Blonde Fury II

by Sean O'Kane

  “If she’s back in training in four days, I think we should go with it. What else did you have in mind?”

  “Maybe we could give her a studded whip and put her up against three or four armoured girls with standard whips? Or someone suggested simply putting her up against three other girls for wrestling and throwing in some crops and whips as the fight develops. We could look at ways of adapting Pursuit Running so she’s taken down by more than one man…”

  “Sounds good,” Scott said. “She can take it ok.”

  He ended the call and turned around to watch the last of the men stand clear of the rewarded girls who sank thankfully to their knees before being hauled up and led away. Brad coiled his whip and untied Ace. Scott watched the girl’s ribs heave as she fought to get her breathing back under control beneath the scarlet tracery the whip had left on her. She tottered back from the bars but somehow kept her feet under her. He stepped forwards and held her face up so he could look into her eyes. They were pain glazed but steady. He patted her cheek.

  “She took it well, Brad. Settle her down and fuck her if you want,” he called to his handler. He saw the spark of pleasure ignite in her battered face as she heard his approval. Her bottom lip was swollen and had bled, her right eye was half closed, her left cheek had a cut and there were smears of the other girls’ blood all over her body. She managed to straighten up as Brad came over with her leash though and limped off proudly; beaten, bloodied but unbowed. She could take whatever they did to her alright and the crowds would love her again for it.

  Much later, after a good dinner with Dai and his men, Scott went to the horsebox where Ace was stabled and let himself in quietly. There was enough moonlight coming through the small windows high up in the van’s sides to let him see the stall she was in and he went over to it and looked down. She was deeply asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily beneath the quilt Brad had thrown over her. Her wrists were chained to the outer wall of the van above her head.

  Quietly Scott undressed and slipped in beside her. She was warm and fragrant from whatever Brad had rubbed on her wounds and Scott let one hand trail across her hip, swoop down to her waist and then stroke up to the side of the breast. Even in the gloom he could make out the scabs and spots left by the studs and he stroked his hand lightly over them.

  She came awake with a startled gasp and gazed at him wide-eyed for a second before relaxing as she recognised him. He let his fingers tease her nipple into erection and then let his hand run down over her lacerated stomach and trail down towards her crotch. She turned a little more onto her back to allow herself to open her legs and his fingers found the soft cushions of labial flesh, but even here there were raised places where she bore the scabs and marks of the earlier contest. He wasn’t concerned, they would heal without scarring. What he was concerned about was to make her understand that losing was alright in these ‘contests’, of course she would be punished for it – in an arena that was only to be expected – but her owners and masters would not be displeased and that was far more important.

  “Sssh! Good girl!” he whispered as she whimpered softly when his fingers parted her sore labia and found the clitoris already standing to attention, he paused to rub it and fetch a languorous moan of pleasure from her and then he moved on to her vagina and inside he found the heat and moisture just as welcoming as ever. He worked his fingers in her for a few moments and her eyes closed and a smile played across her battered lips and her hips began to rock and swing in response to his stimulation.

  “Good girl!” He knew she probably didn’t pay any attention to his words but it was the tone of voice which was important. She needed soothing and reassuring that her trainer and her owners weren’t displeased.

  He rolled on top of her and she gave out a strained grunt as his weight dug her whip scored back down against the sheet and the straw under her.

  “Steady now! You’ve been a good girl today! You’re still the best, that’s why we had to let them beat you. Good girl Ace.”

  He thrust upwards and slid his cock into her, feeling her tight and hot around him, her strong body clenching on him to extract every ounce of pleasure she could. It wasn’t his words she needed, it was this; her master actually sharing her bed and taking the time to fuck her himself. He reached down and tried to get his fingers under her buttocks. She obediently arched her back and he slipped his fingers under her, loving the feeling of the rounded cushions of flesh. In the dark he grinned as he thought of the millions of men around the world who would give anything to be able to lie on Anna Chatham and feel her bottom as he fucked her. But he was after more, and she knew it and needed it. He felt for the welts the whip had left and dug his fingers into them hard. She moaned and thrust her hips at him, grinding herself on his cock fiercely, smiling at the pain.

  She tried vainly to get her arms down to embrace him as he began to hump in earnest, dipping his head to suck at her sorely abused nipples and drawing more cries of ecstasy from her as their bodies slapped together more and more violently. She wriggled under him and managed to brace her legs so she could almost lift him bodily as she thrust against his downward lunges into her. He could feel every inch of his shaft being exquisitely stimulated in her tight sheath and made no attempt to delay his climax, instead he bent his head again and took a nipple between his teeth and bit it. She cried out again and went into overdrive, frantically slamming and grinding against him as he came, spiralling up into the bliss of orgasm and then falling back exhausted.

  She would know that he had come to her stall and deigned to fuck her, so everything was alright. She would go on fighting till she dropped, no matter what absurd odds they put her up against. Her master was pleased with her.

  He dressed and left quietly reflecting that really there was no one quite like her on the circuit.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The sweat ran agonisingly into Sophie’s eyes making her blink and shake her head to try and clear her vision. Her driver was wielding the whip with a harshness she had never experienced before and her entire back and bottom burned and stung viciously as sweat trickled into the lacerations. Her breath rasped loudly in her ears and her heart thundered, she had never been driven this hard. She had no way of knowing how far there was yet to run but to judge by the amount of whip she was getting, the end had to be close – and still there was another rig in contention.

  How many times had they been past the grandstand? She couldn’t remember. The only thing clear in her mind was the image of the trapdoor opening in the palace cellars and the steps leading down to the solitary confinement cells, the dank feel of the air and Asil telling her about the lights either being on all the time or being turned off with the prisoner left in pitch blackness. Then there was the intensity in her voice as she told her never to give the Prince an excuse to send her there.

  She had had that image clearly in mind when the starting pistol had gone and she had jostled and pushed her way through the crush towards the front. There they had stayed for however many laps it was before her driver had begun whipping her hard and she had pounded across the cobbled stretch of the track until her driver had eased off, obviously content with her lead but now it seemed that someone had caught up and the situation was desperate. She shook her head again, snorting breath through her nose and knowing she was dribbling helplessly around her bit but not caring anymore. To add to her problems the hard whipping was wreaking havoc with her insides and the two shafts in her were making matters worse, she was sure she was dribbling shamelessly down her thighs as well, she felt so wet down there.

  She was running up a slope and the trap pulled against her, slowing her maddeningly. The whip slashed at her even more savagely and she wondered if she really was being cut. Every line of pain it drew across her was amplified and sharpened by the sweat that was pouring from her.

  Her foot slipped on a cobble as she neared the top of the slope but she compensated without losing her pace and felt the ground level out. Her left rein wa
s pulled and she veered in that direction. The crowd was close to the track here and she came closer to them as she veered to the left. Blurred images of colourful flags waving and smiling, cheering faces filled her vision. She also noticed the movements, even though she couldn’t make out detail. She saw arms making downward moves, female as well as male, she knew the gesture very well. They were urging her driver on to whip her harder. The rein pulled her again as her driver sought to make the corner as tight as possible. It was unmistakable, people were leaning over the barriers, some faces smiling, some fierce, but they were all loving the way she was being whipped for them.

  Suddenly it was almost as if she stepped outside herself for a split second and was in the crowd watching a hard-driven slavegirl running before the lash, her body a sweat-gleaming mass of welts as she slathered helplessly around her bit, her nakedness flaunted for all to see and enjoy. It was humiliating but oh so exhilarating! They were loving watching her and she was serving her owner. The whip was the sign of his presence, of his desire for her to win at whatever cost to her naked body and the crowd was revelling in the sight of her suffering and her obedience to him and to their pleasure.

  Sophie snapped back just as suddenly and found she wasn’t half as weary as she had thought. The crowd’s cheering filled her ears and as they urged the driver to lash her harder and he did, she flew. She was on a downward slope in any case but it was as if all effort had melted away, she simply had to stretch out her legs and the ground flew past beneath her. She tucked her chin in and controlled her ragged breathing. This was what she had been born for, to run naked and proud under her owner’s whip. She wanted the crowd to cheer her driver on. Let him whip her to their hearts’ content, it would only make her run faster and serve him better, and love her body more, and love the way people desired it; even if that meant that they wanted to see it whipped raw.

  The course seemed to unroll before her like a video game. She was steered gently to the left and then pulled right and right again. The second right was a corner and as she took it she managed the slight turn of her head that was all her collar would allow and for a second she was able to see beyond the leading edge of her blinker. A tall black girl was several yards behind her, saliva was flying from her mouth as she gasped around her bit and her driver was wrapping the whip so that her breasts were taking the brunt of it; a sure sign she was flagging. There was no other rig in sight.

  Sophie felt the weight of the trap shift at her waist and in her clenched hands around the shafts. Then she heard her driver yell at her and the whip fell again, this time it came over her shoulders and bit downwards on her breasts, she realised he was standing up and putting his last ounce of effort into whipping her across the line.

  And there it was.

  She was back on the straight by the grandstand and still she felt as if she was flying, she tucked her chin in again and lengthened her stride even more – amazing even herself that she could. The crowd’s noise was a storm around her and she flew on its wings until the tape broke across her breasts and she felt herself brought back to earth by being reined in as people surged all around her, patting her and talking and cheering as she staggered drunkenly. She felt her bridle pulled to her right and there he was. Her owner had his hand around one cheek strap and was smiling and posing for photographs as flashlights blinded her and she stamped and tossed her head to try and get her breath properly under control.

  When he pinned a rosette proudly through her nipple, Sophie felt nothing but absolute contentment.

  From the grandstand, Brian and Martha watched with a mixture of emotions. Martha had screamed herself hoarse as they had watched Number Fifteen; Mouth of the Nile, gradually close Sophie’s lead down until she was shadowing her for most of that last lap. Then they had watched on the monitors as she had suddenly got her second wind and had run away from the hapless black girl – an entry from a North African stable.

  Brian had been just as impressed by Sophie’s abilities, he remembered some of Blondie’s greatest races, but he knew that urgent and hard choices lay before them. He took Martha’s arm as the tall blonde was led into the winner’s enclosure and drew her to the back of the stand where it was slightly quieter.

  “It’s her all right. Even if you hadn’t recognised her, you couldn’t mistake a performance like that,” he said in a fierce whisper.

  “But how?” Martha almost wailed. “We were right on her heels in Texas! How did she get here?”

  “We saw the Prince’s limo remember? When we went to that ranch. Somehow Beckington-Floyd must have picked her up in Houston, and however he did it, she was a pony there the whole time we were looking for her! And then the Prince bought her.”

  “Well, can we buy her now?”

  “After this? I don’t think even The Lodge could afford her! We’ll have to get Peter somewhere quiet and decide what to do. And do it fast!”

  They both turned back to watch. Sophie’s blonde head was clearly visible in the throng and the flashes were still going off and there was a buzzing swarm of nano-drone cameras circling the crowd. The winner of the first Blue Riband event of the Open pony girl races was going to be a very famous face, very soon.

  The celebrations seemed to go on forever and Brian and Martha had to wait with what patience they could muster until the cars were able to ferry them back to the palace. Both of them had steered clear of the winner’s enclosure. They decided that if there was even the slightest chance Sophie could see them, it could seriously upset things. Whatever happened they had to be in control of it somehow. Sophie’s reaction to Martha – and she might remember Brian – was unknowable and so best avoided.

  But once back at the palace they dragged Peter into their room. He listened to them with his usual composure and then strode up and down the room deep in thought.

  Eventually he stopped and turned to them.

  “We must accept that Lightning is definitely Sophie Suarez. We must also accept that it is only a matter of time before someone out there,” he waved his hand at the window to indicate the ether, “recognises her. If we attempt to buy her from his Highness without telling him who she is, we can only worsen our position. When he finds out who she really is – and he inevitably will - we’ll have made a powerful enemy out of a good friend. Added to that we haven’t got a hope in hell of affording her in any case and such eagerness on the part of friends to buy her will only serve to make him suspicious. She probably came with some paperwork from Floyd, so he’ll check it and find out the truth anyway and we’re back to square one.

  “I think our only option is to come clean and that way we can at least retain some influence by being seen to have helped him discover the true value of what he’s stumbled across. And in time we might be well positioned, if the shit ever hits the fan for any reason.”

  It was pretty well what Brian had thought as well and there was no argument from him. Martha was disappointed that her dreams of having Sophie to drive around The Lodge’s parklands looked like being shattered but she could see the logic – and there was a lot more than that at stake.

  “Then we’d best do it!” Brian said. “Those pictures are going round the world right now!”

  They found the Prince opening bottles of champagne in the palace gardens under the shade of a cedar tree. Ranks of glasses stood on immaculate white table clothes as guests chatted and laughed. Still in her bridle and still tacked up to her trap, but with her hands now pinned behind her back, Sophie stood tethered to the tree, occasionally shaking her head if a fly bothered her. Her driver had rubbed her down and given her a drink so she was looking better but still wore the livid traces of the whip on almost every inch of her skin, but the rosette sat proudly at the peak of her left breast and she looked every bit the heroine returned from the field of battle.

  Martha was aching to go to her and stroke her, but instead she went with Brian and Peter who eventually drew the Prince far enough away from the adoring crowd of guests and hangers-on to talk qui
etly.

  They told him the whole story of London, Paris, Houston and now Bakhtar and how Martha fitted in and when they had finished they waited anxiously for his response.

  For a long moment he stared at the tall blonde, currently at the centre of another group of admirers. Then his lips twitched into a smile as he turned to them.

  “My friends, this is news as strange as it is extremely good! So I have by accident bought the girl everyone in the world was looking for!” His expression became rather more shrewd as he went on. “You could have tried to buy her. You are an old friend, Peter, I might have been moved to let you have her at some price or other that The Lodge and CSL could afford, as a gesture. You might have tried to trade on that friendship, but you have come to me and shared your knowledge. For that I thank you. Now we must think what to do with her – and we must move to ensure she is kept safe. There will be many people who very shortly will be aware that Blondie’s other daughter has been found and some of them will not be as honest as you!”

  He summoned some very large men from the palace and went over to Sophie, gently leading her away from her public and handing her over to them. Two of them led her away, the rest scattered on various errands.

  For two days Sophie was allowed to rest and recover. By the end of it she was back to prowling her stall, restless, bored and envious of any of the other slaves who were taken out for use. But in the evening, Asil came for her. She was dressed in a white, pleated skirt that swirled in well-tailored elegance around her tanned thighs and a crisp white shirt with a Hermès scarf in bold scarlet and blue patterns tied loosely around her neck. Sophie could only stare at the picture of poised and elegant womanhood she presented. Somewhere beneath it there was the sexually explosive girl that Sophie had so enjoyed playing with, but she couldn’t see her just then which made her all the more desirable.