The Captive Read Online Free PDF Page B

clawlike finger stroked upwards to the nipple. She even tried to smile, for he was, after all, a man, and as such, should be welcomed by her.
    “You like to be caressed, my beauty,” he croaked. “Do you not?”
    “It is my duty to accept it, sir.” Her smile was tremulous and uncertain. The jailer was not like any man she had met before. He was filthy. His hair was unkempt and thick with grease. The teeth remaining in his mouth were broken or black with rot, but his physique told her that he was young and very virile. His life, down here in the darkness of the damp cells, had aged him beyond his years.
    “I knew you liked it when I touched your cunt,” he croaked. “It was wet; dripping wet.”
    “I am trained to give pleasure to a man,” she said softly.
    “So you’ll pleasure me?” The jailer’s voice was barely audible. He grasped her breasts, massaging them cruelly and pinching their nipples. The gnarled hands went down to her belly, squeezing the taut flesh and digging one finger into the depths of her naval.
    Her smile was unwavering. Her sapphire blue eyes remained soft and inviting. The lithe body bent to his will, allowing him to touch it as it pleased him.
    “Answer me, wench?” he said loudly, lifting her hand and clipping her ear.
    All her training taught her that she should answer him and agree with his request to be pleasured, but his odour was unclean and, although his body was young, his demeanour was old, as old as Satan himself.
    Zacora remained still, her smile there but fading. They were suspended in time as she pondered on how to answer him.
    “Very well then,” he said, before she could speak. “I must teach you a lesson in how to behave with your betters, since you seem to have forgotten your training.”
    The golden hair was grabbed into a thick hank and a small mew of pain escaped her lips as she was dragged across the filthy straw-strewn floor. Through tear-blurred eyes she saw other girls taking notice, waking from sleep or wiping faces streaked from weeping. The small dark girl who had showed so much envy when they were brought to the cells was pointing a finger which mocked.
    “Miss High and Mighty is truly fallen,” she sneered. She thrust her pelvis forward, lewdly opening her sex lips to show the contents and thrust a finger quickly in and out. “That’s what you’ll get from that old bastard,” she laughed, “except it won’t be quite so comfortable as my finger.”
    “Shut up, bitch!” the jailer growled.
    They reached a low platform and he threw Zacora on to it. The manacles and chains at ankles and wrists made it easy to fasten her to a strange device which brooded there, sinister and waiting for a victim. Within seconds he had hooked her to bolts upon it and her arms and legs were widely splayed. Even on the gallows, in clear sight of everyone in the castle, she had not felt so vulnerable and open as she did in the clutch of this wicked machine.
    The dark girl came to look down on her, touching her intimately and laughing. “You’ve got her now,” she gloated. Roughly, the girl slid two fingers into the well-splayed folds of Zacora’s sex. She pulled them out again, looking at them in the smokey light of a tallow candle. “If she’s scared she doesn’t show it,” she said, stroking the running juices with her other hand.
    The vulnerability which Zacora felt was enhanced by the strange device. On it she seemed more open and defenceless than ever before.
    “Turn the handle,” begged the girl. “Let me hear her scream. Stuck up, bitch!”
    It was only then that Zacora realised that she was on a rack, one of the most diabolical instruments of torture ever devised. How far would the jailer dare to go with it? If she died her new owner wouldn’t be pleased. He’d paid a fortune.
    “Witch!” rasped the jailer, rebuking the dark girl. “Are you mad? I’m not turning that handle.”
    The girl looked disappointed. “Then why’ve you put her there?”