Bridled Lust Page 4

  ‘That condition,’ Opal continued, without waiting for a response, ‘is that the man who survived your attack should be made to face me in combat. It was he who defiled my sanctity in the first place and it is right that I should have the opportunity to avenge my honour.’

  ‘Why not just let us cut his throat for you?’ Farridan suggested. ‘After all, he might kill you, might he not?’ Opal gave him a look of utter contempt and Demila was forced to stifle a laugh, even though the gag would have made such an action difficult.

  ‘I think he might not, old man,’ she replied, coolly. ‘Besides, if you slit his throat, where is my honour then, eh?’

  Farridan was becoming even more confused than ever. He turned back to Pecon for help.

  ‘Do it,’ Pecon stated firmly. ‘She’s offering you her word and she’s happy to take the swine on in single combat. If she does lose... well, somehow I don’t think she will, so it matters little either way. Just fetch the fellow in and give them each a sword. After that, well I think you and I have a few matters to discuss, my worthy host.’

  The condemned man had already been stripped before being brought to the execution tent and Dorothea saw that his back was criss-crossed with vivid red welts, evidence of a very recent punishment. His black hair had been shorn close to his skull, though with little effort to produce an even cut, and there was a dark bruise on one cheek.

  His hands had been bound behind his back with a length of rope and another, thinner cord had been looped around the base of his limp penis, behind his pendulous scrotum, and this was employed as a means of ensuring his compliance in accompanying his guard. He looked scared, but was plainly making an effort to walk to his death with what little dignity his condition allowed, and although his gaze flickered towards Dorothea, his eyes quickly returned to the front.

  ‘You are Bendick Gothan, cohort corporal of the seventh regiment of Vernician Cavalry?’ Fulgrim challenged him, as the guard brought him up before him. The man nodded, coughed to clear his throat and managed a single word reply.

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted, lowering his eyes to Fulgrim’s feet.

  Fulgrim’s expression flickered slightly. ‘You have been charged and found guilty of the wilful murder of another man in your regiment, Harsic Harsigan, trooper of horse, and I hereby confirm the sentence of death imposed by the court martial, earlier this day.’ Fulgrim looked past him and directly at Dorothea.

  ‘This filthy scab stabbed a fellow soldier in a petty squabble over a mere pony girl slave, would you believe?’ he cried, mockingly. ‘As if there aren’t enough of you bitches to go round an army twice this size, eh? Well, Bendick Gothan, you shall have your pony woman. Turn and see her, there. Go on, look at her, I say!’

  With evident reluctance, the helpless man turned to obey and Dorothea was astonished to see the sudden fire of lust in his eyes, despite the imminence of his death. She wanted to look away from him, wanted to scream out that he was just one more proof of how absurd men were, how easily they allowed their animal instincts to overcome their sanity, but the bit still filled her mouth and so she remained silent.

  Fulgrim turned to Bendick’s guard and then to the four men who stood behind the gibbet post.

  ‘Secure him,’ he instructed. ‘Lock the collar and then release his hands.’ he paused and looked around the small crowd. ‘Where are those two little maids, then?’ he demanded. ‘They should be here by now. Don’t want to keep the wretch waiting for his last mortal fuck, do we?’

  Almost as if on cue, the side canvas parted and the young officer reappeared. Behind him, naked except for a simple slave belt and wrist cuffs and a collar from which a lead chain ran to the man’s hand, came two very frightened young maids, both of whom Dorothea recognised as being from her entourage at Castle Varragol and both of whom had, at various times, shared her bed, often together and almost as often with Moxie, too.

  Meantime, Bendick had already been led to the post, turned and backed up to it, and one of the guards was busily securing the metal collar about his throat, locking it with a side lock so that the front section remained clear, the rounded hole in the dull metal waiting to accept the killing spike when the time came.

  ‘As I said, Gol,’ Fulgrim said, ‘you will have the honour of ensuring that this murderous scum at least dies a man. My whip will conduct you in a pony dance, which I am sure will arouse him, and then you will mount him and ride him - or he you, it matters not - until the moment of his release, at which time his spirit will also be despatched.’ He paused again and turned to the execution squad.

  ‘Hood the bastard, so she can’t see his face,’ he snapped, ‘but make sure he can see out and see her. Of course, dear Gol,’ he continued, turning back to Dorothea again, ‘there is the possibility you won’t be able to make the bastard come in you.

  ‘We shall light a time candle shortly, one which will burn down to the hour mark. If he holds out until then, he shall live and be set free. However, if he does, you will have failed me and will be rewarded with a hundred lashes, but not before these pretty little things have also been given fifty lashes each.’ Fulgrim indicated the two quivering maids.

  ‘They will each then go up there where he is and be fucked by three of my men in turn, after which they will be executed in his stead. I hope you understand what I’m saying, you worthless pony cunt?’ Miserably, Dorothea nodded her head. She had nothing personally against Bendick, save that he was a man and the thought of having any male member inside her was utterly repulsive, but she knew when there was no other option, and there was no other option now but to ensure that the wretch reached his orgasm and his sentence completed as quickly as possible.

  Dorothea tried to swallow, closing her eyes as the spittle instead began to dribble from the sides of her gaping mouth, wishing they would at least blindfold her, but knowing Fulgrim would ensure that she kept her eyes open through the coming ordeal as much as possible.

  The surviving slave raider was much younger than Demila had been expecting, perhaps only a year or so older than herself, but he was trying to put on a bold front as he was brought in between two of the village men. Like the two girls, he wore a slave belt, his wrists cuffed to it at either hip and he had been stripped naked, so that his muscled body, including his impressive manhood, was fully visible for any prospective buyers.

  Seeing Pecon and recognising that he was the stranger in the midst, he naturally assumed that he had been brought in for the purposes of eliciting a sale and immediately adopted an arrogant pose, fixing him with unblinking grey eyes. Pecon, in his turn, regarded the young man with professional detachment, evaluating him automatically, even though he was certain the fellow would not live to ever reach an auction block.

  The villagers had evidently washed him recently and made an attempt to tidy his appearance in readiness for sale, for his dark hair had been brushed and cut into a tidy, if still long style. His pubic hair had also been recently trimmed, Pecon noted, so that it formed a neat, short triangle above a flaccid organ that would have excited the interests of many a female visitor to the slave markets in the larger cities.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ Pecon drawled.

  Farridan answered for him. ‘He’s called Rolf,’ the head man said. ‘His father was one of the men we killed. This one fought bravely, I must say, but there were too many of us and we managed to overpower him before he could inflict more than a couple of scratch wounds.’

  ‘So, you handle a sword well, do you, Rolf?’ Pecon said.

  Rolf drew back his shoulders and jutted his chin forward defiantly. ‘If you fancy yourself, friend,’ he replied, ‘then give me a blade and see if you can stand against me yourself.’

  ‘That might indeed be interesting,’ Pecon said, ‘but then there is one here who has prior claims to test your mettle.’ Rolf’s eyes narrowed as he took in this statement and then flickered across to where Farridan was busily dra
ining another flagon.

  ‘Him?’ the young man said, his tone dismissive. ‘Certainly. Give me a worthy blade and I’ll show you how it should be used.’ Farridan spluttered and was about to rise, but Pecon held up a restraining hand.

  ‘No, not Farridan,’ he replied calmly, ‘though I’m sure he’d be prepared to give you your chance if the time ever comes. No, there is one here whose honour has been slighted and who demands the right to satisfaction by combat.’ Pecon paused for a moment or so and then jabbed a finger towards where Opal was now standing back against the wall opposite where most of the village men were squatting.

  ‘Her,’ he said. Rolf turned slowly, his eyes blinking as he sought to pierce the shadows on the far side of the hall. For a moment he seemed to freeze, whether in surprise or with indecision Demila could not say and then, without turning back, he began to laugh.

  ‘The fair-haired one?’ he said, his tone a mixture of disbelief and scornful amusement. ‘That little virgin girl? She wants to fight me? With what - straw pillows?’ Opal made no response to this insult, but Demila was close enough to her to see the brief flare in her eyes.

  ‘She chooses the sword, Rolf,’ Pecon said.

  The young captive shook his head and turned back to face his captors again. ‘Why should she do that?’ he demanded. ‘Does she prefer a swift death to a life of bondage, is that her choice?’

  ‘I prefer a swift death, yes,’ Opal said, breaking her silence at last, ‘but yours, you filthy dog, not my own. Perhaps though, I should leave you to a life of slavery after all, as killing you would be a kindness you and your ilk have done nothing to deserve at my hands.’

  ‘Big words for a little child,’ Rolf scoffed. He nodded at Pecon. ‘And, when I slay the silly bitch,’ he continued, ‘what then for me? Will these people fall on me then?’

  Pecon seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I think not,’ he said eventually, turning to Farridan. ‘What say you, Farridan? You are granting the wench freedom, so why not offer the same lure to our young friend here?’

  Farridan yawned and then belched loudly. ‘Why not?’ he agreed. ‘Yes, let’s add spice to the dish. Yes, if he beats the girl, then we’ll give him his horse back and he can ride out of here unharmed. My word on it.’ There was a general murmur among the other men, accompanied mostly by enthusiastic nods of agreement.

  ‘There you have it, Rolf,’ Pecon said. ‘Beat the girl and you go free.’ The young man’s tanned face broke into a leering grin.

  ‘As soon said as done,’ he said. ‘Just get me free of all this and let me have a sword and I’ll show you how it’s done.’ He turned his head to look back at Opal and the leer grew wider still. ‘A waste in some ways though,’ he said, ‘even if she has almost no tits.

  ‘How about a further edge to the contest?’ he continued, turning back to Pecon. ‘Say I don’t kill her, but just disarm her? Do I get to take her with me as my prize?’

  Farridan opened his mouth and began to protest at this arrogance, but Pecon overrode him quickly. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I’ll cover the loss of one slave, Farridan. It will be interesting to see how hard this young oaf fights for the right to bed an Yslandic warrior girl. Oh yes, Rolf,’ he chuckled, seeing the look of puzzlement in the other’s face, ‘I wondered if you knew what you were holding before.

  ‘The young lady is from one of the most powerful houses in Yslandia and has been training for her destiny since childhood. I dare say you know of her kind?’ Rolf either managed to recover his composure with astonishing speed, or else he was a good actor, Demila thought.

  ‘We’ve all heard the legends,’ he scoffed, ‘but the greatest stories are those that grow greater in the retelling down the ages. I’ll accept her challenge,’ he added.

  Pecon nodded. ‘The bravery of the foolhardy,’ he muttered. ‘Actually,’ he said, rising slowly to his feet, ‘the choice was never yours to make.’

  ‘As I suspected,’ the voice said from the darkness, ‘the noble lord has other things with which to occupy himself this evening.’ Recognising Halit’s near flawless accent, Corinna struggled to raise herself into a sitting position. In the gloom all about her, recumbent bodies stirred slightly at this disturbance, but all their mouths, like Corinna’s, were firmly gagged with bits and if any were awake, they made no sound to betray the fact.

  ‘Up you come then, pretty pony,’ Halit urged softly. Corinna saw a hand extending down towards her and she lifted one heavily mitted hand of her own for him to grasp. With surprising ease, he hefted her to her feet and drew her towards him, crushing her belled breasts against the leather of his jerkin and covering her bitted mouth with his own. Corinna felt a shiver of unbidden desire rise up through her and tried to pull away, but he held her in an unbreakable grip and continued the bizarre kiss for several seconds more.

  ‘Come,’ he ordered finally, drawing back and turning to pick his way through the maze of bodies. ‘We shall find somewhere where we shan’t disturb anybody. These lazy creatures will need all the sleep they can get before the morrow, but I’ve arranged for you to spend the day among the reserve girls. I may even let you ride in my wagon with me, if you prove your strength is worth conserving.’

  Fulgrim himself unbuckled Dorothea’s crotch guard strap and removed the protective leather triangle with careful deliberation. The night air felt suddenly cool against her exposed and depilated mound, despite the general protection of the tent itself and the heat emanating from the many lanterns hung about the interior.

  ‘Always a delightful sight,’ Fulgrim snickered, flicking the leather strap against the tender flesh and drawing an involuntary gasp from Dorothea. ‘A nice naked pussy slot just waiting to be filled with man flesh - none of your woman on woman now, Gol.’

  Dorothea was fighting against the knot that was forming in her stomach, struggling in an effort to control her breathing, dreading what was to come, yet knowing she was helpless to prevent it. A few paces before her, secured to the gibbet post by the neck collar, Bendick now stood motionless, his features hidden inside a tight leather slave hood, only the glint of his eyes visible through the narrow slits.

  The guards had also gagged him before putting on the hood and Dorothea was close enough to hear his breath hissing in and out his nostrils and the two small holes in the leather beneath them. She managed to swallow at last and prayed for this to be over, but Fulgrim seemed in no hurry, intent it seemed on drawing out the execution and savouring every moment of it.

  At last, letting the leather triangle fall to the ground, he turned to the two slave maids.

  ‘You little sluts know what to do?’ he growled. The pair nodded and the first girl, a fair-haired, urchin faced Haaflander Dorothea recognised as Helma, moved forward towards her. The second girl, slightly taller and slightly darker, though still with hair that was a sandy colour and long enough to just touch the top of her buttocks, moved around to take up station behind her former mistress.

  Dorothea groaned under her breath. The proximity of the two maids, their nakedness, their pert little breasts, so different from those of her beloved Moxie, yet still as delightful and appealing for the air of innocence they lent their owners, was more than she could bear and she knew only too well that Fulgrim had anticipated this, as a certainty. The second girl - Dorothea was struggling to recall her name - reached around and cupped Dorothea’s bulging breasts, her skilled fingers immediately beginning to manipulate her swelling nipples.

  Helma, meanwhile, had dropped to her knees and was shuffling forward, face upraised, mouth open, tongue already flickering.

  ‘Legs apart, cunt pony!’ Fulgrim snarled, seeing Dorothea’s automatic attempt to resist this latter advance. A long crop-like whip had appeared in his hand, seemingly from nowhere, and it hissed through the air, cutting across Dorothea’s flank with a vicious crack. Instantly, she slid her feet wide again and Helma wasted no time in finding her i
ntended target.

  ‘Use that little tongue to good effect, girl,’ Fulgrim laughed, giving the maid a sharp reminding tap across her jutting bottom. ‘I want the cunt good and wet before she starts her dance for her lover.’

  Peering through slitted eyes, Dorothea saw that her ‘dance’ was unlikely to be necessary, for the sight of the two girls striving to stimulate her in readiness for him was also stimulating Bendick. His organ, which had until now continued to hang limply between his thighs, was now rapidly beginning to swell and already trying to stand erect. If the fellow had entertained any hope of escaping his doom by remaining incapable of penetrating her, that hope was now all but dashed.

  ‘Enough!’ Fulgrim commanded, flicking at each girl in turn with the tip of his whip. ‘You!’ he ordered, pointing at Helma. ‘You, take hold of his cock and keep it nice and hard when it gets there, but let the bastard come and I’ll flay the skin off your tits meself!’

  As the two girls detached themselves from her, Dorothea closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, which had become rapid and very ragged from their ministrations. Seeing this, Fulgrim slashed across her breasts with a backhanded swing.

  ‘Keep your damned eyes open, you pony whore!’ he screamed. ‘I want you to watch what you’re doing to this murdering swine and see him pay for what he did, too. Watch him all the way, Gol, or by the seven hells I’ll have your eyes put out this very night!’

  As Fulgrim spoke, Helma was already scuttling across the ground to crouch before Bendick, reaching up with her hand to grasp his full erection. Indeed, it was now so hard and stiff that there was really no need for any further efforts on Dorothea’s part to arouse him, but Fulgrim was determined to complete the scenario as he had originally planned it.

  ‘Come, pony cunt,’ he urged, ‘let’s see you dance on your hooves and hear your pretty teat bells make some music.’ He clipped Dorothea sharply across her naked rump and, her cheeks now burning with indignation, she began slowly to prance up and down, the heavy hooves beating a morbid tattoo on the sun baked mud beneath them, the little metal bells tinkling as her heavy breasts rose and fell in time with her steps.