The Bridle Path

The Bridle Path

by Faith Eden

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Product Details

BN ID: 2940154106969
Publisher: Chimera Books
Publication date: 09/11/2012
Sold by: Smashwords
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 438 KB
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Sadly Faith (aka Jennifer Jane Pope) is no longer with us. So as the publisher of these books written by her I'd just like to pay tribute by saying that, in my opinion, she was an incredibly talented author who could develop a story from uniquely imaginative and unconventional angles. Faith (Jennifer) actually came to my rescue with Bridled Lust and The Bridle Path, because I'd commissioned the first of them from another 'author' who was new to Chimera. As I turned my attention to editing that first one I realised how poorly written it was, and with the release date looming (remember, this was in the good old days of printed paperbacks when we had a rigid publishing schedule to adhere to) I turned in desperation to Jennifer, and she produced a complete rewrite in about two weeks! She then went on to write the next episode from scratch. So I thank her for saving my bacon, because had she not stepped in there would have been numerous book distributors and stores around the world who'd have been very unimpressed had we missed the deadline. Adrian Chimera Books

Read an Excerpt

'How old are you, slave?' Pecon looked at Demila, who was crouched at his feet, where she had remained for perhaps half an hour, unmoving, unspeaking, but watching his every move. The sudden breaking of the silence seemed to catch her unawares and her eyes, flickering behind the leather slave mask, looked wary.

'I - I don't know, master,' she replied, her voice little more than a whisper. 'They think about twenty summers, but no one is sure.' Pecon picked idly at his teeth and considered this.

'You have been a slave for most of that time?' he said, eventually.

Demila nodded. 'For a long time, yes master,' she demurred. 'I cannot remember much of before that time.'

'But you were not always in Daskot's household?'

She shook her head again. 'No, master,' she said. 'For many years I was owned by a farmer - in a place they call the Vaal, which is the land where I was born, so I was told. He bought me from another when I was but a child, but I remember little of that.'

'You were a field worker?'

'No, master, not as such,' Demila replied, her voice now steadier as she appeared to grow in confidence. 'When I was still little, I worked in the kitchens on the great farm and then I was trained to the bridle.'

'To the bridle?' Pecon echoed. He sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing.

'Explain further, slave.' Demila's eyes showed confusion, but, after a brief hesitation, she continued.

'My master - my master then,' she corrected, 'trained and used slaves to act as horses, or ponies. We pulled carts and carriages, taking the surplus crops to market and also conveying the overseers about the estate. The bigger, stronger slaves were also raced against each other and against the pony slaves from other estates.'

'I see,' Pecon mused. His mouth twitched slightly, but his face remained a mask of inscrutability. 'Tell me more,' he said. 'I have heard of these things, but I have never come across them personally.'

'There is not much more to tell, master,' Demila replied. 'I was trained as part of a team of four girls, all of about my age, but I was too slight and did not develop sufficiently as I grew older, which was why I was sold again.' Pecon studied her full breasts and flaring hips and now a smile did flicker across his face.

'Your development seems perfectly satisfactory to me,' he chuckled.

Demila's eyes flickered again and her cheeks, beneath the rim of the mask, began to colour slightly.

'I was not tall enough, master,' she said blandly. 'Any girl who did not grow to a certain height was considered not worth training further. For the ordinary work there were always plenty of young slaves, so only the tallest and strongest were kept for racing and breeding. The rest of us were simply sold on, for other duties and purposes.'

'And Daskot, your last master, had purposes in mind that did not depend upon your height, eh?' Pecon grinned. Demila stared down at her feet. Pecon remained silent for several seconds, finally managing to loosen a piece of meat that had been annoying him for some while and spat it to one side.

'Stand up and remove your skirt,' he ordered, finally. Demila, still without meeting his gaze, leapt dutifully to her feet, unclipped the metal fastening at her waist and let the brief leather garment fall away to dangle from one hand. Slowly, Pecon stood up himself, stepped forward and took it from her, tossing it away.

'Look up at me, slave girl,' he commanded quietly. Almost reluctantly, Demila raised her eyes. Pecon reached out and cupped her heavy breasts, one in each hand, drawing a small shudder from her.

'Tell me,' he whispered, 'do you prefer me as a master - to that fat pig, Daskot, that is?'

Demila swallowed and licked her lips. 'A slave is not permitted such opinions, master,' she replied hoarsely.

Pecon grunted. 'A slave is permitted whatever her master says she is permitted,' he said. 'Answer the question, or shall I take my whip to your pretty hide?'

Demila hesitated, swallowing hard again, but fear of another whipping quickly loosened her tongue. 'I am your slave, master,' she said, 'and I am loyal and obedient. My last master, as you say, was fat and smelled and almost crushed the breath from my body. You, master, are strong and handsome.' Her eyes downcast again, she seemed to be struggling for the right words.

'You are very handsome, master,' she said at last. 'A slave girl should be honoured to serve one such as you.'

'Then show me how you would serve me,' Pecon said gruffly. Without further ado, Demila dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out and up for the heavy buckle on Pecon's belt. Her deft fingers quickly loosened it and, a moment later, she was drawing his breeches down about his knees.

'Remove them completely, girl,' Pecon instructed. 'A master cannot be dignified with his pants about his ankles.' Obediently, Demila crouched lower, tugging each leg free over his heavy boots as he raised a foot in turn, placing the discarded garment to one side with a care that bordered upon reverence. But as she reached up again for the flaccid organ her actions had revealed, Pecon pushed her hands away.

'Use only your mouth,' he said. 'That is why the slave hood leaves the lower part of the face unencumbered, as you should know.'

'Yes, master,' she mumbled, and placed her hands behind her back, reaching out and stretching her neck, until her soft lips touched his already swelling organ. Skilfully, she encircled its head, drawing it into her mouth, her tongue already darting back and forth.

'Excellent,' Pecon sighed. His right hand moved to rest lightly on the leather-covered crown of her head, as it moved slowly back and forth between his thighs. 'Excellent,' he repeated, as his shaft began to approach a full erection. He closed his eyes, smiling contentedly.

'You, my little ex-pony,' he whispered, 'could well turn out to be the best bargain I have made in many a long year.'...

The door to the bedroom had opened noiselessly and the first indication that Corinna had of his presence was when a large hand clamped over her mouth and another grasped her waist, throwing her over onto her stomach. Face down into the pillows, even had she cried out her protests would have passed unheard, and the soft wad of fabric he then forced between her unresisting lips ensured that any sounds she made would remain safely within the confines of the thick walled bedchamber.

He worked as efficiently as she remembered from that first time. Swiftly, her wrists were chained at the small of her back, immobilising her arms temporarily while he moved to the next stage. He lifted her effortlessly clear of the mattress, sliding the slave belt beneath her stomach and lowered her onto it, wrapping the stout leather about her waist and drawing it together to secure it with the four individual buckles.

Corinna gasped as he tightened the band, sucking air in through her nostrils and grunting as he continued to reduce the circlet still further.

Finally, when he was satisfied that he had made her waist as small as was practicable, he released the chain from her wrists and resecured them individually to the leather manacles riveted at either side of the belt for just that purpose.

Still unspeaking, he rolled her onto her back, from which position Corinna knew from experience, it would require either his assistance or a lot of effort on her own part, to either roll back or even sit up. However, neither alternative was an option as yet.

In the semi-darkness his form was little more than a silhouette as he bowed over her feet, first placing the slave sandals upon them and lacing them, criss-crossing the thongs up to her knees and then locking the heavy leather anklets into place, drawing her legs close enough together to accommodate the short chain that joined them.

He was ready for the slave hood now, and she had earlier drawn her long hair up into a high ponytail in order to facilitate its fitting. Twisting her long tresses into a temporary braid, he threaded them through the circlet at the crown, drawing the soft leather down and over the top half of her features, bringing the two side pieces over her cheeks and then passing the attached stiffer collar about her throat and joining it at the nape of her neck, where the small lock fastened.

Corinna peered out through the narrow eye slits, knowing he would soon buckle the blindfold over them, but not yet, for he wanted her to see his final preparations. He moved to the lamp, turning up the wick to increase the size and strength of the pool of light it provided, and crossed back to stand looking down at her.

'My most perfect slave,' he whispered, breaking the silence at last. He reached down, withdrawing the wadded gag from her mouth, one finger of his other hand raised to his lips, cautioning her against speaking. 'Stand, slave,' he ordered, taking her by the top of one arm to help her comply. She swung her legs slowly over the side of the bed, lowered her feet onto the thick rug, and awkwardly raised herself erect.

Now he held in his hand something metal, something that glinted, though dully, in the flickering lamplight. Corinna shivered delightedly as she recognised the simple iron inventory tags, the small rectangular pendants onto which every master or trader stamped the particulars of every slave.

They were attached to thick iron rings, thicker than the golden rings that had adorned Corinna's nipples this past year, and their girth stretched her piercings uncomfortably.

From the small bag he'd brought with him, Savatch now took a heavy pair of pincers, using them to crimp the rings, so that the hollow ends bit into the tongue ends, preventing them being removed without the aid of a similar tool. Corinna half closed her eyes, imagining herself a fully bonded slave, when these rings, the rings of the master who had finally purchased her, would be brazed closed in the smithy, removable then only by means of cutting or filing.

The tags felt heavy, pulling at her swollen teats, clinking slightly as she moved, but he was not through with her yet. Kneeling before her, he deftly detached the small gold rings that had remained through her outer labia since the previous summer, replacing them with thicker iron copies, one of which also bore a tag similar to the first pair, and then slipped a stubby lock between the two and snapped it shut.

'I see I shall not need my razor this time, princess,' he chuckled, running his fingers over her shaven pubis. Corinna felt the heat within rising, not just from the intimacy of his touch, but from the memories his words invoked, to that day, in another place and in another time that now seemed so far away and long ago, when a wide-eyed and frightened new bride had been forcibly shaved in her own bathtub.

'You mock your slave, master,' she said, lowering her eyes.

'That is a master's prerogative,' he said, 'and it is not the place of a slave to speak without permission. You have been too long without appreciating the privilege of speech, methinks.' He lifted the pear-shaped leather gag and she opened her mouth willingly to accept it, moving her mouth to adjust to its shape as he fastened the retaining straps to either side of her slave hood.

'And now,' he said, stepping back to take up the final item, 'we are ready to travel. Look upon your new master and remember the image until I restore the privilege of sight to you.' He stood for several seconds, unmoving, unspeaking, and Corinna stared back, already becoming lost in the forest of emotions and sensations. Finally, he held up the padded leather blindfold and, with an effort not to stumble, the Lady Corinna Oleanna, daughter of the Protector of Illeum and now a willing slave, stepped forward, head erect to receive it.

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