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Chattle (2/2)

Jul 172012

Last week I introduced Sir Jaerl’s as a guest writer for my blog.

You can read more about Sir Jaerls on ‘his‘ page.

This is the second and last part of his short story called ‘Chattle’.

Continued from… Chattle (1/2)

“Nooooo,” she moaned, “please noooo,” she felt her face glow with a deep blush that spread down her neck and over her round breasts. Her legs danced against the block trying to keep him out, but the man was practiced at showing off his wares and she knew she had already lost the battle.

He was going to make her cum in front of the crowd like a slut and there was nothing she could do about it.

She continued to beg, to plead, not to be used so publicly, to be granted that much at least but her body betrayed her and her hips began to rub against his hand. Her begging for dignity was soon abandoned for pleas of release. The auctioneer was maddening, he brought her to the edge and let her fall off and brought her back again,

She writhed and squirmed, pulling against her bonds, all thoughts of the crowd forgotten and swept aside. His hand in her sex, parting her folds and touching the clit, the hood… every part of her with infuriating expertise. Her mind shut off, the world became sensations of her overloaded pussy, and the voices that kept calling out meaningless numbers no more than a distant wave cascading against a long forgotten beach.

She jumped up and down to get the fingers inside her, to speed the orgasm, to find the release her body needed

She thrashed against the ropes, her head back pleading, begging to cum. At his urging she called herself every word he demanded from her, slut, whore, cunt, tramp, anything anything to bust over the top of the wave and cum.

Through her own screams, she heard her tormentor calling out, “She is your property, Sir, do I let her cum for all these people?”

“YES, YES, YES,” the crowd began to chant. It rose like the wave of orgasm in her and filled the square. “YES, YES, YES.”

She knew she had been sold, that her new Master waited to take her for whatever purpose he bought her, but the need was so strong, the release so elusive she no longer cared. It was the chanting of the crowd that caught her attention, some part of her mind that understood if they had their way she could end the torment and CUM.

“YES, YES, YES!” she screamed, throat red and raw from the effort and begging and the gasps of air. Tears streamed down her face as her head was back against her neck facing the blazing summer sun. Her feet were rigid on the platform, her arms tight against her bonds, her back arched and her hips shoved forward to the chanting crowd.

“YES, YES, YES!” they urged her new Master while the maddening fingers played her like a puppet.

She could not see, could not hear, but her new owner must have capitulated to the crowd.

Her tormentor stopped his teasing for an agonizing moment, making her sob uncontrollably in frustration. A sharp pain on her clitoris surprised her but the agony of his grasp flew through her body, igniting every nerve and the glorious wave of ecstasy covered her from head to toe.

She froze, her body in shock. She went rigid and stopped breathing when the enormity of the orgasm hit her: fear of her own intensity and the realization that this orgasm was about burst from her and there was no way to stop it. The blinding light tore through her clenched eyelids and lit the back of her brain. The light settled there and expanded in a blazing ball of fire.

The orgasms tore her soul free of the restrictions of the flesh, part of her saw her own body slamming against thin air. Her tormentor, having done his work, had released his grasp. Her hips slammed back and forth, her gaping sex suckled against nothingness as if trying to capture the cock it craved but never had.

Her head thrashed back and forth, the very ropes that held her creaked and moaned under the pressure and the crowd simply stood in shock and awe as the petite girl seemed to shatter in front of them.

The orgasm wasn’t stopping. With the skill of a consummate Master, the auctioneer pinched her, stroked her, touched her lightly or slapped her sharply and the wave would begin anew.

Her sex fired back, soaking the stage at her feet, a stream of agonized glory blowing free of her pussy. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she gave herself to the endless stream of sex.

By the time she passed out, the crowd had tripled and the free citizens stood in silenced awe for a young slave girl.

She was taken down, half conscious and carried to her new Master’s feet. She was laid out beside him in the hot sands, naked flesh still twitching and spasming in the orgasm’s spell.

She could see a man’s sandals, but little else, her brain was too busy to worry about something as inconsequential as her life. The sands eagerly drank the spittle she was unable to control and rasped against her skin like a file.

As the waves began to subside, sound came to her first. The crowd was intent upon another girl. That one was not made to perform as she had been and the noise of the auctions flowed around her. She saw some stealing glimpses of her and then look enviously at her new Master.

The newly sold slave dared to look up. It was not the sweaty man, nor the cruel looking youth. His countenance was nondescript, but he stood as though he owned the city and all the people in it. Military perhaps, or wealth, but somehow, the straight shoulders and level eyes frightened and reassured her all at once.

She was his slave. He could kill her on a whim. She was his slave. From the look of him, and the stolen glances from the crowd, no one else could ever touch her again.

She dared to move a little and kiss the foot of the man who would decide her fate. Naked, spent, all pride and self left on the block in a tidal wave of release, she reached for her Master.

He looked down at her for a moment, expressionless eyes, evaluating her. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he looked up again.

It was enough.

© Sir Jaerls

Chattle (1/2)

guest post 1 Response »

Jul 102012

Last week I did a short review on the book ‘Allette‘ written by Sir Jaerls.

Sir Jaerls has approached me, wanting to know whether he could submit a short story to be published on my blog as a guest post. Of course I agreed. You can read more about Sir Jaerls on ‘his’ guest writers page.

This is part one of his short story called ‘Chattle’.

The summer sun reflecting off the white sands was blinding as well as stifling. She couldn’t breathe, but the catch in her chest had less to do with the sun and more to do with the reason she stood behind the block at the auction.

She was to be sold.

She rubbed the bottom of a bare foot over her other calf and tried not to fidget. The simple grey shift she was allowed to wear scratched and pulled at her skin and threatened to rub her nipples raw. It was a slave shift, worn and passed to the next girl to stand on the block. It might never have been washed, and though she wouldn’t wear it long, the nervous sweat of hundreds of girls make it smell sour.

She hadn’t known that old fear could have a smell, but her nervousness added to the cloth brought up ages of terror. There was a knot in the single shoulder strap where it had been torn but the bare shoulder was freed from the constant itching.

She couldn’t see the crowd from where she had been set, nor could she see the block itself. The noise carried an indication of a vast swarm of potential buyers. The prices seemed to escalate from the tone of the buyers and from the guards’ expressions. The girl gathered they were impressed, but the money in these foreign lands meant nothing to her, so the sale of a girl for so many of these or that had no comparisons.

The girl in front of her, plain but young and shapely was untied from the line of slaves waiting to be sold. The guards wrapped cords around her wrists and tied them as they had with all the others and left a goodly amount of lead to dangle as they lead her away.

The crowd murmured, though with less enthusiasm than they had shown for some others. She tried to calm herself, but her feet itched and she couldn’t help but fidget. A weary glare from a guard meant to silence her movements succeeded only to resolve her to making them less noticeable. It seemed to be enough to placate him.

Again the shouting of numbers and strange monies echoed through the plaza. There were not many and the bidding was over in less than half the time it took for the previous slave. She tried not to think about it, but could not for the life of her squelch the curiosity of how much she would go for.

The guards cut her from the line and one grabbed her hands while the other wrapped the ubiquitous cords around her wrists. He let go of her hands and took her by the back of the tunic and lead her around to the front of the block.

There must have been a hundred people in the square, men and women fanning themselves with hands or cloth or whatever there was to hand that would create a breeze in the sweltering white sands. There were some sold girls in the crowd, naked and kneeling by their buyers, trying to keep their eyes respectfully down.

The plain girl knelt beside a dowager, a stern looking woman of means who watched the girl on the block like she was a puppy whose training was sorely in doubt.

“If I am to be sold,” she whispered, “let it be to one as her, a lady’s maid or even scullery maid in her house would not be so bad…”

She was lead to the front of the crowd, between two posts she had not noticed in the blinding light. Each rope was taken and tied high against the pillars and she hung on the balls of her feet, almost suspended off the floor in front of the crowd.

The murmur grew louder at her entrance and lasted so long the auctioneer had to roar for silence before he could begin.

“A rare beauty!” he called to the crowd, “Taken from the fields of Greece, plucked like a virginal flower and hastened here for your pleasure!”

She had never even been to Greece, but this was not the time to argue.

“Look at her!” he bellowed again, “eighteen, virginal and wanton. Never has she held a brand or collar. She is strong, capable and healthy and did I mention her beauty? Start me at twelve for this lovely!”

“Fifteen,” wheezed a fat sweaty man.

“Seventeen,” called another, but the girl could not see who it was. The dowager glared as though the puppy had just shit in front of her.

“Twenty,” called a youth in the back. His expression was hard for one so young, a cruel and mocking face behind cold dead eyes.

“Twenty three,” the sweaty man was determined.

“Thirty,” the youth called again much to the surprise of the crowd.

The auctioneer turned back to the fat sweaty man, “Sir? It is your bid.” Apparently seeing the all too obvious hesitation in the pig-like little eyes, he called out, “Do NOT let this opportunity go by! You will regret it forever as the one you lost, I assure you!”

The fat man breathed heavily and just started to shake his head.

“Observe!” the barker cried and with a flourish pulled the knot apart at her shoulder and flung the garment to the ground at her feet. She stood on tiptoe, naked before them all, breasts rising in the heat and a sheen of sweat making her glow in the sunlight.

She couldn’t help but squeal when the covering was taken from her, much to the delight of the jeering crowd.

The rough cloth had done its job well. Her nipples, scratched and mauled by the rough fibers, protruded from her breasts, pointing to the crowd like invitations. Her legs tried to cross to hide her sex from their eyes, but shifting legs meant that her wrists took all her weight so she was forced to keep them apart.

They had taken the hair from her sex when they prepped her. Even that little concealment was gone.

“Thirty two,” the fat man wheezed.

“Thirty five,” another voice joined the fray.

“Young sir?” the auctioneer called to the back of the crowd, soliciting another bid.

The young man now hesitated. Virile and rather good looking, he no doubt had many conquests and the image of a naked girl tied between posts in front of a crowd was not as appealing as it might have been to someone more pressed for relations with free women, say a fat sweaty man.

“Is she responsive?” the youth called out and was supported by a general laughter and egging on from the crowd.

“She is very responsive, good sir, she has the heat of a lioness and the loins of a goddess!” His hand snaked down behind her and the slave felt his fingers stroke her clit.

To be continued… Chattle (2/2)

© Sir Jaerls

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