The Girlspell III

by William Avon

  The sting had gone from her willow wand lashing but the latticework of welts still ached and throbbed. The rough heavy cuffs rubbed her wrists and ankles, making them sore. Her unpadded bed and the chill of the cellar did not help. Nor did the fact that she was filthy and she stank. Her coarse sacking bedding smelt of stale sweat and of old sperm and girl juices. She itched and could not scratch herself properly. Her hair was greasy and she dared not think what she looked like. Yet although her physical misery was considerable it was companionship she missed most, whether that of a fellow slave or even a jailer.

  Sally fed her, flushed her out after she had served one of the boys, sat her on a bucket to relieve herself and wiped her bottom afterwards, but she was under strict instructions not to speak. When one of the boys slipped down to the cottage to use her for his pleasure it was a precious distraction to have a young hard cock inside her and an orgasm was a brief escape from her misery, even though they were each as brutal to her as Miss Newcombe had ordered them to be and added to the bruises around her vagina and anus. But the worst thing was, also as ordered, that none of them spoke a word to her either. When the weight of the thrusting young body was lifted from her and his cock pulled out of her sopping passage she was alone again with only the hot trickle of his sperm dribbling out of her to remember him by.

  That was what was driving her mad. It was a form of sensory deprivation. How she longed to be back in the old stable loft at the school artfully manipulating the boys into gathering a harem of girls while conniving in the details of the next means of abuse and degradation they were going to use against her. That had been such weird fun. Maybe she was back there and this was a dream?

  How long had she been down here? Miss Newcombe had only said a few days, but how long was that exactly? If she had wanted her to appear to be genuinely miserable then it was working. Perhaps it was working too well. Had they forgotten her? Amber began to moan and sob and pull at her chains. She had to get out of here. Please, somebody, please rescue me! I’ll do anything you want. Please… please…

  Ahh! Amber jerked awake to find she was being lifted onto her feet off her filthy bed. There were people moving about her and hands manipulating her flesh. Yes, please touch me, she thought. I’ll be so good.

  The bottom of her hood was lifted and her gag loosed enough for the tin rim of her drinking mug to be pressed against her lips. She drank it down. It was refilled and she was made to drink that too. Then she was re-gagged and hooded.

  Her wrists were pulled behind her back and the chains were wrapped about her waist and the ends clipped together. Her ankle chains were crossed upward between her legs and the ends wrapped above her knees and clipped tight, forming a kind of hobble.

  A rope leash was tied about her neck.

  She was led up the cellar stairs and out through the back door of the cottage. She felt cool night air on her naked flesh that made her nipples crinkle while the scent of dew-damp vegetation filtered through her hood. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. They passed through the garden gate, tramped across long grass, plunged through what felt like a gap in hedge and were off into the woods.

  Amber stumbled along at the end of her leash for what seemed like an hour, blindly, trustingly following her captors. When she had to climb over a fallen tree or ford a small stream they slapped her legs to get her to step as required, but otherwise they did not make a sound. Of course it had to be the boys yet she could honestly say she did not know that for sure. This might be the night the mystery slave thieves broke her out of jail. In fact, she decided, that was what it was and she was being led into the unknown. Yes, that was how she would tell it.

  Finally, panting for breath, with her legs scratched and muddy, they came to a halt. Wherever they were there was no sound suggesting any human habitation was near, only the night squeaks and rustles of the woods.

  There was a swish of twigs followed by a few scrapes and thuds from nearby. Then her captors took the leash from her neck. They undid her chains and pulled them away from her body, dragging her arms and legs wide. What were they doing?

  With a sudden simultaneous jerk her feet were pulled from under her and with a stifled yelp of fear she fell backwards onto the rough grass. The chains round her ankles tightened and she was dragged across the ground, old twigs and leaf littler scraping the welts across her back and buttocks and clogging her bottom cleavage. Then the chains about her wrists tightened, pulling sideways, twisting her arms across and behind her body and she was flipped over onto her front. Again she was dragged across the ground, whimpering as her sore breasts and nipples ploughed through the grass and dirt.

  Twice more they did this, dragging her across the ground and adding a layer of local dirt and grass stains to the grime already clinging to her body. Then they hauled her onto her knees and made her shuffle forward through some low opening into a confined space.

  She was twisted round onto her back and laid down onto a rough fabric. She was back on her stinking sacking bed with its restraining frame! They must have carried it here at the same time as they brought her.

  They chained her spreadeagled to the bed frame. Then she heard a rustle of clothes and the weight of a boy’s body pressed her down into her crude bed while his cock rammed into her aching vagina. She was receiving a farewell fuck from her captors.

  When they had all finished with her they dropped a piece of sacking over her sore and filthy body as a rough blanket. There were shuffles as they withdrew from whatever space she was in, followed by a rustle and crack of twigs that suggested branches were being moved about. Then all was still.

  At some time in the early hours the pressure in her bladder became too much and Amber wet herself and hot urine soaked into her filthy bedding to mingle with the other stains there. As abject misery descended upon Amber once more she started to cry softly.

  Chapter Eight

  Back in Custody

  The next morning PC Bailey was sitting behind his desk in the small station room of the Shaftwell Police house. He was reading a summary of the latest reports from local stations. He’d been hoping there would be some mention of Melanie Kingston or Amber Jones, or some word on the men who had taken them. But there was nothing.

  Bailey brooded. Although normally a missing bondslave would not cause him much worry, he had personal reasons for wishing them both found as soon as possible. Amber Jones had been snatched from a cell in this very station, which made him look careless and had caused the Superintendent at the area headquarters at Chelmhurst to have words with him. Melanie had been taken from the kennels at Markham Hall, which was owned by Major Havercotte-gore who was the local JP. Melanie had been a valuable pack girl and the Major had been breathing down Bailey’s neck ever since, but there had been no trace of her. Coincident with her disappearance had been the assault on and outrageous public humiliation of the Major’s niece. Now the news that a gang of bondslave thieves and hooligans seemed to be active about Shaftwell had got about and people were getting anxious.

  Who’d be a policeman, Bailey thought? He checked his watch. Time he was out on patrol again. Need to show to uniform to reassure people.

  Just then the street door burst open and a young woman he recognised as Jemima Moncrief stumbled in. A trug basket was hooked over one arm and she was red-faced, excited and panting for breath as though she had been running hard.

  ‘Oh… Constable Bailey!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve found a woman all tied up and hidden away… you’ve got to come and see!’

  As Jemima led Bailey along a path through the woods she explained.

  ‘I went out early to find some flowers for a display my mother’s making for the church. But I couldn’t find any good ones in the usual spots so I went a bit further. Then I heard what sounded like a girl crying, but it was very faint. It was coming from this clump of trees. It wasn’t easy to get inside because there were thorn branch
es in the way, not growing but stuck in the ground, like they’d been put there deliberately. Inside there was a mound of earth with bushes growing right up to it. But I found a sort of camp had been made under them, with another thorn bush for a door. I called out and I heard more crying and moaning so I pulled the bush away and looked inside. And there she was, with nothing on and a hood over her head, chained to a sort of bed.’

  Bailey said: ‘It was a bit foolish you coming out here alone, Miss, what with that gang about.’

  ‘But I’d heard they only stole bondslaves?’ Jemima said with wide-eyed innocence. ‘What would they want with me?’

  ‘Hurrump… well, never mind. On this occasion it does seem to have been fortunate.’ A flicker of hope rose within him. ‘You didn’t happen to notice if this girl had brown skin?’

  ‘Oh, you mean like the Major’s lost packgirl? No, I think she’s pink. It was hard to tell. She’s so dirty and… well, she smells. I didn’t get want to get too close. I just said to her I’d get help and then came for you. Was that right?’

  ‘Yes, quite right, Miss.’

  Bailey was feeling breathless by the time they reached the hideaway, which was just Jemima had described it. He had to force his bulk through the surrounding thicket of trees to reach the tiny glade within. With Jemima looking on anxiously he went down on his knees and pushed his way into the lean-to of roughly tied branches. An old tarpaulin had been thrown over the framework, he noted, and the whole thing camouflaged with branches and sods of grass.

  The naked girl chained to the sacking bed squirmed, moaning and twisting her hooded head round. As Jemima had said she was filthy and odorous.

  ‘There, there...’ he said reassuringly. ‘I’m a policeman. I’ve got you now…’

  He bent over her and pulled the hood off her head. Beneath was the pale grimy face of a young woman disfigured by livid bruises across both eyes and her lip. He had to look twice before he was sure who it was.

  ‘Amber Jones,’ he said as he undid her gag.

  She squinted up at him through crusty red-rimmed eyes. ‘C… Constable Bailey…’ she croaked, and then burst into tears.

  When he got Amber back to the police station Bailey called Dr Gideon round straight away to check her over. While he was waiting for the Doctor to arrive he questioned Amber about what had happened to her. Normally he would have had a bondslave standing chained to his desk during an interrogation encouraged by a few smacks across her breasts and bum from a long desk ruler he kept especially for the purpose. But Amber was so weak he hadn’t the heart and let her sit in the visitor’s chair, though of course she still wore the police issue chain collar and leash he had put on her in the woods and he kept her naked. He might feel sorry for her but she was still an escaped prisoner who had not served her term. Amber held her pale stiff hands over her eyes as she responded in a rambling fashion, her voice faint, cracking every few words.

  ‘They wore masks… at least three of them… big men. Gagged and hooded me… took into the woods… They beat me to make be behave…. chained me up and had me again and again. They only took my gag out to let me eat and drink… let me outside a couple of times a day to pee and shit in the bushes. Never saw their faces or heard them call each other by name. They hardly said anything. Just grunts when they were having me. Left me for hours in between. How long have I been there? I heard a girl calling out and I tried to call back. She said she’d get help… Thank her for me! She saved my life!’

  When Gideon arrived Bailey had Amber lie on her back on his desk with her legs raised and spread. She kept her eyes closed and did not resist the examination, but she whimpered and gave little spasmodic shudders when he touched her.

  ‘Well she’s certainly been badly used,’ Gideon said as he pried open Amber’s red-lipped sex and peered up inside her. ‘There’s extensive bruising within her vaginal passage…’ He transferred his attention to her anus which was haloed in brown and purple. ‘This orifice has also been vigorously used. Judging from that and the general state of her other injuries I’d say she has been used repeatedly by more than one man over the course of at least several days. Her aversion to light suggests she has been kept blindfolded or indoors for that time. However there’s no long lasting damage that I can see. Given a couple of weeks she’ll make a full recovery. Bondslaves are remarkably resilient.’

  ‘That all ties in with what she’s told me,’ Bailey said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way of finding out who did it? There’s plenty of seed stains left where she was being kept.’

  Gideon gave snort. ‘If there was blood I could give you a type match but there’s no way of matching sperm with a man in this world that I know of, Bailey. You’ll have to rely on footprints, fingerprints or tell-tale red hairs, I’m afraid.’

  Bailey scratched his head. ‘No luck with any of them that I can see. Ground’s too firm and none of her restraints or bedding would take prints.’

  ‘Then I have nothing else to suggest.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway, Doctor.’

  After Gideon had departed Bailey took a red-enamelled metal collar with a number stamped on its side from the cupboard and snapped it open. ‘I’ve still got your proper collar here. Those thugs left it behind when they took you.’ He chuckled. ‘Been missing it have you?’ Amber nodded blankly and did not react when he swapped it for her leash collar. ‘On your feet, now. I’ve got to take some fresh pictures of you for the files.’

  She winced as she stood up and Bailey shook his head. He’d given plenty of miscreant females an official flogging, but this was something else. What a mess they’d made of a pretty body. A few neat welts across the bum cheeks was fine, even if she had to sleep face down for a few days. But there was no call for this.

  He used the station tripod and bellows camera to take pictures of Amber’s injuries for the files: face, full figure front and back and close-ups between her legs of her abused orifices. When he was done he said: ‘Right, now we can get you cleaned up.’

  For the first time Amber appeared to stir from her daze. She looked up at him and actually smiled. ‘Oh, thank you, Constable,’ she choked with pitiful gratitude. ‘That would be wonderful.’

  She was certainly less sassy than she had been, Bailey thought. Some of the defiance had clearly been beaten out of her during her ordeal. Though you wanted obedience in a bondslave, of course, he liked a bit of spirit and the odd flash of resistance. It made them more fun to handle.

  Collecting a towel, scrubbing brush and a bar of soap from the store cupboard, Bailey led Amber out the back into the high-walled punishment yard that adjoined the station. Again she winced and screwed up her eyes against the light.

  At one end of the yard several complicated wood and iron devices mounted on low wheeled platforms were clustered. At the other by the gate that led onto the street Old Tom Soams dozed in a chair by a stack of crates filled what looked like multicoloured apples wrapped in waxed paper. In the middle of the yard was a tall rectangular wooden frame on a wheeled base. Suspended within the frame was a naked brunette with pleasantly full and bouncy breasts. Doreen Knox was serving a couple of weeks in the public pillory for theft, after which she would be put up for a bondservice auction. Bailey had done his best to ensure she would be suitably shamed and broken in so as not to displease her new owner. He was trying her out in the station’s new punishment device.

  Doreen hung from a horizontal iron rod fitted to the frame by a swivel mount. Snap hooks on the ends of the rod hooked about rings stitched to broad leather cuffs buckled about her ankles. Since she was intended to hang in the pillory for hours at a time the cuffs were designed to spread her weight as evenly as possible and extended high up her shins and flared over her insteps, with an extra strap going across her soles.

  Her torso was pulled up and doubled over, so that she was looking through the “V” of her spread legs.
Her arms were buckled into a leather sleeve and secured behind her back. A chain from this sleeve ran up through a ring in the back of her prison collar and fastened to a “D” ring welded to the middle of the iron rod. A shorter chain ran down from her arm binder sleeve through the cleft of her buttocks to the end of a curved hook, the bulbous tip of which was buried deep inside her rectum. This arrangement supported her upper body, at the cost of her dignity, and kept her facing forward.

  Doreen’s dignity was further, and quite intentionally diminished, by a device that hung beneath her suspended body. Black rubber garters were bucked about her thighs. Rings on the insides of these hooked onto the shaft of an inverted “T” paddle that was plugged into her vagina with a large rubber dildo head that made her pussy mouth gape. The “T” bar of the paddle head bolted to its vertical shaft was formed of light ply and spread as wide as Doreen’s hips. Fastened to her as it was it could churn and twist a little in its fleshy sheath, but not be expelled by any effort of hers.

  The paddle blade, like most of her body, was covered by splashes and splatters of thick, coloured, liquid clay, with a few clinging shards of waxed paper where the pillory shots, purchasable from Tom, had burst against her. The ground beneath her ran with multicoloured rivulets into the yard drain. The shots not only stung as they struck her body but if they hit the paddle they caused its dildo end to jerk painfully inside her at the same time as twisting her round in her suspended harness to expose a different part of her body to further shots, ensuring no part of her escaped its lawful punishment. One final additional twist to the indignity being heaped upon her was revealed by the state of the paddle shaft where it emerged from between the lips of Doreen’s cunt. The splatters of coloured clay had been washed partially away by the juices tricking from her vagina as she helplessly responded to its stimulation.