Free The Captive by Amber Jameson

that the guards seed had drained away. Megan looked at her suspiciously.
    “Hm, we’ll see,” she said quietly.
    The syringe was as thick as a medium cockshaft. It was smooth and slid in easily. Megan knew that the girl would feel a mild sucking sensation and, maybe a sense of fullness. She watched the dainty bottom cheeks lift a little from the bench, as if wanting more. The mistress removed the syringe and held it to the light to check the contents.
    “Milky looking,” she noted, “quite copious. I really cannot believe that this is all your own. No woman produces so much lubrication - not even me.”
    The girls gathered, so close to the bench, sniggering. One or two of them received hard slaps for their pains.
    Zacora, almost in tears, held her guilty secret silently.
    Megan shrugged. “What matter anyway, I shall still have you scrubbed to make sure. I have very intimate plans for you.”
    Spirits sagging, Zacora allowed herself to be lifted from the bench. All the girls seemed very eager to be the ones to scrub.
    Still chained, the captive was slipped into one of the deep tubs. The water was pleasantly hot and aromatically perfumed. Megan watched as her prize was shampooed; her long golden curls floating out like a living fan upon the swirling water. She watched as the girls scrubbed under, over and around the sensitive mounds of the breasts, until they glowed scarlet. She watched as many willing hands dipped down to finger the silvery mound, and into the slit. She heard a slight moan as a sensitive spot was teased. It was going to be sheer delight playing with this young woman. She looked so innocent and yet she was receptive. It wasn’t often one found both qualities in a slave.
    “Take her out,” she ordered. Her voice was quite husky with longing and she found herself lifting her black clingy dress and stroking her plump mound. She stopped, just in time. It wasn’t good for discipline to do such things in front of the slaves. They were the ones to be done to, after all, not to do.
    The captive was pampered as she was dried with soft cloths. All the girls took a part of her and rubbed and patted her dry. Zacora loved it when her pale skin flushed with embarrassment as the girls reached the most intimate parts. It was quite amazing how, though embarrassed, her nipples popped out as hard pegs and her nether lips became inflamed and swollen.
    “You can all bring her to my play room as a special treat,” said Megan, “but you will have to leave when I begin my games.”
    An excited twittering set up among the girls. Some of them were still glowing from their bath and all were still. Their young bodies shone with moisture and nipples of every shape and shade dripped enticingly, and in the midst of them was the trembling figure of the new captive.
    The other girls were long trained slaves, quite happy in their role. Megan looked at Zacora, being pulled by her body chain by several girls. She looked sad though her body glowed prettily from the treatment she had just received.
    Hands stroked Zacora’s nakedness, infiltrating her front and rear clefts. Megan saw her, surreptitiously, bear down on the fingers, urging deeper penetration. Oh, she thought, I can’t wait to begin on her.
    The procession of women, chattering and giggling, made its way to the vast chamber where all new slaves were taught the Meleagan way, “Where do you come from?” whispered one little creature in Zacora’s ear.
    “Lokara,” replied Zacora, “we were trained to please men - but not women.”
    “No more talking, you girls.” Megan heard her own voice. It was sharp and edgey.
    They all entered the play room, Zacora in the middle of the crowd. I should be excited, thought Megan, by having all my girls around me, fresh and clean from the bath house. But she wanted the beautiful Zacora on her own.
    “Go away now,” she said. Her voice was softer, huskier.
    When they were alone she turned to look at Zacora, smiling lasciviously.