Slaves to the Girlspell

by William Avon

  Sue sat naked in the bottom of the butt in a few inches of dirty water. Her arms were tied behind her back and her legs were splayed apart and bent at the knees. Her ankles and calves were crossed and bound so she could neither stand nor bring her knees together.

  For a few seconds Jemima could only stare at Sue in dumb fascination. The damp chill of the butt made her look paler than ever. The nipples of her heavy breasts were shrunken and crinkled, but by contrast the purple and scarlet lash marks criss-crossing the tender flesh around them seemed even more livid. She was so horribly, wonderfully, helpless; so shamefully, thrillingly degraded.

  Unconsciously Jemima’s fingers stole down to her pubic bush and into her warm cleft.

  Could the girl actually become used to it? Jemima wondered. Would she even come to like being treated that way? What would it feel like to be bound like that, to endure the punishments Arabella had heaped upon her?

  Jemima felt herself blushing at the thought. Then she realised her fingers were rubbing the nub of flesh normally hidden between her nether lips, which had become strangely moist. She jerked her hand away guiltily and rubbed her sticky fingertips on her rolled skirt. She had secretly played with herself before now, but always under her bedclothes or in the bath. This time a curious warm tightness remained in her loins.

  Resolutely Jemima clambered onto the rim of the butt and sat down with her legs splayed and feet dangling over the sides. The rough rotted tops of the butt staves pressed against her bare bottom.

  Now Sue was looking up through the ‘V’ of Jemima’s spread thighs, up at her ‘cunny’, as the other girls called it. What must she look like from that angle? Jemima wondered with a guilty thrill. Nobody had ever seen her like that before. Could Sue see every fold of her private parts? What would it look like if their positions were reversed...

  Jemima clutched the rim of the butt for support, suddenly coming over light-headed. She was feeling very strange. Her heart was pounding and a hot tingling knot seemed to be tying itself somewhere below her stomach. She must just do what she had to as quickly as possible.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Sue. “Arabella says we have to do this.”

  “I am your slave, Miss Jemima,” Sue replied mechanically. “I am here to be shamed. Please use me as your toilet.”

  Closing her eyes, Jemima took a deep breath... and nothing happened.

  Jemima reached down with two fingers and spread her vaginal lips so that her pee hole was exposed. Still nothing happened. She groaned and bit her lip. Her bladder was full of fruit juice and she really felt the need to release it now, but she was too tense inside. She opened her eyes and stared almost apologetically at Sue’s expectant, upturned face. Her gaze wandered down to the girl’s poor abused breasts and the damp golden tangle between her spread thighs...

  Jemima’s fingers moved deeper into her slit. A hardness was growing between the soft petals of flesh as the bud of her clitoris filled. She’d felt a little like this the previous day when she had watched Arabella torment Sally Potts in the police yard. She knew it must be wicked and unnatural, but she couldn’t help herself. She hated to see bondgirls suffering like that, yet at the same time she could not help being excited, wondering what it would feel like.

  Sue was still looking patiently up at her. To her horror Jemima realised she was playing with herself right in front of her eyes - and she couldn’t stop! The aching bulb of pleasure between her legs had suddenly become the focus of her world. Nothing else mattered. Her vagina seemed to be growing enormous, it was burning hot and dripping wet. She smelt a musky aroma and realised it was the perfume of her own secretions. Surely she must burst under the pressure as her sex pulsed against the sweetly tormenting tautness of her bladder.

  Jemima’s fingers became a frantic blur.

  Her loins seemed to squeeze to a pinpoint and then erupted, sending a wave of pure pleasure through her body. She gasped aloud as a starburst of raw ecstasy exploded in her brain.

  With the joy of release came what felt like a damburst. Her pent-up water gushed from her in a hard stream and splashed over Sue’s face and breasts, spurting fitfully as she spasmed, thrilling Jemima as never before as it left her body through her engorged and ultra-sensitive sex, piling sensation on sensation, filling her with undreamed of delight.

  Then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed forward, sprawling limply over the top of the water butt. For a minute she lay still except for the unsteady rise and fall of her chest. The pale moons of her bottom were exposed to the sky. The last droplets fell from her pubic hair.

  Jemima had had her first orgasm.

  From within the butt, Sue said: “Thank you for teaching me my place, Miss Jemima.”

  For a moment Jemima hugged the butt to her, wishing she was inside. Then, slowly, she slithered off to the ground. Her legs still felt very weak. She couldn’t quite believe what had happened, but she knew instinctively that it was an important milestone in her life.

  She put her pants back on and smoothed down her skirt, then nervously peered down at Sue; the girl she had just peed over... the girl who had seen her masturbate!

  “Please don’t tell the others,” she begged.

  “It’s not my place, Miss Jemima,” Sue said, lowering her eyes.

  On a sudden impulse, Jemima reached into the butt and stroked Sue’s sodden hair. “I’m so sorry for you,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be,” Sue said in a tiny voice. “I think I was born to be a slave.”

  “But you don’t have to be treated like this. Arabella’s so cruel sometimes!”

  “I’ll survive. We can’t choose who masters us.”

  Jemima picked up the bucket of water and poured it over Sue, washing her down. Immediately the water began seeping out the bottom of the butt from between the ill-fitting staves.

  Sue shook the droplets form her hair. “Thank you... Miss Jemima.”

  Jemima picked up the lid, but before she could put it back on the butt, Sue said quietly: “I thought you looked lovely when you played with yourself.”

  Jemima gulped. “I was looking at you... thinking what you must be feeling.”

  Sue lifted her eyes to hers. “I’m pleased if I gave you pleasure.”

  Breathing tremulously, Jemima leant over the rim of the butt and kissed Sue; first on the forehead, then, almost overbalancing, on the lips. Sue’s skin was cold but her lips were warm. Jemima’s own lips parted. The tips of their tongues touched...

  “Jemima! What’s taking you so long?” It was Belinda’s voice.

  Jemima started in sudden dismay. She slammed the lid back on the butt, snatched up the empty bucket and ran back to the others.

  Hunted

  The woods and fields of the Markham Estate echoed with the sounds of the hunt. Hooves pounded and harness jingled. Riders called to each other. Hunting horns trumpeted. Dogs yapped excitedly as they followed scent trails. The first squeals of cornered vixens began to ring out.

  A naked packgirl darted through a copse with three hounds snapping at her heels.

  One of the hounds closed its jaws upon her fluttering foxtail and dug its paws into the ground. The anal plug held fast and the sudden jerk made the girl stumble, breaking her stride. In a second the other two hounds were upon her and she crashed to the ground under their weight.

  The hounds snarled, fighting over possession of the tail. They trod the squirming girl under them, marking her with their own muddy paw prints. The anal plug twisted inside her as the dog tugged to and fro, but it remained in place. The packgirl struggled to her hands and knees and tried to crawl away but the hounds bore her down again. Curious snouts began to probe between her thighs, snuffling at the source of the scent they had been trained to follow.

  With triumphant shouts three riders wearing red and yellow striped sashes appeared, galloping
hard towards the struggling group. As they drew up, one of the riders blew three sharp blasts on a small horn, then tossed a handful of chocolate drops from his pocket onto the ground. A second rider slid from his saddle and ran towards the melee. At the sound of the horn, the hounds released their hold on the foxtail and scampered over to the scattered sweets, their prey forgotten as they enjoyed their reward.

  The packgirl staggered to her feet even as the second rider made a grab for her hair. True to Platt’s instructions she nimbly dodged his grasp and sprinted off again, outpacing her would-be captor. The dismounted rider cursed loudly as he and his companions spurred their mounts after their elusive prey.

  They overtook her before she reached the thicker trees, swinging their long handled sticks with their flat rubber-paddle ends. The girl yelped as the stinging blows rained down, beating her to the ground where she rolled up into a ball so that only her smooth back showed.

  The dismounted rider pounded up and threw himself onto the girl, grabbing her wrists and dragging her arms behind her back as he hauled her upright out of her huddle.

  “Get her tag!” he shouted, as the girl jerked and twisted in his grasp.

  They dropped from their saddles and caught hold of her. Even for the three of them it was no easy task. The girl kicked and struggled fiercely, exciting them with her futile resistance and forcing them to handle her naked flesh harshly, letting them know the strength of the wild thing they had captured.

  Finally they managed to wrench her legs apart, exposing the silvery metal tag that danced and twinkled under her pouting pubic pouch. One of the hunters snatched at it and tore the securing ball out of her, bringing forth a gasp from the girl as it grazed her tender passage. The hunter pushed the chain into the slot of the recording clock he was carrying and twisted a key. The chain locked into place and the clock stopped.

  As the click of the lock sounded the girl’s struggled ceased. Her masked head dropped forward and except for the heaving of her chest she hung limp and still in their grasp.

  The three hunters checked the time on the clock.

  “Not bad,” one said. “In the first five, I should think.”

  “She ran well though,” said the second, pulling off the girl’s fox mask so that they could admire her flushed but pretty face. Their hands weighed her warm, plump breasts and stroked her smooth thighs. Stiff fingers were thrust into her slit and the sticky heat within told them of her state of arousal. Grinning, they tied her gloved hands behind her back with a team sash and threw her to the ground. Unbidden, she spread her legs wide as the first rider began unbuttoning his flies.

  She had run hard and fast that day, but she had not finished providing her masters with good sport.

  While he waited his turn, one of the hunters walked a few yards off and drove the spiked end of a flare into the ground and lit the touchpaper. In a few seconds a plume of orange smoke was rising over the trees.

  When they had each done with her, wrenching an orgasm from her well-used body and leaving their coats and britches smudged with her body paint, the first rider drew out his penknife and extended a blade. The girl caught her breath and held very still as the rider pinched together a sprig of her pubic hair and cut it off at the root. The girl’s eyes watered as her tender flesh was stretched by the blade.

  And so each rider took a cutting from her pubic bush - a memento of a fine day’s sport and the prize they had won.

  Guided by the flare, George Platt and a groom rode up. Hitched to the rear of the groom’s saddle was a lightweight bamboo ‘A’ frame, which bumped along behind his mount on two wire-spoked wheels.

  “How are we placed, Platt?” the first rider demanded as soon as the keeper was in earshot.

  “We’ll have to check the tag clocks, but you’re just the second capture I’ve attended, sir,” Platt said.

  “That looks promising,” said the first rider.

  “I hope she ran well for you, gentlemen?” Platt asked deferentially as he dismounted and unstrapped his camera.

  “Oh, she was a very lively little vixen,’ the second rider said, affectionately prodding the girl who sprawled limply on the ground with the toe of his boot. “A credit to your training.”

  “Most kind of you to say so, sir,” Platt said, setting up his tripod. “Now if you gentlemen would like to take up your positions...”

  The traditional hunter’s picture was taken with the three standing shoulder. The packgirl was rolled onto her side facing the camera and laid along their feet, so that the each rider could stand with a foot resting on her head, waist or hip.

  When they were done the team’s timekeeper handed over the tag clock to Platt.

  “Have we time to try for a brace of vixens?” one of his companions wondered.

  “Why not?” said his friend.

  “Back to the Hall for another clock, then. Tally Ho!”

  They mounted their horses and set off at a gallop.

  Platt packed away his camera, then helped the groom haul the exhausted packgirl onto the net slung across the wheeled frame, stretching out her arms and legs so they could clip straps onto her wrist and ankle rings. When she was secure, Platt lifted her head and gave her a drink from a canteen of water, which she gulped down.

  “I ran well, didn’t I, Mr Platt?” she asked anxiously.

  Platt checked the time on her tag clock.

  “Fair enough, Molly. The gentlemen were pleased with you, that’s the main thing. Just you make sure you serve them well tonight.”

  “Oh, I will, Mr Platt,” Molly promised.

  Panting, Melanie crouched down in the shelter of a thin belt of trees.

  It was midday. In the preceding hours she had run as she never had before. She was scratched, streaked with sweat, splattered with mud and weed from hiding in ditches. Her legs ached, her chest burned. But she felt wonderful. Twice she had been spotted by riders, but each time she had managed to lose them before they could close on her. She had heard hounds baying in the distance several times, but by backtracking and plunging through streams she had thrown them off her scent.

  By making a great half-circle about the perimeter of the estate she had now arrived where she hoped she would be least expected; opposite the back of the Hall itself.

  She could see its roofs through a gap in the trees. Stealthily she crept forward until she could survey all of the house and its immediate grounds. There were tiny figures of riders moving in the fields about the front courts, but there was no sign of life at the back. All attention was focused on the main drive where riders and captured vixens would return. Even the servants would be there, those not helping with the hunt watching from windows.

  A ring of fallow fields and paddocks separated the woodland from the orchards and ornamental gardens surrounding the House. If she could get inside that ring and find some place to hide she should be safe for a while. Of course she would be caught eventually when the rest of the grounds had been scoured, but the thought did not trouble her. The inevitability of her capture was simply the natural conclusion to the hunt, and part of her yearned for the consummation to come.

  She had discovered the pure delight and strange thrill of being a naked hunted prey. Yes, thrill was the word. She had run in a constant state of sexual arousal. The stimulation of the hard plug of her tail mount and the tag ball lodged so intimately within her ensured that. When they caught her she would be ready, but she wanted to be the last captured to please the Major.

  The realization dawned on her that nothing she had done for days had been without the Major’s approval. She could not cover her nakedness, use her hands properly, void her wastes in private or choose when or how she had sex. She was an absolute slave. The knowledge should have appalled her, but instead it brought a strange sense of comfort.

  Melanie edged her way along the fringe of the wo
od until she was opposite the end of a hedgerow: thick and high with several small trees growing out of it at intervals. As long as she kept in its shadow she should go unobserved. Much of the white bodypaint on her stomach and thighs had been worn off or obliterated by a coating of mud and dried duck weed. That combined with her dark skin and hair made for a pretty good job of camouflage. Pity a pale-skinned blonde trying to do this, she thought.

  Melanie took a deep breath and darted out of the wood into the shelter of the hedgerow, crouching down immediately in the shelter of a clump of cow parsley. All was still and quiet, save for a horn sounding faintly in the woods on the far side of the grounds. She worked her way along the hedgerow in a stooping run.

  She was half-way across when it happened.

  Melanie never saw where the riders came from, but suddenly there were two of them on the far side of the field. Instantly she dropped flat into the long grass and peered between the stalks. If she just held still enough maybe they would miss her.

  The pair showed no sign of haste. They cantered across the field side by side not quite towards her. As they approached she saw they were a middle-aged man and woman, both turned out in immaculate riding gear and wearing purple team sashes.

  Thirty yards from her the pair suddenly divided, one turning up the field, the other down, and riding parallel with the hedge. Melanie’s eyes darted from side to side as she tried to keep both in sight without moving her head. Where were they going?

  Abruptly both riders turned back on themselves, this time in the very shadow of the hedge. And suddenly they were not cantering but galloping straight for Melanie swinging their paddle sticks - she had been neatly cornered!

  Melanie sprang to her feet and sprinted out into the field, even though she knew it was futile. They had known she was there all along and had cleverly forced her out into the open where they had the advantage. They would not let her reach shelter again.

  They caught her before she had covered fifty yards, despite her desperate weaving run. Suddenly they were flanking her and she was walled in by horseflesh. Their paddles lashed out, the woman forehand across her rolling buttocks, the man backhand across the top of her breasts. There were two sharp cracks as the rubber paddle blades met her skin and Melanie cried out at the burning, stinging, shock of the blows. A second swing from the man caught the snout of her mask and knocked it down over her eyes.