seemed determined to show her off to her best advantage to these people and added cuffs above her elbows, which he drew together with a short, three linked chain, so her shoulders were pulled far back and her breasts thrust out provocatively.

  The village men had eyed her appreciatively as they rode into the centre of the small cluster of buildings, Pecon on his black stallion, she seated astride the saddle of a bay mare, her ankles secured together beneath the placid animal’s belly to prevent her from slipping off, the two pack mules plodding disinterestedly at the rear. She had shivered in the late afternoon air, not from cold, but from a sudden dread that he intended to sell her, for a sale meant a new master and men who bought girls out in these wilds were seldom inclined to treat them any better than their animals and frequently treated them worse.

  However, as he untied her ankles and lifted her down from the saddle, Pecon had grinned at her reassuringly and whispered into her ear.

  ‘Bear up, little one,’ he told her. ‘I need you to make a good impression on these yokels, whilst I barter to see just what they are offering today. You are my example of the quality I seek and mayhap I’ll be able to bargain them down to the roots if they have anything worth my attention.’

  There was not much to the village, Demila saw, just a dozen or so rude cottages that were little more than mud huts and one larger building, into which Pecon led her. Inside, she saw several men assembled, mostly sitting cross-legged around the walls, some smoking pipes, some chewing, all holding flagons and flasks, from which they periodically swigged. This was, she realised, a communal meeting hall and also a sheltered convenience in which to conduct business.

  An older man, his grey hair ragged about his shoulders, his tunic and leggings much the worse for wear, stood up as they entered, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and s
taggered towards them uncertainly.

  ‘Master Pecon!’ he exclaimed, raising his right hand level with his shoulder in salutation. ‘Well, damn my eyes if it isn’t you. How keep you and what brings you to our humble village?’

  ‘I keep well, Farridan, you old drunkard,’ Pecon chuckled, returning the salute, ‘and I come here because I heard tale that you might have some suitable wares for sale.’

  ‘Suitable?’ Farridan laughed out loud, throwing back his head and opening his mouth to reveal a set of yellowing stumps. ‘Why, everything we have is always suitable, you know that.’

  ‘Aye, but suitable for what?’ Pecon retorted, still smiling. He jerked a thumb towards Demila. ‘As suitable as this, do you think?’ Farridan paused, letting his gaze roam up and down Demila’s naked body in a way that sent a shiver up and down her spine.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, nodding slowly, ‘though I’ll grant you she’s a tasty little morsel. But does she fuck as good as she looks, eh?’ he roared with laughter again and this time several of the other men joined in. Pecon’s smile did not falter.

  ‘What would you think?’ he said. ‘I’ve kept her these many days now and refused two good offers on her.’

  ‘Then she’s a rabbit, I’d say,’ Farridan sniggered. He peered even closer at Demila, struggling to focus his glazed eyes. ‘Good offers, you say? Hmmm, and you choose to keep her for yourself. But how about a good offer for her use for just the one night?’ A cold fist formed inside Demila’s stomach and it was all she could do to control a bladder that felt suddenly very weak.

  ‘I think not, you rogue,’ Pecon replied, coolly. ‘I’ll share my bread and wine with any man, you included, but my personal sheath remains just that, until or unless I find a better option and choose to dispose of her.’ He took Demila’s arm and guided her into the corner, motioning for her to squat, which she did. Meanwhile, one of the other men had produced a small flagon, which he passed to Farridan, who in turn offered it to Pecon.

  ‘My thanks for your hospitality, Farridan of Mascolum,’ Pecon intoned, taking it with the proper formality that was required, even here in this near abandoned wilderness. ‘May your roof forever keep the rains at bay,’ he added, raising the flagon in a toast. This brought another titter of amusement from the assembly and Demila realised that rain was probably a very infrequent visitor to this village.

  She also realised, as the conversation developed between her master and the village head man that whilst Pecon may not have been here for some time, in the past he had come to the place frequently and was well known to the villagers. Looking around the rough faces, and at the tales of treachery that were being discussed so easily among them all, she also realised that Pecon must command considerable respect from his hosts, for they were several to his one and could easily have overpowered him, seizing both his gold and his possessions, herself included.

  Even the slaves they were offering for sale, she learned, had been stolen from a small party of travelling slavers upon whom a band of the village men had fallen one night a week since, killing two of their number and capturing the third, who was about to learn, first hand, the lot of a slave.

  Food was brought in by three shabby looking village women and laid on platters for the men to help themselves, but nothing was brought for Demila, who was left to chew on her gag and try to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. This came as no surprise to her, for in this sort of rural society a slave’s comforts came very low on any list of priorities and Pecon would not want to betray any sign of a weakness towards her.

  ‘Well then Farridan, my friend,’ Pecon declared, having worked his way through two large foul legs and a large chunk of some darker meat, ‘how about you show me something you think might interest me?’ The head man, still gnawing at a bone, nodded, first to Pecon and then to two of the men to his left, who immediately rose and left the hall. The rest continued to eat in near silence.

  A few minutes later the two men returned, each leading a belted and cuffed slave girl, naked but for their restraints and, Demila noted, their faces unencumbered by slave hoods. The first girl was very dark, not quite black, but obviously with a lot of Colrasian blood in her. She stood tall and slim, with long, well muscled legs, generous breasts that stood out with the pertinence of youth. She had a high forehead and long black hair, held back from her face and hanging down between her shoulders in a thick braid.

  Demila realised immediately that this was a very valuable slave; one who would fetch many telts in the city markets of Illeum, where such females were prized highly, both for their high-cheeked beauty and for their incredible strength and stamina. However, it was the second girl who took her attention, for here was a slave of an even greater pedigree.

  The girl was also young, perhaps two years younger than her dark counterpart, and equally as tall, but there, apart from the length of her legs, the similarities ended. Where the dark girl’s limbs displayed sinewy strength, the second girl’s arms and legs were slender and very feminine and her breasts seemed to have hardly developed at all, just two small mounds from which pert nipples projected like twin fingers.

  Her face was elfin, her nose slender, her wide eyes glittering like blue ice, whilst her hair, left to hang free, cascaded in white-blonde tresses down over her shoulders and back, reaching almost to her knees. Hers was an ethereal beauty the like of which Demila had seldom ever seen before and never in a slave; Pecon, she saw, was also impressed, although he was striving not to show his eagerness. Demila’s heart gave a small lurch.

  ‘By the gods, Farridan!’ Pecon exclaimed, at last. ‘What do you mean by offering me such as this?’ He jabbed a finger on the end of an extended right arm, indicating the blonde girl. ‘Are you out of your mind, man?’

  ‘You don’t find her beautiful then, Master Pecon?’ Farridan replied slyly, narrowing his eyes. ‘Such as she must be worth hundreds of telts in the right place, surely?’

  ‘Or a man’s death - and a very unpleasant death at that,’ Pecon growled back. ‘In all the hells, Farridan, where would you suggest I sell a wench like that?’

  ‘Erisroth, perhaps?’ Farridan suggested. ‘Those mad bastard Karlieans will buy anything, so I hear.’

  ‘They’d not waste good silver to turn her into one of their pony women,’ Pecon retorted. ‘And mad as they are, I’ll wager they’re not that mad. If word got out that someone had enslaved such as she, death would come stalking whoever owned her with a certainty that I’d wager my own life on.’ Pecon’s outburst seemed to shock the villagers and suddenly Demila realised that none of them had the slightest idea as to the origins of this beautiful captive. Pecon, she saw, realised this too, now.

  ‘You fool, Farridan,’ he hissed. ‘You really don’t know, do you? But then I suppose living in this outback you see so very little of the real world.’

  Farridan’s expression was becoming more troubled by the moment, but there was also suspicion in his eyes. ‘What are you telling me, friend Pecon?’ he demanded. ‘Is this some kind of trick to push my price down?’

  ‘Trick?’ Pecon echoed. ‘It’s no trick, you old fool. I wouldn’t buy this girl, not even if you offered her for a single copper telt. You truly do not understand, do you? The girl means doom to any who try to own her or abuse her.’

  ‘You’re telling me she’s some kind of witch, is that it?’ Farridan said, looking from the girl to Pecon and then back to the girl again. Pecon shook his head and sighed heavily.

  ‘A witch would be good, believe me,’ he said. ‘A witch would be far less trouble than what you have here, my friend.’ he nodded to the girl, who had remained erect, calm and impassive throughout. ‘This girl - the gods know where those slavers got her - this girl is an Yslander, probably of noble birth, if I’m any judge, but even if she was from their peasant classes it would matter little.

  ‘The Yslanders will by now know that she is missing and they will move all
the heavens and all the hells to get her back and the gods help anyone they decide is responsible for her plight! Farridan, I wouldn’t have that wench if you gave her to me, neither would I like to be in your boots when her womenfolk come avenging her!’

  ‘You should try to get some sleep, my friend.’ The wagon’s springs creaked as the tall figure of Vala Valkyr Kirislanna Friggitsdottir, Alanna to her friends, pulled herself up over the tailboard and settled on the layered furs beside the prone figure of Lord Savatch.

  ‘My head is full of too much,’ Savatch sighed. Alanna peered at him more closely; even by the flickering light of the tallow lantern, the deeply etched lines on his face betrayed how much further he still needed to recover from the near fatal injuries he had received, both from the crossbow quarrel that so nearly pierced his spine and when the runaway wagon plunged into the ravine. Only the river had saved both himself and Corinna from certain death and now his mistress, slave and lover was almost certainly suffering a fate even worse than that.

  ‘We will get her back.’ Alanna laid a delicately pale hand upon his chest, the long fingers pressing gently and stroking the bare flesh. Savatch looked up into her equally pale eyes and forced himself to smile. That elegantly feminine hand was so deceptive, he knew, for it could kill as quickly and efficiently as it could soothe.

  ‘Yes, we shall get her back,’ Savatch agreed, ‘and this time we shall kill Fulgrim, as we should have done before.’ He made to rise on one elbow, but a sudden spasm of pain drew an involuntary gasp and he slumped back. ‘Damn him to all the hells!’ he spat, screwing his eyes tightly shut. Alanna stroked his face now, muttering something quiet and indistinct under her breath. A few moments later, his features relaxed again and he opened his eyes.