Slaves to the Girlspell

by William Avon

  “You’ve always boasted you were a good rider,” she said. “Can you follow my lead and hold the frame steady between us?”

  “Of course,” Belinda replied confidently. “Where are we going?”

  “Just across to the next field. You’ll see. Ready?”

  They set off. The frame rattled along between the two horses. Melanie swung limply from her ropes, her breasts bobbing and swaying with a heavy fluid motion. Arabella watched her with triumphant eyes. They passed out of the woods and along the top of a field and through a gate. The field beyond had been left fallow. Most of its lower slopes were covered in clusters of bright green spear thistles, some already standing four or five feet high, though not yet in flower.

  Belinda laughed at the sight. Melanie whimpered and began pulling futilely at her bonds, shaking her head desperately.

  The riders urged their mounts into a trot and then a canter, sweeping down across the field and into the thistle patch with their helpless victim suspended between them. The hoofbeats of the two horses became a pounding roar in Melanie’s ears. She shrieked behind her gag, then turned her head aside and screwed up her eyes as she ploughed into the first clump of thistles.

  The plants broke against her naked, unprotected body with a swish and slap, their hollow stems popping as they fell, raking along the length of her before being scythed by the frame’s axle. Vicious inch-long thorns stabbed and tore at her out-thrust breasts and stomach like spiked flails, leaving beaded trails of scarlet streaked down her body. Shorter, finer thorns broke off in her brown flesh, each forming a burning point of pain. Her body contorted in reflex, muscles over her shoulders and back lifting and hardening. Her buttocks became glossy, perfectly rounded hills, clenching inward as though to close the deep cleft between them. Thighs swelled, calves bunched, tendons stood out in sharp definition as she strained magnificently at the ropes that bound her to the frame, hopelessly trying to shrink away from the agonising onslaught. Under the pressure Melanie’s bladder cut loose, spraying a convulsive stream wildly across the grass.

  From the safety of her saddle, Belinda laughed at this loss of control and dignity. Arabella watched each twist and jerk the tortured woman made, her eyes straining as though trying to take in every thistle point as it struck home.

  Then they were through the thistles and the two horses were slowing to a trot, then a halt. Melanie’s head dropped limply onto her chest as though in a faint. Incoherent gurgling noises came from behind her gag. Arabella dismounted and ran eagerly round her horse to inspect the effects of her punishment at close quarters.

  Melanie was hanging trembling in her bonds, her head hanging loose, her fingers and toes clawing feebly at the air. The front of her body was a mass of longitudinal grazes and fine streaks of blood, mingling with splashes of sap from the thistle stalks. The insides of her thighs glistened with urine. The upper slopes of her breasts, driving into the thistles almost full-on in her suspended position, had suffered the worst. They bristled with broken spines like pincushions. One large spine was actually embedded in Melanie’s left nipple. A bright red globule of blood was rising about its point of penetration.

  Arabella grasped Melanie’s hair and tugged her head upright. Melanie’s face was frozen in a mask of pain, her eyes half-closed. Arabella pulled the gag strap from Melanie’s mouth. Her jaws remained parted, teeth still bared, a drool of saliva dribbled from her lips. On the strap were the marks of her teeth where she had half-bitten through the leather.

  Arabella took in every detail of her abused body and smiled, savouring her slave’s distress, feeling elated at the change she had wrought in her.

  “Oh, you are so beautiful,” she said softly.

  Then she slapped Melanie’s cheeks repeatedly and hard, until Melanie’s eyes flickered open and focused fearfully upon her.

  “Well, girl? How do you feel about licking my arse now?”

  The question slowly penetrated the shocked layers of Melanie’s mind, still spinning in the waves of fire rising up from her tormented flesh. All her dignity and self-respect had been obliterated by the ordeal of her ride. Those few seconds had broken her spirit more easily than she could have imagined. It was more than the pain she had suffered, it was the fact that it could be inflicted upon her so casually. It was proof of her absolute subjugation to Arabella’s will. Arabella was her Mistress, she was her slave. She could escape the pain and the fear of more pain by agreeing to serve her. How simple it was.

  Melanie fought to keep her voice steady. “I... I would be honoured... to lick your arse, Mistress.”

  “And Miss Belinda’s?”

  “Any... anybody you wish, Mistress.”

  “You wish to serve me?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Will you do anything for me?”

  “Anything... everything... please let me show you, Mistress!”

  Arabella considered for a minute, then said to Belinda: “Help me untie her.”

  Melanie found herself blubbing with shameless relief. She kept saying: “Thank you, thank you...” to Arabella as she freed her, actually feeling gratitude to the person responsible for her suffering. A tiny part of her raged impotently against her cowardice, but the need to be free was overwhelming. If she was free she could pull out the agonising thorns and put dock leaves on her burning flesh. And she would serve her Mistress and be so good she would never, ever, need to punish her like that again...

  It was several seconds before she realised that she was being re-tied to the frame in a new position.

  “Mistress...?” she croaked.

  Arabella smiled. “You said you would do anything for me...”

  As Thomas and Gerard rode across the sweep of gravel before the Hall, they saw the Major descending from the trap that had taken him to the station hardly two hours earlier. By the time they trotted up the trap had set off again carrying Platt in the direction of the stables.

  “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, sir,” Thomas to the Major, who was standing on the steps of the front door.

  Major Havercotte-Gore scowled. “The Express never arrived. Engine trouble, apparently. Waited around hoping for another train, but there’s nothing that could get us to Exeter in time.”

  “Bad luck, sir,” Gerard said.

  “Well, it can’t be helped. We’ll have to manage with two girls short for a little longer. Hope there’ll be enough of them for the Ball. I wanted the decorations to look particularly fine this year.”

  “I’m sure everything will go swimmingly, sir,” said Thomas.

  They chatted for another minute, then the Major turned to enter the house. But he was stayed by the sight of Platt dashing through the archway of the stable court towards him, with an anxious looking Alison at his heels.

  “Good Lord, man,” the Major exclaimed as he reached them. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m afraid Miss Arabella has taken Melanie out to the woods... in the company of Mr Thomas and Mr Gerard.”

  The Major fixed the two young men with an enquiring gaze. “Well, gentlemen?”

  Thomas answered. “That’s quite right, sir. Arabella invited us and we had a little sport with Melanie - and very fine she was too.”

  “And where is she now?” the Major asked impatiently.

  The two men exchanged awkward glances. “Afterwards, Arabella wanted to punish the girl for not pleasing her,” Gerard said. “She, er, talked of thistles.”

  “No!” exclaimed the Major.

  “But we wouldn’t have any part in it,” Thomas assured him quickly. “And it needs two for that sort of game.”

  “But that’s the trouble, sir,” Platt interjected. “Alison says Miss Arabella took out a horse for Belinda Jenkyns to ride half an hour ago.”

  The Major’s face flushed with rage and dismay. “Gentlemen, we
need your horses this instant!”

  Melanie hung on the frame, her feet above her head and her back nearest the ground, her spread ankles tied to the supporting rods. Her wrists were bound to the footrests while her head hung downward, trailing her hair in the grass. Melanie’s bottom now twisted and swayed where her breasts had been on the previous run. Her thighs spread in grotesque welcome, her lovemouth gaping, exposing its coral-pink interior as though perversely eager to receive its chastisement.

  The frame bounced between the two horses as they galloped across the field and into the thistle patch. Melanie’s scream rose above the pounding of hooves as the taller thistle heads lashed across her inner thighs, funnelled inward to the plump purse of flesh at their apex. Taller plants bowed over and slapped down on her mound, raking through her pubic hair and leaving spines and fragments of leaf entangled in the tight black curls. Dozens of spines every second were pricking and tearing at her most sensitive flesh, delicate inner labia twisted and tugged as though by many tiny pins. Thicker stems rasped deeper through her cleft, clawing at her clitoris, then ran on downward to cut a searing line between her buttocks. Fine streaks of blood appeared about her inner thighs, around the curve of her bottom cheeks and down the smooth skin of her back.

  With a tremendous pain-driven effort, Melanie arched her body to lift her groin above the thistles. Arabella’s long switch cracked out, cutting across the taut muscles of her stomach and beating her down again. There was to be no escaping her punishment.

  In all the ride lasted little more than ten seconds, but they were the worst seconds of Melanie’s life. Her screams continued far longer.

  Then they ran clear of the thistles and the riders slowed to a halt. The two girls looked at the twitching, sobbing, bedraggled figure slung between their mounts. They felt the thrill of power course through them at the thought of what they had done to such a beautiful creature.

  “Now she really knows what it is to be punished,” Arabella said, her eyes sparkling.

  “She’ll never dare disobey you after this,” Belinda added.

  “She might, but no matter. I want more of a challenge than Sue provided. But for the next few days, I certainly don’t think she’ll give any trouble. Now, we had better...”

  “Arabella!”

  The ferocious cry rang out over the hedgerows. Arabella and Belinda twisted round in their saddles to see the Major and Platt gallop through the upper field gate and race towards them.

  “Damn!” said Arabella quietly.

  The riders came to a halt only yards from them, their mounts snorting and kicking up a spray of earth.

  The Major was purple with rage, while Platt almost fell off his horse in his haste to get to Melanie. He crouched down by her side and lifted her head with remarkable tenderness, muttering: “Dear Lord, what have they done to you, girl?”

  They all heard the faint rasp of Melanie’s reply: “I... submitted... first time round... Mister Platt... but they did it again... please don’t let them do it again... please!”

  Platt took in her scratched and torn body, then cast such a venomous glance at Arabella and Belinda that they shrank back in alarm. Pulling out his clasp knife he began cutting Melanie free.

  The Major spoke, clearly fighting to keep his voice under control.

  “Arabella, you will go to your room and stay there until I say otherwise. This may have to be referred to the police.”

  “But we were only breaking her in, training her...”

  “You call this barbarism training! Now do as you are told.”

  “But the Ball tomorrow...!”

  “There will be no Ball for you. Now go, or must I have the servants take you there by force?”

  Platt had Melanie free and she rested unsteadily on her hands and widespread knees; too weak to stand, unable to lie or sit because of the thistle spines that bristled over most of her body. Platt was trying to support her as best he could, but there was hardly any place he could hold her comfortably. His eyes once again found Arabella’s face and she read the utter contempt in their depths.

  Arabella mutely unhitched the carry frame from her saddle and rode off.

  The Major turned to Belinda, who had been looking on trembling and white-faced.

  “Miss Jenkyns,” he said in brittle tones. “I have no doubt my niece led you on in this, nevertheless you should have known better. You will return your horse to the stables and then leave my land. You are no longer welcome here. Do you understand?”

  Belinda gulped, nodded and rode off after Arabella.

  Only when they had gone did the Major dismount and kneel down by Melanie’s trembling figure.

  “My poor brown vixen,” he said, gently stroking her hair.

  And there were tears in his eyes.

  Punishment and Reward

  “And then Belinda went home,” Jemima said breathlessly. “She looked really frightened. So we went home too - except I came back here.”

  It was lunchtime. Jemima was in the loft, standing naked with her arms stretched over her head by cuffs and ropes. A red blush on her pretty bottom and about her shapely little breasts showed where the boys had been ‘encouraging’ her to give a report on her morning’s spying. It was the mixture of pain and pleasure she had been promised the previous day. A second rope was slung from the beam over her head. Tied at both ends, its middle passed tautly between her legs, vanishing between the lips of her sex. Jemima was rubbing herself on it as she talked so that a dark stain was spreading along the rope. Her nipples were so hard and swollen they looked as though they might burst.

  The loft was silent for a moment after Jemima had finished, except for the sound of chewing. Miss Newcombe had allowed the boys to make themselves a sandwich lunch today as she had errands to run. Sally had brought some food from the village for Sue and Amber. The entire membership of SCRAW was therefore congregated to hear Jemima’s story.

  “She deserves worse than being sent to her room after what she did to the brown girl,” Jackson said angrily.

  “Maybe the Major’ll give her some proper punishment after the County Ball’s over,” Harris suggested.

  “Hope so,” said Gosset.

  Amber agreed with their sentiments. She would not wish what Arabella had done on her worst enemy, even a policewoman who’d once tried to arrest her. She began to feel very sorry for Melanie Kingston. Then she noticed self-conscious and slightly guilty looks from the boys as they glanced about them at their growing harem in the loft. Jemima, working herself gently to an orgasm on the rope; Sally, sitting on the floor eating an apple, her legs provocatively crossed so that her skirt had ridden up to reveal an absence of underwear; Amber herself sitting in a corner of her pen, her arms and legs spread wide and tied to the walls; finally Sue, strapped to the training horse with their sperm still oozing out of her, their gaze lingering on the marks her body still bore. Understanding their train of thought, Amber said quickly:

  “Don’t worry, Masters. What you’re doing to us is quite different. We know you’d never be as irresponsible as Arabella.”

  The boys looked relieved but still uncertain. Jackson said: “But what do we do? Now this has happened we’ll never know how much we hurt Arabella by stealing Sue from her. She’s got other worries.”

  Amber had been thinking furiously as he spoke. She had to keep them interested. She said carefully: “But you still want to personally take revenge on Arabella, like you were planning when you caught me in the woods? Not just for this, I mean, but for getting you into trouble last term.”

  “Of course, but how?” Jackson said. “We can’t get at her while she’s in the Hall.”

  “But perhaps you can get her to come to you,” Amber said, “and get yourself another girl into the bargain.”

  “Have you got a plan?” Gosset asked, with a barely suppressed ea
gerness that gladdened Amber’s heart.

  “At the moment it’s half a plan. For the rest, Jemima will have to do some reconnaissance...”

  Melanie lay on her back on the Examination Room table, her eyes closed and head turned to one side as though asleep. Her arms were loosely cuffed to the top of the table, her legs bent at the knees and spread wide, her feet strapped into the stirrups. Alison and Platt worked over her removing thorns with pins and tweezers, washing and disinfecting her scratches, putting plasters over the larger cuts and tears. Fortunately none was so deep as to need stitches, but there were still many nasty gashes.

  Alison was tending to Melanie’s breasts, her pretty, open face contorted in dismay at the flawless ripe globes which had been so terribly marred. A simple lashing would have left clean, purposeful weals that would heal in a few days. This was careless and wanton.

  “How could Miss Arabella have done such a thing?” Alison said dismally, for the fifth time.

  “That’s her way,” Platt replied simply. “There’s a cruel, wild streak in her, though her family are of the best. You’d hardly think she and the Major were related.”

  Platt was working between Melanie’s widespread legs. With a torch and a large magnifying glass mounted on a stand, he was painstakingly examining every square inch of her abused lovemouth, its lips held apart by spring clamps, carefully removing broken thistle spines. Some were even embedded in the mouth of her vaginal passage. Instead of a delicate pink, the inner flesh was red raw. He applied a soothing cream as he worked to take out the heat. He could also see spines sticking in the crinkled ring of her anus, but at least the Major’s favourite orifice did not seem otherwise seriously damaged.

  “It’s all right, girl,” he said reassuringly to Melanie when she flinched as another thorn was pulled from the folds of her most delicate skin, “soon be over.”

  Guilt was obviously weighing heavily on Alison, for she suddenly blurted out: “It’s all my fault! I should never have let Miss Arabella take her. But how I could have refused? She’s so... commanding!”