Babala's Correction , livre ebook

Title Page
Babala’s Correction

By
Bethany Amber



Publisher Information
Babala’s Correction - published in 2014
by House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Bethany Amber 2014
The right of Bethany Amber to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Chapter 1
Babala was naked and the forest was cold. Rain dripped through the thick canopy of leaves, making the girl’s body slick and silky in the arms of her captor.
Unheeding of her captive’s chill the Lady Fazath jogged with a long, easy, loping stride along the narrow winding path. She cradled Babala in her strong arms as easily as if the girl was a wraith and no heavier than a sack of feathers, rather than shapely flesh, delicately formed.
The night was dark and seemed endless, and Babala rested her head upon the moulded bronze that served as her mistress’s breastplate. It was hard against her pale cheek, which felt bruised by the rhythmic bouncing through the forest. The only comfort was the warm grip of her ladyship’s hands. One held Babala firmly about her naked thighs, just below the gentle swell of her buttocks, and the other cupped a bare breast. Her ladyship tweaked it, making the pink nipple painfully tight. This brought a blush to Babala’s cheeks, for it was not as if she yearned the touch of a woman. Her sexual experience was very limited and restricted to one man - not a lover, but a man who was employed by the Prince to prepare the girls of the harem for his use.
Babala shuddered in her captor’s arms as she felt the memory, like a physical thing, of the Taskmaster’s cock, thick and hard, slipping easily through her maidenhead after hours of sensual preparation. It began by him making her stand with legs wide apart before a looking glass. Had not Babala been the narcissistic maiden that she was her skin would have burned with blushes at this lewd instruction - and at what followed.
‘Peel back your love lips, my sweet,’ he commanded. ‘And tell me how you feel.’
Babala remembered slight flushes stain her cheeks and she bowed her head as she did as she was ordered. Gently, with her forefingers, she opened her outer love lips just a fraction.
‘Wider,’ he snapped, and she felt the sting of an open palm upon the fullness of her bottom cheeks. ‘And don’t pretend shame.’ The palm slapped her again. ‘Thrust out your love mound and look into the glass with your head held high. Girls like you are self-absorbed,’ he added knowingly. ‘You like to see your pretty little clitties peeping from their hoods, all pink and shiny. Admit it!’ The palm slapped again and Babala could feel the heat as well as the sting. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
She lifted her head and, obediently, looked straight into the looking glass. Humiliated though she was, she opened her love lips to the full and saw her sex bud, shining and erect in her virginal slit.
‘You are so delicious, Babala,’ he said, tapping the open sex with the very tip of a finger. ‘So unusual, as well as so pliant and obedient; so different from the usual maidens I have to suffer here.’
He taunted her playfully with fingers and tongue for many minutes, teasing her bud until a less disciplined girl would have screamed.
As he finally took her completely she was overcome with ecstasy when his cockstem was pulled from her fully and then pushed back, grating her erect clitty as it re-entered. She remembered arching her body over the damask couch upon which he had laid her, and thrusting her pussy mound hard against the crisp curls of the Taskmaster’s groin, the better to feel her approaching orgasm.
‘Yes, my darling one,’ grunted the Taskmaster. ‘You clutch my cock and pet its length most expertly. For an inexperienced maiden you are a proficient lover. It will always be so, believe me. I know a willing girl when I feel her cunny gripping about my cock.’
Babala thought she would faint with the pleasure of her come. She wanted more, but the Taskmaster had already passed her on to the women who would bathe her, cleanse her cunny of his issue and dress her in the short silk shift the Prince required his girls to wear so that their freshly opened cunts were freely available to him.
She shuddered afresh. The memory did not fade, but rather became more painfully clear in her memory and a terrible feeling of loss stole over her. If only she could escape, but the Lady Fazath was so strong and powerful, so full of vigour. Even with her rain-slicked body, slippery as silk, the girl had no possible chance to escape from this Amazon of a woman.
True, dressed in a light armour of a snugly fitted breastplate and a short white skirt, the Lady Fazath was dressed for speed rather than battle, although battle she would surely do if the occasion arose. Her muscular arms, the skin a gleaming tawny gold, were bare apart from the broad silver bangles tight about her smooth biceps. A beaten silver belt cinched her waist with a dagger tucked neatly into it, and the short skirt swirled about her taut buttocks that rippled with power as she ran.
Lustrous midnight hair flowed about her broad shoulders; the shining curls dancing in the double moonlight of Ellipsis. Her onyx eyes slanted as she skipped lithely over fallen logs and her fine patrician nose sniffed the air for any sign of danger. The handsome lips had the softness of a girl’s, but were wide and firm as a man’s.
Babala, slender as a willow, fragile as the finest porcelain, but fetchingly voluptuous, was destined to be the Prince’s favourite had not the Lady Fazath intervened. She scarcely succeeded in stifling a sob and was squeezed unmercifully by the muscular arms that held her.
‘Stop that!’ The words were hissed in her ear and the outpouring of breath stirred the damp cascade of her golden curls. ‘Did you really want to be the Prince’s plaything until he tired of you and tossed you aside like so much kitchen refuse?’
‘It was my destiny.’ Babala’s soft voice was all but inaudible above the steady patter of the rain and the rhythmic pounding of the Lady Fazath’s feet. They were more a thought than spoken word. She knew the Prince was especially taken with her stunning beauty, her ripe breasts and splendidly shapely hips and legs. Hadn’t he told her so in just those words? He picked her out from all the girls freshly trained by the Taskmaster, who told her, at his final and intimate inspection, that she could be the Prince’s consort if she behaved herself.
Unable to contain the quiver of misery that made Babala slip in her captor’s arms, she almost slid to the leafy and muddy ground. A muscular limb gripped her like a vice and a hand as hard and smooth as a paddle was laid sharply upon her vulnerable buttocks. She felt the hot sting of the chastisement and felt her bottom flesh shudder under the blow.
‘You are mine, girl.’
‘I was to be the Prince’s,’ Babala retorted boldly.
Smacks far harder than the first single slap fell one after the other upon Babala’s rain-wet and glowing bottom.
‘You dare to question my actions, you little strumpet? Me? Second only to the Taskmaster in importance at the castle?’ The queries were growled thickly from deep in the womanly breast.
‘He wanted me! The Taskmaster told me. And you will never be able to return to the castle now. Never! We are fugitives.’ The girl wept in earnest, her tears blending with the rain that glossed her finely formed features. Amazed at her own boldness, she continued. ‘You had no right to steal me from the Castle Ellipsis, and you are a woman. What possible use could I be to you?’
Laughter, full-throated and deep, rang through the forest, and the Lady Fazath gently set Babala on the wet ground. The girl’s limbs fell naturally into a sensuous pose, the slender arms were swept up above the golden head, the full breasts pouted firmly and were pert, the shapely legs parted, but twisted to reveal the glowing bottom, tinged from the severe slaps that had been so recently delivered to the pale skin.
‘What use?’ Cool fingers stroked the heated hillocks of her bottom, and suddenly Babala was hauled to her feet and pressed against an oak tree. Her wrists were held above her head by the Lady Fazath’s strong fingers. Her smacked bottom chafed against the rough bark and her breasts were further chilled by contact with the mistress’s bronze breastplate. The girl felt the sensitive flesh of her nipples spring to hard and painful erection once more.
‘What use?’ Lady Fazath whispered again, changing her grip upon Babala’s wrists to hold them with one hand while the other slid over shapely ribs and upwards to the firm lower slope of a breast.
The stroke made Babala shudder, not this time with misery cold or fear, but with a strange kind of excitement, not unlike that she remembered feeling in the arms of the Taskmaster. But surely this could not be? The Taskmaster was a man and the Lady Fazath was a woman.
Lips, as cool and smooth as the silk spun by the silkworms in the mulberry trees in the castle grounds, closed upon the bud of Babala’s tautened nipple. Her smarting bottom, pressed so hard against the bark, arched towards the woman’s lower body. The puff of golden curls upon her mound brushed against the white silk Lady Fazath wore about her na