by William Avon
Title Page
THE GIRLSPELL
III
ARABELLA’S REVENGE
By
William Avon
Publisher Information
The Girlspell 3: Arabella’s Revenge
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © William Avon
The right of William Avon to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Prologue
Nightmare
THE dome of the great silver platter lifted, exposing Arabella’s nakedness to the gaze of the guests. She gave a muffled shriek as they looked into her red, tear-streaked eyes as they stared out wildly over her gag and saw the full horror of her humiliation.
She was mounted on an angled metal brace bolted to the base of the platter. A leather strap was pinched tight about her neck, forcing her chin up and head back, so that her body was bowed outward for all to see. Her arms were bound tightly behind her with a strap above her elbows, thrusting forward her shapely breasts: breasts that glittered with the heads of a dozen drawing pins that had been thrust into their creamy softness.
Her wrists were tied to the crossed ankles of her bent and wide-splayed legs. She was sitting with her anus impaled by a thick rubber dildo mounted on the base of the platter. Her body trembled with the stretching of her back passage, even as her distended anus sucked on the intruder like a lolly. The tendons of her inner thighs stood out as she strained to hold her knees wide, vainly trying to prevent the sprig of holly whose stalk had been pushed up her vagina from scratching the lips of her love mouth any further.
She was resting in a golden puddle of her own urine, ejected in fear as the dildo had forced its way up inside her. This mingled with the droplets trickling down from her soaking hair where her unknown assailants had added their own final insult before they had closed the dome of the platter and let her be carried off to the banqueting room.
Her uncle and guardian, Major Haverecot-gore, looked down at her in disbelief while shock and horror filled the guests’ faces. Even the naked bondslaves mounted decoratively on the walls could see her shame.
Distantly she heard her uncle saying foolishly: ‘Good God, Arabella! What are you doing there?’
Then the guests began laughing at her, mocking her shame and nakedness. And her uncle was laughing as well. Even the bondslaves were laughing. She had been disgraced before them all. It was like a nightmare... a nightmare!
Arabella Westlake sat up in her bed with a jerk.
Morning sunlight glowed warmly about the drawn curtains of her bedroom. Yes, it had been a nightmare, but as her sore body testified, also a replay of the terrible truth.
Mysterious masked men really had kidnapped and humiliated her, substituting her for the slave girl who should have been on the silver platter. They had disgraced her and turned her orderly, privileged world upside down and made her feel… no, she could not accept what they had made her feel.
But had been so terribly wronged. Yes, that was what she had keep in her mind above all else. And for that she would have her revenge!
Chapter One
Fun in a Cellar
The five young men clad in grey blazers and caps stood nervously before the garden gate of the neat whitewashed thatched cottage which nestled amongst the trees close to the imposing main gates of Cranborough House Public School, which was situated just outside the village of Shaftwell. Summer term was due to start in two days’ time but the boys had other things on their mind. The cottage belonged to Miss Newcombe, the formidable matron of their school, who currently held their future at Cranborough in her hands.
Just three mornings earlier Miss Newcombe had caught the boys in their dormitory with five naked young women bound to their beds, who they had subjected to an orgy of abuse the previous night. It did not help that three of these girls had been what were known locally as ‘outlanders’ or ‘tramontane’, whose presence in the country was required by law to be reported to the authorities. One of these outlanders the boys had broken out of the local police cell, the second they had stolen from Major Havercott-gore’s Markham Hall girlpack, where she had become his prize sporting bitch, and the third they had liberated from the unauthorised possession of Arabella Westlake. However Miss Newcombe had not exposed the boys’ actions and had somehow contrived to remove the three outlander girls from the scene, but they knew from that moment on they were totally in her power.
In the circumstances their current apprehension was understandable.
‘Go on, Jackson,’ one boy said to the tall blond lad who led the group. ‘It’s all right. She’s expecting us. We’ve got her invitation.’
‘Yes, but what does she want?’ Jackson asked with a frown. ‘Mr Speers came back yesterday. You don’t suppose she’s going to tell him what we did.’
‘If she’d told him already then we’d know it!’ exclaimed the first speaker.
They had already forfeited part of their Easter holidays as punishment for an offence that Arabella had in fact contrived. Any further wrongdoing would be sure to get them expelled.
They were momentarily distracted by the clatter of wheels on the road as a small three-wheeled chaise driven by a grey-haired man in sombre clerical robes bowled past the gates. The boys automatically tipped their hats respectfully to him.
‘Good afternoon, Vicar,’ they chorused.
‘Good afternoon, boys,’ he replied with a cheery wave. For a moment their eyes lingered approvingly on the pair of young naked bond-women who were harnessed on either side of the shaft that supported the chaise’s small front steering wheel and who provided its motive power.
The women were bent forward so their torsos were parallel with the ground. Broad leather collars, attached to the main shaft by short crossbeams, encircled their hips and shoulders. The hip collars had cuffs on their sides that held the girls’ wrists secure. Projecting forward from the shoulder collars were padded oval hoops in which their heads rested face down. Their breasts were contained within strap brake halters that allowed them to bob merrily as they went. Their lower legs were encased by high-laced sandals with thick wedge-shaped soles that gave maximum traction for the extended angle their legs were constrained to move at as they strained to convey their clerical master about his duties.
As they passed the boys admired the rhythmic rolling of the girl’s strong glossy buttocks about the dividing straps that secured them to their hip collars. The vicar tugged at a lever on the steering bar connected by cogs and chains to the front wheel. Short spring-loaded canes mounted on the shaft drew back and then flicked across the pair of naked bottoms before him and his human ponies increased their pace to a brisker trot.
As the sound of the chaise diminished in the distance, Jackson turned back to the cottage, took a deep breath and pushed open the gate. The boys made their way along the winding stone path between hollyhocks and lavender until they reached the front door, under its tiny thatched porch. Pulling their caps off, Jackson rapped the door knocker.
The door was opened not by Miss Newcombe, but a younger woman with straight blonde hair, very bright eyes and a wide, impudent mouth. Her name was Sally Potts, former vagabond and petty thief. She had been the fourth girl Miss Newcombe had found tied to their beds. To better herself, and also to protect her far-from-innocent part in the boy’s illegal activities, Sally had agreed to become Miss Newcombe’s bond slave.
Sally gave a clumsy curtsey and then, speaking in the strangled vowels of somebody attempting to sound refined, said: ‘Good Afternoon, Masters. May h’I h’enquire h’as to your business?’
The boys looked at her in surprise. They knew Sally’s body intimately but they had never seen it dressed like this before.
She wore a frilly white mob cap, glossy black patent lather shoes with silver buckles, white knee socks and white gauze pinafore trimmed with lace and tied with a large bow in the small of her back. As intended it concealed little of her figure. Sally’s breasts were large for her build and pressed heavy and proud against the thin material of her pinny. Her large pink areolas with neat rounded nipples in their centres showed distinctly. Her waist was slim, with prominent hip bones and she had a dark blonde delta of pubic hair surrounding a soft, pink-lipped cleft.
Black leather cuffs closed by small silver padlocks linked Sally’s ankles by a length of hobble chain, which was supported in the middle by a lighter chain that ran up between her legs. A matching black leather collar was locked about her neck.
‘Er… we’ve come to see Miss Newcombe,’ said Jackson uncertainly.
‘I regret that the Mistress is out at the moment,’ said Sally. ‘Howsoever, she did give h’enstructions as to your arrival.’
‘Oh, do stop messing about, Sally,’ Jackson said. ‘You know who we are. Miss Newcombe invited us.’
Sally sighed and rolled up her eyes. In more natural tones she said: ‘I know that! I’m just trying to be a proper maid, ain’t I? She told me I got to practice. Well come on in, then.’
Grinning, the boys passed her into the small neat hallway. As she closed the door behind them they saw Sally’s pale pink buttocks each had a darker spanking blush at their centres. The thin chain supporting her hobble ran up between them to a silver ring plugged into her anus.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sally, shuffling past them with a jingle of hobble chains. ‘I’ve got to do this right…’ She threw open the door to the sitting room and announced: ‘Master Jackson, Master Bickley, Master Parsons, Master Harris and Master Gosset.’ She took a deep breath and stood aside. ‘Masters, Miss Moncrief will receive you…’
Jemima Moncrief, who had been sitting on a sofa, sprang to her feet at they entered, a blush forming on the cheeks of her bright innocent elfin face with its slightly uptilted nose. She was the boys’ age, had shoulder length light brown hair and a slim body clad in a light cream one piece summer dress, ankle socks and white leather sandals.
Jemima had been the fifth girl they had cheerfully abused on that eventful night and the boys had not seen her since then. Caught up in the convoluted plotting to bring down Arabella and liberate her outlander captive, Jemima had become, despite her shy nature, an unexpected but eager convert to the ways of bondage and masochistic sex. But meeting her formally like this brought a blush to all their cheeks and an awkward silence descended.
Sally looked between the boys and Jemima. ‘Oh gawd, it’s all right! She’s still up for a screw and a spank. That’s what she’s here for. The Mistress is giving you the chance to keep your pricks exercised.’
The boys’ blushed deepened while Jemima nodded shyly. ‘I would like to do more of… that kind of thing, if you still want to have me?’
‘Look at the fronts of their trousers,’ Sally said. ‘Of course they want to have you. But the Mistress says you’ve got to do it proper, remember?’
Looking at Jemima hungrily, the boys nodded.
Sally grinned. ‘I was supposed to offer you tea now but I guess you want to have her first, eh?’ The boys nodded again and Jemima beamed in shy delight. ‘Well don’t do it in here ‘cos I’ll have to clean up any stains. The Mistress has the cellar set up for you. Come on…’
The cellar was a large dry room with whitewashed stone walls, a slab floor and a low wooden beamed ceiling supported by half a dozen heavy black timber posts. There were boxes and tea chests stacked in one corner, but what riveted the boys’ eyes was the sturdy square table set out in the middle of the room. Its top and edges were covered by padded leather, while riveted to its sides and legs were many broad buckled straps of different lengths. To one side was a smaller wheeled trolley on which was laid out a towel and sponge, a tin bucket, a jug of steaming water, a large brass garden syringe with a rubber hose on its nozzle, a tub of petroleum jelly and a ring-gag. Hanging from hooks underneath it were half a dozen bamboo-shafted and rubber-bladed spanking paddles.
‘Cosy, ain’t it?’ Sally said. ‘You can do what you like down here and nobody’ll hear. You might want to hang up your coats first. There’s some hooks over there....’
The boys did so and then rolled up their shirtsleeves. Meanwhile Jemima’s eyes grew round with wonder and excitement at the sight of the table and accessories. She pointed innocently at the ring gag. ‘What’s that for?’
‘It’s to hold your mouth open so’s they can put their cocks in it without you biting them,’ Sally explained.
‘Ohh… I see,’ Jemima said in horrified delight.
‘Well go on, get stuck into her!’ Sally said encouragingly.
The boys crowded round Jemima, pressing tight against her. They took hold of her arms and pulled them wide. She made a token squeak of protest and tried to pull away from them, just hard enough to ensure they tightened their grip on her. One of them covered her mouth while another took up the ring-gag. They wedged it between her teeth and buckled it behind her neck, forcing her mouth into an inviting ‘O’. Her eyes grew wide and her teeth showed white about the ring. They unfastened the buttons at the back of her neck and pulled the dress over her head, revealing her thin silk underslip. Reaching under this they pulled down her frilly knickers and dragged them over her feet. The slip was pulled up over her head leaving her naked except for her socks and shoes.
Jemima’s small breasts stood out in perfect, slightly rounded cones, shivering with every movement like pink jellies. Each was capped by a neatly rounded pale brown nipple, the crowns of which were delicately puckered. Her stomach was flat while the pit of her belly button was deep and sharply defined. Her buttocks were pale and apple- firm. Her hips were still boyishly narrow, tapering to slimly rounded legs. The apex of her thighs was crowned by a thick and wide fluffy delta of pubic hair that divided about the cleft of her deep vagina, from which the crinkled tongue of her inner lips pouted enticingly.
Fluttering helplessly in their grasp, Jemima was dragged forward and laid belly-down across the punishment table. Pulling her legs wide and prying apart her rounded buttock cheeks, the Cranborough boys exposed the tight pucker of her anus. Filling the brass syringe from the jug of warm water and holding the bucket between Jemima’s thighs, they fed the hose end into her bottom hole and flushed it clean, chuckling as the orifice swelled with pressure from within before bursting open and discharging it with a hiss and spurt. Jemima’s eyes bulged in joyous disgust as her entrails were flushed out. Stiff fingers then rammed a generous dollop of lubricating jelly into her passage, working it round until it was fit for use.
Jemima’s pale, perfectly presented buttocks were too tempting to ignore.
A spanking paddle was selected and laid across her rear cheeks with smacks that echoed back from the walls, mingling with their victim’s grunts and yelps of pain. When they were a nice even rosy red, the boys took turns testing their warmth while Jemima drooled blissfully about her ring gag.
They turned Jemima over and laid her on her back so that her head overhung
the top end of the table while her buttocks overhung the front. Pulling her arms straight down on either side of the table they strapped her wrists to its legs. Parting her legs wide at the hips they bent her knees and twisted her lower legs down until they could strap her ankles to the front faces of the table legs, so that the insides of her thighs were facing outward, exposing the deep-cleft pouch of her sex. Longer straps were bound about her shins and the front of her thighs, holding them bent tight together. Two more long straps, riveted to the underside of the table, were drawn across her neck and stomach and buckled tight. With fearful, excited eyes, Jemima looked up at them through the shallow valley of her neat breast cones, over her fluffy pubic bush and between the flattened ‘V’ of her taut thighs, while they stood before her admiring the most intimate view of her lovely captive body imaginable. She was theirs to do with as they wished!
The tent-pole bulges in the fronts of their trouser testified to their desire.
After the glut of their orgy and a brief dalliance with Sally that Miss Newcombe had permitted, they had not had a girl for two days and their balls were heavy with semen that urgently needed to be expelled. But in handling Sally, Jemima and their outlander captives they had learned the pleasure of delayed gratification, and also the reward that warming and stimulating a girl first reaped.
Each taking up a paddle they positioned themselves round Jemima’s bound body and began to beat her. Under the stinging blows she bucked and squirmed wildly against the tight cocoon of her straps, sobbing and whooping in pain, her big eyes wet with tears. Her small breasts shivered as though they were on springs, blushing ever redder, capped by darkening nipples as hard as India rubber, while her sex pouch grew pink and swollen and began to dribble. They scooped up smears of her discharge and smelt the exciting spicy sweetness of it with delight.
