Slaves to the Girlspell

by William Avon

  The girls examined the curious arrangement. The tray was covered with about fifty drawing pins, each resting with its point uppermost.

  Arabella was flicking her riding crop across Sue’s back, urging her to shuffle forward on her knees until she was positioned before the tray.

  “You will move the drawing pins from the tray to the bucket,” Arabella told her briskly. “Your hands will remain bound and you are not permitted to use your mouth. You will continue until all the pins have been transferred. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Jemima was staring at them in confusion. “But how can she do it without using her hands... oh! No, Arabella, that’s too cruel!”

  But Sue was already obeying her Mistress’s command. She spread her knees wide so that her thighs were almost flat and her pubic bush brushed the grass, then dipped her back and thrust out her bottom, opening the cleft of her buttocks and exposing the dark eye of her anus. Bending forward, she deliberately lowered the heavy pale globes of her breasts over the tray. Her nipples were full and erect, as though perversely intent on increasing her suffering to the limit.

  Jemima gasped: “No, don’t...” and took a step forward.

  Belinda caught her arm. “Don’t be stupid! This is just another lesson.”

  The soft balloons of flesh flattened over the tray, impaling themselves onto the points of the drawing pins. Sue’s face contorted with pain. They heard her stifled gasp and saw tears welling about her eyes. But gritting her teeth she pressed harder onto the tray, before carefully raising her torso upright.

  Her breasts were grotesquely studded with the shiny heads of at least two dozen pins. Some had only lightly pricked her flesh and hung loosely from her, but several had penetrated for half their length and tiny drops of blood were already forming about their shafts.

  With great care Sue shuffled sideways until she was opposite the bucket, and lowered her breasts into it. She wriggled her shoulders, setting her breasts swinging and banging into the bucket sides. Dislodged pins rattled metallically. A few of the more deeply embedded pins remained in place, and Sue had to drag her breasts several times across the rim of the bucket to pull them free.

  Finally they were gone and Sue straightened up. Her face was set and tear-streaked. Her breasts, naked once more, were pinpointed with spots of blood, showing livid against their paleness. For a moment her gaze flickered to Arabella, as though hoping for some sign. But Arabella’s face did not waver from its expression of hawkish intent. The other girls watched in silent disbelieving fascination.

  Resolutely, Sue went back to the tray and bent over it again.

  By her third trip a dozen pins were left lying on their side on the tray, together with a few that had fallen off onto the paper between tray and bucket. Try as she might, Sue could not gather them.

  Sue straightened up and asked meekly: “Please, Mistress?”

  “Jemima,” Arabella said. “Put the loose pins back on the tray and set them all point up.”

  Dumbly Jemima obeyed, arranging the pins in the tightest cluster she could on the very centre of the tray. As she looked up her gaze met Sue’s, and she saw the slave girl mouth a silent: ‘Thank you,’ before bending over the tray again.

  Two more agonising trips and it was done.

  Sue shuffled over and knelt before Arabella, her face pale, her breasts a bloody testimony to what she had just endured. She looked up at her Mistress in shivering expectation, biting her lip, hoping for the words she longed to hear.

  Arabella looked down at her uncertainly, her own face clouded, as though searching for something she herself did not understand. A moment passed heavy with possibility. Arabella suddenly shook her head and her expression set again. “That was quite well done,” she said coldly. Nothing more.

  Sue made a little choking noise.

  Arabella ignored her, turning her attention to the girls.

  “Tomorrow you will begin searching for the Jones girl. That fool Bailey is never going to find her. But if there’s any chance that she’s in hiding, or being kept anywhere in the area, I want to know. Perhaps she’ll provide more of a challenge.”

  Sue collapsed onto her side sobbing quietly, not from physical pain but despair. The despair of a slave who can give no more, the despair of knowing that she would never receive the reward for which she had sacrificed so much.

  Jemima soaked her own handkerchief under the garden pump and, while the others talked, began gently to wipe from Sue’s breasts the blood that had been shed in vain.

  Entertaining the Whitlows

  The lid of the wicker slave basket creaked open.

  “Ah, what a pretty picture she makes, Sam,” said Mrs Whitlow.

  “I can certainly think of worse things to unpack from a trunk,” Mr Whitlow agreed with a fruity chuckle.

  They were contemplating Melanie, who was curled up on a blanket in the bottom of the basket.

  As with all packgirls delivered to the guests’ rooms, she was gagged, blindfolded and had her hands bound behind her. Otherwise, apart from her collar, she was in her natural state of nakedness and ready for whatever the Whitlows cared to do with her. She shivered in anticipation. This would be the first time she had served anyone except the Major, and though she dearly wished it was him, she was determined not to disappoint his guests. Her body was ready; her labia slick with natural lubrication, her anus thoroughly cleaned and oiled.

  Melanie felt the Whitlows take hold of her and she allowed them to help her stand up and step out of the basket. She felt thick carpet under her feet. The blindfold strap was removed and she saw her surroundings for the first time.

  It was a large, comfortable bedroom, lit by pink-shaded electric bracket lamps. Tall pelmeted windows were heavily curtained against the night, while a thick-piled carpet covered most of the floor, leaving only a strip of dark polished boards around the walls. A massive dark oak four poster bed dominated the room, accompanied by a matching wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table and a couple of deep armchairs. It might have been a showroom in any stately home or part of a period suite in some plush country hotel - except for the canes with the leather handle bindings lying casually on the bed and the sets of manacles hanging from the carved bedposts.

  The Whitlows, dressed in matching wine-red quilted robes and carpet slippers inspected Melanie, running experienced hands over her body as she stood between them. It was an intimate, methodical, yet quite impersonal examination, as though she was a prize animal - which for practical purposes she was of course - rather than a person. The thought gave Melanie the perverse thrill of mingled shame and excitement.

  “Ah,” exclaimed Mr Whitlow, “I see her nipples are coming to attention nicely.”

  “Such firm buds as well,” Mrs Whitlow commented, testing the resilience of the chocolate dark cones that had hardened to a glossy sheen, “and so well-proportioned to her breasts.”

  They dipped stiff fingers into the well of flesh between her thighs and sniffed the glistening secretions as though judging the bouquet of a fine wine. Her triangle of tight belly curls was fluffed up and they agreed it was the ideal frame for the thick lovelips that nested within them.

  “Feel the weight of her buttocks, Sam. Such pliant flesh.”

  Mr Whitlow slapped and squeezed the full roundness of Melanie’s bottom. “But there’s muscle there as well, Marjory. That’s what gives her body such a fine tone.”

  His wife had slipped an exploratory finger up Melanie’s rear.

  “Beautifully hot and tight,” she pronounced. “You’ll enjoy yourself up there, Sam. How I wish I could share the experience with you.”

  “You’ll have your fair share of fun, my dear, don’t you worry. Now, let’s warm her up first.”

  Melanie was turned to face the foot of the bed and her wrists untied.
Her arms were extended and fastened to the upper set of bedpost manacles, but not stretched out tight. In the same way her legs were spread just a couple of feet and manacles closed round her ankles. She was secured but allowed some degree of movement.

  The Whitlows took off their robes. They were both quite naked underneath. Mr Whitlow’s body hair was grey but under it he was wiry, with only a slight paunch. The beginnings of a substantial erection hung between his legs. Mrs Whitlow had slightly over-full hips and her breasts, with cherry-bright nipples, sagged distinctly. But her skin was very clear and hardly wrinkled. The broad blonde bush of hair between her legs was at least an inch deep and seemed never to have been trimmed.

  They picked up a leather-bound cane each and slipped the thong handles over their wrists. Mrs Whitlow got onto the bed facing Melanie and knelt right in front of her, so she could feel the warmth of her body. Looking at her intently, Mrs Whitlow undid Melanie’s gag, but immediately put a finger over Melanie’s lips.

  “A little noise is permitted, my dear. But no words, do you understand?”

  Melanie nodded.

  Mrs Whitlow smiled, bent forward, put her arms about her and kissed Melanie full on the lips. The intensity of the action surprised Melanie for a moment, but then she found herself responding with equal passion. Mrs Whitlow smelled slightly of Lily of the Valley cologne.

  Melanie heard Mr Whitlow chuckle. He ran a hand up and down Melanie’s smooth back, patted her bottom, then took up his stance and swung his cane.

  It was not a hard blow, just enough to send a shiver through the flesh of her buttocks. At Melanie’s gasp, Mrs Whitlow disengaged from their embrace, turned slightly to one side and swung her own cane up at Melanie’s breasts.

  The impact set them bouncing and sent a sharp jolt through her already swollen nipples, but again it was relatively mild; nothing like the punishment Platt had meted out to her on her first day of captivity. Then Melanie understood. This was not intended as a punishment, but as a means of arousal. The Whitlows wanted to see her respond to stimulation. They wanted her body straining against its bonds, showing off the physique that they so clearly appreciated.

  She gave them what they wanted.

  Under their carefully placed blows she writhed and jerked against her bonds, swivelling her hips and rolling her bottom sensuously. She gasped and moaned and sighed in a show of helpless delight. Her exertions caused sweat to bead on her brown satin skin and the Whitlows licked it off her, interspersed with pats and strokes and kisses.

  A sudden surge of joyous pride in her own being infused Melanie. She was healthy and attractive, but above all, she was vitally alive. The Whitlows might be middle-aged, but they had not forgotten how to celebrate life and passion. Their treatment of her was just another way by which she could express her physical prowess, not so different from running in the hunt. In fact it was the natural culmination of the hunt. A sexual performance taking the place of the killing and feast, with all her strength and agility channelled into giving pleasure.

  Mrs Whitlow reached between Melanie’s sweaty thighs and felt upward. Melanie rubbed her mound urgently into her hand, groaning imploringly. Mrs Whitlow examined the glistening deposit on her palm with a smile and said: “She’s ready, Sam.”

  They released Melanie from the manacles, turned her about and dragged her up the bed on her back, until they could re-fasten her spread-eagled between the bedposts, her head resting on a plump white pillow. As they looked down at her, Melanie lifted her hips and opened her thighs in a shameless show of need. Her sex gaped wide, the crinkled tongue of her swollen inner lips protruding impudently.

  “This little filly is eager for her stallion,” said Mrs Whitlow.

  “But she must service us both. You mount her first, my dear.”

  Mrs Whitlow climbed onto the bed, swung round with her back to the headboard, and squatted down over Melanie’s face. Her luxuriant bush of pubic hair parted to reveal a deep pink and red cleft extending well up between her thighs. Melanie could smell the heady aroma of the older woman’s own arousal as the warm thick lips parted about her face. Melanie’s nose slid into the mouth of Mrs Whitlow’s vaginal tunnel even as her tongue was flicking out for the love bud rising amid the slippery folds of flesh. Mrs Whitlow ground her hips forward and back, riding Melanie’s face with evident delight.

  Mr Whitlow climbed onto the bed between Melanie’s widespread legs and entered her without preliminaries. Melanie gave a muffled gasp as her love tunnel stretched to accommodate the surprising girth of his cock. She felt him kneading her breasts like dough, kissing her throat and then nuzzling into Mrs Whitlow’s golden pubic curls. Their tongues met inside the hot slippery folds of his wife’s vagina.

  Mrs Whitlow turned about so that she faced the headboard and began to ride Melanie’s face with increasing vigour. Her husband was raining kisses and tiny nipping bites on her bobbing buttocks even as he rammed himself even harder into Melanie. Almost lost beneath them, Melanie squirmed and bucked and tongued and squeezed with all her might.

  They all came within seconds of each other and Melanie was inundated with male and female ejaculate both inside and out. As the spasms subsided they sank into a blissfully exhausted heap.

  For half an hour the Whitlows lay sprawled across Melanie, talking softly to each other and exchanging affectionate kisses; occasionally fondling Melanie and telling her she’d been a good girl. It was hardly more attention than a favourite family pet might receive, and yet Melanie felt no resentment. It all seemed so perfectly natural that she was simply content to have served them so pleasurably. The Whitlows drank some red wine and fed a little to Melanie. It must have reinvigorated Mr Whitlow, for soon after he said to his wife:

  “Ready for another ride, Old Girl?”

  Mrs Whitlow smiled almost coquettishly. “Really, Sam. You are quite insatiable.”

  “You should know that after all these years. But you’ve never failed to keep up with me.”

  “You old tease! Had you something particular in mind?”

  “The Mountheath Hotel in 79?”

  Mrs Whitlow laughed and reached over to her husband’s flaccid penis which lay across Melanie’s thigh and stroked and squeezed it encouragingly. “I knew you’d not miss a chance to put this into her tightest hole. Will the poor thing be able to take you?”

  “They usually do after a bit of squealing. Are you game for the Old Reliable?”

  “I usually rise to the occasion...” She looked down. “As you seem to be doing now.”

  Melanie was unchained from the bedposts and her hands were strapped behind her once again. Mr Whitlow brought out a leather covered case from the wardrobe and opened it up before her. Inside was a double-ended strap-on dildo of such thickness that Melanie gave a little gasp. This must be the ‘Old Reliable’. Would she be able to take it? It didn’t matter of course, because she had no choice.

  Mrs Whitlow braced her as her husband knelt before Melanie and slid one end of the device into her tremulous cunt. For a moment she thought her tunnel mouth would not stretch wide enough, but then it gave way to the intruder and the thing passed all the way up her, wrenching a little gasp from her on the way.

  As the waist strap was secured, Melanie stood with her legs spread wide. She was fearful of bringing them any closer in case the pressure was too much.

  She’d never been so completely filled!

  The head of the dildo bobbed before her. The fit was so tight that every movement was transmitted back to her inner passage, so it seemed almost an extension of herself. It conveyed a strange sense of potency. Was this what men felt following after their erections?

  Mrs Whitlow returned to kneel on the bed. She gathered up a couple of plump pillows and bent over them so that they supported her upper torso. The posture thrust out her pink buttocks towards Melanie. Mrs Whitlow looked at her over he
r shoulder and gave an encouraging wiggle, at the same time spreading her knees wider.

  Mr Whitlow helped Melanie climb onto the bed and shuffle gingerly forward on her knees until she was kneeling behind his wife. Holding the shaft of the dildo he guided it towards the gaping pink lips half buried in the fluffy mass of his wife’s pubic bush. Melanie watched in fascination as it slid into the older woman with hardly any resistance, bringing forth only a low sigh from Mrs Whitlow’s lips as it sank home to its full length.

  Mr Whitlow climbed onto the bed behind Melanie and knelt in turn between her legs. He pulled Melanie’s bound arms upwards and ducked inside them, so that she was bent forward to rest on Mrs Whitlow’s back. Now Melanie’s wrists were crossed behind Mr Whitlow’s back and she grunted as her shoulders were stretched backwards to embrace him.

  Still bowed over, she felt the head of his cock was nuzzling at the pucker of her oiled anus. She tried to relax her sphincter, knowing what a monster she had to accommodate. She felt herself being forced open wider and wider, and, as Mr Whitlow had predicted, she squealed aloud. Her front passage was already full to bursting. She couldn’t take any more! His cock and the end of the dildo were trying to occupy the same space inside her pelvis. Surely she would be torn open!

  “You can take it, girl,” Mr Whitlow said encouragingly.

  Suddenly the head of his cock was inside her and her anal ring was sliding down its shaft with relative ease. She was crammed full and ready to burst. The pressure within her was almost unbearable and the pleasure indescribable. The three had become one, with Melanie the conduit between husband and wife - as though both women were penetrated through by one cock.

  Clasping her breasts from behind to control her, Mr Whitlow pulled her back a few inches then thrust hard into Melanie’s rear, forcing her to plunge the dildo sprouting from between her legs into his wife. Mrs Whitlow cried out in delight.