Babala's Correction by Bethany Amber

contents, the bulb shining with the slime of pre-issue.
    â€˜The Taskmaster tutored me well,’ Babala argued meekly, her eyes fixed upon the waving cock. ‘I was taught to pleasure men, but I am not a whore.’
    The jailer grunted and slumped upon her helpless body, and her opening was so slick and ready that he entered her without trouble. A sigh of supreme pleasure whispered from his slobbering lips and Babala could feel him pulsing in her cushiony depths. She could feel him butting at the very limits of her womb, but remembering what the Slavemaster had said about her used condition, she clung like a limpet upon the jailer’s cock and watched his eyes open in surprise.
    â€˜How beautiful!’ he grunted, drool glistening on his unshaven chin. ‘No woman has done that...’ The crushed girl heard his foul breath quicken and become shallow as he shunted deep into her with rapid stabs. But despite his rough appearance she could not help the naughty thrills of pleasure that swirled in her lower belly; could not help the pouting of her breasts against his scrawny chest, the arching of her pussy mound against his butting groin.
    â€˜How now?’ bellowed a familiar voice, becoming louder as the owner descended the ancient slimy steps to the cells. ‘What is this?’
    The jailer sweated heavily over Babala, wetting the tendrils of golden hair that spread about the smooth and creaking wood of the bench, and with a final pig-like grunt he thrust and released his jets of copious semen into her. He grunted again and struggled to pull his cock from her clutching depths, but when he did his still turgid cock continued to spurt, arcing its cream onto her belly and thighs.
    â€˜She - she tempted me, sir,’ he blurted sheepishly, his greasy hair curtaining his bowed face. ‘I could not help myself, sir.’
    The newcomer laughed, stepping over to the bench and fingering the cold iron that manacled Babala’s wrists. ‘So I see.’ The tone dripped sarcasm, and the richly woven and embroidered satin of the Slavemaster’s robe rustled in her ears, and she knew that, despite his apparent merriment, he was angry. ‘She clambered onto the rack and locked herself into the clasps herself, I suppose.’
    â€˜More or less, sir,’ the hateful jailer confirmed, lacking the intelligence to concoct a more convincing lie of his own, whilst wiping his cock with the greasy square of leather that scarcely covered the thick length.
    â€˜Please, that’s not true,’ Babala protested, tugging in vain at the iron that shackled at wrists and ankles. She managed to arch her bottom from the carved wooden pillow, as if this would help to release her, and in the gloom she could see two more shadowy figures and hear the clink of chains.
    â€˜However, it is true,’ said the Slavemaster, ‘that you enticed the jailer to fuck you with his huge and filthy cock once he had shackled you to the rack. Is it not, my dear?’ He idly slapped the fullness of her breasts as he pondered aloud.
    â€˜No,’ Babala denied, rolling her head from side to side on the table, ‘it isn’t.’
    â€˜Really?’ said the Slavemaster, a quizzical eyebrow raised. ‘Then what of this?’ With a look of distaste he trailed the handle of his whip through the spillage pooled on her flat stomach, and allowed some excess to drip in chilly trails upon her breasts.
    â€˜Stop that, you filth!’
    Babala’s eyes widened at the sound of the Lady Fazath’s commanding voice, and widened still further at the sound of flesh slapping naked flesh.
    â€˜Mind your own business!’ ordered a croaking voice. ‘You’re mine now and you have no right to tell the master what he can and cannot do. If you speak again I shall gag you until you can learn to hold your tongue.’
    â€˜That’s the way to treat a disobedient woman, crone,’ said the