The Girlspell III

by William Avon

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Platt,’ Melanie said, ‘but there’s no need for anybody in the Hall to be put to any trouble or embarrassment. Haven’t you got such things as post office savings accounts? When I’m out and about I can draw what I need from there.’

  ‘We do, but bondslaves can’t take out accounts in their name, girl.’

  ‘Well there is one other person I met when I first came here who I was thinking could perhaps arrange that: Miss Newcombe the nurse who checked me over when I was first brought here? She seemed very kind.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she’s a very trustworthy and reliable sort,’ the Major agreed. ‘I’ll see her and explain the situation. I’m sure she can set up an account for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ Melanie said.

  ‘Then that’s settled. Right, let’s get you back in harness, girl. Have you still got her old collar to hand, Platt?’

  ‘It’s in the harness room, Sir.’

  They went through to the Harness Room, heavy with the aroma of oil and polish. There was a work bench and neatly labelled rows of hooks and racks filled with the array of body harnesses, bridles and restraints necessary for the control and confinement of the female body in every posture and function imaginable. From one of these hooks Platt took down a thick glossy black leather collar with rounded padded edges and twin tethering rings. A metal strip riveted to its side read: GIRL 9: PROPERTY OF THE MARKHAM HALL HUNT PACK. From the ring on the front of the collar hung a small round metal disk like a dog tag which bore her name stamped upon it.

  Platt gave the collar a quick buff with his sleeve and then passed it to the Major. He looked at Melanie. ‘You’re improperly dressed, girl,’ he said.

  Quickly Melanie stripped off her few clothes and clambered onto the bench, kneeling and lifting her chin so he could lock the collar about her neck. Meanwhile Platt had gathered the rest of her harness and together they fitted it onto her. In five minutes she was properly kitted out as a Markham Hall pack bitch.

  On her feet she wore black cork-filled wedge-soled ankle boots which prevented her from standing upright and confined her to moving on hands and knees. To facilitate this she wore matching shin pads with knee protectors. Her hands were confined within padded black finger and thumb-less mittens that resembled animal paws and prevented her from performing any dextrous activity. Finally there was a slender black tail that matched her hair and which plugged into her anus, its wire core shaped to follow the cleft of her buttocks up to the small of her back and then curve jauntily upright above her rear like a pennant. It bobbed and wagged as she moved on all fours like a dog.

  Platt noted that her owner’s mark on the upper curve of her right buttock where he had put it weeks before was fading. It was the Markham crest surmounting a numeral 9 framed by chain links and was stamped in indelible ink. He fetched the ink pad and stamp and carefully refreshed it.

  ‘Good,’ the Major said as he looked Melanie over as she knelt on the bench. ‘Then he added: ‘Leave us, if you please, Platt. I’ll take her through to the pound when I’m done.’

  Platt understood. ‘Of course, Major,’ he said, and returned to his office.

  In the Harness Room Major Havercotte-gore surveyed his restored prize bitch with pride as she knelt on the bench, her supple back dipped, her haunches full and her eyes bright. He walked around her, stroking and petting her, reacquainting himself with the full, heavy warmth of her breasts and their firm nipple crowns. She shivered in pleasure and leaned into his touch, pressing against his hands as they caressed her.

  Going to a hook on the wall the Major took down a light paddle that hung there and swished it through the air. He saw her eyes fix upon it but she showed no sign of fear nor did she speak. Instead she smiled and spread her knees a little wider and pushed her rear out further. He took up position behind her, running his hands over the soft swell of her brown rump, judging its weight and resilience. Then he swung the paddle across the undercurves of her buttocks where the flesh was fullest with a crisp smack.

  Melanie gave a little gasp as the blow shivered through her bottom. Her tail wagged and her breasts jiggled, but then she pushed back her hips for more. He smacked her again.

  This was not a punishment and she knew it. This was simply a re-assertion of his original rights over her as granted by her declaration, and by her show of submission she signalled that she accepted them. It was a welcome back to the Hall pack and its rules and rewards. It brought just the lightest tears to her eyes and prepared her for its natural consequence.

  After six strokes spaced evenly across her rear her rump was nicely warmed up and her Mound of Venus was swollen and its cleft gaped wide with its pink interior glistening. He just had to apply a little pressure down on the small of her back and she slipped down from the bench, resting on her elbows and spreading her legs, her feet braced on her sharply wedge soles. He undid his flies, freed his straining manhood, took hold of her hips and entered her eager sex.

  It was proper for him to sink his manhood into her, to use her for his pleasure, to claim his rights to the bitch of his choice as master of the pack. With each plunge into her succulent, elastic, clinging depths he reminded her of his dominance and her subordination. Whatever favours he might have granted her there must no doubt as to who was the master and who was the slave. She must be prepared to obey him without question. It pleased him that she did so with love and respect, but to be sure he was putting his mark deep inside her with a series of hard thrusts that would leave a reminder of his presence for hours afterwards. She gave little gasps and pushed back onto his ramming shaft, increasing her pain and her pleasure.

  And so together, master and slave happily climaxed.

  Ten minutes later the Major and Melanie emerged from the harness room and crossed the kennel yard. She shuffled along gracefully on knees and paws at his side, showing that in her time back in her own world she had not forgotten the lessons he had taught her about walking to heel.

  He passed through the door of the kennel block into a long room with a triple row of brick alcoves with barred iron doors running along one side that served as the pack’s kennels. Opposite the yard door was another door leading to the shaded pound where the pack were allowed to rest. It had a pair of double-hinged and lightly sprung doors set within the frame of its lower half that were just big enough for a girl to pass through on her hands and knees.

  ‘I think you’ll find a few of your friends out there,’ the Major said.

  Melanie beamed up at him. ‘Thank you, Master. It’s good to be back.’

  Then she nosed her way through the doors and out into the pound.

  The Major listened for a moment until he heard a chorus of delighted squeals break out from the other side of the door as the packgirls greeted their lost sister. Then he turned and walked away whistling cheerfully.

  You get nothing of value without paying a price, he mused, and it was true that new concerns now lurked in the recesses of his mind that would have to be confronted in due course. But for now he felt as content as he ever had been.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Private Arrangements

  It was evening after tea at Cranborough School. Jackson and his friends were putting the final touches to the newly renovated stable block. They wanted everything ready for the inspection tomorrow by Miss Newcombe and Mr Speers. Their diligence had even moved them to clear the weeds about the sides of the building. It was as they were busy with this task that there came a rustle in the bushes that fringed the edge of the school grounds where it ran close to the corner of the stable block and a voice said: ‘Psst!’

  They twisted round to see Jemima’s bright face peering out at them from amid the greenery. The boys looked about anxiously but they were sheltered from view of the main buildings, so they scurried over to their part time pet slave.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jackso
n demanded.

  ‘I wanted to see what you were doing to the stables,’ Jemima said. ‘And I’ve got some exciting news to tell you.’

  ‘But someone might have seen you come in!’ Parsons protested.

  ‘I was very careful,’ Jemima insisted. ‘You showed me the best ways in during the holiday.’

  This was true. While they had been virtually the sole occupants of the school during their holiday detention, Jemima had learned the most discreet routes into the school grounds so as to avoid Miss Newcombe’s eagle eye.

  ‘Can I see what you’ve done inside?’ Jemima begged.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Jackson said. ‘Check if the coast’s clear, Bicks…’

  They ushered Jemima into the stables where she had passed so many hours of happy suffering. Jemima inspected the transformation approvingly. ‘You have been working hard,’ she said.

  The whole building smelt of new paint and polish. All the grimy windows had been cleaned and polished, the floors swept and scrubbed and the plaster walls had been freshly whitewashed. The old ground floor tack room, now cleaned out and furnished with old desks and chairs and with a blackboard in one corner, was set up as a classroom for slave-related lectures. The horse stalls occupying the other half of the ground floor were ready to serve as storage space for larger items of slave equipment as they were acquired. A handrail had been added to the stairs leading up to the grain loft where they had secretly kept Amber prisoner and where they had also memorably entertained Jemima, Sue, Sally and Melanie.

  Upstairs the single long room with its low pitched ceiling of heavy rafters and beams was far brighter than when she had last seen it. Each of the half dozen low plank-sided bays, previously used as feed bins, had been painted a different colour and lined with strips of old carpet and rugs. The rest of the woodwork had clearly been washed down while the plaster walls, like those downstairs, had also been white-washed.

  The boys watched anxiously as Jemima walked up and down inspecting the stalls which could each house a slave girl. Suddenly it seemed important to them that she approve of their efforts and the important details that they had added. The posts that flanked each stall all had iron rings newly screwed into them at different heights for tethering purposes. On the wall by the window at the far end of the room was a rack of wooden pegs carrying an assortment of ropes, chains and straps.

  ‘Matron said if we’re going to keep bondslaves we’ve got to do it properly,’ Harris volunteered.

  ‘All the other senior boys have helped,’ Jackson explained. ‘They’re as keen as we are to have bondslaves here. But we thought we’d finish it off properly as we sort of work best together.’

  ‘I know you do,’ Jemima said with a mischievous smile that set them all grinning.

  ‘What did you think of the fake thieves’ camp we made for Amber?’ Gosset asked.

  ‘It looked very convincing,’ Jemima assured them. ‘Constable Bailey thought it was real, though he had trouble getting into it.’

  The boys’ chuckled but Jemima suddenly looked glum. ‘Will you still want to play with me when you’ve got official school slaves to use here?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, of course we will,’ Parson’s assured her.

  ‘I mean it’ll be fantastic to have girls here,’ Jackson explained, ‘but it will mean sharing them with the other lads.’

  ‘And we’ll have to be careful how we behave in school all the time or else we lose privileges with them,’ said Harris. ‘I mean what’s the point in keeping slave girls if you can’t have them when you like?’

  ‘So we’ll still want to play with you,’ Gosset confirmed.

  The other’s nodded in agreement.

  Jemima beamed. ‘Well I have a secret that might make that even more fun,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to make me tell you.’

  The boy’s grinned with delight. They knew how Jemima liked to be made to tell secrets.

  They closed in about her, grabbing her arms and putting a hand over her mouth to stifle her yelps of fearful delight. Subduing her kicking legs they reached under her skirt and stripped off her panties, which they balled up and stuffed into her mouth. Then they dragged her, struggling happily, over to one of the stalls. Gathering up some ropes they spread her legs and bound ankles to rings low down on the side posts and her wrists to ring high up their sides. They rolled her skirt up to her waist and tucked it in, exposing her pale slender haunches and fluffy-haired pussy.

  They stroked, fingered, pinched and slapped her pubes and buttocks until Jemima was twisting wildly and straining at her bonds. Then Jackson took a strap from the rack and held it up for Jemima to see.

  ‘Tell us your secret or we’ll beat you!’

  With her eyes huge and round with the thrill of anticipation she shook her head.

  They took turns lashing her lightly with the strap, burnishing her bottom until it was hot and rosy and her shrieks and gurgles had turned to muffled pleas for mercy. Then they took the panty gag from her mouth.

  ‘Tell us everything!’ Jackson commanded.

  ‘Belinda Jenkins came to see me the other day,’ Jemima gasped. ‘She told me that she liked playing slave games as well. We played one together and she was very good. So I told her I had friends who could play with us and treat us like proper slave girls.’

  The boys’ faces suddenly fell in alarm. ‘You didn’t say who we were?’ Gosset asked anxiously.

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ Jemima said. ‘I didn’t say anything else about you except that you’re my special friends who like to play naughty games with me. She saw me again yesterday and said she’d really like to meet you so she could be your slave as well.’

  ‘Belinda was one of Arabella’s gang,’ Harris said. ‘Can we trust her?’

  ‘But Arabella’s gone now,’ Bicks pointed out. ‘Maybe that’s given Belinda the chance to play slave games her way?’

  The boys looked at each other thoughtfully, weighing up their natural distrust for anybody who had been closely associated with Arabella, against the appealing prospect of acquiring a second secret slave of their own to compensate for having to share school slaves with their classmates.

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt just to test her out if we’re careful,’ Harris said slowly.

  ‘We can wear masks and disguises like we did when we saw to Arabella,’ Bicks said.

  ‘Well of course we’ll be masked,’ Jackson exclaimed. ‘We won’t take any chances on her finding out who we really are. And you’re never to tell her unless we say so, Jem, understand? Or Matron. Not for now, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Jemima said automatically.

  ‘But we can’t meet Belinda here,’ Parsons said. ‘That’ll be a dead giveaway.’

  ‘And if we’re keeping it from Matron we can’t use her cottage,’ Gosset said.

  ‘Then we’ll have to find somewhere safe we can use during village visit times,’ Jackson said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about a place you can use, Masters,’ Jemima said helpfully. ‘There’s an old carriage shed on a piece of waste ground next to the end of our back garden that hasn’t been used for years. And I can get the key…’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Auction

  Amber was bent over the end of her jail cell bed with her ankles cuffed to the front feet of the bed frame. Her arms were cuffed behind her back. A pair of chains were hooked to each side of the head of the bed and then run back to the ring on the front of her prison collar, pulling her forward so that her upper body was doubled over and her face was pressed into the bedclothes. It was grinding softly to and fro as Bailey, standing between her legs, steadily pumped away inside her rectum.

  In deference to her injuries, Bailey had not made any unreasonable demands of her while she had been in the cells, apart from occasional oral sex, so she could
not begrudge him a proper farewell screw. After all to have custody over assorted female orifices for days or weeks at time and not make use of them would be unnatural. It probably counted as part of the girls’ punishment and rehabilitation.

  God, how easily I’m learning to think of this way of life as normal, Amber thought! Was that a legacy of the miserable charade she had gone through to get back here? Did it seem by comparison that being locked in a police cell and enduring a simple sodomizing from the local constable was perfectly civilized? What had happened to her?

  Bailey grunted in satisfaction as his hot sperm spurted into the depths of her bowels. Amber felt a pang of disappointment. He hadn’t given her time to orgasm, but at least the exercise had not been too painful and even a little arousing. By his standards he was being considerate. She should probably think herself lucky.

  He pulled out of her and wiped his cock off on her pubic hair. Then he brought over the bucket and hose and wiped her off and flushed her out. Finally he applied some petroleum jelly to her anus to leave it fresh and clean and ready for its next penetration, presumably by her new owner. Amber gulped. If things did not play out as planned that could be anybody!

  Bailey freed her collar chains and let Amber stand upright. He looked her over critically. ‘There, now, that’s put a bit of colour in your cheeks. You’re as presentable as I can make you. I haven’t touched your cunny so it’s got as much life in it as possible. You make sure you respond properly when you’re on the block, right?’

  ‘Yes, Constable Bailey,’ she said meekly.

  Amber’s heart thudded afresh. Today was the day of her public auction which was to be held out in the station yard. Bailey was concerned that she would not fetch much of a price. The welts and bruises were healing but she still looked like used goods, which after all she very much was. But then of course that had been the plan.