Slaves to the Girlspell

by William Avon

  “Very good,” Platt said finally, standing before them. “You girls who have run before know what’s expected of you. For those that haven’t, just remember this. You belong to the Markham Hunt, the finest in the South. You will run fast and you will run hard. You don’t stop while you can still put one foot in front of the other. Today you’re wild animals, so you don’t give up even if you’re cornered. Those ladies and gentlemen out there expect good sport not easy trophies, and that’s what they’re going to get. I’ll be checking your times, and I’ll have the skin off any of you caught inside ten minutes of the riders’ start!” In the silence that followed, Melanie heard water splattering onto the cobbles as fear or excitement loosened some poor girl’s control over her bladder. She didn’t look round to see who it was. Platt consulted his pocket watch. “Right, it’s time. Make me proud of you.”

  He picked up a long switch. Alison opened the inner gate of the yard and together they herded the girls through the covered passage beyond in a press of naked limbs and bobbing tails. On hands and feet with their bottoms high, the pack surged out into the stone-flagged stable court. The barks and yaps of the hounds got louder. Melanie’s heart was thudding. In a tight group they were driven through the arches that opened onto the great oval of gravel that lay before the Hall itself.

  And there were their hunters waiting for them.

  There were thirty five or forty riders, both men and women. All were immaculately turned out either in red or black, but with narrow coloured sashes slung across their shoulders. Major Havercotte-Gore alone amongst them was wearing a distinctive pink jacket. Most were already mounted and stirrup cups were being handed round. A cheer went up as the pack appeared and silver goblets were raised in ironic toast to them.

  Melanie felt their eyes upon her and her stomach knotted afresh. The cosy confines of the pack yard seemed a long way away. Suddenly she was horribly aware of her nakedness and was desperately grateful for the small degree of anonymity her mask offered.

  The pack was brought to a halt before the riders. Platt’s switch flicked out over their bent backs. “Make a line!” he commanded, and they scampered to obey him, spreading out until they formed a single row facing the hunters, kneeling almost shoulder to shoulder.

  “Show!” Platt said.

  With the rest, Melanie sat back on her heels with her back straight and knees spread wide, folding her pawed hands behind her neck. The hard chocolate cones of her nipples were standing up from the heavy domes of her out-thrust breasts. The metal tag hanging under her mound of Venus twinkled for all to see.

  The hunters walked their mounts up and down the line of twenty two vixens, examining them with interest, commenting freely on their bodies and likely speed and agility in a chase. Melanie, as the only black girl, received particular attention. Under their gaze she felt her self-control weakening and began to tremble. The thought of what these people intended for her was too much to bear. A wave of sickness rose up within her...

  Then she saw the Major beaming down encouragingly at her. Immediately Melanie felt a lifting of her spirits as a warm glow replaced the terrible cramping fear within her. The Major’s honest appreciation of her body and delight in her physical prowess was something she had never experienced before, but it thrilled her more than she could say. She remembered that she had promised she would run her best for him. Well so she would!

  Then she realised Arabella also had her eyes on her and shivered. Melanie could have coped with straightforward lesbian lust, but there was also an unpleasant cruel streak in the young woman. She vowed silently that whatever happened she would not let Arabella catch her.

  The barking of hounds suddenly swelled in volume.

  “Submit and lift tails!” Platt commanded.

  The packgirls bent forward with heads down, flattening their breasts on the gravel and thrusting their bottoms up into the air. Reaching behind them they scooped their tails up so that they fell down the length of their backs.

  Straining at their leashes, the pack of hounds entered the courtyard, dragging half a dozen handlers in their wake. Their excited yelps rose in frantic chorus as they saw the line of prostrate girls with their exposed hindquarters facing them. The dogs surged forward until they were trampling over the girls’ booted legs, nuzzling and sniffing at the aromatic row of split flesh-peaches so conveniently displayed for them. Gasps and moans and a few helpless giggles rose up from the line of human vixens.

  Melanie felt cold noses at her slit and discovered a new low of degradation. Yet at the same time came the stirrings of the dark tantalizing excitement that she had only known in these last strange days. In her confusion her mind veered from disgust at such treatment to the thought that this was perfectly natural. The hounds would be tracking them down, so what better way to learn their most intimate and personal scent?

  After what seemed an eternity the dogs were pulled off them and they were ordered to assume the sejant position, crouching at the alert. The Major’s voice rang out, echoing back over the gravel from the imposing facade of the Hall.

  “We’re ready to send the vixens off,” he told the riders. “They’ll have the usual ten minute start. Is everybody wearing their team colours?” There was an affirmative chorus. “Timekeepers: have you got your tag clocks ready?” Devices like bulky pocket watches slung on lanyards were held aloft. “Good.” The Major consulted his own gold hunter. “Ready the pack,” he told Platt.

  Platt’s switch flicked across the girls’ backs and they lifted their bottoms like sprinters on the starting blocks. Melanie’s heart was racing, desperate for the waiting to end so that she could be in her own element once more. Her surroundings seemed to fade into the background as she focused all her attention on the Major’s next word.

  “Go!” he shouted.

  The girls sprinted off across the gravel, buttocks twinkling and tails streaming out behind them, accompanied by the cheers of the hunters. As the pack pounded through the wide ornamental gateway they fanned out, heading out over the open ground towards the woods.

  And suddenly Melanie was on her own in the open field; the quarry, the naked prey, with only her own strength and wits separating her from capture and the fate that entailed. But instead of dismay she felt exhilaration. For the first time she truly knew herself. She laughed as she lengthened her stride, revelling in the play of her muscles, flying across the rough grass and feeling the air rush over her naked body and the heavy bounce of her unrestrained breasts.

  She was a bondslave yet she was free to run, to experience the true thrill of the chase. And in that moment she found perfect happiness.

  The Book

  Miss Newcombe paced slowly up and down the stone-flagged terrace at the back of Cranborough House, examining the ground with critical eyes. Standing by a barrow full of weeds, mopping their brows with the backs of grimy hands, were Nigel Gosset and his four fellow students. They were watching Miss Newcombe intently, hoping she would find the results of their morning’s labours acceptable.

  Of course, they would have watched their nurse and School Matron closely in any circumstances. Sister Newcombe was an attractive thirtyish woman, with her dark hair tied up in a neat bun and keen, smoky blue eyes shining out from behind small, round steel-rimmed spectacles. Her dark blue nursing uniform revealed her trim waistline, emphasising the more than adequate curves of her bust and hips. Despite their recent acquisition of Amber, Miss Newcombe was still a favourite subject of their nightly fantasies. In fact they did not need to speculate as to what lay beneath the correct layers of her uniform. A while ago they had contrived a way up to the school roof from their dormitory. This gave them access to the skylight serving the small bedroom which Miss Newcombe used when her duties required her to stay the night on the school premises. Memories of what they had seen during those expeditions had been the cause of many youthful nocturnal emissions.

 
Miss Newcombe finished her inspection. “Yes, a job well done,” she said, to their great relief. “I’ll find something else for you this afternoon, but meanwhile you can amuse yourselves until lunch time.”

  “Thanks, Sister,” they chorused.

  Their overseer’s fine brow creased for a moment, as though lost in some inner debate. Then she held out a brown paper-wrapped package she had been carrying.

  “I think you might be interested in this,” she said, as Jackson, their natural leader, took it uncertainly from her.

  He pulled back a fold of paper to reveal a thick hardback book. On the cover was the title: ‘THE CARE AND TRAINING OF BONDSLAVES.’

  For a few seconds their faces were frozen in masks of stunned shock, accompanied by gurgles of horrified amazement. Fortunately Miss Newcombe did not seem to read anything deeper into their reactions than natural surprise.

  “It’s the standard reference work on the subject,” she continued. “After we talked about sex and female bondslavery the other day I thought you should be presented with the facts in an orderly fashion. You’re all old enough, and I think this matter falls within my remit to care for your general health and well-being. The interest you’ve already shown is a normal part of physical and emotional development. And of course when you’re older, you may very well have bondslaves of your own. But you mustn’t let unbridled curiosity get the better of common sense. Remember it was spying on Arabella’s foolish young friends that got you here in the first place.”

  The boys nodded solemnly, eyes still riveted on the book, still too surprised to speak.

  “Well, read it through, then talk to me again if there’s anything you’re still not sure of,” Miss Newcombe said. “But clean yourselves up first. It wouldn’t do to get dirty fingermarks all over it.”

  Jackson managed to gulp faintly: “No, Sister... thank you, Sister.”

  The boys had never washed and changed so quickly. Inside ten minutes they were in their dormitory clustered round the precious volume, turning pages with a mixture of reverence and impatience.

  There were descriptions and charts and diagrams and photographs. There was advice on feeding, sanitation, training, restraint and punishment. They saw what could be done with straps and chains and special appliances, and they realised how unimaginative they had been in the treatment of their secret slave. Every unsuspected detail of feminine anatomy and function was laid out before them, leaving them amazed at the uses to which a female body could be put and the service and pleasure it could provide.

  Eventually Jackson tore his eyes away from the page to glance at his watch, then firmly shut the book ignoring the protests of his friends.

  “We’ve got to get started with lunch now,” he reminded them. “We can look at it again later.”

  “Fancy Sister giving us this,” Gosset exclaimed, still not recovered from the surprise.

  “She’s a really good sort, she is,” said Harris emphatically.

  “But could you look her in the eye and talk over some of those things?” Parsons wondered, jabbing a finger at the incredible book. Harris blushed.

  Bickley had been frowning intently. Now he spoke up: “I wonder if Amber knows about this stuff - all the ways you can use women, I mean.”

  There was a thoughtful silence which Jackson broke. “You think she deliberately hasn’t said anything so she’ll have an easier time of it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “She must have known,” Gosset said. “Girls always know more about these things than boys.”

  “Then she should have told us,” Harris exclaimed, bristling with righteous indignation. “She is our slave after all. It’s her duty to please us.”

  “We’ll find out this afternoon,” Jackson said decisively. “If she’s been holding back, we’ll make her regret it!”

  The Butt

  “The hunt’s away,” Belinda Jenkins said as she squeezed back through the overgrown and sagging garden gate of the playhouse and tugged it closed behind her. In the far distance they could hear the baying of hounds and the sound of horns.

  “I wish we could ride with them,” said Penelope Hazeldine wistfully. “I wonder what it would feel like, hunting bondslaves down? I bet they squeal and cry a lot.”

  “Our parents would never let us,” Ernestine Chadwick pointed out. “They say we’re still too young.”

  Belinda took her seat with the others. “Well I’m going to ride in a girl hunt just as soon as I can,” she said firmly. “If Arabella can arrange it my parents won’t need to know.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” said Penelope.

  “Yes I would,” Belinda said indignantly. “I’ve watched Arabella. I can ride as well as she can and I know how to handle bondslaves.”

  “Your pony wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

  “Arabella could lend me a horse.”

  Ernestine stretched back in her chair, shaking out her auburn ringlets. “I think it’s too warm for riding today anyway. They’ll get terribly hot. Much nicer to lounge around like this.”

  The four girls had taken a table and some chairs out of the playhouse and set them out on the lawn under the shade of a small cherry tree. They all had lunch baskets with them and the table already bore a plate of biscuits, glasses and pitchers of fruit juice.

  Jemima Moncrief, the last and quietest of the group, said hesitantly: “You don’t suppose any of the girls they’re hunting will try to hide in here?”

  “Why?” Ernestine asked.

  “Because then the hunters would follow and they might find her. Her eyes flicked anxiously in the direction of the playhouse.

  “Arabella said packgirls aren’t allowed to hide inside buildings,” Belinda said. “They’ve got to keep to the woods and fields.”

  “If one did,” Penelope said mischievously, “then we could capture her and hide her away like the other one.”

  “Only if it’s the new brown girl,” Ernestine added. “That’s the one Arabella really wants for herself.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” Jemima said, looking alarmed. “Isn’t keeping one outsider in secret enough?”

  “You’re such a wet hen, Jem,” Belinda scolded. “Don’t you think helping to train our own private slave is exciting?”

  “But it’s... rather cruel.”

  “You have to be strict with bondslaves,” Belinda said. “Arabella explained that’s how they learn. You can see she’s taking to it, so it can’t be that bad. Anyway, if it bothers you so much, why do you keep staring at her with that silly look on your face?”

  Jemima suddenly looked defensive. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s true, Jem,” Penelope said. “You go all wide-eyed and dreamy.”

  “And your mouth drops open,” Ernestine added. “It’s very lower class, gaping and gawping. Makes you look like a fish.”

  “Are you secretly thinking of what you’d like to do with her yourself?” Belinda teased.

  Jemima blushed. “No! I don’t do any such thing! I mean I wouldn’t...”

  But the others were laughing at her embarrassment too loudly to listen to her protests, and Jemima was forced into sullen silence.

  “Whose turn is it next, anyway?” Belinda asked at length, looking at her watch.

  “Jem’s,” Penelope said with a grin.

  “Oh...” Jemima started. “I don’t think I can, not just now.”

  “Yes you can,” Penelope said. “You’ve had as much as the rest of us. You’re just being silly.”

  “Must I do it?” Jemima said miserably. “It’s so dirty and... rude!”

  “It doesn’t count as rude with bondslaves,” Ernestine replied. “It’s just teaching them their place.”

  “Go on, Jem,” said Belinda sternly. “Or else we’ll tell Ar
abella you wouldn’t do your bit. You don’t want her to get angry with you, do you?”

  Glumly, Jemima got up from the table and walked with dragging steps over to the old garden pump. Working the squeaking handle she filled a bucket with water.

  “And make sure she says everything just as she’s supposed to,” Belinda called out after her as Jemima carried the bucket off, trying not to slop water over her frock.

  Around the corner of the playhouse was a narrow passageway a few feet wide formed by the side wall of the house and the overgrown garden hedge. In this rested a large rainwater butt with rusting hoops and mouldering staves, closed at the top with a heavy lid. An old wooden box had been placed beside it to serve as a step.

  Jemima put her bucket down and stared at the butt. Her heart thumped and she felt a sense of disbelief creeping over her. With a deep breath she hitched up the skirt of her frock and tied it round her waist, revealing virginal white cotton panties trimmed with lace. Hooking her thumbs through the waistband she pulled her panties down and stepped out of them, baring her pale and prettily rounded bottom and full brown bush of pubic hair to the world. Even as she peered anxiously about to reassure herself she could not be seen, Jemima shivered as a delightfully guilty thrill coursed through her at the feel of the air playing over her newly exposed flesh.

  Jemima lifted the lid off the water butt, then stepped up onto the box and peered anxiously inside. Framed by a bedraggled halo of golden hair, Sue’s woebegone face looked back up at her from the dank interior.