A Slave Girl Molested 


   The slave girl Rina spilled the wine. Normally she would not do such
a thing -- she had been well trained -- but she feared her master's
guests tonight, and her fear made her clumsy.

Instantly she drew back with an apology -- "Forgive a clumsy slave
girl, master" -- and rose from her serving crouch to fetch a cloth to
wipe up the spill. Her back seemed to sting already from the touch of
the birch. Her master, though not the worst, tended to impatience and
a quick hand with the rod.

She was forestalled, however, when the guest whose tunic she had
splattered leaned forward and caught her wrist. "Not so fast, pretty,"
he said, with a smile. He sounded good-humored, but her heart jerked
into her throat. They were frightening, these guests of her master's
-- soldiers, from their uniforms and polished boots and weapons that
all matched each other's; but clearly soldiers of high rank and an
elite unit. They looked like professional killers with fine tailoring
and civilized table manners. There were seven or eight of them,
sitting crosslegged on cushions at the low table, feasting on her
master's largess and the good local wine.

This one looked to be in his mid-thirties, dark-haired and blue-eyed,
with a weather-darkened face. He looked too cheerful to be threatening
her, but his grip was hard. "Ay, so what's made you so clumsy, girl?
Not afraid of us, are you?" His grin widened. She was. Although she
knew a smiling compliance to his wishes was called for, she hung back
at the full length of her arm.

Her master leaned back to catch her eye from where he sat, a few
places down. "Idiot slut. I'll be taking that out of your back
tomorrow." To the man who held her, "Sorry about that, Captain. She's
only good for one thing -- when she's not on her back, she's clumsy as
a she-camel in water. I'll have her scrub down your tunic by morning."

"Na, no matter," said the man addressed as Captain. "Perhaps our
pretty slave will lick it clean, eh?" He gave her arm a jolly tug that
nearly pitched her into his lap.

The other soldiers had stopped eating and were all looking at her,
some with wine cups or hunks of bread paused halfway to their mouths.
Conversation had stilled. The torches crackled and popped in their
sconces overhead.

"Kneel down, girl. No need to stoop."

Trembling, she did so. She hadn't much choice, for his grip on her
wrist forced her down by him.

"Position," he said.

She threw one misery-filled look to her master, who returned it with a
scowl and a forceful nod.

"Position" mean kneeling with knees apart, arms crossed behind her
back, head up, back straight, and eyes straight ahead. She assumed the
posture quickly, pulse banging in her temples.

The man released his grip on her wrist, and regarded her. "Nice, very
nice." He reached over and brushed her hair back from where it had
fallen over her chest, concealing the breasts beneath her thin tunic.

"Nice," he said again. He reached and with his fingertips brushed one
nipple lightly where it dimpled the cloth from underneath.

She shuddered. He smiled at her again, lazily this time. He took the
front hem of her tunic and lifted it, baring her to the torchlight and
the men's eyes. She almost  twisted away and bolted, but years of
slave discipline, enforced with the whip, kept her in position. Almost
gently, like a nanny tucking in a bib, he tucked the hem down the
front of her neckline and wound it up and over again a few times,
leaving her tunic rucked up under chin. She was effectively nude
before them. She could feel the heat of the torches playing on her
body, and the men's burning gazes.

"Stay still," he said softly. He began to trace a pattern with his
fingertips over the bare skin of her torso. She couldn't really see
what he was doing, with her eyes face forward like any soldier's on
parade, but every nerve-ending screamed it. Around and around each
breast, circling in toward the nipple and lightly over it, then
circling away again, down in loops over her belly, grazingly up her
sides, but not so close to her armpits as to tickle her. Sweat burst
from her hairline and ran down her face.

He grasped one of her buttocks and turned her more fully to face him.
"So, a good slave girl, really, so obedient and sweet to touch," he
murmured. "Is she good in all ways?" This last louder, and seemingly
addressed back over his shoulder, though he did not turn his head.

"Ay, for a clumsy slut, she's tasty in bed," answered her master.
Wriggles and jumps like a tadpole, but hotter than any tadpole, that's
sure."

"Hot, indeed? So all this charming bashfulness is only for show?"

"Well, maybe she likes being scared, for many's the time I've
threatened her with a whipping, and then found her cunt creamier than
fresh butter when I came to take her." From the sound of it, her
master was grinning.

Shamed and burning red to her hairline, from the feel of it, Rina
squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth.

"Creamy, so. That sounds delicious. Are you creamy, slave girl? Let us
see." The captain traced farther down her outer thighs, and inward
towards the tender inner thigh of her right leg. He brushed over her
pubic fur, and put both hands between her thighs, palm out, to pull
her legs a bit wider.

Rina sunk her upper teeth into her lower lip. Unseen by the men,
behind her back, she clenched her fists. The captain grasped her hair
close to the back of her head and pulled her head back, forcing her
upper body  to curve backwards like a bow. With that firm hold, he
slid his other hand between her thighs again. He brushed the soft
flesh at the very top of the creases where leg met body, and then
cupped his hand between his legs with his fingertips between her
buttocks, the heel of his hand over her pubic bone. He gave a playful
squeeze. She winced.

He began to caress her pussy lips -- not seeking entrance, but only
lightly tracing the outer folds and ruffling the fur. Still, as he
parted the lips the barest amount with a finger, she could feel to her
shame that she was already wet. A tingling flush had spread across her
breasts and buttocks, and the skin of her whole body felt moist, as
the warm air around her eddied beneath the torches. The captain
laughed lightly at his discovery. "She's hot, to be sure," he said.
"She's juicing like a slut already, and I've barely touched her.

"Let's see what she does if we go ... deeper."

Rina moaned lightly aloud in protest. She dared not break position or
do more to evade his caresses. Shame seemed to clothe her whole body,
from scalp to toes, but she knew that to move meant a caning, or
worse. The captain's caresses, however shaming, were better than the
slave whip's.

True to his words, the captain hiked himself a bit closer to her, so
he need not stretch, then spread her nether lips wider with the
fingers of one hand and reached between her legs with the other. He
slid the middle finger of this second hand between her taut rear
cheeks and lightly nuzzled and then probed the flinching bud of her
anus.

When she pulled away involuntarily, he hooked the finger into the
opening and used it to pull her back towards him. His stiffened digit
penetrated her rosebud by perhaps a half an inch, and she gasped. Her
chin lifted, and she swallowed. The captain used his thumb to feel for
the place where her pussy lips came together at the top. He found it
easily, for her clitoris had swollen to pea size and erected itself.

He laughed again and moved his hand to lightly grasp her clit, in its
protective folds, between his fingers and gently move it about.
Despite herself, Rina  moaned and shuddered. He had a skilled and
softly ruthless touch, lightly squeezing and moving her clit around in
little, slow circles, always leaving enough of her wet pussy folds
between it and his fingers that he did not hurt her.

Except her dignity, all trace of which had been banished. Rina bit her
lip and arched her back, spreading her legs a little wider to grant
him better access. She could not help herself. She had not forgotten
the audience to this little passion play -- indeed, she was still
blushing furiously even as he stirred her, and her juices glistened on
his fingertips -- but her responses had passed beyond her control. Her
nipples had risen to points and jutted from her naked breasts.

The other guests uttered hoarse laughs and sharp exclamations as they
watched the slave girl heat before them. Several had reached beneath
the table to open their trousers and were unselfconsciously
masturbating. "Aye, Gunther, warm her for us," one of them said,
admiringly.

"Oh, fear not," the captain said. "This oven needs little stoking." He
raised one hand and stroked her flushed stomach. She felt her juices
wet upon it.  "She has slave fires in her belly."

Without warning, he slid two fingers deep into her pussy. She was so
wet that he reached fully into it without effort. He fingered the neck
of her womb, making her gasp. Again she tried to pull away, and again
he held her firm. Pulling her to him, using her pelvic bone as a
handle, he seized her hair and used it to yank her head to one side,
baring her neck to him. He seized the exposed side of her throat
between his teeth. She moaned in terror.

He did not bite down, but rather merely held her fixedly for a moment,
letting her feel that he could, if he wished, tear her throat out like
any animal.

She felt his saliva warm on her throat as she hung in his grasp,
nearly fainting. Her limbs had gone all to water and she could not
have resisted if she had tried.

The he swirled his tongue with exaggerated lasciviousness around her
throat, as though it had all been a joke, and released her. As she
collapsed, and gravity tugged his fingers out of her pussy,  a wet,
sucking noise was heard by all, and  got a general laugh.

Smiling, the captain rose to his feet and spurned the unmoving slave
girl with his boot. "Hurry, lazy girl, bring us more wine. The feast
is young."

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