Slaves to the Girlspell

by William Avon

  “Please finish me off!” she begged him. “Just rub your fingers up and down my slit!”

  Gosset shook his head. “Jackson said we should leave you wanting more. He thinks it’ll make you more ready to please later.”

  Amber groaned and tugged futilely at her bonds. “Aren’t you going to untie me?”

  “But then you’d only bring yourself off. We know girls can do that just like boys. Don’t worry, we won’t leave you very long. Harris will be along soon. He’s next on the rota.”

  “The rota?”

  Gosset finished dressing and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Unfolding it he pinned it to a post of her stall. It was a list of her five joint masters’ names with periods of the day set against them. “This is to make sure we all have you the same number of times,” he explained. “And we can put down marks for how well you pleased us.”

  I’m on a fucking list! Amber thought. With marks out of ten!

  But she had to ask: “Er... how well did I do just now?”

  Gosset wrote a figure in a column with the stub of a pencil then grinned at her. “I’m giving you a minus.”

  “‘A minus!”

  He stepped between her splayed legs and slid one foot forward. The toe of his boot nuzzled into the split pouch of flesh at the junction of her thighs from which a sticky trickle of fluid was seeping. Amber immediately dipped her hips and squirmed desperately on her bottom, kissing the tip of his boot with her cunt lips as though trying to suck the leather into her so it might bring relief to her hardened love bud.

  Suddenly Gosset pulled his foot away, leaving her rubbing on empty air.

  “You got a minus because you kept me waiting too long,” he said.

  With a whimper Amber dropped her head back onto her blankets. She heard Gosset climb down the trap door and pull it shut, then his steps faded away on the ladder below.

  This is what I’ve been reduced to she told herself bitterly, trying to ignore the terrible ache in her loins - being left so frustrated I’m ready to work myself off on a shoe! And she’d been worried at first that the boys’ apparently insatiable intentions would wear her out! She’d happily take a caning again rather than be left feeling like this. But then that was the idea. And tonight, no doubt, caning was exactly what she would get. Did all boys in this world have such a natural talent for torture?

  Miserably Amber tried to distract herself by thinking of her revenge on Arabella. Yes, that would be sweet. As long as they could find the girl from her own version of England that she had deduced Arabella was keeping captive somewhere. The girl must have found and used the last phallus in the puzzle box. Amber wondered dryly if she was having as much fun as she was.

  Sue

  Sunlight glowed around the dusty, faded curtains of the tiny window as Sue Drake woke in pain. Her whole body seemed to ache. Certain places were worse than others.

  She was bound face down on the underframe of a narrow bed, wrists and ankles chained to the bed posts, her body resting on a lattice of canvass webbing. The heavy pale bells of her breasts had been forced through gaps in the fabric so that they ballooned outward again under the bed; hanging like fruit ready for picking. The scattered morning light revealed them to be scored by criss-cross welts and abrasions. Even the pendant nipples were reddened beyond their normal colour.

  A little way down from her abused breasts a length of broom handle emerged at an angle from the webbing. Its lower end rested on the floor beyond the foot of the bed, held fast by cords tied to the bed legs. The upper end was lodged deep inside Sue’s plump-lipped cunt, its shaft darkened by the female juices its presence had stimulated. It was another degradation, another step in her training to become the perfect slave, which seemed to be Sue’s predestined role in life.

  Yesterday, her Mistress had hired two men to abuse Sue for her amusement. They had handled her cruelly and used her for their pleasure in every way imaginable. Yet, after it was over, Sue had begged for more - and had been granted her wish. Despite still being sore and bruised from that encounter, twice during the seemingly interminable night Sue had succumbed to the temptation the broom handle had offered - even though she was allowed no pleasure without pain.

  Rising from between the soft white hemispheres of her upward-facing buttocks was a thick sprig of holly. Its trimmed stalk, too slender for her to expel, was embedded in her anus. Every time she tried to pleasure herself on the broom handle, the movement caused the holly to do its worst. The inner cheeks of her buttocks and the soft swell of her upper thighs were ringed by scratches and pinpoints of dried blood.

  Pain and pleasure. The distinctions were becoming blurred in Sue’s mind, along with so much else.

  She had no idea where she was or how she got there. She’d been on a cycling holiday. Passing through Hoakam woods she’d come across a strange black box with its irresistibly alluring phallus. After using it she had fallen somehow. There was a bruise on her head. She must have been unconscious. When she woke she found she was already a prisoner - a sex-slave. It all seemed too incredible. Perhaps she was lying in some hospital bed dreaming it all? No, it was real - more real than anything else she had known.

  Down below her a key turned in a lock. Sue caught her breath. Footsteps clattered on the wooden stairs. It was the sound Sue both longed for and dreaded. The door of the tiny bedroom opened and Arabella Westlake walked in.

  Sue’s stomach knotted as she twisted her head round to look up at her mistress. Arabella was dressed in culottes, riding jacket and boots. In her hand she carried a horse crop. A smile twitched the corners of Arabella’s fine lips as she took in Sue’s prostrate form. She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers down the hollow of Sue’s spine. Reaching her bottom she pried apart the fleshy buttock cheeks and examined the damage the holly sprig had done. Sue whimpered as the movement drove more spines into her skin. Arabella smiled and turned to the foot of the bed. Untying the cords that secured the end of the broom handle, she drew it out of Sue with soft sucking pop.

  “I see you were excited last night,” she said, examining the glistening darkly stained head of the broom handle.

  “Yes, Mistress,” Sue said in a tiny voice.

  “Did it hurt when you tried to pleasure yourself?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Arabella sniffed the stained handle, then flicked out a pink tongue tip and licked it delicately, savouring Sue’s intimate honeydew. “Good,” she said. “Did you come?”

  “Twice, Mistress.”

  “Indeed. Despite the pain it entailed?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Would you like me to remove the holly now?”

  “Only if it pleases you, Mistress.”

  Arabella reached up into the humid haven between Sue’s thighs and carefully plucked the holly sprig out of her slave’s anus. Sue gave a shudder. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  Arabella took the dog leash which had been hanging over the end of the bed and clipped it to Sue’s collar. Then she unlocked the padlocks that secured Sue’s chains. Sue almost fell off the bed as she tried to move her numbed and stiffened limbs. Her breasts were ringed by white and purple weals where the webbing of the bed had cut into them. On her hands and knees she crawled awkwardly after Arabella as she was led down the narrow stairs.

  In the low beamed sitting room below, food and water had been set out in two tin bowls. Sue drank and ate hunched over her simple meal, picking up her food with lips and teeth and making no attempt to use her hands. Her sore nipples brushed the floor. In one corner of the room her bike and cycle packs rested against the wall; a reminder of the world she had come from. Would she ever return?

  When she was finished, Arabella led her through the back door and into a small overgrown garden, surrounded by a tall thick hedge. The sun was still low and there was dew on the grass, but th
e day promised to be a warm one. From outside it was apparent that the house was really a slightly reduced model of a half-timbered thatched cottage. In fact it was an elaborate children’s playhouse fallen into neglect.

  As she had been taught, Sue scraped a hole in earth of one of the flower beds and squatted over it like a dog. When it was filled with her wastes she wiped herself clean with handfuls of long grass, then carefully covered the hole in again. Shuffling back to Arabella she bent and kissed the tops of her riding boots, then looked up at her mistress with wide eyes full of fear and helpless adoration.

  Arabella ruffled Sue’s thick mane of shaggy blonde hair as one would pet a dog, admiring the curves of the girl’s full, hourglass figure, noting how her pale skin highlighted the marks of her various punishments. But Sue’s face was the greatest delight; so innocent and open, so easily made to contort in distress or pleasure. Blue eyes that ran so readily with tears. She was a creature made to be moulded and mastered.

  For a moment Sue thought she saw in Arabella’s gaze the unreserved approval she sought with all her heart. To know that Arabella accepted the gift of her submission and loved her for it was all Sue wanted. She would live happily under her heel if she was granted that one gift. But then the look was gone and cool composure returned to Arabella’s features.

  “I shall be busy for much of today and won’t be able to attend to you personally,” Arabella told her. “But I have ensured that your training will not be interrupted. The girls have their instructions. I have something rather special in mind for you...”

  And she showed Sue the new torment she had planned for her.

  Outrage and disgust flickered briefly within Sue as she learned what was to come, even as she admitted with helpless resignation that it was entirely appropriate.

  Sue said meekly: “If my suffering will please you, Mistress...”

  Vixens

  Long chains had been slung from the wrought iron angle brackets that projected at regular intervals from the inner walls of the girlpack yard. Onto these chains all twenty-two packgirls had been fastened. Their arms were held over their heads by snaplinks clipped to the rings built into the wrists of their thumbless, thickly padded, elbow-length black rubber mittens, which were known as ‘paws’. Their flat-soled knee boots were of the same material. In between was naked flesh waiting to be decorated.

  Alison Chalmers and George Platt, the head keeper, worked their way along the line of girls, each carrying a pot of body paint and a broad brush. Alison painted a red-brown oval on the girls’ backs, extending from their shoulders to the upper slopes of their buttocks. Two additional brush strokes coloured the outer curves of their thighs. Platt in his turn put an oval of pure white on their stomachs, from the top of their pubic deltas to the undercurve of their breasts, then added smaller dabs on their sternums and throats. Two more strokes picked out the lines of their inner thighs.

  Painting completed, Alison and Platt went back into the storeroom and the girls were left to dry for a few minutes.

  From beyond the walls of their yard they could hear the excited barking of dogs from the kennels next to theirs. These were the animals that would be used to hunt them down. The noise made the girls squirm, clenching their thighs in an attempt to squeeze lovelips itching with nervous anticipation.

  Melanie tried to steady her breathing. “Is it always like this before a hunt?” she whispered to Una, who was tethered beside her.

  Una had short dark hair and a wonderfully lean and strong body with neat, high-set, pointed breasts. She’d been First Girl of the pack before Melanie had beaten her in a fight. Her initial resentment had been muted by Melanie’s determination not to let there be any bad blood between them, and now she seemed to have accepted her change in status.

  Una gave a thin smile. “Yeah,” she admitted softly. “You never get used to it. Some of the girls’ll be wetting themselves soon. But you’ve just got to remember to run as fast as you can for as long as you can. Don’t be frightened of the dogs; they might give you a few scratches but nothing worse. And anytime you’re out of sight of them you can...” She hesitated.

  “Yes?” Melanie said.

  “Pee up against a tree, then double back on your tracks. If you can find a fallen branch or suchlike that you can rub in your slot that’s also good. Confuses the hounds and makes the riders think they’ve treed you.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Melanie said as warmly as she could.

  “That’s so clever. Can... I try that as well?” Gillian asked tentatively.

  Gillian was a slender blonde tethered on the other side of Melanie. She’d been persecuted by Una before Melanie came because of her upper class roots and for failing to please guests, so letting the pack down. Melanie had done what she could to improve relations between them.

  Una looked at Gillian uncertainly for a moment, then smiled. “Sure. You just give them the best run you can.”

  “I will. I promise I’ll make the Major proud of me.”

  Platt and Alison came back out into the yard with a box of masks and began putting them on the girls. These were very light shells of painted papier maché that went on their heads like caps, merging with their own tied-back hair, and were held in place by rubber chin straps. They had fox-like pointed ears and protruding snouts, cutaway on the underside so that their breathing would not be impaired. Melanie blinked through the eyeholes at her transformed companions. The fox-masks curiously complemented their naked flesh, producing a theatrical yet at the same time surprisingly convincing effect.

  Platt emerged from the storeroom again with a smaller box containing some curiously shaped objects and stepped up to the first girl on the chain. Melanie watched him work his way along the line towards her with tremulous fascination, even though she knew what he was doing. As the Major had explained to her yesterday, the hunt would be a race against the clock so they had to know when each girl was captured. This was the most convenient method when any part of their anatomy could be made to serve some practical purpose.

  Platt reached Una. From the box he took a small rubber ball studded with soft prongs. A six-inch length of fine chain trailed from it with a numbered metal tag on the end. Platt checked it against Una’s collar number, then loaded the ball into the end of a smooth slim tube so that the chain hung within it. Una spread her legs and pushed her hips forward. Platt slid the tube up into her front passage with practised ease, then withdrew it leaving the ball inside her and the tag hanging beneath her pudenda.

  Then it was Melanie’s turn.

  She gulped and spread her legs obediently. The applicator tube slid up into her moist hole easily, but she gave a little gasp as she felt the rubber prongs spring out inside her. Reflex caused her vaginal muscles to contract about the curious object. The radiating prongs did not hurt, but she was very aware of their presence, as she was of the chain and dangling metal tag shining brightly under her dark cleft of flesh.

  As Platt continued along the line, Alison carried a wooden trestle into the yard, followed by a box brimming with lengths of brown fur. Then she began releasing the girls who were already tagged. As each was freed they quickly ran over and knelt beside the trestle.

  When half a dozen girls were waiting, Alison returned to the box by the trestle and gestured to the first girl in line. She immediately laid herself over the trestle, resting her gloved hands on the far side and spreading her legs wide, so the cleft of her buttocks and the dark crinkled pit of her anus pointed skyward.

  Alison took one of the furry objects from the box and smoothed it out. It was an artificial foxtail almost two feet long. She stood between the packgirl’s spread legs and slid the plug-end of the tail into her oiled anus. When it was in place, Alison took a long key from her pocket and inserted it into the hollow metal shaft of the tail and twisted several times. She tested the tail, pulling hard to check it was secure, then
patted the girl on the rump. She got off the trestle and the next girl took her place.

  Platt finished inserting the tags and released the rest of the pack, who joined the queue by the trestle.

  In turn, Melanie laid herself across the trestle and looked back over her shoulder as Alison picked up another foxtail. Its mount was more complex than the simple rubber plugs that held packgirls’ normal smaller false tails in place. Extending from the end of the mounting pin was a short length of soft rubber tube with a nut set into its tip. Alison bent over Melanie’s rear and Melanie tried to relax her sphincter as the tube slid deep inside her.

  When it was fully inserted, Melanie felt the key slide into the hollow shaft. Alison began turning. The key fitted the head of a screw bolt enclosed by the pin and which engaged with the nut. Turning the bolt pulled the nut closer and so caused the tube to bunch outwards. Melanie felt it swell up on the inner side of her narrow anal passage, intrusive yet darkly exciting. The rest of the springy metal mount ran up the cleft of her buttocks until it reached the small of her back where the fur of the tail itself blossomed in an outward curve. Alison removed the key and gave the tail a firm tug. It did not move. For the first time Melanie was truly plugged; her rear passage closed off to all other functions except for providing a mount for her new tail until somebody removed it for her.

  Alison slapped her rump and Melanie got off the trestle and joined the other newly-tailed girls. The soft mass of bushy fur hung down over her thighs as she crouched on all fours, teasing her bottom with its whisper-soft touch.

  In a few minutes the whole pack had been similarly fitted out. Neatly marshalled into three ranks they all crouched on their hands and knees as Platt inspected them.

  He nodded in quiet satisfaction. The transformation from human to animal was complete. Their black boots and gloves resembled the black ‘socks’ of a fox, with their human fingers concealed and constrained by their paws. Their tongues were silenced by obedience and training while the nipples on their dangling breasts were swollen and hard with anticipation. Every movement reminded them of the foreign devices lodged inside their tender orifices. Half-veiled by bushy tails, swollen nether lips pouted glistening from between sturdy thighs. The air thickened with the musky scent of helpless female arousal. The Markham Hall bitches had become vixens ready for the hunt.