The Girlspell III

by William Avon

  The arm and rod were hollow and through them a set of wires and pulleys were geared to the rotation of the wheel at the hub. These wires actuated two devices attached to the end and middle of the rod.

  Extending from the middle of the rod back over Alison’s haunches was a slender pivoted “Y” shaped metal arm with a pair of small spiked metal balls on its tips. These hung over her rolling buttocks and could be seen to rise and fall slightly as her pace varied. The second arm extended forward from the end of the rod, bent in a right angle and crossed in front of Alison’s bouncing breasts. From it ran a pair of steel wires with spring clips on their ends that were clamped about her nipples.

  As long as she maintained the pace that had been set on a dial on the axle hub relative to the rotation speed of the wheel, the spiked balls remained raised clear of her bottom and the nipple wires remained slack. But if she slowed down the wire clamps began to tug painfully on her nipples while the spiked balls dropped down onto her buttocks.

  At the moment the sole observer of Alison’s exertions was George Platt who regarded her efforts with deep approval, only a fraction of which he dared let show on his face. Trying to sound businesslike he continued his explanation: ‘A packgirl has to have endurance while she’s running upright, both for hunts and track sport. That’s a basic requirement. The wheel not only lets you examine her running action it lets you test her stamina with facts and figures, so you can build up a chart of her progress. Of course you can’t always watch her for half an hour or more, so you set the machine up and leave it to monitor her. Then she has no choice but to complete her allotted distance. It might seem a bit cruel but she has to get used to it.’

  Alison’s bottom already bore a few bloody pinpricks while her punched nipples were a dark pink. He did not want to damage her lovely flesh and yet at the same time he wanted any mark on it to be put there by his will, symbolising these brief precious moments when he had absolute power over her.

  And yet she did not seem to realize this. Her pretty, flushed face was set in a look of studious attention as she took in his remarks while straining to maintain her pace. Sweat was already beading between her jiggling breasts and tricking down over her belly to sparkle in her pubic curls. She looked so earnest and lovely and alive, and yet she had no idea of the effect she was having on him. So near and yet so far, he thought bitterly.

  There came an urgent knock on the door leading to the office, which caused Platt to curse under his breath. He unbolted the door and opened it a crack to see Billy Meddings holding the post in his hand

  ‘You could have put it on my desk as usual, Billy,’ Platt told him brusquely. ‘I said I wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was important.’

  ‘But this one’s special, Mr Platt,’ Billy said excitedly. ‘It’s addressed to Her, Sir. Bitch Number Nine. Melanie.’

  ‘What? Let me see…’

  It was a letter bearing a local postmark and it was indeed addressed to Melanie, care of the Hall Packyard.

  ‘All right, Billy, I’ll deal with this.’

  He shut and bolted the door and then opened the letter. He read it and then scowled.

  It was almost unheard of for a pack girl to receive post. Pack girls should work in harness, serve in bedchambers or stay in their pens under lock and key. It wasn’t natural to let them stand upright too often, unless for a race of course, far less get dressed and roam about free. It might give them independent ideas. But Melanie was the Major’s prize bitch and it was not his place to question his wishes regarding her.

  He had to pass this on.

  ‘I’ll just be a few minutes,’ he told Alison. ‘You keep up to speed…’

  Platt found Melanie in the gardens harnessed to a barrow that a gardener was loading with grass cuttings. He showed her the letter.

  The Post Office,

  High Street,

  Shaftwell.

  Dear Miss Kingston,

  A matter has arisen concerning your recently opened saving account which I regret requires your personal attendance. Since it would not be proper for customers to witness a bondslave engaging in matters of personal finance on post office premises, would you please call at my private house at 5 pm tomorrow (Wednesday) to resolve this problem. My address is Rose Cottage, Caldicotte Lane, which is the turning by the Church off the village green. Kindly be punctual.

  Yours faithfully,

  Elenora Skelton (Mrs)

  Head Postmistress.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Platt,’ Melanie said. ‘I can see this Mrs Skelton is not happy about this either but obviously I must go. I won’t let it spoil my training. I’ll do extra laps when I get back.’

  He could not fault the girl for her dedication. ‘Well, we’ll see about that, girl. Just don’t be late.’

  It was just before lunch when Belinda spoke to Arabella from the village call box. ‘It’s done. She’s coming as arranged.’

  ‘Good,’

  ‘You won’t do anything too bad to her?’

  She heard Arabella chuckle. ‘It sounds like you’re going soft on her. Was that last session too intimate? Found yourself a lover, have you?’

  ‘No, of course not. But she’s so, well, nice.’

  ‘And yet she betrayed me,’ Arabella reminded her. ‘And they do say take an eye for an eye.’

  Belinda put the receiver down.

  Arabella was frightening her now. The threat of the anonymous letter had forced her to cooperate in all this miserable scheming and now she was in dangerously deep but she did not have the courage to defy Arabella outright. Nothing would deflect her from having her revenge, although Belinda did not see how she expected to get away with it. She was no longer sure how she herself could escape blame. The end was coming, one way or another.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Gathering In

  Early Wednesday afternoon, Belinda went round to Jemima’s house to collect her. As they walked back Jemima was clearly bubbling with excitement, pestering her about details of the device. Belinda kept telling her to be patient while she struggled to conceal her own nerves. She actually felt worse than the first time Jemima had led her through the woods to meet her mysterious friends. At least Jemima had been honest with her about what to expect.

  She led Jemima round to the back garden gate of her house, turning her eyes away from the horse and cart waiting a few yards down the lane.

  ‘I thought you’d want to see it straight away,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘We can take your things up to the house later,’ she lied.

  She opened the door of the gardener’s shed and showed Jemima inside

  Standing in the middle of the shed was an open narrow rectangular wooden box about the size of a coffin, but with no back or lid. Rows of holes had been drilled through its sides, which were hung with rope handles. Its inside faces were fitted out with several sets of straps and cuffs. An adjustable rod rose up from the middle of its base board with a rubber dildo on the end.

  ‘Take you clothes off and step inside and I’ll show you how it works,’ Belinda said.

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ Jemima said with servile delight.

  Eagerly she stripped off and stood inside the box frame. Belinda cuffed her wrists and ankles to the box sides and buckled longer straps across her waist and loops around her knees and upper arms, pulling them tight so she was held in place by their tension and could not sway about. Her pink nipples were standing up in excitement, she noticed. She put a thick leather collar about Jemima’s neck, buckling it loosely so that it could not choke, and then used long straps to secure it to the inside top corners of the box so that it would help brace her upper body. Belinda bent down and adjusted the rod now jutting up between Jemima’s strapped and spread legs, sliding the dildo up into her pretty pussy slit. Jemima sighed in delight as she was penetrated. Belinda took up a
ball gag and fitted it into Jemima’s mouth. Then she picked up a small sack and quickly pulled it over Jemima’s head, so she did not have to look her in the face.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to do this,’ she said, moving to the back of the shed and pulling out the lid of the box which she slotted into its recess, followed quickly by the lid. The lid and base already had nails driven halfway into their top and bottom corners. With a hammer she drove them into the ends of the blocks that braced the inner corners of the box sides.

  From inside the box she could faintly hear Jemima begin to moan and struggle, but of course it was far too late. Belinda went to the shed door and opened it. Arabella was waiting for her, with Burdock and Styles in close attendance. The men were wearing black hooded masks over their heads, making them look even more sinister.

  ‘She’s ready,’ Belinda said simply.

  As Burdock and Styles carried the box with its living captive out of the back gate, Arabella smiled in satisfaction. ‘I said she’d just step right into it. You see, it was no trouble at all.’

  ‘Just go,’ Belinda sobbed. ‘I don’t want to know what you’re going to do, just keep my name out of it. I don’t know how I’m going to face Jemima again.’

  ‘You say masked mystery men threatened you with some unspeakable torment if you didn’t hand her over to them,’ Arabella suggested with a mirthless grin. ‘As you can see I’ve put Burdock and Styles into masks now and it’s emboldened them. No more foolish inhibitions about manhandling free women. Don’t worry. For all Jemima knows they might be copycats following the boys’ example. I can have them rough you up a little if you want to make it look convincing. They know you enjoy that sort of thing.’

  ‘No! Just go!’

  Belinda slammed the shed door on Arabella’s heels and collapsed sobbing onto the floor.

  As Melanie made her way to Caldicotte Lane that afternoon she reflected on the oddness of the situation for both her and the Postmistress. She was probably breaking a lot of taboos by holding an account while being a bondslave and nice people did not mix with slaves as equals in a post office queue. She wondered what the law was for girls who held accounts and were then sold into slavery. Perhaps the accounts were simply frozen. You weren’t earning anything as a slave but neither did you have any outgoings. She supposed she was being discriminated against by being forced to use the equivalent of the tradesman’s entrance, but at least it was not on account of her colour. And she was privileged to be trusted to be let out on her own without even her collar. The Major valued her for what she was and to her that counted above all else.

  Caldicotte Lane was a narrow, tree-lined winding road, with tiny picturesque houses peeping over the front hedges and fences on either side of it. There was a horse and cart beside the rose-trellised arched gate set in the high hedge of the cottage she was looking for. She opened the gate to find a couple of flat-capped workmen bending over the slabs of the path leading up to the front door. Beside them was a long coffin-sized box with a few tools and lengths of rope protruding from it.

  ‘Excuse me, can I get past?’ she said.

  They parted without a word to let her through and then rose up on either side of her. They had their hands over her mouth to stifle her cry of alarm and were already forcing her down onto the ground before she realised that underneath their caps they had been wearing black masks.

  George Platt was just finishing his paperwork for the day in the packyard office when the housephone rang. It was Miss Martin, the Major’s secretary, informing him she had received a call from Sister Newcombe saying that Melanie had come to her house to sort out the problem with her post office account and would be back later than expected or perhaps stay overnight.

  Platt thanked her and put the phone down, glaring at Melanie’s Post Office letter that still lay on a tray on his desk. ‘Packgirls staying out overnight while they sort out their financial affairs,’ he muttered to himself. ‘What’s the world coming to? So much for your extra laps, girl!’

  Still, he mused, waiting up for Melanie would give him an excuse to introduce Alison to another aspect of bondslave life. For her further instruction, of course.

  He went across to the kennels where Alison was securing the last of the bitches in their pens for the night.

  ‘Come over to the office when you’re done, Alison,’ he said casually. ‘There’s a new training routine I’d like to go over with you…’

  Ten minutes later Alison was naked and bent across his desk with her face and breasts pressed against the worn wood. Her arms were roped behind her back. A loop of rope across her neck fastened to unobtrusive ringbolts under the front lip of the desktop held her head down. More ropes about her ankles secured to ringbolts in the desk base held her legs spread. Her own balled up panties, held in place by a rope about her mouth, stuffed her mouth. Platt barely contained himself as he surveyed her perfectly presented pale and willing buttocks bent across his own desk.

  ‘You don’t need elaborate devices to put a packgirl in her place and give service and pleasure to her master,’ he explained. ‘In a domestic situation it only takes a few ropes and a simple ruler.’ He held up the ruler in question. It was old, worn and stained with rounded edges. He had used it for this purpose many times before.

  He smacked her bottom lightly with the ruler half a dozen times, savouring the delicate shivers that radiated out through her pliant bottom flesh, until it was lightly blushing. Alison made delightful little whimpers of pain. Then he pried apart the warm soft mouth of her vulva and carefully slid one end of the ruler up into her vaginal sheath. Her pussy scent was like the rarest perfume. He stopped when the ruler showed it was eight inches deep. Then he gently stirred the ruler inside her, making her groan and her eyes grow wide in wonder at the stimulation of this unnatural object within her.

  ‘She is aroused but of course she cannot bring herself to climax,’ Platt said, letting go of the ruler and allowing it to remain jutting out of Alison’s by now glistening love lips. It twitched as she clenched down upon it, trying to squeeze the pleasure out of it. ‘She must learn simply to accept her situation and wait with patience while her master finishes his paperwork…’

  It was just after seven thirty when Amber went to answer the door of School Cottage. She’d been working in the kitchen while her mistress was upstairs having a bath. She hoped it was not some problem at the school otherwise she’d have to put the dinner on hold. My, but she was getting domesticated. It must be the combination of chains and kitchen sinks.

  ‘Good Evening Sir…’ she began automatically. Then the door was pushed back out of her grasp, a large gloved hand was clamped over her mouth, forcing a rubber ball between her teeth even as she opened her lips to cry out. Then she was pushed back hard against the wall, staring into a masked face. She tried to fight back but he was too strong and she was hampered by her slave chains. Two other dark clad masked figures came through the door: another man and a woman.

  While her attacker grabbed and twisted her chains, pulling her arms behind her back and forcing her down onto the floor, the other two stealthily climbed the stairs. As a hood was pulled over her head she heard the sound of a door banging open upstairs, the beginning of a cry of alarm from her mistress, the sound of a brief struggle and then silence. After a minute she heard footsteps descending the stairs, accompanied by the jingling of keys.

  ‘Thank you,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I’ll need these.’

  Sally Potts snuggled up against Sue’s warm soft body. On the other side of Sue, Doreen Knox was snuggling in the other direction.

  For sleeping purposes the three of them were sharing a single pen in the upper floor of the old stable block, lit by a single red nightlight. With all their blankets combined and their body heat it was very cosy, and they were only ankle chained so they were perfectly comfortable.

  Even if she’d had not been restr
ained in any way Sally would not have tried to escape. She’d discovered it wasn’t a bad life being a slave, as long as you had the right mistress. In exchange for light punishment, a bit of grovelling, sucking and screwing she got good regular meals, clean living, a roof over her head and security. Boys’ cocks weren’t hard to manage since at that age they came so quickly and were just pleased to have any soft welcoming orifice to shoot their seed into. And Sally was not alone. Doreen had settled in fast and was helping Sue and her share the work. When Amber was fit they’d rotate so she could go back to the cottage for a spell.

  Her Mistress had been right weeks ago when she said some of her respectability would rub off on her if she became her maid. And she was teaching the boys to treat them with respect, which was more than Sally had known from most people in her short eventful life. When she and her sister model slaves were heavily bound for demonstration purposes the boys even had to wipe their pussies and bottoms for them. At such times she tried to look both pathetically grateful and a touch shamed to give them a thrill of power, while actually she was chuckling inside. It was quite a turnaround for a ragged vagrant who’d been living from hand to mouth just a month ago.

  It was as she was drifting off to sleep that she heard the stair hatch being unlocked and swung open and then somebody clambering up into the loft. Sally and the other girls stirred sleepily, wondering who it was. They thought they were done for the day.