Rajasthani Moon (9 page)

Her resolve melted as the hum between her thighs dropped to a lower pitch and something pushed up at her oil-slicked anus.

“No!” she screamed. A second hardness entered her rear hole, triggering waves of shameful delight. “Oh, please…”

It was no use fighting. A climax seized her, fierce and raw. Every convulsion drove the rods deeper, wringing new cataclysms of delight from her captive flesh. She jerked in her bonds, felt the cuffs bite into her wrists as another crisis welled and broke.

Delicious, terrible, the pleasure went on forever, searing her, stripping away the last shreds of her dignity. Finally she came to herself, still twitching. Had it not been for her bonds, she would have tumbled off her perch to the floor.

Amir and Pratan were both laughing. “My dear Miss Harrowsmith,” said the Rajah, manipulating yet another of his controls. “You’re fearfully sensitive. We haven’t even begun the beating yet.”

As Cecily shuddered and gasped, trying to catch her breath, the infernal saddle began to move—to swing back and forth like a pendulum. With each sweep backward, the rods embedded in her orifices slid out a bit. With each forward swing, they drove back into her tender depths, waking new spasms of sensation. At the apex of the oscillation, gravity pressed her engorged clit against the saddle. The machine fucked her, hard and inexorable, pushing her towards yet another awful, inevitable climax.

Then she heard the snap of Amir’s whip behind her, and she knew she was utterly lost.

A dozen strands of leather stung her bare shoulders. Rivulets of fire raced across her exposed flesh, and an answering flood welled in her crotch. The flogger landed again, harder this time, sizzling down the length of her back. Determined as she was to be stoic, she couldn’t suppress her cry of pain. Nor could she stifle the moan of pleasure that followed, as the horse swung away from her tormenter and the protruding dildos sank deep into both her holes.

“Why—why are you doing this?” she gasped, as the device swept her back into range and two more strokes sliced across her tender skin. “I—I—I’m trying to help you, damn it all! Ow! Oooh…” Her mechanical mount twitched forward again, with the consequent inevitable impalement.

“Purely for entertainment, I assure you.” Amir sounded absurdly cheerful as he brought his lash down on the swell of her right buttock. “You’re just so deliciously ripe, Miss Harrowsmith. Your body fairly cries out for the whip.” Leather slashed across her opposite cheek. The sharp sting brought unwelcome tears to her eyes, even as her sex clenched and trembled during the forward swing. Pleasure shimmered through her, blending in some strange alchemy with the blaze of the whip-marks. The resulting sensation was unnameable but unbearably intense. She fought the climax that threatened, and lost the battle.

“And you respond so well…” Amir was still talking when she recovered from her convulsions of delight, and still whipping her. She groaned as the knotted end of one leather strand landed precisely on the crack between her buttocks. “Honestly, I don’t know how anyone could resist beating you.”

“Give me a turn, Amir-ji. I think poor Sarita craves your attention.” The Rajah paused in response to his brother’s request, giving Cecily a respite from pain, though the rods still burrowed into her with each cycle of the hanging saddle.

“Ah, yes, of course. Sorry to be so selfish. Here you are.” Amir ambled over to Sarita’s exquisite, stretched body and tweaked one of her mauve nipples. Her soft moan belied the smile on her lips. “Sarita, my dear… I’ve a new treat for you…” As Cecily watched, he pulled something from a pocket and set it on her shoulder.

It was some sort of mechanical device, fashioned of that silver-grey metal so popular here. Nestled against her neck, it appeared roughly circular and about the size of a guinea coin. Soon after it touched her flesh, however, it sprouted appendages that made it look like a small crab. Like a crab, it appeared that the legs were equipped with pincers. The courtesan gave a cry of pain as the mechanism nipped at the tender spot above her collarbone.

“Oh—ow! Oh, my Lord…” The tiny torture device skittered down her chest, using its clamp-like claws to cling to her body. “Oh, please…” It settled over one breast, pinching and releasing her skin with four or five of its arms. “Ah…”

Sarita writhed in her bonds, a difficult feat given the over-extension of her limbs.

“Do you like it?” The Rajah swiped several fingers through the channel between her splayed thighs, then lifted the slick digits to his lips. “Mmm. It seems that you do, my perverse little pet. In a bit, I’ll have it pay some attention to your clitoris.” He flicked his thumb over that bud as he named it, wringing another moan from her throat. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“As you wish, my Lord,” Sarita managed to reply through gritted teeth. The mechanical crab had fastened a pincer around one taut nipple. “Whatever pleases you…”

“But first a bit of birching, shall we?” Amir chose a cane from an assortment arrayed along one wall. For some reason, Cecily had thought they were billiard cues, but now she saw they were thinner and more flexible. They looked vicious. She hoped against hope that she would not have the opportunity to find out whether her evaluation was correct.

The cane whistled as it cut the air. A bright red line bloomed across Sarita’s pale thigh. Cecily shuddered, lust mingling with her dread. The horse lurched forward. Once again the device invaded her cunt and arse. Screwing her eyes shut and holding her breath, she succeeded this time in holding off orgasm.

When she opened her eyes, Pratan stood in front of the horse. The sight almost undid her.

He had removed his clothing. Muscles rippled along his arms. His sculpted chest gleamed with sweat. The scratches from his fight with the palace guards had faded, though they were still visible. His thighs, parted by a foot or two for balance, were like the trunks of great trees. At their juncture his proud cock reared up, nut brown crowned with strawberry red, its slickness further testimony to his arousal.

In his hands he held a cat-o’-nine-tails. He trailed the leather strands through his fingers. A teasing smile graced his lips, but his ebony eyes held something darker and more serious.

The horse swung her backwards, out of range. Then, like a pendulum, the device brought her back within reach—no more than six inches from where he stood. Her plugged pussy and arse throbbed. Pleasure curled tight in her belly. His smouldering gaze turned her molten.

“Give yourself to me, Cecily,” he murmured. “Give me everything.”

He raised his powerful arm and brought the whip down on her juddering breasts. Tendrils of agony snaked across her skin. She loosed a scream as the horse bore her away, then whimpered as it carried her back to him.

His second stroke swept her into an orgasm so intense that the world went black. She convulsed in ecstasy, each shudder driving the dildos farther into her flesh. Even in the blackness, Pratan’s savage eyes burned, boring into her mind, binding her with the force of his will.

She returned to her senses to find herself slumped across the pommel of the saddle. Pratan was fussing with the straps that bound her legs to the infernal machine. Her wrists were already free. He bent to his work, exposing the nape of his neck.
A single karate chop would render him helpless.
The thought arose, unbidden, a product of her training. She dismissed it wearily. At this point she didn’t have the energy to kill a flea.

Pratan lifted her off the horse. She cringed at the nasty slurping sound as her pussy and rear hole released the twin dildos. Both orifices felt loose and raw. Her shoulders and thighs ached from the strain of fighting off orgasms.

Cradling her in his arms, the bandit carried her to a low divan near one wall and laid her gently on the silken cushions. Despite the soft fabric, the stripes on her back flared into fresh anguish.

“Thank you.” Her voice was hoarse and strange to her ears. “I don’t think I could have borne any more.”

“What makes you think we’re finished?” he asked with a devilish grin. Nevertheless his touch was tender as he brushed her tangled hair off her forehead. Kneeling beside the couch, he turned her face to his.

Those eyes again. The eyes of a madman—a beast—a god. She wanted to look away, but his gaze held her fast, searching her mind, or so it seemed. An awful temptation seized her. She would tell him everything—about the parchment, about her mission… Perhaps then he would be merciful and let her rest.

Before she could act on the impulse, though, he leaned in to claim a kiss. Automatically, despite her sore muscles, she reached up to encircle him with her arms. His firm lips sealed hers, capturing her moans of new pleasure. Her battered cunny wept with new need. As he plundered her mouth like the brigand he was, Cecily could do nothing but surrender.

He tasted of spices, the remnants of their lavish repast. Hot musk rose from his sweat-slicked skin. She felt his knotted muscles bunch and twist under her fingers as he straddled her prone form, their mouths still locked. His rigid member prodded her pubis. Despite her exhaustion and pain, she wanted him. Arching her back, she struggled to align her cleft with his teasing cock. Her stretched quim had never felt so empty.

Pratan broke the kiss, chuckling. Now he gripped her wrists in his huge hands, trapping her against the upholstery. “I thought you’d had enough!”

Cecily ignored the blush climbing into her cheeks. “Never mind. Just fuck me, won’t you?”

He ran his bulb back and forth along her slick outer lips, pulling away as she bucked up to meet him. “You want more, then?” Any trace of tenderness in his manner had evaporated. His lips drew back in a feral smile that displayed his sharp, white teeth. All at once Cecily remembered the wolf, ravaging Sarita. Drowning in lust, she pushed the recollection to the back of her mind.

“Damn it all, Pratan! Please!”

His cock slid into her, just a fraction of an inch. She thrashed in frustration beneath him.

“Just a minute, brother!”

Without slackening his hold on her, Pratan turned to the Rajah, who approached the divan with Sarita’s limp body in his arms. “I have another idea. Cecily, get up. On your knees, near the far end. Facing me.”

Cecily would have sworn she couldn’t move. Pratan rolled off her, then half pushed, half lifted her into the required position. He held her there, one powerful arm strapped across her breasts.

Amir arranged Sarita on the other end of the couch. Her head lolled to one side, near the far edge. Was she unconscious? It appeared not. Her thick-lashed eyelids fluttered as she looked up at her master, and a weak smile ghosted across her lovely features. He raised her knees. Her legs fell open. Cecily caught a whiff of her scent, like low tide along the Thames.

A twinge of sympathy stirred in her heart. Sarita had clearly endured far more than Cecily at the hands of her master. The cane had streaked her creamy skin with angry crimson, cross-hatching her breasts, her belly, her thighs and her pubis. Hardly a square inch of her flesh had been left untouched. Tiny purple bruises from the mechanical crab peppered her skin in between the stripes. Meanwhile, thick strands of viscous white criss-crossed the marks like icing on a cake. Obviously, Amir had drenched her with his spunk after beating her.

The Rajah had shed his tunic and trousers at some point. Despite his recent spend, his cock was erect, a fat spear pointing towards the ceiling.

He bent to brush his lips across Sarita’s. She crooned with delight. “My pet has been through a lot,” he said, positioning himself at the foot of the divan, behind her head. “She deserves a reward.” He flipped his palm downward in a gesture of command. “Cecily—lick her cunny till she spends.”

“What?” Cecily struggled, without success, to disentangle herself from Pratan’s iron grip. “I won’t!”

“Oh, I think you will.” Amir nodded to his brother, who forced Cecily down onto her hands and knees, with her face dangerously close to the courtesan’s wide-open sex. The woman’s ocean scent was stronger here. It was so much like her own that Cecily felt her nipples tighten and her pussy moisten, despite her best intentions. Sarita smelt like sex. Sex made Cecily horny. The reaction was irresistible, automatic.

“Lick her,” Pratan ordered.

“Unless you want a more thorough caning than she suffered,” Amir added.

“But—I never—I…” Cecily examined Sarita’s delicate cunt. By nature or by design—Cecily couldn’t tell which—the courtesan was hairless. Her moist, pink folds unfurled before Cecily’s eyes. She could see the muscles fluttering around the girl’s channel, the tawny rosette of her anus, the little nub peeking out at the apex where the soft layers of flesh came together. The other woman’s clit was several shades darker than the surrounding tissues, a rich burgundy hue. Cecily was mortified to realise her mouth was watering.

“Just do what you’d like me to do to you,” said Pratan, dabbling his hand in Cecily’s own soaked pussy. “Use your imagination.”

His touch sent bolts of pleasure spiralling through her. She tightened around his knowing fingers, wanting him deeper.

“Eat her cunny,” the prince murmured, close to her ear. “You want to do it, I can tell. So go ahead. Eat her, and I’ll fuck you.”

Cecily swallowed the lump in her throat and bent closer to Sarita’s sex, her tongue extended. She poked gingerly at the woman’s clit. Sarita stirred and sighed. Encouraged, Cecily swiped her tongue over the nub, then down between the slick labia. Her partner squirmed. Fresh liquid gleamed on the silky skin.