Slaves to the Girlspell

by William Avon

  Melanie found herself blushing at the memory. “Yes. It’s all in a cupboard in Platt’s office, I suppose.

  “Right, we’ll pick them up next...” The lock clicked and Amber threw the door open. “Just don’t draw attention to the phallus if anybody asks, okay?”

  “If who asks?”

  “My, uh, backers. They’re waiting outside. I said I wanted a few words alone with you first.”

  “They’ll help us get away?”

  “Not quite. It’s complicated. You’ll have to play along with them a bit. There’s a little matter to take care of first. Something they’d like to see you do.”

  “What?”

  Amber grinned maliciously. “How do you feel about good old fashioned revenge?”

  For the first time in her life, Arabella knew real, stomach churning, fear.

  She was gagged and hooded and bound to a pole, hanging face down as she was carried shoulder-high by her abductors across the fields. With sickening clarity she knew that all her position and influence counted for nothing right now. They knew who she was and had still dared to lay hands on her. They might do anything. Suddenly she was no better off than a common bondslave.

  The footsteps of her captors sounded on some hard surface and she realised she had been taken inside a building. The pole she was bound to was put on the floor. Hands loosened the ropes holding her and suddenly she was free. She rolled over, tearing frantically at her hood in an attempt to pull it off. But her desperate fingers found there was a padlock on the buckle at the back of her neck. And if she could not remove the hood she could not take off her gag.

  Without warning she felt a sharp pain in her side.

  She flinched away only to be jabbed from another direction. She twisted about in complete disorientation, scrabbling awkwardly on her hands and knees, only to receive a third painful poke in her buttocks. They were playing with her! She tried to scuttle away from her tormentors, only to have a stick lash across her back. She slumped to the floor, snivelling and moaning behind her hood.

  “Strip!”

  It was the first word she had heard her assailants utter. It was strangely muffled and guttural. In her current state of mind it sounded macabre. It was several seconds before she took in its meaning. She shook her head, making pleading noises. More unseen pointed objects jabbed her painfully in the thigh, shoulder and bottom.

  “Strip!” the command came again, but more menacingly.

  Sobbing, her fingers trembling, Arabella began blindly pulling at her clothes.

  Numb disbelief settled on her more heavily with every garment she discarded. It couldn’t be happening to her, not to Arabella Westlake! But it was. And in a minute she was huddled stark naked in a frightened ball; blind to the eyes upon her, but sensing their gaze with horrible clarity as they took in every inch of her exposed flesh.

  Unseen hands grabbed her and hauled her upright, pulling her arms away from her body, handling her with casual disregard as though she was a rag doll.

  She was doubled over so that the whip marks on her bottom could be traced and agonisingly pinched. She was fingered and pounded and pummelled. Her swaying breasts were clasped and squeezed unmercifully, then rolled around and yanked hard. Her nipples were pinched and stretched until she thought they would snap. She was pulled upright and bowed over backwards, thrusting her hips out. Her legs were wrenched apart and stiff fingers were rammed up into her slit, brutally probing the depths of her vagina. Her golden pubic bush was tugged, tearing tufts of hair out by the roots. Thumbnails dug into her labia and twisted the delicate petals of flesh. She squealed and shrieked and cried, all to no avail. The gag and muffling hood absorbed them all. Nobody would hear her. There would be no rescue. All she heard were the chuckles of her abusers as they enjoyed her distress.

  In the depths of her misery she prayed that if they were going to rape her then they would get it over with quickly. But she was not to suffer any such crude fate.

  Without warning her torment ceased. Distantly she seemed to hear a door bang followed by a murmur of conversation. Then the buckle of her hood was unlocked and stripped off and the gag was torn from between her aching jaws. A shove and she was standing unsupported.

  Arabella blinked and rubbed the tears from her eyes, looking round fearfully. She was standing on the coconut matting in front of the tiers of kennels in the packgirls’ sleeping quarters. A single ceiling light was on, the rest of the room fading into shadow. Her kidnappers were ringed about her; grotesque figures seen in the half-light. Masks of some dark material covered their faces and they were swathed in equally dark clothes. They were all tall, with broad shoulders, huge heads and strange lumpy bodies.

  Struggling to master her ragged breathing, Arabella said: “Well... get it over with... go on, damn you!” She meant to sound defiant, but her voice cracked as she spoke.

  A figure was pushed forward into the light. It was Melanie. Unollared and naked, just as she was.

  “Fight her!” one of the dark figures grated. “If you win, we just leave you. If you lose, you get punished as you deserve!”

  “Fight... a bondslave!?” Arabella choked out in disbelief, an edge of scorn returning to her voice. “I don’t fight slaves!”

  A sharpened stick was thrust out of the shadows, stabbing into her buttock.

  “You will!”

  Arabella glanced wildly about her, but there was no escape. She turned back to Melanie and pointed a quivering finger. “You will submit to me, girl, do you understand? Down on your knees... tell them I’ve beaten you!”

  “No,” Melanie said simply.

  “You said you’d do anything for me out on the thistle field!”

  “That was then, this is now. You want to beat me, you have to do it without any help. Just you on your own. Well, are you up to it?”

  With a scream of fear and hate, Arabella threw herself at Melanie, fingernails raked, clawing at her face.

  Melanie stepped into the attack, catching hold of Arabella’s wrist even as she twisted about, heaving and ducking forward. Arabella flew over her shoulder and landed with a thud on her back on the matting.

  The masked onlookers clapped and cheered.

  Before Arabella could recover her breath, Melanie hauled her to her feet by a fistful of hair and punched her very precisely in the stomach. As Arabella doubled over, Melanie grabbed her arm, whipped it around and threw Arabella onto her back again.

  Melanie stood astride Arabella’s prostrate body and sat down, straddling her chest. She lifted Arabella’s head by the hair and slapped her hard on both cheeks. Arabella groaned and burbled incoherently.

  “How do you like a taste of your own medicine?” Melanie asked.

  She rose far enough to turn Arabella’s limp body over onto her front, then twisted round so that she faced Arabella’s buttocks. For a moment she examined the precise pattern of lash marks the Major had put there, nodding and smiling slightly to herself. Then she raised her hand and brought it down hard enough to leave a scarlet imprint on the creamy flesh and making the half-moon cheeks jump and shiver. She lifted her other hand and struck again... and again.

  As the blazing pain from her rear suffused her body, Arabella knew she was beaten, crushed. Melanie was stronger, better, than her. Arabella felt the shame of fear and impotence as she never had before. Was this the taste of defeat?

  “Do you submit?” Melanie said over her shoulder.

  “Yes, yes!” Arabella choked.

  “What are you?”

  “I’m nothing... nothing!” And Arabella knew it was true.

  The young footman sent to collect the packgirl for the table display strode briskly along the covered way connecting the main house with the Stable Court buildings. He had almost reached the door leading off to the Kennel Block when it opened in front of him.
/>
  He saw the silhouette of a woman’s figure in cap and jodhpurs push the trolley with its covered platter out to him. He heard a voice, which he assumed to be Alison Chalmers’, say simply: “Here she is.”

  “Thanks, Miss,” he called back, but the door had already shut. He swung the trolley round by its handle and set off back along the corridor. As he went he thought he could hear muffled groans and whimpers from under the domed silver cover.

  In the Ballroom there was a pause in the dancing. As more people drifted to the buffet tables and the tempo of the evening began to mellow, the Major had called for his guests’ attention.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said. “As is traditional at these occasions, I am proud to offer you the finest specimens of the Markham pack. Please welcome the dishes of the evening!”

  Amid polite applause, four footmen came in bearing the first of the Hall chef’s offerings shoulder high. They carried the long, covered silver platter round the room, then set it down on its reserved space on a table.

  “First, the savoury dish!” the Major said.

  A footman pulled the cover off to reveal Una lying on her back on the platter, secured in place with fine silver chains. She was surrounded by wafer thin cuts of rolled meat and tiny slices of herb bread. Her body itself served as a condiment stand. Her mouth was filled with the base of a pot of relish, which she clenched between her teeth to keep it upright. A figure-of-eight cut glass trough of sauces encircled her breasts and squeezed them into taut domes. Her navel was filled with a cone of salt. The handle of a long spoon protruded from between her legs, where her lovemouth stretched wide to accommodate a long silver pot of cheese dip, warmed by her body heat.

  The guests applauded the novel display enthusiastically.

  “And now the sweet dish,” the Major announced.

  Another platter was carried in and set down. When the cover was removed with a flourish it revealed Jill chained to the platter, with sliced fruit and tiny cakes of all descriptions carefully arranged about her. She held a pot of cream in her mouth. Stacks of pineapple segments encircled her breasts like twin pagodas, each topped by a half cherry. More cherries spilled out from her gaping vaginal lips to form a tiny scree between her thighs. She had been stuffed with cherries. Tongs and a long handled fine-tined fork lay between her legs for those who wished to probe for any of the fruits remaining within her after the more accessible samples had been removed.

  “And no feast would be complete without the game bird,” the Major said.

  The last platter was brought in and set down. The cover was removed.

  The anticipatory applause faltered and died away. Somebody’s half laugh turned into a choked gasp of disbelief.

  Arabella was mounted on the brace intended for Gillian, but reversed, so her body was bowed outward for all to see; her arms bound tightly behind her, wrists tied to the crossed ankles of her folded and splayed legs. Her tearful eyes bulged over her gag with the strain of holding the dildo up her rear. Her jutting breasts were studded with the heads of drawing pins and a few trickles of blood. Her knees were held wide in a vain attempt at preventing the thick spray of holly that had been pushed up her front passage from scratching her inner thighs any further. From the wetness of her hair and a certain aroma it was apparent that she had been drenched in urine.

  In the stupefied silence they all heard the Major say foolishly: “Good God, Arabella - what are you doing there?”

  Then the spell was broken.

  Platt burst out through the doors and pelted down the corridor beyond. He was not thinking of Arabella as he tore though the house to the kennels. Sprinting into the pack yard he was calling out: “Alison!” at the top of his voice.

  There was no reply. But to his horror he saw her coat and britches lying on the brick cobbles as though they’d been discarded in haste.

  With a cry of dismay he plunged into the office. It was empty. He threw open the door to the Sick Room. Lying on the cell bed where Melanie had been were Gillian and Alison. They were gagged and bound hand and foot.

  Gasping with fear and relief, Platt unlocked the door and bent tenderly over Alison, prying the gag from her lips. For the first time her realised she was only wearing a thin slip and panties. He felt the heat of her body. He allowed his eyes to pass over her, telling himself that he was just checking for any signs of injury. She was... beautiful.

  She gazed up at him in dismay.

  “Oh... Mister Platt. I’m so sorry... I couldn’t stop them... They’ve taken Melanie!”

  Platt felt dizzy with shock as the full implications sank in. The Major’s niece publicly humiliated and his prize packgirl stolen!

  Then he saw Alison’s stricken face. He drew in a deep breath and patted her bare arm reassuringly.

  “As long as you’re safe,” he said simply.

  School Orgy

  “They’ve never had a black girl before,” Amber called over to Melanie helpfully. “You’d better not disappoint them.”

  The boys had led them back to the school loft in triumph, grinning foolishly and obviously elated by the success of their daring clandestine raid. They had taken their revenge on Arabella at last and had obtained a new and exotic slave into the bargain. Now, still bubbling with excitement, they stripped of the padded masks and jumpers that had distorted their figures and pulled off the folded leather strips under their boot soles that had added deceptive inches to their height. Then they could take their first proper look at Melanie.

  She squirmed uncertainly at their touch, still trying to come to terms with her changed circumstances. Her hands were bound behind her back and she had a rope collar and lead about her neck, so she could not prevent them crowding about her; stroking the silky smoothness of her brown skin, testing the weight of her breasts, patting the fullness of her buttocks. As they fingered her pubic mound Melanie gave a quick gasp of pain.

  “Please... I’m still sore there!”

  The boys just chuckled.

  Amber, standing almost forgotten to one side, said: “Do go easy on her. Remember what she’s been through.”

  Jackson snapped: “We didn’t give her those scratches in the first place. We made Arabella pay for it and now this one’s got to please us. We’re her masters now.”

  “That’s right,” said Gosset sharply, “don’t you forget it, girl.”

  “Sorry, Masters,” Amber said quickly, a little surprised by their change of mood.

  “Maybe she needs another lesson to remind her,” Harris suggested, his eyes not moving from Melanie’s face as her kneaded her breasts experimentally.

  With a cruel gleam in his eye, Gosset stepped towards Amber.

  Amber backed away from him apprehensively. “No, Masters, please. Look what I’ve done for you. I helped bring you Sally... and Sue and Jemima. I got you your revenge on Arabella... I’ve given you Melanie.”

  “But only because we let you,” Gosset said, catching hold of Amber’s trailing leash and pulling her against him with a jerk. “You couldn’t have done it without us. You’re our slave, don’t forget.”

  “I won’t, I won’t!” Amber said fearfully.

  “Let’s show them who’s in charge!” Bickley suggested, his face flushed with pent-up excitement.

  The others were nodding, clearly liking the idea.

  “But we should have this one first,” Parsons said, sliding his forefinger up into Melanie’s slit and giving her a tickle.

  “We can do both,” Jackson said, a wild look in his eyes. “Don’t you see? The School’s empty, nobody’s going to disturb us. Tonight we can do anything we like!”

  The boys grinned as the possibilities of their situation dawned upon them.

  Suddenly Amber understood with horrible clarity what was happening. The boys were on a high from their adventure. They had partici
pated in Arabella’s humiliation and it had filled them with a desire to taste more of the same. They wanted to flaunt their new self-confidence and exercise their power to the full. That latent sadistic streak she had briefly glimpsed in them before had been stimulated. Now it demanded release. They boys would do exactly what they wanted and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

  Amber flashed a last despairing glance at Melanie. “Sorry!” she mouthed.

  Melanie lay spread-eagled on Amber’s bed, her dark skin glistening, arms and legs roped to the sides of the pen and drawn taut. The boys were taking turns to sample the delights of her fleshy grotto, ramming their hard young cocks into her with brutal insistence and with no regard for her comfort, so that she grunted and moaned under the onslaught of their thrusts.

  When each boy finished he went over to Amber, bound over the Training Horse, his drooping erection hanging from under his shirtfront. He caught hold of a double handful of her hair and rammed his genitals into her face.

  “Lick me clean!” he commanded.

  Amber obeyed without hesitation: she couldn’t help herself. She sucked and licked furiously, tasting both male ejaculate and Melanie’s juices as they melted into her mouth. At least it was the taste of sex, and in her desperation she couldn’t be choosy. Perhaps that even added to her arousal. Under her ministrations the boy’s penis swelled and stiffened once again, and its head began to probe the back of her throat.

  The other boys looked on in fascination, dividing their attention between Amber and their friends’ efforts between Melanie’s legs. After a minute, the cock Amber had been tending was withdrawn glistening and freshly hardened from her mouth, ignoring her groan of dismay and still hungry lips.

  With a grunt and a gasp, the next boy spent himself. He looked round with slightly glazed eyes, withdrew from Melanie, stood up, lurched over to Amber and stabbed his cock, still dripping semen from its head, between her gaping lips.