After a few minutes the girls began to drip sweat onto benches and deck planks that bore the stains left by their sisters who had gone before them. She saw the shining beads standing out in sharp contrast on Kashika’s skin and the even darker flesh of Olivia 8. The girls’ pussies, stimulated by the dildos churning with their bodies and intense excitement at their usage, also began to drip. The breeze of the galley’s motion carried the girls’ scent back to Vanessa. She gazed at the double row of straining glossy naked chained bodies with their hard-nippled breasts and gaping pink glistening clefts. She doubted they would ever win any prizes for speed, but was equally certain no guest would care with a view like that.
What a wonderful sense of power it would bestow to sit in one of those easy chairs and hold in one hand a box that linked to the intimate parts of thirteen girls. To make them obey simply by pushing a joystick. Being borne across the waves by their sweat and exertion. And if they faltered then a little lashing would soon put them right. And when they were allowed to rest how grateful they would be to their captain. No need to unchain them, just pull out a gag bit and they would gladly provide oral pleasure. He, or she, would have the pick of a dozen oar girls, the steering girl and maybe a girl pet chained to the prow like a figurehead, showing her off as a prize for all to see.
For a moment Vanessa imagined herself in the lounger resting her feet on Kashika’s chained body. Julie 5 Canary would take her place with the other girls, and then … she gasped and clamped hard on her bit as a mini orgasm rippled through her loins and she dribbled onto the deck. What a wonderful place this was …
* * *
That evening they staggered back to their quarters stiff, sore and utterly exhausted. Their anuses, used for hours as pieces of living machinery, were bruised and numb. Vanessa felt tired enough from steering and she knew the oar girls had worked even harder. But they had learned to propel and steer the tiny galley to the Slavemaster’s satisfaction, and that knowledge filled them with a sense of pride and achievement. They were now real modern-day galley slaves.
The stimulation without relief they had been subjected to all afternoon had left them all aroused and horny, but they were so tired they barely had the strength to wash and eat. Then they collapsed in a warm huddle in their cell and slept straight through to morning.
The Glen Lothy stables nestled in a clearing in the woods at the focus of many picturesque pathways stretching right round the glen that guests could explore in their ponygirl carts. Besides the stable stalls where serving ponygirls were housed and the harness and traps stored, there was an outdoor corral and an indoor sand-floored training yard. This had stand seats along two sides so that it could serve as a display space and arena.
Cherry Chain was sent to the stables after mastering the rudiments of galley-slave service to learn the techniques of being good ponygirls. Cherry Chain had received basic ponygirl training in B3, but further instruction was judged necessary before they were fit to pull carriages about the glen. Vanessa was grateful to Mister Winston for having helped her overcome her irrational dislike of pony masks and enjoy the experience to the full.
Apart from the flesh-tinted head masks they wore bridles and harness that included binder sleeves to keep their arms folded across behind their backs. It not only restrained them but also helped conceal their hands to reinforce the transition to true ponygirls. They had tails fitted that matched the colour of their own hair that flowed out of the slots in the backs of the masks like horses’ manes. The tails jutted out from the small of their backs to hang in graceful plumes clear of their bottoms. They were not fastened to their harness but glued to their skin with triangular pads of transparent pliant plastic. The lower points of the triangles ran down into their buttock clefts and had springy carbon fibre strips sandwiched within them. These strips connected with the base of the tail plume and helped give the tails lift and bounce, making them bob and swish as they moved about.
To protect their feet they wore bracing ankle boots with moulded horseshoe-like pads under the balls of their feet. Curving carbon blade tongues projected backwards from under these horseshoes. These gave a spring to their steps and kept them up on their toes as though wearing invisible high heels. This, added to the projecting ears of their masks, made them seem taller and more elegantly equine.
The first time Vanessa saw them all fully attired in their pony guises she was astounded. They were erotic female chimeras; half centaurs, harnessed and bridled and ready to be broken in for use.
As it happened there was no spare girl available for Vanessa to train with and the chain pairs had to take priority in learning to work together, so she was relegated to watching them pull their lightweight pony traps around the stable block and then set out along the tracks through the woods for training runs. As compensation she did receive some dressage practice in the training yard so she would have some direct personal experience to write about for her article.
With a long rein attached to her bridal ring she was made to circle round a trainer, urged on by flicks of a carriage whip. With her arms bound behind her the sway of her hips and breasts was exaggerated and she felt her intimately attached tail swishing, its bracing rod transmitting the movement down to the sensitive skin of her buttock cleft. Then she was made to start lifting her knees higher and higher, almost prancing. Her breasts began bouncing in sympathy. A course was marked out on the arena that she had to follow with precise steps, trotting and cantering when told, stepping sideways, nodding her head and tossing her mane. The trainer’s long whip flicked across her breasts and haunches when she made a mistake, motivating her to try harder.
She luxuriated in the thrill of losing herself, becoming a true ponygirl-being, responding automatically and instinctively to commands. Perhaps the mask hiding her features made it easier to dissociate her thoughts. It was strangely satisfying and deeply arousing.
Vanessa was put in the corral to wait for the rest of Cherry Chain to finish their training. A pair of girls were pressed up against a fence with their masked heads resting on each other’s shoulders, rubbing their supple bodies together groin to groin and breast to breast. While watching them Vanessa almost unconsciously moved over to the sawdust pit on one corner, spread her legs, bent forward and peed freely. A passing middle-aged guest couple saw her and commented admiringly. From their accent they sounded American. She trotted over to the fence when they called and offered her a slice of apple. By tossing her head back she managed to pass it through her fake snout and catch and chew it with her real teeth, despite the internal bit, and swallow it down.
They petted and handled her intimately, reaching through the fence rails and commenting on her build and the strength of her thighs and firmness of her breasts. They behaved as though she really was a mute friendly animal and she did nothing to dispel that illusion, rubbing up against their hands. It should have felt degrading but it did not. It was another part of the adventure she was on. She knew what she was and nothing they did or did not do would change that. But what they were doing was not wrong. They were making a fuss over her, treating her as something special. And so she was.
The woman’s fingers slid up her vagina and toyed with her erect clitoris. The moment was perfect. Vanessa shuddered, jerked her hips and came with as close to a whinny of pleasure as she could utter,
‘Why, this pretty thing has spent herself right in my hand!’ the woman exclaimed.
Vanessa was aching to try the dungeons, wanting to test her new-found confidence in herself, but according to the planner they were due to participate in a hunt first.
A storm blew over the Glen the day and night before, driving most staff and guests under cover. However, there was no lack of indoor activities when you had dozens of willing slave girls to hand. The morning of the hunt dawned bright and clear.
By nine o’clock a string of hunters was moving across the valley side, reaching from the loch shore to the ridge where a security fence guarded the boundary of the estate. Ahead o
f them three chains of girls had been let loose. These were their prey.
Panting for breath and lathered with sweat, Vanessa stumbled onwards. Behind her she could hear the shouts of the hunters and the flat phut of their rifles as they shot at one of her sisters. An occasional cheer went up when a girl was downed. Today she was literally going to be hunted down like a wild animal and shot.
She was costumed appropriately. Small dark-tinted goggles protected her eyes, making them look larger, appealing and more animal-like. Rising from a plastic pad glued to her forehead along the hairline, like her ponytail had been fastened to her back, was a spread of realistically moulded lightweight foam-rubber antlers. Her hands were confined in dark brown rubber mittens with sock-like versions for her feet with thicker soles. A small white deer tail hung over her bottom. A female deer with stag-like antlers was nonsense of course, but it would make sense later. And hunting a creature that truly enjoyed the experience was so much better than killing an innocent animal.
The hunt was taking place across the more open and less wooded stretch of the Glen on the other side of the loch from the castle. There were a few stands of pine, but mostly it was scattered boulders, scrubby grass and clumps of heather, with hollows and gullies providing the best cover. If she could keep going she might work her way round the glen and reach the thicker woods where she had a better chance of losing her pursuers, but she doubted if she would get that far. In fact she hoped not. It was a very slavish paradox. She wanted to be captured yet natural fear of the guns and the desire to please drove her on.
Occasionally she saw other antler-headed girls in the distance, breaking cover to make a dash for a new hiding place as the hunters advanced. The chains had been encouraged to scatter when they had been released earlier and she had no idea where Kashika was. She was on her own, feeling a wild joy in running naked over the hillside.
Suddenly she heard men’s voices and gunshots ahead of her. A line of hunters crested the rise a couple of hundred metres away, working their way up the hillside. They had gone along the shore road to get ahead of them. They were cutting her off!
She turned uphill, making for the crest. She might still be able to get past them.
A cry went up. She’d been spotted. There was the phut of a gas-powered gun, something whizzed past her and hit a boulder where it stuck, crackling with electricity. It was a dart-like projectile with a bulbous adhesive rubber tip through which metal studs bristled, no doubt the product of some Shiller technical division. And if one hit her it would hurt!
Gasping for breath, she struggled on up the hill, her crown of antlers bobbing on her head. If she could just make the next rise …
There was a smack like a punch on her left buttock and then a crackling numbing electric fire that coursed through her body. She went sprawling face down, her limbs twitching convulsively, stunned by the shocking pounding pain.
Then the capacitor in the dart drained and the terrible pain was gone, leaving cold/hot pins and needles in its wake. She lay where she had fallen, trembling helplessly, too dazed to think or move.
Dimly she realised there was a man holding a rifle standing over her. She felt her skin pulled as he tore the sticky dart from her rump. Then he rolled her over onto her back. She had an impression of a face contorted by elation and desperate lust. He kicked her unresisting legs wide, unzipped his flies to free his erection and fell upon her.
His weight flattened her breasts and drove the air from her lungs as his cock rammed into her vagina. At that moment he cared only about his own pleasures. She was just an animal he had brought down: symbolically, and for all practical purposes at that moment, dead meat under him.
The successful hunter was claiming his prize.
When he’d satisfied his need the man pulled out of her ravaged passage and zipped up. He took a tag from his pocket and clipped it to her collar. He bound her wrists and ankles with plastic ties, picked up his rifle, grinned at her once more and then walked away.
Vanessa lay limply where she had fallen, too weak and drained to try to move even if she’d been free to, feeling his sperm oozing out of her. Her bottom stung where she had been struck, and not just from the electric shock: she’d have a bruise there tomorrow. There was a twitchy tremble in her limbs similar to that she had felt after Rochester’s machine had zapped her. And yet it was all completely different in one vital respect. She’d chosen to do this, and beneath her pain and exhaustion was a sense of elation. She’d been a good sporty prey. And now she was going to be shown off for all to see, as a prize should.
A pair of castle staff men came up to her. They pushed a gag into her mouth, slipped a long pole between her bound limbs, hoisted her onto their shoulders and carried her down the hill. Slung beneath the pole like a carcass she hung limp but satisfied. More pampering. They were carrying her down the hill in style.
A Land Rover with a trailer hitched behind it was waiting on the shore road. Half a dozen other girls, bound as she was, were already stacked in the back like carcasses of meat. She saw Kashika and Rachel 9 of Cherry Chain amongst the others as she was slid off the pole into the trailer, and managed to squirm between them. They were bedraggled and smelled of earth and sweat and wild grass, but their eyes shone with a triumphal light she recognised. The three of them huddled together, perfectly content.
After they had recovered another four girls off the hillside, the men drove their trailer full of freshly bagged girlflesh round the loch to the castle. As they passed by the estate offices, a group of outbuildings tucked away amongst the woods not far from the stables, they braked to a sudden halt. Another vehicle had pulled up sharply in front of theirs with a squeal of brakes and in a spray of gravel.
Vanessa heard doors opening and angry raised voices. She raised her head far enough to see over the side of the trailer.
Four security men were manhandling a youngish man and woman, both dressed in shorts and hiking boots, out of a castle Land Rover and shoving them towards the estate office.
‘… fascist sex-trafficking pigs!’ the woman was shrieking. ‘I saw what you were doing to them! When I tell the police about this evil fucking place you’re all finished … do you hear, finished!’
Cold fear clutched at Vanessa’s heart. The special time was over.
Eight
THE ANGRY COUPLE disappeared through the estate office door that was hastily closed behind them, leaving one of the escorting guards outside mopping his forehead and scowling. Vanessa heard their driver wind down the window and call out to him: ‘Where did they come from?’
‘We found them down by the shore. We think they’ve been in the grounds for a few hours.’
‘How’d they get in?’
‘I don’t know. But they’ve seen too much for us to risk letting them go.’
‘Bloody hell! What do we do with them?’
‘That’s up to the Laird. Just don’t let the guests know anything’s wrong. Get that lot sorted and then come back here. We’ll probably have to do a sweep of the grounds to check there are no more.’
‘Right …’
The Land Rover pulled away again, jerking Vanessa back down onto the huddle of bound girlflesh. She looked into the now troubled faces of the girls around her and shook her head helplessly.
At the side door of the castle their ankle binders were cut and they were handed over to Mister Stewart to be taken down to their dungeon quarters for cleaning up. In a few words their driver told him the news. While they were being washed and toileted they overheard Stewart conversing with Jamison, another attendant, and both became very grave and quiet. Nothing more needed to be said. They all, girls included, understood the implications. Glen Lothy could only operate if absolute security and discretion were maintained. If the guests feared their privacy was compromised then they would leave and it was all finished. Vanessa saw grim, fearful faces all around her. Kashika looked at her as though appealing for some hopeful sign, but all she could do was smile hopefully back and shr
ug.
It was a cleaner but unnaturally subdued string of girls, still wearing their antlers, mittens and ball-gags, who were taken up to the entrance hall a while later for mounting. The walls above ground-floor level on either side of the hall, between the main door and the great staircase, had traditionally been used to display the stuffed heads of animals hunted down across three continents by previous owners of the castle in times gone by when such trophies had been popular. The heads remained, a dozen on each side, arranged in regular double staggered rows, though the boards on which they had been mounted had been unobtrusively modified.
Two narrow galleries leading off the first-floor corridor had been constructed behind the trophy walls against which were a dozen narrow curtained alcoves. At the end of each gallery stood a slave girl on a long leash chain holding a douche gun. Within the alcoves a circle of wall behind the trophies had been removed, leaving the mounting boards covering them like lids. On the gallery side of these apertures were polished wooden mounting blocks set within frames fastened to short rails, so they could be slid into the holes like plugs. The blocks were divided into two halves that could be closed together leaving an oval hole in the middle edged with thick black rubber.
Stewart and Jamison arranged the girls in the alcoves, alternately kneeling on all fours and standing bent at the waist. Vanessa was one of those standing. The men fed the girls’ heads, shoulders and breasts through the halves of the mounting blocks and closed and locked them, the foam rubber making a tight seal, pressing their arms to their sides. A hook on the upper half of each board fastened to the backs of their collars, keeping their heads up. The original trophy heads were slid to one side of the apertures on concealed runners and the girls were shuffled forwards until their upper torsos took their places.
They had become living trophies amongst the stuffed specimens. Their heads, shoulders and stiff-nippled breasts jutting out proudly from the mounting frames, they looked out over the hall. From the gallery side they presented an equally appealing sight, forming a row of alternately kneeling and standing posteriors begging to be mounted, with greased anal puckers and pouting clefts at the ready, all neatly framed within their alcoves. Stewart and Jamison clipped on ankle cuffs set in the side of each alcove to ensure they kept their legs spread, then left them to be enjoyed.
The Girlflesh Castle Page 14
