Dark Enchantment Page 20

  ‘Good girl,’ says Milo absently, and goes back to rolling dice.

  Jaffez, conversely, sits up, his attention fully on me. He has a horse tail in his hand, and he drags it across his other palm meaningfully. I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. Jaffez likes to thrash me with that tail until I am red all over and every single one of those hairs stings as it impacts. ‘Feeling frisky, Kitten?’ he says, grinning playfully. He has beautiful eyes, that man, despite his broken nose and the scar that cuts through his close-cropped hair.

  ‘No, master,’ I whisper.

  ‘Well, don’t worry. Rurik here has a new way to ginger you up.’

  They all snigger at this. Rurik is busy carving something with a small knife: it looks like a slip of wood. He raises his pale eyebrows meaningfully at me, but I don’t know what the joke is. Confusion makes my trepidation worse.

  There is no such thing as a quiet evening with these warriors. There is no mercy. They are men in the prime of life, raised to be soldiers, itching for action; they are fed well with meat every day, exercised hard and kept in the peak of condition. Each and every one of them is loaded to bursting with spunk and impatient to discharge it. As janissaries they may not marry, and though they may have doxies they are not permitted to bring them within the Court. In here, the innermost apartment before the chambers of the Empress herself, they are not even permitted to entertain themselves with slave girls. I am the only woman allowed to dally here. So I have to serve six stallions, attend to six ravenous appetites, take six cocks in whatever orifice they choose. The appetite of men is a frightening thing. There is never a night when I am not needed by someone, and then as soon as one man stakes his claim the others fall upon me, wanting their turn. I am the hub at the centre of a six-spoked wheel.

  ‘You’ll serve us dinner,’ says Captain Teodric. ‘Get on with it.’

  Reprieved, I rise to my work. The air of the room is laden with the pungent scents of hot food and fresh spices, emanating from the dishes on a brass tray over the brazier. The meal has been deposited there by slaves, but as so often it is my task to serve. First of all though I take up a ewer and basin, and pass from man to man so that they might wash their hands. Captain Teodric is always served first. There is no towel; after shaking their fingers they rub them dry on my bare breasts or my braided hair as I kneel before them. My bells get flicked and jiggled, accentuating my humiliation. Darius, who is the bulkiest of the six and must have been born beyond the Southern Desert, runs his dark hands all over my creamy skin, testing my leather bonds to make sure they bite into my flesh in the right places. The harness pattern was his design and he has a special interest in seeing me tied. Sometimes he suspends me on tiptoe from a hook on the wall for hours, gagged and aching. It pleases him to hear my pleading for mercy when he finally releases my mouth, and my sobs invariably provoke him into fucking me.

  Jaffez is the last of the group to make his ablutions. As I rise to my feet he grabs me by the waist and shoves the stock of his horse-tail lash up between my thighs. The wooden handle is thicker than most cocks and my vulva is unprepared so far today, so I squeal in shock, nearly slopping the dirty water. The men hoot with derision.

  ‘Ah-ah!’ he admonishes. ‘Take it, Kitten!’

  So I do, biting my lip, shifting my stance so that he can angle the stock and push it inside me, trying to ride out the pain of first penetration. The muscles of his arm clench as he works it inside me. When he withdraws suddenly I gasp, shocked by the loss as much as by the prior invasion. He brandishes the handle for inspection, to appreciative laughter; thick streaks of my cream decorate the dark wood.

  ‘On your knees and clean it.’

  I obey, licking and sucking the handle as if it were a cock, as I’ve been trained. He pushes it all the way to the back of my throat, so there is no chance of me being able to breathe, but I accept it and keep my gaze on his face. I can hold my breath until I go blue without gagging: usage has taught me that.

  ‘Let her go, Jaffez,’ says Milo easily.

  He releases me and cocks an eyebrow. ‘Well? I’m hungry. Don’t keep us waiting.’

  Trying hard not to betray my relief, I hurry to bring over the warm dishes from the heater. Of course I have to bend over when I place them on the low table in front of the couches, and the men take the opportunity to pinch my buttocks and probe me with sly fingers, trip my ankles and slap my dangling breasts. When I drop a basket of bread rolls they make me kneel and pick up the pieces with my mouth. Milo strokes his fingers right up the inside of my thigh and tenderly pets my sex. Milo, with his hair hanging like a parted curtain over his forehead, thinks I am pretty. He is the least likely of them all to call me a bitch or a slut or a whore, even in the throes of lust; the least likely to mock me; the most likely to stroke me comfortingly when I am exhausted or to tell the others to ease off. But he also likes to put me over his knees and slap my arse crimson, with bare hand or leather belt. Even with unmasked pity in his eyes, he can rarely resist giving my wobbling bottom a thrashing to the point that I am in floods of tears, and only then will he stop and embrace me, rocking me into silence.

  They own me. I am theirs. I am an animal on a leash. I am a piece of meat, and there is no right of appeal.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ asks Jaffez when they’ve settled with the bowls of soup that start every meal.

  This is usually a trick question, but I answer, ‘Yes, master.’ It’s true: I haven’t eaten since dawn.

  ‘Then get yourself a bowl of soup.’

  I thank him and obey, dishing up from the tureen. It is a spicy lentil and lamb broth.

  ‘Bring it back here and set it down. At my feet.’

  Careful not to spill on the rug, I kneel before him and place the broad bowl between his bare feet; he’s one of the off-duty ones. Jaffez leans forwards and spits into my soup.

  ‘Drink it then.’

  I don’t hesitate; I’m escaping lightly. Jaffez likes to play games. He particularly likes to get me dirty and I’ve had to accept his piss down my throat before now. I place my hands on the rug and bend forwards.

  ‘Wait.’ He puts his foot in the bowl, wriggling his toes as if the broth were a warm bath. The others hoot in amused disgust. ‘There.’ So I lap my soup from around his foot, and when I’ve nearly emptied the bowl he lifts his leg, plants his foot against my breast and shoves me back onto my haunches. ‘Lick it clean.’

  Supporting his ankle with both hands, I clean his foot thoroughly, licking between his toes. ‘She tickles!’ he complains merrily to the others. Then he adds, ‘Now lick it off your tit.’

  I look down to see a big soupy footprint on my right breast. I cup the orb with my hand and bow my head; I’m not as supple as a real kitten but my breasts are big enough that I can bring my nipple to my mouth, so I tongue myself as neatly as I can. The bells rattle against my teeth. I receive a derisory applause.

  Alain crooks his finger. ‘Here, cunt.’

  That’s what he calls me, never even gracing me with an animal sobriquet. I shiver just from the sound of his voice, and crawl over to him on hands and knees. Alain evokes in me the worst dread of them all; I would not want to be left alone in his presence. He is quieter than most of them in conversation, but that doesn’t make him any less of a shaven-headed brute, the blue tattoos up the back of his scalp marking him out as a devotee of some barbarian steppe god. His eyes are sunken and dead. He takes me by the throat and, turning me, pulls me between his knees in exactly the position one would pin a sheep for slaughter, my throat stretched taut. He has used his eating knife to dismember a roast duck while I was otherwise occupied; now he takes the greasy knife and wipes it slowly on my breasts, paying particular attention to my nipples as he cleans the blade. My pulse rockets under his fingers. I hold myself as still as I can but the bells tinkle faintly with the thump of my heart.

  ‘Enough,’ growls Captain Teodric as the point of the blade plays with my nipple.

  Alain smirks and lets me go. ‘
Maybe later, cunt.’

  He hasn’t nicked me this time

  ‘Go wash yourself, you filthy bitch,’ Teodric orders. ‘Then report to Rurik.’

  My eyes blurring, I retreat to a safer distance. The only water to wash in is that which they’ve already bathed their hands in, but I do my best to scrub off the food grease. The scrap of silk between my thighs becomes soaked and clings to my mound, revealing the split of my sex lips clearly. Then, my skin still glittering with water droplets, I return to kneel at Rurik’s feet.

  ‘Other way. Head down.’

  I swing round, presenting him with my bottom and lowering my face to the floor. Rurik’s people come from beyond the mountains at the northern edge of the empire; he has a slab-like face with broad cheekbones and pale eyes, and his hair is the colour of wheat that has been left to stand uncut in the field too long. He has a passion for my back entrance and loves to insert things there. His usual amusement is to tie a bunch of silk scarves together then push the knot into my rear aperture so that I have to walk around trailing a multicoloured tail behind me. Not today though. Today he has other plans.

  ‘Know what this is, Kitten?’

  I squint over my shoulder. He is holding the yellowish curve of wood he was carving earlier. It’s only about the size of a man’s finger. It is the peppery, lemony scent in my nose that tells me what it is – not all the spice smells come from the food they’re eating, it seems.

  ‘Ginger root, master?’ My voice is barely audible over their anticipatory sniggers.

  ‘That’s right, Kitten. The hottest in the market. This is going in your arse. Ever had a gingered rump, girl?’

  ‘No, master.’ I can only guess what it will feel like.

  ‘Open up.’

  I obey, relaxing my iris. My arse is well trained. It has had to take six cocks in turn many a time and it knows how to yield. I know what it is to have six loads of come in my private entrance, squirting out between my cheeks as I crawl away. This ginger finger is moist and slippery and feels cold. It goes in past the ring of muscle easily, the last quarter remaining outside. It’s not uncomfortable.

  ‘Kneel up. Face us. Hands behind your head!’ barks the Captain.

  I hurry into position and feel the first warm glow ripple up the tissues of my violated bottom. There’s a big grin on Rurik’s face.

  As soon as I am in position I am ignored, or at least left alone. They carry on eating and talking among themselves, with only the odd glance thrown in my direction. The topic of conversation is the coming campaign season and whether military success will yield a worthwhile new crop of slaves. There is good-natured disagreement as to which nation’s women are the best fucks. And as they talk I feel the cool slickness of the ginger turn to a burning flame inside me, the pungent juices prickling and inflaming my insides. I begin to squirm, secretly at first. I squeeze my arse muscles, but that instantly makes the sensation truly painful and I learn my lesson, unclenching with a gasp.

  Rurik chuckles.

  As the moments wear on the heat builds unbearably. I wonder if I’m going to burn up. Sweat springs out on my back, trickling down my crack. My breasts quiver. I begin to writhe my hips almost imperceptibly, longing to pull the tormenting plug from my hole. Soon it feels like the whole length of my spine is aflame and tears well up in my half-closed eyes. I start to pant. I long to pee, as if the liquid might put out my inner fire. My labia feel engorged and I can feel moisture oozing from me. The tiny chime of the bells is unceasing as I squirm and shake. At last I can’t hold back my anguish and I let out a moan.

  ‘Is it too hot for you, Kitten?’ Rurik asks.

  ‘Please, masters …’

  ‘Have you got an itch you can’t scratch?’ He comes forwards to pull my silken shred of modesty clean off, and slip his hand between my obediently spread thighs. He fingers my clit, and for a moment it is wonderfully distracting. Then as the itch ignites I realise he has ginger juice still on his hand and now my most sensitive flesh is sparking into torment. I squeal outright. He slithers his fingers into my gash and remarks, ‘She’s wet as a swamp here.’

  He’s not wrong. Something – the frustration, the inflammation, some alchemical effect of the ginger itself on female flesh – is making me slathering wet. My sex gapes. He explores me briefly then withdraws.

  ‘Want me to take the ginger out?’

  ‘Oh please, yes! Please, masters,’ I moan.

  ‘How about I put some of this nice cool cream up there instead?’ Rurik picks up a ceramic pot of golden-yellow syllabub from the table. The thought of its soothing richness in my back passage makes me want to scream with need, but I bite my lip instead and nod frantically. My clit is starting to throb.

  ‘Let’s see how much of it is left then,’ he says, sitting himself back down and unlacing his leathers. His cock springs out, already stiff enough to summon me with an imperious jerk, but he grips its root between his fingers and sticks the whole thing into the syllabub, scooping out the cream as if with a spoon. It oozes down his length. ‘Come on and give me a licking then.’

  Darius makes a mock-complaint: ‘Hey. I wanted to eat that!’

  ‘You still can, if you like.’

  Darius’ expression of disgust is theatrical. ‘You think I’m eating anything where your cheesy knob has already been?’

  ‘Well, you’ve had your tongue up her cunt plenty of times. Maybe you like the taste of my knob-cheese, Darius.’

  There are general snorts of laughter but the black man and the blond aren’t going to start a proper scuffle; they’re both too interested in what they’re going to be doing to me.

  Darius starts to loosen his armour. ‘Just don’t waste that dessert, Rurik. I want to see it used.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not going to waste. Time for the Kitten to get her cream.’

  I’ve crawled to Rurik on hands and knees. I’m yearning to feel the soothing, rich cream in my abused passage and it’s frustrating to have to take it in my mouth instead, but at least it’s something – anything will do – to take my mind off the burning between my cheeks. I wrap my lips about the white froth and it melts in my mouth, tasting of honey and saffron, slicking my throat. But underneath the sweetness is meat and salt, and I slide him deep into my throat so that I can lap up the drips and runnels from the underside of his shaft. I feel him thicken, butting against my soft inner flesh. I feel his scrotum tighten under my hand. They are talking over my head, but I can’t hear the words because Rurik has his hands over my ears, guiding my head up and down on his cock in the rhythm that pleases him best. I squirm my bottom, whimpering my distress even through my diligent sucking.

  Just as I think Rurik is going to add his own cream to my diet, he pulls me abruptly from his cock. Mouth open, lips wet, tongue displayed, I meet his gaze. He rubs his fingertips up his slippery shaft, and I see in his eyes he’s saving himself for something more than a blow job. Instead he pushes me into Darius’ lap and I go down with a gasp onto my second cock of the day.

  There is no cream this time to sweeten the meal. This cock is the colour and hardness of mahogany, broad and impatient. His pubic hair clings in tight curls over his crotch and up the root of his shaft, his scrotal pouch is heavily wrinkled and almost blueish. And he is not the last. I am passed on down the line, one by one, because they are all divesting themselves of their clothes now. I am surrounded by cock and I abase myself willingly, as frantic as the most ardent of worshippers to forget my own misery in the giving of myself to my deity. Among those slab thighs, I bend to make obeisance. Cock is my god. These men with their brawny arms and their smell of sweat and leather, their broken noses and their calloused hands, they are my gods. I know them as a priest knows those he bows and prays to every day. Each cock is different in taste and behaviour and appearance. Some are smooth, some veined and gnarled, some uncut, some shorn of their foreskins. Jaffez has a pronounced list to the right. Teodric’s helm looks too massive for the shaft it sits on. Milo seeps with excitement
. Rurik’s balls clench so hard they seem to disappear into his body. Alain’s prick stands up so stiff it almost brushes his belly, but Darius’ is too heavy for that, though he gets hard he does not rise. Some of them like to sit back and let me lick, others prefer to thrust into my throat.

  I can hear their desultory conversation, like the voices of indifferent gods; they are reminiscing about whores they have fucked and virgins they have despoiled, and comparing me unfavourably to them all.

  Somewhere in the middle of this, a hand pulls the ginger plug from me. I moan with gratitude. Then cool and slippery digits probe my burning hole anew, and suddenly the ginger finger is back, but this time bearing a slippery load. They are using it, I realise, to stuff my arse with the honeyed cream. It slips in and out of me over and over. I feel myself filling with sweet dessert, which melts deliciously on my inflamed inner walls and oozes out, greasing my ring.

  Then I get to Alain, and Alain has no patience. He picks me up bodily, turns me and slaps my behind down in his lap, spearing my slick anus with his prick in one savage thrust. My sensitised tissues seem to explode. I shriek, twisting in his grip, but he lifts me and slams me down even harder to teach me a lesson. The others curse his lack of manners, nearly choking with laughter. Ignoring them, Alain gets a good grip with both hands and begins to shaft me deep and fast, bouncing me on his thighs. The saffron cream squelches out over his balls.

  ‘Smack her tits!’ he grunts.

  So I get one man on either side of me and they slap my breasts and my face in turn, stingingly, until Alain lets loose with a snarled blasphemy and blasts his spunk up my back passage. With a spasm of irritation he throws me aside, face down on the couch. I cling to the coverlet with clawing fingers, pressing my face into the cushion.

  Almost as fast as he has discarded me, the others move in. Hands descend on my raised, open arse, several of them. Fingers slip into my greased anus from either side, easing me open even further, exploring my depths. I have no idea who is doing what, just that I am being entered fore and aft without distinction.