by William Avon
‘Tell me when we’re there,’ she asked Jemima once again.
‘Almost there,’ Jemima said. ‘You are eager today!’ she added teasingly.
‘Yes, really eager,’ Belinda agreed.
That was true in a way. She was eager to get this whole disgusting business over and done with, after which she hoped never to have to speak to either Arabella or Jemima again.
‘Nearly there,’ Jemima said.
Belinda felt the ground underfoot become more compact and gravely. Now she knew it was only a few more paces. She counted and then stopped dropping the bean trail. A moment later they had stepped into the confines of the shed and she heard the door clang shut behind her like the crack of doom.
For a few minutes there was no movement outside the shed. Then a figure appeared by the gap in the hedgerow from which the path from the woods emerged to join the old lane that wound around the back of the gardens and orchard plots on this side of the village.
It appeared to be a tubby youth in a flat cap, an open-necked shirt tied with a bandana, an old stained jacket, baggy trousers and workman’s boots. The youth drew out a pair of binoculars and with them surveyed the trail of butterbeans that ran across and down the lane for twenty yards and then turned and stopped just short of the door to a large weatherworn shed with blacked out windows that was nestled amongst the brambles. Seeing no movement from the shed or along the lane, the youth dashed forward, snatched up the last few incriminating beans, then ran back to cover and settled down amongst the bushes opposite.
Arabella pushed back her cap and wiped her face with her bandana and adjusted the padding she had wrapped under her shirt to conceal the swell of her bust. A disguise had been essential if she was to move about Shaftwell without being recognised. Also her old loose clothes of brown and grey had provided additional camouflage while she had made her circuitous journey through the woods tracking Belinda and Jemima from a safe distance.
As she watched the door of the shed Arabella frowned as she tried to work out where they were relative to the more familiar main streets of the village. Of course, that would be Damson Lane over there. She could just make out its rooftops over the intervening trees and fences. That would mean that the shed was not far from the back of Jemima’s house. Perhaps her family had some association with it. The sly girl was playing very close to home. No wonder it had been necessary to blindfold Belinda.
While she waited she pondered the news Belinda had imparted when they had met earlier to finalise their plans for the day. It had only emphasised her own frustrating situation.
It seemed that Amber Jones had been bought by Sister Newcombe, along with Doreen Knox. When the auction had been advertised Arabella had contemplated bidding for Amber herself, using Burdock or Style as fronts, to see if she could learn anything else about her kidnappers. But her funds were running low and she could not afford to spend money on a long shot. Apparently the girls were destined for some new educational project for the senior boys up at the school that the Sister was helping to run and which had been causing some local interest. Arabella resented the boys their use of Amber. She’d not been allowed slaves when she had been at school, so why should they? And when she had privately questioned Amber in the police yard she had seemed like a challenging girl to break.
And now Sister Newcombe had registered ownership of yet another slave for the school project: an outsider named Elizabeth she had found for herself, so costing her nothing. Some people had all the luck, Arabella thought bitterly.
She checked her watch once again. How long would the mystery men stay in the shed playing with their sex pets? She wondered what they were doing to them. If Belinda’s last encounter was any guide they would be inventive…
Belinda was hanging naked from the beams of the shed while Jemima was being beaten on the bottom to encourage her into fucking her. They jerked back and forth, grunting and gasping about their gags while the sweat beaded on their bodies in the close musty air and the floor beneath them darkened with drip marks from their tormented and cruelly stimulated sexes. Belinda felt close to being in hell while Jemima’s face showed a picture of ecstatic suffering as she savoured every minute of their ordeal.
Belinda’s arms were stretched above her head with her wrists bound together. Her legs were spread and individually tied at the ankles which then hung from ropes tied to the next but one beam along, leaving her slung in the air rather like a hammock with her bottom lowermost. Jemima, also naked, stood between Belinda’s wide-spayed legs. Her arms were also stretched above her head and tied to the beam between the two Belinda was slung between. This positioning brought their groins close together.
Jemima’s vagina was plugged with one end of a double-ended phallus made from a length of thick old rubber hose with champagne corks in its ends driven through a hole cut through the middle of an old tennis ball. A dozen short pigeon feathers had been stuck into the tennis ball to form a crest running between the holes where the hose pierced it. The other end was driven deep into Belinda’s gaping sex mouth.
It was possible for Jemima to step back and pull the double dildo shaft right out of them, but even if she’d wanted to this option was denied them. Their nipples were painfully clamped by small bulldog clips which were linked by strings and thick rubber bands. Every time Jemima pulled back their nipples were stretched, drawing their breasts out into soft unnatural cones. The pain and tension quickly drove them back together.
The masked men stood around them, suddenly lunging out of the shadows cast by the lanterns to swipe Jemima’s bottom with a spanking paddle. She yelped and her slender hips thrust forward, driving the dido shafts deep into each of them until they were both fully filled with the rubber and cork shafts and the tennis ball ground into their vulvas. Its stiff feather crest slid into their clefts, tickling and tormenting their swollen clitorises. The thrusts set Belinda swaying in her ropes only to return and drive herself back onto the dildo again. When Belinda did not swing back with enough force the men swiped their paddles from each side of her up into her hanging buttocks, which clenched as she yelped in pain, jerking herself up and onto the dildo until it pounded against the end of her passage and its feather crest riffled through her intimacies of her wet slot.
Smack, yelp, sway, groan. Again and again their stretched breasts alternated with their bulging pubic mounds. They were satisfying the male fantasy of seeing two women unwillingly make love until they orgasmed and their captors were getting what they wished for.
They could not have guessed how unwilling Belinda truly was, but her will to resist was failing. She would have admitted she was a fake submissive if she could, except that now she was terrified by what the sinister men might do to her if they found they had been fooled. She could not fight it so she had to give in and seek the only pleasure there was left to her. She had to love this like Jemima did.
Belinda looked at her sex partner’s eyes screwing up and then opening wide with delight at her degradation as each paddle slap stung her bottom. How red was it now? Was it hot to the touch? Were her own stinging buttocks pink now? Jemima was so very pretty and their hot wet sexes were connected so intimately and those feathers really were probing everywhere and her clitoris was throbbing and she could feel the elastic resistance of Jemima’s breasts through her own clamped nipples with each tug of the cords. She could smell Jemima’s arousal mingling with her own. This really was getting exciting and something was going to explode inside her...
Belinda bounced in her ropes and rammed her hips back into Jemima’s as she came, drenching the feather studded tennis ball with her juices.
The men let them sway limply together for a minute as the spasms drained from their sweaty bodies. Then they dragged a small worn table over from the junk that piled up about the walls and slid it under Belinda.
Untying Belinda’s arms from the ceiling but keeping her legs secured, they laid her down on her
back across the table so that her buttocks overhung one end and her head the other. They pulled her arms out to the sides along the edge of the tabletop and tied her wrists to its legs. Bringing Jemima forward they retied her arms behind her back and then made her straddle Belinda’s head, enclosing her cheeks with her soft warm thighs, and then bend forward. Belinda felt her body press down upon hers, her breasts pressing against her belly, until Jemima’s face snuggled into her own sticky sex, even as Jemima’s fragrant pussy sank down over her gagged mouth and her nose slid into her furrow. The men pulled Jemima’s legs wide and tied her ankles to the lower ends of the table legs. They twisted her bound arms at the shoulders, keeping them straight and pulling them upwards and tying them to the roof beam, the tension keeping her face firmly buried in Belinda’s sex.
Now the pair of them were securely and bound head to tail and face to pussy, each forced to savour the other’s most precious organ and inhale their most intimate scent. Then the men reached between them and took their ball gags off.
‘Let’s see you two sluts eat cunny!’ the speaker growled. ‘Lick each other clean or we spank you!’ And the paddles swished against their exposed buttocks as a warning.
With little inhibition left and a sort of devil-may-care madness overtaking her, Belinda began to kiss and nibble and suck at the tender, juicy lovemouth before her even as Jemima delightedly reciprocated. She lapped and tongued its folds, probing deeper into its hot depths, overwhelmed by a mounting passion. She’d show them how good she was!
And then a hard male cock slid across her nose and plunged into Jemima’s sex. Even as she flinched her head aside she felt another shaft ramming into her own pussy, making her eyes bulge. A hand slapped her buttocks. ‘Don’t stop!’ So she didn’t.
She licked the plunging shaft as it slid in and out of Jemima’s slot and craned her neck and kissed its owner’s hairy ball sacs as they slapped against her face with abandon. The man came with a grunt, pumping his seed into Jemima’s clenching sheath.
He pulled his glistening shaft out and Belinda eagerly ducked forward to lap up the mess of female juices and sperm that tricked out of Jemima’s hot slot over her face as though it was ambrosia sent from the Gods. Her own orgasm caught her by surprise and tore through her. Dizzy with delight she clenched on the cock that had given it to her and did not want to let it go. When it slid out of her Jemima’s busy tongue comfortingly took its place. Then another shaft penetrated Jemima’s pussy and she fell to kissing it worshipfully once more.
The scent of raw sex was filling her mind like a drug and she did not want to think how she would feel when its effects wore off.
‘Say “thank you”, sluts!’ a voice boomed out.
‘Thank you, Masters!’ Belinda choked and slobbered past the pumping rod of flesh and its sopping, fragrant socket that she was tending so lovingly.
By then she almost believed it herself.
In her hiding place amid the bushes Arabella stretched and rubbed her stiff legs for the tenth time. They’d been in there over an hour. They were certainly getting good value out of Belinda and Jemima but she wished they’d hurry up. She rubbed the crotch of her baggy trousers feeling herself responding once again. She had been imagining what the men had been doing to their playthings, wishing she could be there, experiencing all that delicious, helpless fear and anticipation at first hand. Were their cocks big and hard, were they spanking her soundly while she strained against her straps until…
Arabella shuddered, feeling her panties getting wet. Damn them! How many times could they have her?
Just then the shed door opened and Belinda and Jemima, wearing their sunglasses, slipped out and walked away arm in arm, heading for the path through the woods. Amber smiled. It looked to her as if Belinda was walking rather stiffly suggesting she had been well used. At least if all went as planned she would not have to listen to her bleating about her suffering again. Then she turned her attention back to the shed.
Ten minutes later the door swung open again and five figures emerged. As she saw them it was all Arabella could do not to cry out in amazement. It was the five Cranborough boys she had set up for a fall before Easter! They were Jemima’s mystery men!
At a cautious distance Arabella followed Jackson and his friends through Shaftwell and back to school to see what else they might do. They looked innocent enough in their uniforms, just like any other boys visiting the village on a Saturday afternoon. But she now knew they were determined and ingenious schemers who had paid her back in full for the trouble she had caused them. Inwardly she burned with rage at the thought of what they had cost her. Well it was her turn once more and she would have her revenge!
She trailed them along Oakmead Lane and watched them pass School Cottage on the way to the school gates. Then they paused. Through the binoculars she saw they were chatting in a friendly fashion to Sister Newcombe who was out in her front garden. After a minute they proceeded on through the main gates.
That seemed to be it. She had her answer and now it was simply a matter of choosing the exact nature of her retribution. Except that Arabella hesitated, looking at the cottage with a frown. Sister Newcombe. Her name had been cropping up a lot recently, usually associated with slave girls. And now she seemed to be friendly with Jackson and his gang. Of course, she’d remained at the school to supervise them when they’d been serving their holiday detention. And hadn’t Belinda said Jemima had been visiting her? Could that all be coincidence?
Arabella crossed the road and scrambled through the hedge into a field. Making her way along the hedgerow until she was almost opposite the cottage she found an oak tree with ivy growing thickly up its trunk, making it climbable. Keeping to the side away from the road she scrambled up and settled herself in a convenient fork in the branches. From her new vantage point she had good view of the front and one side of the cottage. Through her binoculars she scanned the scene closely.
There was Sister Newcombe in the front beside the path dressed in shorts and an old shirt with rolled-up sleeves, attending to some hollyhocks. She had quite a good body, Arabella noted. A flash of bare flesh in the small side garden drew Arabella’s attention. She focussed on a brown-haired slave girl, naked except for a collar, gardening gloves and boots, hard at work digging over a flower bed with a fork. Arabella recognised Amber Jones. She still bore the fading marks of her mistreatment at the hands of her kidnappers. Had the boys done that to her and then carelessly let her be found in the woods? But then they’d just seen her now without any show of surprise and coolly passed the time of day with her new owner. What was going on here?
She looked back at the front garden just as another slave in a maid’s outfit and chains came out of the cottage door. This girl had bronzed skin, deep brown bobbed hair and a luscious figure. She was carrying a tray with three glasses of what looked like lemonade. She gave one to her mistress and then shuffled along the path around the house, moving with hobbled steps that made her plump bottom cheeks shiver, to Amber. She gave her the second glass and sipped from the last one herself as they chatted.
Arabella kept her binoculars on the maid, enjoying the view. Was this the new girl, the outsider? She seemed to be settling in quickly. Sister Newcombe was lucky because she was quite something. In fact she reminded Arabella of...
She stared, straining her eyes, mentally adjusting for her skin and hair colour. Could it be? Yes it was! It was Sue Drake!
The revelation hit her with almost orgasmic intensity, causing Arabella to cling to her perch, afraid she would fall off as the ramifications cascaded wildly through her mind.
Who did everybody in Shaftwell trust with their confidences? Who knew both Jackson’s gang and Jemima? Who now owned two of the original outsider girls and was custodian of the reward money post office account of the third? Who had come out of the events of the last month with more status, wealth and personal slaves while she had b
een humiliated? The boys had simply been tools. The mastermind was Sister Newcombe!
Now Arabella knew who to take her revenge upon. And knowing who meant she also knew how.
Chapter Twenty
Devices and Desires
It was Tuesday morning when Belinda next met Jemima on a seat by the village green. She saw the secret smile light up her face as she sat down beside her.
‘Wasn’t that amazing and so deliciously naughty on Saturday?’ Jemima said. I know you liked it because you had lots of orgasms.’ A deeper blush suffused her features. ‘And you tasted really lovely, your pussy, I mean. I just wanted you to know.’
Belinda steeled herself to smile back. ‘And you tasted lovely too,’ she assured her. ‘Look, do you want to come over to my house tomorrow after lunch and stay over? There’s a new… slave restraint device I’ve found that I think you’d be interested in trying out.’
Jemima’s face had lit up again. ‘Is it naughty?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And a bit painful?’
‘A bit.’
‘Then I’d love to try it out.’
In a corner of the Equipment Room of the Markham Hall girlpack yard the exercise wheel turned smoothly on its well-oiled spindle, with the steady click of its revolution counter and tick of its timer marking its progress. Strapped within it was a naked and sweating Alison Chalmers.
The wheel was a drum of light wooden plank treads three feet deep and eight feet in diameter, extending from the side of a spoked wheel through the hub of which an iron axle was mounted. The axle was carried by a low sturdy “A” frame set on a low wheeled base. The other side of the wheel was open, allowing its occupant to be put in place and observed without hindrance.
Extending from the axle boss into the interior of the wheel was a metal arm and right-angled rod like a crank handle, the offset of which allowed for different heights of its users. Alison’s arms were crooked and pulled backward so that the rod could pass between the insides of her elbows and the curve of her back. Her wrists were cuffed and strapped across her belly while more cuffs about her upper arms were chained to rings set in the rod, ensuring she could not slip off its end and step out of the machine.
