Babala's Correction by Bethany Amber Page A

with his wishes.
    As the cook drew back for yet another thrust the gathered watchers saw Babala’s bottom; saw how blotchy it was from the smacking and how abraded from the grating of the cook’s coarse hair.
    â€˜A deliciously swollen fleshpot,’ commented the pastry cook. ‘You’ve done a fine job there, Rata. She seems to be enjoying it, too. I’ll take a turn when you’re finished.’
    Looking over his broad shoulder and pausing in mid-thrust, Rata, his face flushed with effort and glossed with a fine film of sweat, grinned and gave a brief nod. ‘She’s a passive girl... amenable when she’s been shown the way... juicy and very skilled in clutching a man’s tool.’ He continued to plunge and Babala closed her eyes in humiliation at the wet noises of their coupling.
    At last, Rata gave a final grunt of contentment and she felt him spend into her in several aggressive thrusts. Then she heard the sucking as he pulled from her tightness and she bowed her head in further shame, her cascade of golden hair brushing the filthy floor of the kitchen. She tried to raise herself, but the smacking stool held her tightly, cupped in its hollow.
    â€˜Don’t move,’ said Rata, grinning down at her, as if she had a choice. ‘My friend the pastry cook, Marlin, is anxious to try you out.’
    â€˜And me!’
    â€˜And me!’
    â€˜And I’ll enjoy giving the little strumpet what she deserves!’ This last voice was a woman’s, sounding stern and angry. Babala dared to look up from beneath her tumbled hair at the newcomer, and shivered with fright at what she saw.
    When the Slavemaster first brought her to the castle he took her into the vast front hall and pointed to a portrait hung at the foot of the great stone staircase. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Don’t be fooled by her beauty; she is a cruel woman, especially towards someone she suspects might be bedding me.’
    The woman was indeed beautiful, thought Babala, looking up at the portrait. She was dark, like the Lady Fazath, with the same fine aristocratic features. Slender, but graciously full at the bosom, she wore her fine clothes well. In the portrait she was dressed in velvet, the bodice of which was encrusted in tiny pearls. The long skirt fell in elegant folds, but at the woman’s nipped waist there were several instruments that made Babala shudder. She had looked at the Slavemaster, her sapphire eyes questioning.
    â€˜Her little toys,’ he’d said with a wry smile. ‘No doubt she will demonstrate them to you, given the opportunity. Desilla never misses a chance to use her toys, especially on my new girls, but remember what I said; don’t give her an inkling that you and I have coupled.’
    Now the woman was here, standing before Babala in the kitchen where she had been so used and humiliated, and where she was held fast on the smacking stool, her bottom raised high and glowing red from its treatment by Rata. Babala tried to close her thighs to hide her sex folds and Rata’s copious juices, but the smacking stool was so designed that it would not allow her to hide that part of her body. No matter how she wriggled and squirmed she was held fast by the gripping cup about her tummy.
    â€˜Get on with your work,’ Desilla ordered, ‘or it will be the worse for you... all of you!’ The cooks and maids scattered and pretended to be busy with their chopping and kneading of pastry.
    Desilla stood over Babala. Shiny black leather boots, thought the girl. She hadn’t worn those in the portrait, but dainty pumps such as ladies wore for dancing. Babala raised her head, straining her neck to observe the rest of Desilla’s outfit, but was rewarded by a pain that made her arch her back in an attempt to escape the smacking stool’s clutches and bite her lip until she tasted blood to mute the scream of agony that rose in her