Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 23. Chapter 23: A Stroke of his Belly

Chapter 23: A Stroke of his Belly

Ahmed felt his shoulder being roughly jammed forward. His hands were tied behind his back, and he tried to swallow down his profound fear of being powerless.

The same guard from the courtyard confrontation earlier today was impelling the slave through the darkened corridors of the castle.

Moonlight cut slats of pale white illumination across the floor and walls of this higher level of the citadel.

Ahmed could hear the Hungarian breathe with laboured intent behind him; a panic gripped the Turk. He knew most of the castle was asleep and would never hear Ahmed's screams in time. But the fear of that was not the terrifying thing. It was the thought of what would come afterwards.

"Seeking your revenge in private, huh, Hungarian?"

"Silence." The guard shoved the Turk by striking his lower back.

After a few more paces, the alternating bands of moon glow and darkness strobing on Ahmed's face seemed to heighten his increasing fright like a visible heartbeat. He muttered, "If I turn up dead, or even with broken limbs or a bloodied face – "

"Turk! Silence."

" – They will know."

In actuality, Ahmed allowed himself to accept the seat of his trepidation: if he became incapacitated in any way, Junayd would be vulnerable to attack and use by these Christian dogs. If that happened, he would be remorseful and as rabid for revenge as if hearing that one of his own brothers had been raped by the infidels.

The guard slapped his hand on Ahmed's shoulder, and as he continued to force the Turk to walk, he leaned in close to the slave's ear. "You'll get your due. Don’t think you can escape what's coming to you."

Ahmed's eardrums quaked as the guard laughed and shoved him harder.

They turned a shadowy corner.

The guard, who was actually the watch captain, and entitled to call himself 'Castellan,' positioned his body in front of Ahmed by a door. The Hungarian raised a finger to elicit silence and pressed his ear against the wood. The man listened, and then slowly reached for the door lever. In another protracted moment, the castellan lifted the latch.

The door swung open with a slight creaking sound and the guard pulled Ahmed in with a bracing hand behind the Turk's neck.

Momentarily, the lighted interior blinded the captive. His other senses were stunned and confused as well. While the guard undid the bindings around his hands with the stealthy ease of a single motion, Ahmed smelled the enigmatic heat of rose petals from nearby, and at the same instant, felt moisture caressing his face in the form of steam.

The guard spun Ahmed around to face him. He raised an open palm in threat. "Just try to escape, and I'll be on the other side of this door to strike my sword through that miserable Muslim gut of yours."

The castellan took two paces back, went through the door, and closed it behind him.

Ahmed massaged the areas of slight rope burn on his wrists and assessed where he was.

The chamber was vaulted, the fanciest room he'd yet seen in castle.

There were drawn curtains at the far end, and off through a line of columns was a sunken area. This was a bath, and instantly Ahmed's heart leapt. He loved bathing, Ottoman style, and the pool with its shimmering heat was locked in a frozen cascade of scent. Hundreds of rose petals floated and bobbed with unconstrained languor.

He heard a sound.

Ahmed had thought he was alone.

Now, his 'fight' instincts resurfaced.

The sound repeated. It was the unmistakable auditory hint of fabric rustling from nearby. He tracked the noise to a dressing screen standing close by the windows.

Slowly, sheepishly, Lady Maria came from behind it.

Almost in disbelief, Ahmed heard himself ask, "You..?"

The lady-in-waiting looked aghast. She wrenched her hands at waist level in front of her. She spoke as if to them, "Me..?! No, not I. Another has begged the use of my chambers, and I can only too readily oblige the request."

"Another?" the professional soldier repeated in astounded wonder.

Lady Gretza stepped from behind the screen. She wore only a diaphanous gown of glowing peach colour. To Ahmed's eyes, she was about the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her chest-length hair was braided, and then those extensive strands had been secured on the top of her head with pearl-tipped pins. Her breasts were full, and the nipples showed large and pronounced. They were like captivating swellings rising from underneath the silk gauze of her open garment, and looked ready for plucking.

Ahmed licked his lips as his eyes slid down her front. They fell past her abdomen that was a smooth as alabaster, fell past the intriguing and sexual depression of her navel, fell past her hourglass waist, fell past the fullness of her hips, and then they lingered in the tantalizing peak of her pubic area.

He hadn't seen a woman's nether regions in a long time, and Lady Gretza's was about as stunning as he'd ever seen.

Her commanding gaze stayed on Ahmed as she said softly, "Go wait discreetly, Maria – with the guard."

The teenage lady-in-waiting curtsied, then scrambled past Ahmed to exit.

After the door clicked closed again, Lady Gretza began her advance on the rooted-to-the-spot slave.

Inside, Ahmed conjured up the impossibly polite phrase Junayd had taught him some time ago. He tried not to smile as he said in Hungarian, "Your Ladyship does me a great honour."

The lady in question showed no sign of bemusement or intrigue; instead, her fingertips lightly brushed a line along the Turk's chest hair that was peeking out of the top of his tunic. She said unemotionally, "Will you strip for me?"

"Milady..?"

"Take off your clothes."

She circled behind him, and Ahmed could almost feel himself be sensible of the searing heat that her inspection of his backside generated.

As Ahmed reached cross-handed for the hem of his tunic, he protested mildly. "I'm not one of her ladyship's performing bears." Then removed his shirt.

The lady appeared in front of him. "Drop your garment."

Ahmed swallowed, and his tunic slipped from his fingertips as if on its own accord.

"Look," Lady Gretza vaguely gestured downwards. "It seems you're not naked yet."

The Turk quickly glanced down to see she was referring to his loincloth. He lifted a lopsided grin for her. "Will the lady assist me..?"

A partial sneer spread across the woman's face, but in another moment, her gracile fingers stroked his belly. That slightly raking touch lingered and drew itself over his navel, and then down to his loincloth.

She inserted a single fingertip right in front, in the position to match the lines where his body angled to form the base of his member.

She pulled, and his underwear landed on the floor. Ahmed for his part barely felt the roughness of the grappling motion though, for his attention was rapt to Lady Gretza's face.

It was tender, voluptuous, and foreboding; beauty matched to a wayward purpose is the most mesmerizing sensuality of all.

Her right hand slipped down the delicate inside of his left forearm. She latched onto his wrist, and then began walking towards the steps and columns. "Come now, let's get you bathed."

She led him to stand in a separate area from the pool. It was a square basin of sorts submerged into the marble floor, and whose sides and bottom were tiled. Ahmed's feet rubbed against something in the centre; it was a drain.

The slave watched in fascinated anticipation as Lady Gretza crouched with knees locked demurely side by side and dipped her hands into a wooden pail. They came up foamy with suds and gripping an inundated sponge.

She rose to her feet and strode behind the man. Ahmed nearly swooned as the first warm kiss of soap and warm water touched the area between his shoulder blades. He flexed them and sent his elbows back and out for her to massage the entire area of skin covering his brachial plexus with her sponge.

His sight faltered as he looked ceilingwards.

Lady Gretza pressed harder and began working a sublime mixture of fingers, sponge and lather into Ahmed's tired skin. She stroked his right triceps, and had him raise his arm over his head. She then cleaned his armpit with delicate strokes that seemed to expertly land every time on his hardening nipple.

She did his other arm, and again, her touch raised the point of his chest to aching attention.

Her hands worked their way down his flanks, scrubbing from both sides, and then from behind came to settle around his front. The woman rubbed lather into his thick and dark pubic hair.

His dick sprang to life as those same, slippery digits inserted themselves between his upper thighs and the flanks of his scrotum.

Her hands pulled away and Ahmed gradually began to soften.

Lady Gretza moved around to the soldier's front. She dipped the sponge in the pail and brought it up saturated with new pleasures for the man.

She spread it across his throat, then down his arms, chest and belly. The captive's vision scanned all the places where the soap and water had dabbed the woman's peach silk. Her nipples and the curve of her breasts were perfectly framed and accentuated by dark wetness.

To Ahmed's delight, he witnessed Lady Gretza descend to her knees before him. This display of submissiveness reactivated his penis. It began to grow as her contact resumed. She spread a line of foam vertically above where his torso became legs and groin, and worked it down his thighs.

She started to speak, her gaze looking up to him. "My husband, slave, is sterile. I need a proper man to make me with child."

Her grip worked soap between Ahmed's legs. She continued upwards to wash his backside and upper legs from the front. Her cheek came to rest on the Turk's right thigh. She peered up to him with narrowing eyes; she massaged his ass with bare hands. To the side of her pretty cheeks, his dick flared hard and dripping with clear liquid.

Coquettishly, she asked, "Does it excite you to think that one day your 'seed' will sit on the throne of Hungary?"

Ahmed did not answer; he could not answer. Honestly, as his hand tentatively landed on and caressed the woman's hair, he felt revolted by her. His fingertips moved from one obtrusive bump of her pearl hairpins to the next, and he thought this creature was truly unworthy of luxury; unworthy of the luxury rightly reserved for the sons of pashas, or the sultan's favourite young men from the inner court of the palace seraglio. Those boys deserve all the favours of a flourishing devotion because their pleasures for the man are pure, and are able to give rise to the purest delight and love from their master.

This woman was not only a common slut, but a wanton who would cuckold her lord and husband with one of his own chattel.

His erection was hampered by these thoughts and waning fast.

She grabbed on and stroked him.

He felt she was trying to re-enchant him with her beauty. He hated that.

Ahmed's hands rose, almost involuntarily.

Lady Gretza stood up with effortless grace. She took another pail of clean, warm water and lifted it. Ahmed helped her, and soon the filthy grime of his Herculean body was washed down the drain in sudsy release.

After he set the vessel on the floor, his rising motion was greeted halfway by Lady Gretza's bending down to meet him with a kiss.

Her lips were sultry and parted almost instantly to insert her tongue into his mouth. Ahmed closed his eyes, and to his surprise, he immediately imagined that another was kissing him.

He stood fully erect and embraced Lady Gretza around the waist. He let his eyes close tight and let the sweet inspiration of his imagination work on him while he let her kiss him.

Lady Gretza stepped away; again her hand locked onto his wrist and she led him to the tub.

She unhanded him, and paused. In another moment, her wet and sinuous gown slipped off of her dipping shoulders and puddled on the floor before him. Lady Gretza stepped into the pool of scented water.

She extended her hand, and Ahmed did not take it. He too trod into the water, and soon it was up to the middle of his thighs.

Lady Gretza scooped some rose petals towards her and rubbed their pink freshness longingly over her breasts and abdomen.

Ahmed sat and allowed the wonderful feeling of the scented water soak him up to his neck. He locked fingers behind his head and let his lower limbs float towards the surface. His eyes closed, and again were rewarded by a sight of the one who made him smile.

Insidiously, like a water serpent, the woman – his captor – slithered up his body. Her fingers roughly grabbed his manhood and broke his private enravishment.

He opened his eyes and Lady Gretza's head was close to his chest, her hands expertly rubbing his member and making that friction do its job on Ahmed's libido.

He began to get hard again.

Feeling this response, the woman's tone positively dripped with seduction. "You will take me, slave. And you will plant your seed in me, for my cycle is right to bear my lord a son."

"But why me, My Lady?"

"You bear a passing resemblance to his lordship, and my sources say a woman's ability to conceive is enhanced by her attraction to her lover, and you Turk, have been attractive to me for many, many months now."

Ahmed's soldier brain settled upon the resolve that there was only one obvious way out.

He sloshed the water violently as he latched onto her. She let out a small gasp when his hands gripped her waist, but that gasp instantaneously morphed into a lustful moan that nearly raised nausea in Ahmed.

He stood up in the pool, and rose petals clung to bits of his hair-dappled body.

The Turk wrestled the woman's body like a fish being slabbed for gutting. Her belly landed on the marble rim of the tub, and her arms spread flat to her sides on the floor like a 'T.' Again, a sickening moan to the soldier's ears arose from deep within Lady Gretza's throat.

"Take me," she screeched, raising her backside up to the slave. Ahmed used his left hand to make himself stiffer. It was difficult, but he got himself semi-hard again.

He stepped up to her, pressing the top of his thighs against the back of hers.

She grunted and shoved the door of her womanhood against Ahmed's phallus. He positioned it, and entered her.

He thrust once or twice and wondered why he would be surprised; the wanton's passage was slick with lustful desire for Ahmed. Her lips and walls were contracting faintly around him, and he felt conflicted.

He thrust deeper into her, hoping she'd cry out in discomfort or with a word of 'stop,' but she only growled deeper satisfaction into the cold marble under her face.

Friction being friction, he could sustain himself in her, but how he'd be able to climax like this seemed an impossibility.

The woman's hands began to grip blindly behind her. Far from pushing him away, they grasped at his belly and thighs to encourage him to greater passion. 'The slut,' Ahmed thought dismissively to himself, 'wants more.'

He jammed himself into her and leaned his upper body weight on her back.

Again, she cried out in pleasure, mumbling, "Choke me; choke me."

The soldier brought hands to her neck, and applied pressure from behind. She craned her head to get the man's fingers farther around her windpipe.

He pummeled her from the rear and squeezed.

She contracted violently around his member, and little waves of heat and moisture slicked his rhythm in her.

Her throat vibrated beneath his touch in a grunting serge of orgiastic delight and got muffled by her own fist coming to stuff her mouth.

He let go of her neck, and stood to thrust into her properly. In his mind he considered how easily he could kill her, she was the 'enemy' after all, but even as he neared that line of thought, his erection threatened to go down. No, he must complete his task.

He let his eyes close, and slowly his head lolled back. As he plunged and withdrew nearly all of the way out, he began to think of his companion. In Ahmed's mind, little drops of moisture played suggestively on Junayd's moustache, the same youthful moustache lifted so beautifully every time the dervish indulged in a cheeky thought – usually laughing at Ahmed or his antics.

The man's erection grew robust; the head of his member flared strongly.

The thought of Junayd showed Ahmed what the young man looked like at the end of the day; the sweat on his naked flesh being washed away by dipperfuls of sparkling water in the sunlight of the court, and all the time, that mischievous – that godlike – smile played at Ahmed's heart from behind the cascade of water in motion.

Wild, jagged breaths began to catch in the rear of Ahmed's throat.

Visions flashed disjointed and beautifully on the back of the soldier's eyes. And sensations were felt too: how Junayd smelled at night, in bed; how the young man's cheek felt as he slept safely on Ahmed's chest; how the boy's slumbering hand would grip at Ahmed's pectoral muscles and nipples – yes! It was too late to deny it now. Ahmed was too far gone, too madly in love to say it wasn't true anymore.

The soldier's shaft was going deeper and deeper with each thrust, and his seed-makers were gathering close to his body in preparation to release their profound well of stored content.

Ahmed's imagination slowly brought Junayd's lips close to his own. The stream of water from the dipper in the dervish's hand moistened Ahmed's forehead and made him close his eyes in anticipation.

Their lips touched, and Junayd's hands gripped onto his lower back with a driving force to taste Ahmed to the fullest.

He was close to climaxing. His inhalation started to be ragged and sharp, his pores began to dilate and release honeyed moisture and heat in equal proportions. A musky scent pulsated over him in frenzy release, but still he kept his eyes shut.

Ahmed imagined Junayd's strong hands bending him over at the waist. How the dervish would let a line of spit drool onto his member and press it to Ahmed's portal.

A slight lean forward, and Junayd would be inside of him.

Ahmed opened his eyes and held his breath; he stopped thrusting. In his mind, he saw Junayd coming down to grip his arms as the young man fucked him. And in that vision, "I love you, Ahmed," escaped the young man's ecstatic breaths.

Ahmed released his breath and roared over the prostate woman with unbridled pleasure. In another moment, he pulsated wave after wave of semen into Lady Gretza.

˚˚˚˚˚

The cleanup was complete. After their bath, and after they were towelled off, Lady Gretza had lightly rubbed clove oil into his skin. The mild antiseptic was fragrant, and the slave lifted an arm to smell it close up. He knew someone else would like it too.

Now Ahmed was back into his suddenly unbearably smelly clothes, and Lady Gretza was sheathed in her robe of peach.

She made to go for the door, but Ahmed latched onto her arm.

"Did I satisfy, Milady?"

A slight grin split her hard but beautiful features. "This time. We shall see about a rematch next month."

"My Lady, you wanted my hands on your throat – did you not fear I would harm you..?"

Her gaze became icy-cold. It sent a chill down Ahmed's spine despite the tropical feel of the room they stood in.

"That's a bold question for a slave, but yes. I knew you could kill me, and I also knew you would not, because you are a clever man who has something to keep protected – am I right?"

Of course the woman was making a cryptic reference to Junayd. Ahmed lowered his gaze and closed his parted lips.

The woman continued. "My husband, slave, does not excite me physically any longer. Why? Because he is too much under my power for me to think of him as a real man anymore. You on the other hand, with your allure of danger, and your free spirit, you excite me." She wrenched her hand free, adding in a softly whispered threat, "Stay dangerous, and we will get along just fine."

As she started to stride off, Ahmed swallowed down his fear. He spoke boldly, asking, "May I beg the lady's indulgence with a single favour?"

She nodded slowly with suspicion-raised eyes. Ahmed saw curiosity there as well.

"Will you allow my companion to get a bath as I have?"

"Why..?" she drew the sound out into a long, suspended tone that hung resonantly in the air around him.

Ahmed smiled. "Once I am washed, his stench will be too much for me. Either both dirty, or both clean."

She made her way to the door. Upon arriving there, she turned. "All right. I will tell Lady Maria to prepare a bath again for you tomorrow night. Only…"

"Yes, Milady?"

"Only, I expect your complete silence on this matter."

He bowed elaborately. "No one will ever know."