Inspired by Ruby Kiddell’s Twittersmut hashtag, #WankWednesday.

Today’s prompt was #clear…

“Clear the way!”

The shout echoes between the buildings.  A sea of bodies slowly parts, and lines the sides of the wide street leading from the temple to the market place.

There will be no market today.

Unbidden, I walk out of the shadow of the arched doorway and begin to make my way along the street.  As I leave the shadow, the warm spring sunshine hits the top of my head, and I pause, lifting my face to drink in its blessing.

The jingle and brush of the chain against my skin brings me back to myself, and reminds me of my purpose here today.  I take a breath and begin to move once more.

At this time, and in this place, the chain that loops from the iron collar around my throat, between my breasts, and back behind me to the tightly clenched fist of the guard captain is unnecessary.  But it is traditional since, in ages past, there have been some who did not feel the honour of this choosing, or savour the anticipation of its results, as much as I.  My arms are tightly bound behind me, forcing my breasts to jut and be displayed to the hundreds of hungry eyes that travel along my skin, tangible as caressing fingers.  My core twitches, and my nipples bud in response. I raise my chin higher as I walk as stately as I can with my ankles shackled.

The smooth cobbles are sun-warmed as my feet, naked as the rest of me, mould to them with each step, and I almost close my eyes with the pleasure of the sensation.  But I must not fall, for I will have no protection if I do, and I must go through with this no matter what.

And I intend to enjoy it.

As I and my guard reach the end of the street, the marketplace opens before me, and the rest of the town lines its margins.  They are near silent, reverent; but the charge in the air prickles my skin, drawing another lurch from my core, and moisture begins to seep.

Oh, gods, I am so ready for this!

On the dais is a simple wooden structure – a carved and shaped horizontal pole, supported by two uprights.  I know my part in this, so I willingly step toward the pole.  As the chain attached to my collar is secured to the staple in front, it pulls me down to bend over the carved crossbar.  My shackled ankles are briefly released, only to be pulled wide apart and strapped to the base of the supports.  This pulls my body slightly lower, until I am resting, bent over the crossbar, the wood worn soft and smooth by generations of thighs and bellies that have caressed it.

My people decided long ago that a leader should be of the people and, therefore, should be got by the people, to serve them faithfully.  In order for this to happen, the leader’s mother first needs to be served by the people.  This thought runs through my mind as I sense the circle of men closing in all around the dais.  I can almost smell the musk of their arousal and the thought of them using me, one by one, in the hope of getting our next leader upon me, fills me with lust so hot it burns.

As the first one steps up behind me and plunges his cock deep into my belly, my first orgasm washes over me…

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