Slave's Honour

by Sean O'Kane

  Slave’s Honour

  By

  Sean O’Kane

  Copyright Sean O’Kane 2005

  This edition published 2010

  The right of Sean O’Kane to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental

  THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX

  Also by Sean O’Kane in Silver Moon;

  Church of Chains

  Taming the Brat

  Tales from The Lodge (with Falconer Bridges)

  The Story of Emma

  Into the Arena

  The Gladiator

  The Prize

  Last Slave Standing

  Girlsquad

  Naked Ambition

  Slavemaker

  Bad Blood (with Francine Whittaker)

  Lost Property

  Prologue

  The rain cascaded down, pouring from a leaden English sky to puddle in between the cobblestones of the stableyard of The Lodge - England’s most discreet, expensive and exclusive SM club. It plastered the ponygirl’s hair to her head and made her skin shine in the weak light. Carlo Suarez swung the driving whip across her back one last time, sending a fine spray arcing out from the lash and raising another as it impacted on the wet flesh. Her steel shod sandals clattered and splashed and she slipped a little on the wet stone as she trotted into the yard. Carlo hauled back gently on the reins and brought her to a stop outside one of the stable doors. He climbed down and flicked her across her buttocks with the reins for shaking her head to clear her eyes of rain-soaked hair. Her only duty was to stand motionless as her driver alighted. One of the grooms came running out of the tack room and hurriedly began unhitching the pony. She squealed as he slid his cold, wet hand up the back of her short skirt and helped himself to a handful of warm, soft buttock. But she didn’t stop her work and was able to lead the pony into the comparative warmth of a stall and tether her, clipping her wrists together tidily behind her back, before rushing back out and dragging the trap over to a shelter. Then she scuttled back to the stall where Carlo was busily drying his hair while the pony dripped rain into the growing pool around her feet.

  The only good thing you could say about the English climate was that it was nice to get out of it, he thought sourly. A pleasant training run with a new girl in The Lodge’s magnificent parklands had turned into a wet dash for home with no warning at all.

  The groom began to towel the pony briskly, making her delightful breasts jiggle as they were dried.

  “Make sure you put a blanket on her before you put her away,” he told the groom.

  “Of course, Sir. How did she run?”

  Carlo realised that the pony’s weren’t the only breasts that the activity was showing off to good effect. The grooms at The Lodge all wore thin blouses knotted below the breasts and very short skirts. It was a uniform designed by the head groom herself to give maximum freedom of movement for the girl in order for her to perform her duties, coupled with maximum availability, should any of the guests or male staff require it.

  “Not bad for a new girl. She needs more wind though, had to use a lot of whip coming back up from the lake.” The groom was drying the striped buttocks as he talked. Suddenly he felt he needed warming up too.

  “Bend her forwards,” he ordered. The groom smiled at him, unhitched the reins and pulled them down, forcing the bridled pony to bend forwards. Her shoes clattered again as she spread her legs. Carlo glanced down at the soft purse of the revealed sex which promised much needed relief and warmth. New girl she might be, but it wasn’t rain causing the dampness there. He unzipped his trousers, freed his erect cock and positioned himself before sinking smoothly into the pony’s hot and viscid depths, her vaginal walls stroking him softly along his full length. The groom went back to drying her, kneeling down to rub at the legs and thighs, she glanced up at Carlo and he nodded. She reached between the pony’s legs, delved into Carlo’s trousers and began to cup and fondle his scrotum. The pony began to swing and swivel her hips and Carlo sighed in pleasure as he made no attempt to fight the pressure which built at the base of his cock. He pumped hard while the groom milked him skilfully. The pony gave a soft whimper of disappointment as she felt him spend long before her own pleasure had built. Carlo frowned as he pulled out of her and tucked himself away.

  “Put her down for a beating tomorrow morning,” he told the groom, jerking his head at the blackboard mounted on the end wall, it was a grid with the names of the ponies currently stabled down one side and, running across the board notes on diet, exercise and punishment. The girl might be newly purchased but she had to learn that any pleasure she might take from the use made of her was entirely beside the point. The pleasure of the Master was paramount.

  Hurried footsteps sounded outside in the yard and another groom appeared, Carlo noticed the rain had slackened off to a half-hearted drizzle as he approached the door.

  “There’s someone at the gatehouse for you, Sir,” the girl told him.

  He glanced at his watch; ten a.m. right on the nose. Good, the lad was punctual.

  He shrugged off his shirt as he headed for his office and a change of clothes. “Get Jet harnessed up for me,” he called back.

  Chapter 1

  Brian Holden waited nervously, pacing from one side of the drive to the other. He was aware of the gatekeeper giving him amused glances from the living room of the small gatehouse but he couldn’t have cared less. Today was probably the most important day of his life. In the year since he had discovered the delights of SM it had come to dominate his every moment and the culmination had come when he had resigned from his job, spent nearly his last penny on a trip to the tiny principality of Bakhtar to witness a show at the arena there and try to meet the legendary trainer Carlo Suarez to ask for a post as his apprentice. Today was his chance to secure the position.

  He had been told to wait a little way up the drive after his cab had dropped him outside the imposing gates, just where it took a sharp left hand bend and became hidden from the road. Tall lime trees, dripping from the recent downpour, marched along on either side of the tarmac which took a sharp right hand bend about a hundred yards further on. Beyond, on one side were open fields, on the other a golf course. He wheeled around from his contemplation of the view when he heard a soft ‘clip clop’ noise and a gentle rumbling coming from somewhere along the drive. He smiled in delight as he saw, rounding the next bend a ponygirl pulling a trap and heading towards him. Carlo Suarez himself was at the reins. The pony was a tall and athletic looking black girl, running with an easy trot, her legs lifting gracefully, her full breasts trembling and swaying.

  Brian picked up his overnight bag as the rig approached, watching as occasionally the cord of the driving whip almost lazily curved in the air over her back and hissed across her. Nothing more than a gentle reminder. Carlo hauled back on the reins and the girl clattered to a halt beside him. Her driver climbed down and Brian got a chance to examine the ponyslave at really close quarters.

  She was a tall girl, about five foot eight or nine, he guessed, although her sandals did have heels a little higher than kitten ones. She was naked apart from those and her bridle, collar and restraints at ankle and wrist; these last being clipped to the shafts of the trap. The flesh and blood reality of the harnessed femininity hit Brian like a sledgehammer. Her bridle was fascinating, a complex web of buckles and straps encircling her head and supporting the bit which ran through her heavy tongue ring and provided the mountings for the reins. At the arena he had seen the legendary Blondie, amongst other slaves, run in full dressa
ge harness but there was something about the workaday harness rather than the decorative dressage outfit and the sheer casual ‘everydayness’ of standing in the English countryside at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning, fondling an exquisitely naked and harnessed girl which he found profoundly erotic. He reached out and cupped a breast, the day was by no means warm and whether for that reason or for others, the nipple was rubbery and firm under his fingers. Between her blinkers he could see the girl’s eyes remained fixed on the tarmac. He ran his hand down across the stomach towards the shaved crotch where the top of her slit crested the prominent pubic mound at the junction of the long, shapely thighs. The girl could quite easily have been a model in some previous life, her eyes were wide-set, large and a rich chestnut colour; her mouth, slightly open around her bit and tongue ring was also wide and the lips were invitingly soft and pronounced. Brian’s hand rested for a moment at the gateway to her sex and with a soft scraping noise she shuffled her feet a few inches apart to allow him access.

  Carlo made a sudden noise of disgust and flicked the pony hard across her buttocks twice using the length of rein he had in his hand. She hurriedly drew her feet together again and there was a rattle as she champed on her bit and swallowed, making the ring click against her teeth.

  “It’s because I’ve been away,” Carlo explained. “She’s horny. She knows a pony doesn’t move unless her driver tells her. I’ll see to her later on.” He reached out and patted her flank affectionately. “She’s not normally badly behaved. Her name’s Jet by the way.”

  “Hi there, Jet,” Brian said softly, dropping unconsciously into the soft tones one might use with a horse where the tone is more important than any particular words. He ran his hand back up the satin-smooth, chocolate flesh of the stomach and then he too patted the flank.

  The two men shook hands, Brian stowed his bag on the footboard and they climbed in. At once Brian could see the pony’s shoulders work as the trap shifted under their combined weight but once they were settled, she quickly adjusted to the slight extra downward pressure on the shafts.

  “You drive, might as well get started,” Carlo said and handed him the reins before passing across the whip. Brian took a second to study it, a long whippy shaft topped by a foot long, stiff length of whipcord, tasselled at its end.

  “Hold back on the reins hard, so she knows not to move,” Carlo said. Brian did so and saw Jet’s head come up. “Now, give her a few strokes, just so you get the feel of it.”

  Keeping a firm hold on the reins, Brian lifted them a little and flicked the whip across the firm and prominent buttocks. The whip hissed softly as he swung it back and forth, the cord hardly seemed to make contact but the pony lifted each leg in turn and stamped.

  “That’s about the right strength to get from ‘walk’ to ‘trot’. Give her two more a bit harder.”

  Brian did as he was told, this time the buttocks rippled and a strained gasp escaped from behind the bit.

  “There’s a slight rise on the way back to the house and you’ll need to whip her up it. Now tap her between the shoulder blades and keep the right rein tight.”

  Jet immediately leaned into her work and turned the trap to face back up the drive. She literally had to lean and it took a couple of firm flicks from Brian once she was pulling in a straight line to have her moving the rig smoothly forwards at a walk, although it still wagged from side to side slightly as she strained with one leg then the other. At a nod from Carlo, Brian worked the whip backwards and forwards across the delectable buttocks in a rapid tattoo of six lashes. It had the desired effect. Tossing her head and grunting with effort, Jet began to pump her legs and lift her knees into a trot. The motion of the trap smoothed out and settled into a comfortable, leather-creaking, harness-jangling progress beneath the damp trees, the pony’s shod feet clopping rhythmically.

  “Bring her more onto the left, Brian. There’s cars come down here too,” Carlo told him. He steered her over as they approached the bend he had first seen them come round and sure enough a BMW four by four was cruising slowly towards them as they swung round. The driver waved in salute and Brian returned the gesture before he realised that it was a chat show host whose programme he had watched on TV only the previous evening.

  Carlo laughed at his surprise. “Get used to it. There’s more millionaires and celebrities at The Lodge than fleas on a dog… …….Steer Brian!”

  His attention distracted, Brian had left the pony to her own devices. The drive made a gentle right and then left swerve at this point and Jet, having received no signal from the reins was keeping straight on and was about to trot onto the wet grass pulling the trap after her.

  Brian reacted fast, he pulled hard on the right rein and Jet, grimacing and rearing as her head was wrenched, just managed to spin the trap, her steel shod sandals slipping and rasping on the tarmac, without the left wheel slipping off and becoming bogged down on the wet grass. A couple of adjustments had them back on the right line and a repeat of the back and forth sweeps with the whip had them back up to a smooth trot before Brian relaxed again.

  “Couldn’t the stupid bitch see where we were going?” he asked, his voice shrill with angry embarrassment.

  “Never forget what I told you at the arena!” Carlo responded sharply. “With that little sub you showed me back there, you have negotiated ‘scenes’, yes? She has a safeword, no?” Brian nodded.

  “These don’t have none of that! They depend on us for everything and they give us everything. They even give up thinking! If you don’t steer right or left; she assumes you want her to go straight on. If there had been a tree or a thorn bush there, she would have trotted straight into it because you wanted her to. Maybe you wanted to have fun seeing how bad she got scratched. It’s none of her business what you do with her. She just has it done. That is a true slave. That is our responsibility.”

  Carlo sat back and Brian absorbed his words while he watched the pony’s back flex and her delightful buttocks wobble at each high-stepping stride. He tried to comprehend someone so submissive that they would abandon themselves absolutely.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last, shaking his head. “I’ve got a lot more to learn than I thought.”

  The tanned, burly little slave trainer gave him a brilliant smile. “Then you have already learned a lot,” he said.

  The mood lightened again as Jet settled back to a steady trot. The sun came out and Brian, careful not to let his attention wander too far looked around at the acres of parkland. Real horses grazed over on their right; on their left a foursome teeing off on the golf course, waved. They seemed to be accompanied by some females in oddly long dresses. But then Carlo was speaking again.

  “For an arena slave, her trainer and any other men put in authority over her are gods,” he said softly. “They see only what we want them to see. They feel only what we allow them to feel. They touch, taste, hear… …all what we want them to. Nothing more. And you know what reward they want for giving us their bodies?”

  Brian shook his head.

  “We don’t stop. All they want is that we will never stop controlling them.”

  Brian looked at Carlo in surprise and then back at the straining pony. He might be in England on a cold spring morning but he felt a long way from home. He sat up suddenly, ahead of them the tarmac rose and at the top the avenue of trees came to an end.

  “Now you will need to apply some whip,” Carlo told him.

  Brian was amazed at how quickly the trap slowed down as the gradient kicked in. He increased the force of his lashes and was rewarded by renewed effort from the pony. He saw her fingers clench tighter round the shafts and the sinews at the backs of her thighs stand out. He gave her some verbal encouragement and tried snapping the whip round her hips, hoping the whipcord biting at her belly might spur her on. She did indeed pick up speed and crested the hill sweating but still keeping a respectable pace.

  Carlo told him to rein in once they were back on the level. Jet stood before them, h
er ribs heaving under her gleaming skin, rivulets of sweat running down her back, her breath clouding a little in the cool air.

  “Well done, Brian. That hill was your first test, if you had failed it, I would drive you back to the gates now. But you didn’t. I watched you lashing Jet up there and okay, I know having a pretty girl in harness and a whip in your hand is about as good as it gets, but you weren’t being vicious. I could see you were trying to work out how far there was to go, how hard you were lashing her, how much she had left in reserve. That’s why I picked Jet; so you couldn’t judge by any marks what you were doing to her. You just had to get a feel for whipping up a ponyslave.”

  Carlo smiled again and extended his hand. Brian shook it again, then joyfully flicked Jet back to ‘walk on’ and the trap came out from under the trees, onto the main frontage of The Lodge.

  Chapter 2

  The house was a huge Victorian gothic edifice with a tower just to the right of the enormous front doors. As the trap emerged from the avenue, Brian could see that it overlooked the land falling away gently in front of it down to an ornamental lake. The car park immediately to their left looked like the stock of an entire motorshow. Every marque of any distinction was represented but he wasn’t given time to rubberneck for long, their destination lay off to the right. On Carlo’s directions, Brian pulled the trap down the side of the house and into the stableyard. The spacious yard was surrounded by, on one side, a wing of the main house itself, on another by part of the back of the house and on the other two sides were two storey buildings with stables built into the ground floors. At the far end of the yard an archway led out into the park again.

  Brian halted Jet by an open stall door and the two men dismounted. Carlo disappeared inside while Brian went round to the front of the rig and patted Jet as she snorted and panted around her bit, tossing her head and preening nonetheless under his hands. He stroked down her flanks with both hands and his right one encountered the ridges of her CSL brand. Her skin colour had made the insignia almost invisible but it was there all right. The initials stood for Carlo Suarez Lodge; she and her four companions formed the small independent gladiator stable which operated from here. Unlike the other stables which had sprung up so quickly around the world, the CSL stable rented its slaves out to other stables to strengthen their squads. When Brian had first met Carlo, the trainer had been in Bakhtar with Blondie, Ox and Cherry who had been fighting for the home stable.