by William Avon
She was ready and eager for him. Still, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t do things properly. He picked up a ruler.
“Do you know that packgirls often have their bottoms warmed up before sex?” he said.
“Yes, sir... please.”
The rapid light, crisp smacks put a rosy glow on Jemima’s bottom cheeks, causing her to make instinctive but futile jerks against her restraints while giving voice to a series of delightful yelps and whimpers. It focused all her attention on the most sensitive part of her body as a reminder of her exposure, of the use to which she was going to be put and her utter helplessness to do anything but serve her master.
When he judged her buttocks were blushing to perfection, the Major cast aside the ruler and released his straining manhood. Taking a firm hold of Jemima’s slender hips, he pushed his shaft into her now engorged and pulsing slit. He had absolute control of his entry, her hips immobile against the desk. He savoured the parting of her lips with his cockhead, the growing slippery heat that enveloped his member as he probed for the tiny, almost closed mouth of her passage. A little deeper into the heavenly grotto, feeling the resistance of her doomed maidenhead. Then it tore apart. Jemima gave a gasp of pain as his cock forced its way into the tightness of her virgin passage beyond; the first intruder to sample its delights.
He rode her with increasing vigour, each thrust driving a small gasp from her bent form pressed onto the desktop, each shaping her insides to accommodate their new occupier and serve its pleasure. Finally the pressure in his balls could be denied no longer and he came in lusty spurts, revelling in the privilege of being the first to spend within her.
With a half-stifled cry Jemima succumbed to her own orgasm, gasping brokenly : “Yes... yes!” then: “Ohh... thank you.”
He slumped across her, feeling the wonder of the vibrant living thing under him. When he finally withdrew his flaccid penis from her it was perfectly ringed with virgin blood.
The Night of the Ball
It was just before seven o’clock that evening. Miss Newcombe stood by her bike in front of the main door of Cranborough House, giving last minute instructions to the boys.
“Now, you will be sure to lock up at eight and make a last round at ten?” she said to Jackson for the third time.
“I will, Miss,” he assured her, desperately trying not to sound impatient. “And I won’t forget the windows and side doors.”
She looked at them sternly. “When I get back tomorrow I expect to find everything exactly as I left it.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Newcombe, you will,” they assured her.
“Very well. Have a good night.”
She climbed onto her bike and pedalled briskly off down the drive. The boys waved to her dutifully.
“Wait for it,” Jackson warned them out of the corner of his mouth.
Miss Newcombe’s figure vanished round a bend in the drive.
“Go!” Jackson said.
They dashed back inside the house.
The first guests were arriving at Markham Hall for the County Ball.
Cars and carriages rattled along a drive now lined by flambeaux burning within coloured glass shades. Assisted by brass-buttoned footmen, their occupants alighted under the Hall’s imposing portico. Naked packgirls were chained with their backs to the supporting columns, their arms secured above their heads supporting baskets of flowers as though they were canephorae; caryatid-like statues brought to life. Lengths of ivy trailing from these baskets had been artfully twined about the girls’ bodies, as though further binding them in place. Above the main door a third girl had been hung from chains so that it appeared she was frozen in the act of performing an aerial splits, with her arms stretched above her and legs drawn out sideways so they were almost perfectly opposed. The heads of early wildflowers sprouted in profusion from her gaping sex and more ivy coiled about her gently swaying body, turning her into some exotic hanging floral basket. The guests passed under her widespread legs as though accepting their symbolic invitation to enter within.
Inside the Hall the guests were relieved of their topcoats and ushered through to the Ballroom, where an orchestra was already playing softly. Here the Major greeted them heartily and drinks were served. People began to mingle and chat. The buffet tables lining one wall were inspected and small treats were consumed. More substantial portions were reserved for later after the dancing.
Three large chandeliers hung from the ceiling. At the centre of each, suspended within the rings of bulbs by many silver chains, was a spread-eagled slave girl. They hung face down in graceful bows, their bodies dusted with glitter and bound with strings of glass beads. They turned slowly within their cages of light; sparkling ethereally and sending transient reflections dancing about the room.
At regular intervals around the walls scrolled mouldings supported small shelves, set a little above head height. On these were wedge blocks which supported the feet of slave girls who appeared to be frozen in the act of launching themselves into swan dives; their bodies hanging dramatically out over the floor at angles of forty-five degrees. Chains fastened to wall rings held their arms swept out and behind them. Their hair had been tied back into single ponytails which were plaited about metal rings linked to slender chains which fastened to the wall behind them. This tension kept their heads lifted proudly so their upper bodies formed graceful bows. Their legs were chained tightly together at the ankles and knees about metal bracing rods which ran up from the wedges under their feet. The upward-curving tips of the rods were embedded six inches into the girl’s rectums, ensuring they held their position perfectly all evening. Strings of sparkling baubles had been clipped to the erect nipples of their outthrust breasts. Glitter dusted their pubic hair, while growing impudently from the furrow between their nether lips were the trumpet heads of daffodils. Each girl wore a crown of ivy, lengths of which were also coiled about their bodies and securing chains, merging with the garlands of ivy interlaced with strings of beads that hung in graceful loops between the mounted girls.
In this fashion Sue, Sally and Jemima were displayed as the Major had promised.
As the Ballroom filled, Jemima thrilled at the feeling of so many strange eyes looking up at her; and revelled in her sense of helpless shame. By reflex her anal sphincter contracted once again about the metal rod on which she was impaled. Nothing like that had ever been put up her bottom before. It didn’t hurt if she remained still, its unyielding presence somehow complementing the lingering soreness in her front passage from her recent, and wonderful, deflowering. She wondered to what other uses her body could be put. She wanted to try them all. She was no longer an innocent virgin but a curious young woman surrendering herself to the delights of submission. She had broken through the painful barrier of denial and now everything seemed possible.
She glanced sideways as far as her restraints permitted and exchanged knowing, expectant glances with Sue and Sally. The best part of the night was still to come.
In the kennels’ Costume Room, George Platt was putting the finishing touches to Gillian.
The packgirl was squatting in the middle of a silver platter over four feet across which rested on a sturdy trolley. She was resting on her haunches with her feet spread so that her pubic pouch was only a couple of inches from the gleaming metal. Her arms were strapped behind her back just above the elbows, which were connected by a short chain to the back of her gag strap, thereby keeping her head well up. Fine chains from her wrists to the back of her collar kept her forearms pulled back but also folded into her body. This arrangement had the effect of thrusting out her shapely breasts.
Her awkward posture was maintained with the help of a thick supporting dildo which penetrated her deeply, having its base riveted to the centre of the platter. From this mounting an unobtrusive rigid black metal brace also ran upwards following the contours of Gillian’s stomach, between he
r breasts and slotted onto her collar.
Once secured in this position, Platt, with Alison’s assistance, had transformed Gillian from a woman into an exotic and fantastical bird-like creature. A fan of feathers rose from her head, her arms had become folded wings and stiffly erect tailfeathers sprouted from between her buttocks. With glue, smaller feathers had been applied around her cheeks and brow. A little paint had given her nose the look of a beak. Even her pubic hair bore a covering of downy feathers. As a finishing touch, Platt arranged some moss and leaves about her feet, concealing the base of her dildo mount. Now Gillian had become what was a living celebration of the hunt ready for display; a reminder of the stalking season that would soon begin.
When he was satisfied with his work, Platt checked his watch. “I’d better be going inside now. I must see that those three special girls are bearing up.”
“Who’d have thought they’d have volunteered like that,” Alison exclaimed. “Jemima Moncrief always seemed such a shy girl from what I saw of her.”
“You never know what fancy will take the shy ones,” Platt said. “But it’s that Potts girl I want to keep an eye on. A right piece of mischief she can be.”
Alison giggled. “Well, she won’t be giving you much trouble secured like she is, Mister Platt.”
Platt smiled. “I suppose not. I’ll be an hour or so. The Major wants me on hand to discuss the new hunting season with the guests.” He frowned. “I’m sorry you won’t be seeing anything of the Ball.”
Alison shrugged. “Somebody has to stay here while Melanie’s in the sick room.”
Once again her dedication and good nature touched George Platt. He could never reveal what he truly thought of her, but he could at least bring one small reward into her life.
“Tell you what, I’ll come back here at about eleven and take over so you can slip in and see everything in place, guests and all. The Major will understand.”
Alison’s face lit up. “Oh, thank you, Mister Platt!”
“That’s all right, Alison.” He patted her arm paternally and secretly thrilled at the contact. “Now, you give Gillian a little water in about half an hour and don’t put on the cover until the boy comes for her. And don’t forget to tighten up the elbow strap before you do. I want her to look fresh when she’s revealed.”
Arabella crept along the outside of the overgrown hedge of the Playhouse and peered cautiously over the gate. In her hand was a heavy poker she had taken from the set of fire irons in her room.
As she had thought, it had been easy to sneak out of the Hall. With a pencil she had poked the key of her room out of the door lock so that it fell onto the sheet of paper she had pushed underneath the door and which she had then drawn back inside. The backstairs had been deserted, with all the servants’ attention on the Ball, and she had slipped unnoticed out through a side door. Once outside away from the party lights, and with full night having fallen, she had little fear of being seen by any of the legitimate occupants of the estate. Her only concern was now focused upon the unknown writers of the letter which had brought her here.
She saw that the playhouse sitting room was illuminated by the pallid yellow glow of candles. Every few seconds a shadowy form appeared to cross in front of them, though it was impossible to make out any details through the grimy windows. She watched for several minutes but the figure continued to move back and forth, sometimes gesticulating with its arms as though engaged in some heated argument, though she could hear no words spoken. Perhaps it was somebody pacing about waiting for her? But then why the odd gestures?
Taking a deep breath she eased open the gate and stole softly forward. She would take a closer look before revealing herself. She wanted to be sure Sue was there before trying to make any sort of exchange for the phallus.
Too late she heard the slight rustle of feet on grass.
She twisted about, but before she could raise her poker a sack was thrown over her head. Even as she was wrestled to the ground, shrieking with fear and rage, she realised with bitter dismay that the pacing, gesturing figure had only been a distraction from the others waiting in the shadows of the hedge...
After checking on Melanie once again, Alison walked slowly out into the dark and deserted yard of the kennel block. The night air was still and drifting over the rooftops she could hear distant sounds of music and merrymaking. She sighed. She would have loved to go to the Ball. As a distant relation of the Major’s she would have been entitled to dance - if somebody had asked her. She’d had a dress put aside for weeks...
But it wasn’t to be.
Perhaps it was only right. If she’d stood up to Arabella then Melanie would not need somebody to stay with her now and she would have been free to go. And it was kind of Mister Platt to say he’d relieve her later so she could at least take a look at the party, even if she would have to stay in the background with the other servants.
She went back into the office and made herself a cup of tea. As she was sipping the sweet brew she gazed around the walls at the photographs and cuttings from newspapers that Platt had pinned up on them. They of course all featured bondslaves and packgirls, showing them running on the track or in harness pulling ploughs or carriages. Others were immaculately groomed and resting on all fours being examined by judges for a beauty show, or bound in the latest restraint harness.
Alison thought wistfully once again of what a unique occupation a keeper and trainer of such beautiful creatures was. How remarkable that girls, often from the very lowest origins, could become the favourites of the richest and oldest families in the land; sometimes being traded for large sums of money. Her own family of course hadn’t much money anymore, and unless she made a good marriage she would have to make her way in the world unaided. Of course she had a marvellous opportunity here at the Hall to learn a valuable skill, one that could support her in later life. But would she ever be as good as Mister Platt? If only she could that bit more assured and masterful with the girls...
Her thoughts were interrupted by a scratching at the door. Was it a cat? The noise came again. She got up, opened the door and stepped out into the yard again, blinking for a moment in the transition from the brightly lit office to the darkness.
She had the fleeting impression of large shadowy figures rising up on either side of her. Before she could scream they had taken hold of her. A hand clamped over her mouth, forcing a ball gag between her teeth.
She kicked and twisted desperately as some sort of hood was pulled over her head, but could not break free.
“She’s very strong,” an indistinct male voice grunted.
“Stop struggling,” another muffled, grating voice said in her ear. “We aren’t going to hurt you, we just need to borrow something...”
Melanie blinked awake, staring up at the ceiling of her sickroom cell. Something had roused her, but what was it? Voices, she thought, but not Platt’s or Alison’s. She turned over gingerly, pleased to find the sting of her many cuts and scratches was fading. She saw the windows were dark. She must have been sleeping. What was the time?
The muffled voices came again. Who was out there?
She climbed out of her bed and tried to peer through the bars.
“Hallo... Miss Chalmers... Is everything all right?”
For a moment there was silence, then she heard footsteps. The yard door opened and a woman came in. She was wearing Alison Chalmers’ boots, jodhpurs and coat - but she was not Alison.
Melanie gasped. “You!”
“Hi there,” said Amber Jones cheerfully, stepping up to the bars and looking Melanie’s naked body up and down with a grin. “I see you’ve picked up the local customs. The bondslave look suits you. Finding out how the other half lives, eh?”
By this time Melanie had recovered her voice. “What are you doing here - and how did you get Alison’s clothes? Is she all right?”
“Don’t worry. Some, er, friends of mine are talking care of her. Now, do you want to be rescued?”
“What?”
Amber’s face took on a sterner set. She lowered her voice and spoke rapidly. “We haven’t got much time, so make up your mind fast. I know pretty much what’s happened around here, especially what that bitch Arabella did to you. If you don’t want to risk that happening again, just say the word...” She held up Alison’s key ring meaningfully. “Then maybe we can get back to where we belong.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you want to help me?”
“Long story - I’ll tell you the rest later.” Amber glanced quickly over her shoulder. “I’m not exactly my own master here - literally. But you’ll have a better chance coming with me than staying here. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Are you kidding?”
“So you want to wear a slave collar for the rest of your life?”
Melanie gave a little start, and reached up and touched her collar. It had become so familiar to her over the last week that she’d almost forgotten it was there.
“I... don’t know,” she said helplessly.
Amber’s face softened in genuine sympathy. “Believe me I know how you feel. This slave-thing gets to you like a drug. But I don’t think I’m ready to go all the way just yet. Are you?”
Melanie screwed up her eyes, suddenly feeling lost and uncertain. How could she leave the Major and the pack... but equally, how could she chance Arabella ever getting her hands on her again? And what about the duty she had left behind in her own world? She needed time to think... somewhere away from it all. Perhaps she could straighten herself out in a few days.
She took a deep breath and nodded to Amber.
“All right, let me out of here.”
Amber began trying keys in the lock. “We’ll need to collect your things. It’ll look best if you leave nothing behind. Where are your clothes... and the phallus. You did use one, didn’t you?”