The Girlflesh Castle

by Adriana Arden

  They filed in past folding screens around the door that would shield the interior from view while it was open, and took their seats. Vanessa would of course have liked to be put next to Kashika but the chains were all neatly paired up. She was placed on one side of the row of back seats used by the transportation crew, of two men and a woman, who shared the driving and minding the girls.

  Naturally they were not allowed to travel without restraints. Seat belts were put on the girls and their wrists cuffed to the armrests. Their legs were spread and ankles cuffed to the seat base frames. Plugs in the seats between their legs were pulled out to reveal flexible hoses ending in plastic funnels that were pressed snugly against their pussies and clipped to their labia, allowing them to pee while still secure in their seats.

  There was no practical need to secure them, but there was a psychological one that Vanessa understood. They were all eager to serve in Glen Lothy and there was not the slightest danger of them trying to escape. They could have made the trip unrestrained but it would not have been the same. The process of travelling to an assignment or outlying facility was all part of the experience and preparation. It focused their minds on what was to come. And of course it meant they still could not touch themselves. On top of their night of enforced abstinence they were sure to arrive aroused, excited and ready to please.

  They set off, the coach making its way through the sparse early-morning traffic, heading for the M1 and the North. The girls eagerly took in the sights that they so rarely saw while serving. Vanessa felt a perverse thrill knowing they were so publicly yet covertly on display. How many eyes noted the dimly-seen figures behind the tinted glass, never guessing they were looking at two-dozen slave girls naked from the waist down, gagged and chained to their seats?

  Once they had settled down on the motorway the crew enjoyed the perks of the job by choosing, after much breast fondling and pussy tickling, from the selection of girlflesh on offer. These were taken to the backseat beside Vanessa, had their gag strips peeled back, and were made to perform oral sex to the accompaniment of music over the speaker system. They were not allowed to cum, themselves, of course. The sucking, snuffling and lapping and the smell of freshly discharged sperm and womanly juices only made Vanessa and the rest more needy.

  Between such diversions the girls watched the countryside go by and dozed. At regular intervals they were fed fruit juice and water and peed in their little funnels, all in air-conditioned comfort. It was a novel way to travel, Vanessa thought.

  Hours passed. One of the coach crewmen sat beside Vanessa, slid his hand up inside her T-shirt and played with her nipples until they stood out like thimbles under the fabric while his other hand delved between her legs and toyed with her clit until her juices dripped into her plastic funnel. Then he let go of her and wiped his sticky fingers on her shirt, leaving her helplessly simmering with need.

  ‘Don’t worry, girl, you’ll have plenty of chances to cum when you get to the Lothy castle.’

  She desperately hoped he was right.

  They arrived at Glen Lothy as the sun was lowering in the sky. For the last half hour they had encountered almost no traffic as they drove along narrower roads deeper into the hills and vales.

  Passing between tall iron gates slung between crested pillars and guarded by a gatehouse, the coach followed a long driveway that wound through thick fir woods. Vanessa could feel their excitement mounting as the girls eagerly peered out of the windows. Then a vista opened up before them.

  They were descending into a narrow steep-sided glen of heather-mottled moorland merging with belts of woodland that grew thicker as they reached down to a loch dotted with tiny islets. On the near shore stood a granite-grey castle complete with turrets and battlements.

  On the landward side a quilt of lawns and walled gardens spread out from the castle. As they passed by them they could see people strolling about enjoying the evening air. Some had naked girls on leashes trotting or shuffling along at their heels. One girl was chasing a thrown stick like a playful dog. A light trap pulled by a pair of girls in pony-head masks appeared on a path that wound out of the woods. It was all entirely open and natural.

  Vanessa felt a shiver as she realised that this was a little world on its own; level B3 on a grand scale, isolated from mundane reality, devoted to the use and enjoyment of slaves. Suddenly she was glad to be away from London and worries about Rochester. Here she could simply be herself.

  The coach drew up by a side entrance to the castle. The door opened and a big brawny man in shirt-sleeves and a kilt climbed aboard. A lash hung from the belt that supported his sporran. He glanced over the girls with a professional eye.

  ‘We’ve got an hour to get the lassies ready,’ he told the coach crew. ‘The laird wants to show them off to the guests at tonight’s feast. Let’s get them down to the dungeons right away.’

  Vanessa sensed the shiver of anticipation pass though the girls even as her own nipples pricked up. They were going down into real castle dungeons!

  Six

  STIFF-LEGGED FROM THEIR hours of sitting still, the girls climbed down from the coach, where two more men in highland dress with lashes hanging from their belts chained them once more into coffles. One of the coach crew handed over Vanessa’s individual leash and a bag containing her hat and reporting paraphernalia to the big Scotsman. He took it with a nod, looking her quizzically up and down.

  ‘Ah, yes, the famous slave reporter,’ he said. ‘We must make sure she has plenty to write about. All right, lady and gentlemen, we’ll take them from here. There’s some tea for you in the kitchen when you’re ready …’

  The girls were led up some steps and through a heavy iron-studded door into a long hallway off which many doors opened, all having the utilitarian look of staff quarters. There came the murmur of voices mingling with the sound of clattering pans. The aroma of cooking wafted past them, and suddenly Vanessa realised how hungry she was. Another studded door at the end of the corridor opened onto the head of a spiral staircase just wide enough for two of them to walk abreast. Down they went into the bowels of the castle.

  The stairs ended in a cellar-like space, floored by stone flags over which strips of rubber matting had been laid, which extended away between massive piers bearing the weight of the castle above. It was lit by uplighters similar to those used in level B3. They splashed their light across the heavy white-painted ceiling vaults, making them seem less oppressive.

  The girls were led along a passage between waist-high heavy iron grillework cages that were set between the grid of supporting piers. The cages were like jail cells about three metres square but far too low to stand upright within. The cell floors were covered in mattresses and neat piles of bedding. These spartan arrangements were in fact perfectly acceptable to Shiller girls, who preferred sleeping closely packed together. Access was by a low slave door of similar proportions to the ones leading to the dormitory block back in B3. A girl could only enter or leave on her hands and knees.

  Beyond the cells was a white-tiled washroom area with communal showers, rows of squat toilets and douche guns hanging from the walls. Opposite were rows of tall metal racks crammed with cuffs, chains, harness, dildos, lashes and other accessories for the restraint, subjugation and punishment of slave girls. Between the two was an open area of rubber matting, set before various charts and maps displayed on the wall. Under these were shelves of books and magazines for the use of off-duty girls. Seeing such commonplace luxuries casually displayed adjacent to the racks of restraints reminded Vanessa once again of the unique life of a Shiller slave.

  ‘Kneel,’ the big man commanded, and they obeyed, splaying their thighs respectfully. His two assistants went along the rows of girls pulling off their travel gag strips. Vanessa stretched and licked her lips.

  The man looked down at them with masterful eyes. ‘My name is Kelvin MacDonald, Master of Slaves to the Laird of Glen Lothy. The Laird himself will be coming to inspect you shortly and you will address
him as “Laird,” should he speak to you. You will address me as ‘Slavemaster”, and all other staff as “Mister” or “Miss” followed by their name if it has been given, and “Sir” or “Madam” if it has not. Guests are of course to be addressed at all times as “Master” or “Mistress”. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Slavemaster,’ they chorused.

  ‘Now, Glen Lothy may have only been operating as a slave resort for a year, but it has already gained a reputation for the quality both of its facilities and the girlflesh it has on offer. Even though some of you have only recently taken the collar, I expect you all to perform to the highest Shiller standards, for here the company is Glen Lothy, and any failure on your part will tarnish its name. Remember at all times that the client you are serving is at that moment your lord and master and deserves your absolute devotion. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Slavemaster.’

  ‘While you are with us you may meet with personal slaves some of our guests bring with them. Should you have close contact with them I expect you to treat them with the same courtesy and consideration you do your own chain sisters. They may not be trained to Shiller standards, but they are your sisters in submission. In a manner of speaking they are also our guests, and we want them to leave here with fond memories of the finest slave resort in this country. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Slavemaster.’

  ‘These will be your living quarters when you’re not serving in guest rooms,’ MacDonald continued. He pointed to a side door. ‘Through there are the private dungeon cells the guests use when they want to try their hand at a little torture. You’ll become familiar with them soon enough …’ Vanessa shivered in fear and delight. ‘As for the rest you’ll learn more tomorrow morning. Glen Lothy is a rare and wonderful place and you should feel privileged to serve here. Now, let’s get you washed and ready for the feast …’

  They were placed on the toilets so they could void their bowels, showered, douched and greased. Finally they were dried and combed. They were given more water but no food. As the Slavemaster explained they would be eating at the feast.

  ‘How well you feed depends on how well you beg like the pretty animals you are,’ he said. ‘This is how you will behave …’

  He explained the etiquette involved in their part of the feast. They would also participate in an amusement for the benefit of the guests, which he went on to prepare them for, and which Vanessa thought ingenious and deliciously degrading.

  They were all neatly lined up standing with hands clasped behind their necks and feet spread when the Laird strode in.

  The Laird was a large powerfully built man in his early fifties, Vanessa guessed. He was clad in full Highland regalia, with dress jacket and kilt, a plaid hanging over his shoulder, a sash belt and a Glengarry on his head. He looked magnificent, but Vanessa suspected it was for the benefit of the guests rather than personal vanity. In his eyes she read something of the same masterful self-assurance that the Director possessed, which did not need to be bolstered by any elaborate costumes. She had to fight the instinct to kneel before him.

  He was holding a double chain leash on the other end of which was a pair of redheaded slave girls so similar they might have been sisters. They had neat supple bodies and moved on all-fours like dogs. Their hands and feet were encased in close-fitting mitten-sheaves of black rubber, with pads of the same material stuck to their knees. Instead of plain-coloured collars they had ones in the same tartan pattern as the Laird’s plaid. Their bright green eyes flashed as they looked over the new girls with almost predatory interest. Then they lifted their heads and with almost a feral gesture sniffed, their nostrils flaring delicately, as though sampling their scent. Vanessa felt a shiver at the sight of two such magnificent slave girls, yet it was perfectly natural that they should follow along at the heel of such a powerful man.

  The Laird inspected Cherry and Jade Chains, squeezing breasts, prodding buttocks and tickling pubic clefts, all the while nodding in approval. When he came to Vanessa he paused.

  ‘So you’re Vanessa Nineteen. The Director told me about you. And you’re to write about the Glen, I understand?’

  ‘Yes, Laird,’ Vanessa said meekly, holding her posture even though the Laird’s girl dogs were sniffing at her crotch with uninhibited interest.

  ‘Will you be needing time off from serving duties to do your journalistic work?’

  ‘No, Laird. I’d like to be treated just like any other girl, if it pleases you. I want to write about how they experience working here.’

  ‘That sounds very fine and economical, doing two jobs at once. But mind that the pleasure of the guests always comes first.’

  ‘Yes, Laird.’

  The Laird finished his inspection and pulled on the leashes, drawing his pets to heel and putting an end to their pussy sniffing. ‘Now, I’ll be seeing you all shortly for the feast. Put on a good show and you’ll eat well.’

  Vanessa thought the banqueting hall of Lothy castle was a magnificent setting for a feast, with its massive timber roof beams and walls hung about with banners and shields. A traditional log fire burnt in the huge hearth even though it was summer, drawing in fresh pine-scented air through the open windows.

  The dining tables were arranged in a ‘U’, with the Laird seated in the middle of the base section, facing inwards like his guests who were arrayed along the outside of the table. There were perhaps thirty-five of them, about two-thirds male with a few obviously couples. Several had brought their own personal pets with them to the table. These knelt beside their chairs with their leashes tied to the chair arms eating food set out on platters on the floor. Some were made to sit up on their haunches and beg for titbits like dogs. The Laird’s own pair of bitches ate from golden platters set out on either side of his chair. Every so often he would stroke and pat them, or else hold out morsels from his own plate that they took from his hand.

  All the guests were very smartly attired in dinner jackets or evening dress and seemed to be having a fine time as they supped and drank and chatted and admired their surroundings. They had much to admire.

  Amongst the genuine shields on the walls were four oversized versions, one on each wall. Against these hung spreadeagled slave girls, bound in place with glittering loops of chain about their ankles, upper thighs, crossed between their breasts and about their elbows and wrists. Metal bridles snuggly encased their heads. Lengths of chain also hung between their thighs issuing from their vaginal mouths. On the ends of the chains dangled a spiked iron ball.

  In the centre of each table length was a large silver platter bearing, amid a selection of fruits, a hogtied slave girl. She was both a living table decoration and a display of tender flesh, to be devoured by eye if not with a knife and fork, with her mouth stuffed with an apple and her anus sprouting a large spray of grouse tail feathers. A vertical metal bar bolted to the platter rose up to fasten to the ring in the front of her collar, keeping her head raised.

  Moving about the tables, bringing in each course and topping up wine flagons, were the slave girl waitresses. They had plaid sashes slung between their breasts, tam-o’-shanters perched saucily on their heads and their mouths were filled with tartan ball-gags. Hobble chains clinked between their ankle cuffs, forcing them to take dainty steps. The middle of the chains was lifted clear of the floor by another chain that ran up between their legs to a hook protruding from between their buttock cheeks. From chain belts, what looked like miniature silver filigree sporrans hung over their pubes. The inner sides of the sporrans were studded with pins that pricked the girls’ vulvas as they swung and bounced against them unless they moved with extreme grace and care.

  And finally there were Vanessa and the new chain girls, who were tethered in the space between the tables. They knelt on a circle of rubber matting facing outward with their thighs widely splayed, both out of deference and necessity, so they presented their breasts and pussies to the guests for their appreciation. Their arms were now cuffed behind their
backs and individual leashes clipped to their collars ran behind them to a big ring set in the floor.

  The guests could not only ogle their pretty naked bodies but also, to their evident amusement, they could feed them.

  The girls begged with open mouths and lolling tongues while jerking their hips sensuously to show off their nether mouths. These were bulging with unnatural prominence, for reasons the guests would soon learn. They were also, and quite helplessly, salivating freely and showing their hunger for a different kind of sustenance. If a girl’s pleading impressed a guest he might throw her a scrap from his plate, or else something from one of the small bowls that dotted the tables. These contained bone-like shapes pressed out of sweet and savoury biscuit, dried fruit, or candy bar. They were slave girl treats ideal for throwing to them just as one might do for a dog. The girls tried to catch them in their mouths, but if they failed they had to scrabble round for them on the floor and try to nip them up in their teeth, much to the amusement of the guests.

  It was of course thoroughly humiliating and Vanessa luxuriated in the sensation. As they scrambled about for dropped treats she exchanged flashing grins of delight with Kashika and the other Cherry Chain girls. The mat under them became wet and smeared with drips from their pouting and swollen vulvas.

  The meal drew to a convivial close. The conversation mellowed, wine was being supped lazily and the night was deep and dark beyond the high hall windows. Vanessa saw the Laird raise a hand and a serving girl stepped forward. She had a small copper gong slung between her breasts, stretching her nipples into painfully long cones. In her outstretched hands she held a small radio control handset and a drum-stick. The Laird took up the stick and rapped the gong a few times, making the girl wince as her breasts shivered in resonance, and the conversation died away as all eyes turned to him