by Sean O'Kane
Blonde Fury
By
Sean O’Kane
Prologue.
Brian Holden was not having a good day. True, the weather was fine and the sun shone from a clear blue sky onto the tree-dotted parkland that surrounded The Lodge, England’s most prestigious SM club. And it was also true that he was driving a single seat trap which was being pulled by an exquisitely tacked up ponygirl. She was sporting the green and gold plumes of the CSL stable which owned and trained her. She was due to be hired out to another stable for a show at an arena in Asia in the next couple of days but had just gone lame. He had been bowling along happily, enjoying the good weather and casually licking her with the driving whip to keep her attention focussed when he had noticed a slight unevenness in the trap’s progress along the smooth tarmac. He had sat forwards and seen how the pony’s head was beginning to jerk a little and the steering had begun to veer to the left. She was favouring her left foot.
Swearing under his breath he had reined her in and climbed down. The girl was lathering around her bit and some saliva trailed down onto her bound breasts. He was running her without blinkers and her large blue eyes looked at him anxiously, trying to read his mood. He shushed her and patted her flank then squatted down and ran his hands down her left leg. Near the bottom of her calf she lifted her foot when his hands ran over it. She had some sort of strain.
Immediately he began to think of alternative slaves to hire out as he took her reins in his hand and started to walk her back to the stables, where he would get the vet to take a look at her. Then the day got worse. His mobile rang.
It was the owner of The Lodge, Peter Lang. He asked Brian to come to his office as soon as he could. Brian felt the warmth drain out of the day as he heard the tension in Peter’s voice. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good news.
Clicking his tongue, he urged the pony on as fast as he dared back to the house.
Half an hour later he read the printed-off sheet of paper that Peter Lang handed him.
“Just got it from my guy in Spain,” he said and went to stand by the office window, absentmindedly he reached out and caressed the breasts of the Housegirl who stood there, waiting to be used.
Brian read and re-read. A leaden feeling settled in his stomach. He felt sick and for a moment he had to blink back tears. “Is it?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Are they quite sure?”
“Quite sure. The rescue party’s got there now but there were no survivors. I’m afraid they’ve gone, Brian.”
Carlo had taken up flying only a couple of years previously and had always now flown the planes that his wife, Tara, sky dived from. Apparently this time they were simply flying to check out one of their properties in Spain. Engine failure was the authorities’ first guess. It had taken over a day before a rescue party could reach the crash site.
Carlo and Blondie had gone. Just like that. But then maybe there was a blessing – a twisted sort of one maybe, but it meant they couldn’t now be told about the child that Conor Brien had made with her by taking eggs from her while she was a slave, impregnating them and hiring a surrogate mother. Then he had had the child brought up in England and finally he had deliberately ruined her to bring her into the arenas, where he had aimed to control her like he had never been able to control her mother. At least they had been spared that.
“The Proteus stable is bound to trumpet the news that they’ve got Blondie’s daughter,” Peter said. “They’d be fools not to with the publicity this’ll get. And that means…..”
“The whole world’s going to be looking for the other daughter, the one she had in Spain with Carlo after he retired her from the arenas!” Brian finished.
“And she’s going to be worth a fortune, but she’s disappeared. Moved from Spain when she was ten – and since then nothing. Seems like Tara and Carlo wanted her kept out of things. But there’s fat chance of that now! Her best hope is that we find her and bring her in – whether she wants us to or not.” It was a loop that everyone in the world of the arenas had been round time and time again, ever since Conor’s scheme had come to light and the identity of the slavegirl known as Ace – owned by the Proteus stable - had been revealed. But if it was all going to go public, then a new urgency was added into the mix.
Brian couldn’t help doing it as well, picking at it even though he knew that wouldn’t help. “She’ll be worth about half the national debt! Imagine the showdown between Blondie’s two daughters!”
Peter turned, silhouetted by the light from the window, but Brian could hear the tension in his voice.
“I am doing! And so will every other stable in the world! She belongs here, Brian! We must find her and bring her to The Lodge! This was where her mother was trained and this is where she’ll be trained!”
Chapter One
London 2035
The water cannon’s jet shot across the hot, flood-lit square like a thick, solid snake of living water, uncoiling as it came and preparing to strike. Sophie screamed and dived for cover just as the front line of protesting students was mown down by the brutal force of it slamming into them. Even though she managed to get some shelter from Tom’s solid body beside her, the mask she wore was ripped from her and she frantically lifted her scarf to cover her lower face, whilst pulling down the hood on her sweatshirt over her upper face. It was vital that they didn’t get a glimpse of your face. Already she could see flashes from the police lines as cameras captured whatever they could for forensic examination the next day. Fortunately everyone’s phones would be set to signal disruption to discourage the nanodrones – small remotely piloted cameras - that would otherwise be buzzing the crowd of protesters.
“C’mon!” Tom struggled to his feet and grabbed her arm. His voice was muffled by the mask he wore and the scarf beneath it, despite the heat. The mask was in the image of Clive Mostyn the current Prime Minister and the subject of the protest.
Sophie struggled up and stumbled after him as soft ‘poc, poc’ noises from the police lines signified tear gas canisters, stun grenades would soon follow. A gas canister landed, spinning, just in front of them, already spewing its thick vapour. Tom kicked it away as they rushed past. They were both athletic and fit and were able to put enough distance between themselves and danger in only a few frantic seconds. Behind them they heard the police charge and the sound of rubber bullets, there were screams and cries from the protesting students, then the thudding noises of the grenades.
Tom pulled Sophie into an alley off the Strand and pulled his mask off, then lowered his scarf.
“Bastards!” he spat, looking about for any nanodrones.
“They couldn’t have got a glimpse of us!” Sophie panted, leaning against a doorway. “Let’s get home and see how many of the others got away.”
“Yeah!” Tom straightened up and cast the mask away, then smoothed his hair and tried to look calm and collected. It was late at night but with all the police tied up in Parliament Square, they ought to be able to get back to Sophie’s place unmolested.
Acting as nonchalantly as they could and hoping not to attract attention they made their way by Tube and eventually by walking to Sophie’s place in the North West of the capital. She was a rarity amongst the students at her college in that she actually owned her own house. It was in one of the increasingly common ‘gated’ estates, where the residents had banded together to take over the running of all the utilities. A security company patrolled the perimeter walls but as the estate was in a ‘good’ area in any case, they were not overly zealous – allowing Sophie’s friends who knew the code for the gates to come and go reasonably freely. The only drawback was that the residents used their seclusion to increasingly indulge in slave ownership; the very thing that she and Tom had been demonst
rating against.
As they entered the estate and the wrought iron pedestrian gate swung silently closed behind them, they saw two pony traps being driven along the road under the street lights. As the carriages met, the drivers reined in their ponies and began to chat. Sophie and Tom carried on walking past, trying not to show their outrage at the fact that the ponies were naked girls. They were bridled and bitted, guided by reins and urged on by carriage whips, just as any real pony would be. These however were the slavegirls that under Clive Mostyn’s government were becoming more and more prevalent among the upper middle class now that supply was increasing and prices were coming down from the levels where only the arenas, and the super-rich, could afford them.
As politely as they could, Sophie and Tom exchanged greetings with the drivers, while the ponies scraped their shoes on the tarmac and were quietened with taps from their owners’ whips. Sophie shuddered at the sight but kept on walking as calmly as she could. At least neither of the girls had been enhanced, as far as she could see. It was becoming increasingly common for owners to have hormonal treatments administered to their purchases to provide them with their ideal breast and buttock sizes. These girls looked to be examples of the fairly tall but sturdily-thighed variety that was considered to be the best for everyday hacking and daily sexual use.
Tom held Sophie’s arm tightly, making sure she didn’t get into any kind of altercation. What made it all so much worse, and it was this which made her long to take those whips and wipe the smiles off those drivers’ smug faces, was that the girls would have been chipped. At the nape of their necks would be a chip that stimulated the production of endorphins and stimulated the sex drive as well. The result was that they were helpless to do anything other than love the treatment they got and long for the next orgasm, however they got it. The scraping of heels and fidgeting was not any attempt to be rebellious or disobedient. The girls were impatient for their masters to whip them up and in all probability they were hoping that a quick fuck back at the stable would ensue.
Biting her lip, Sophie walked on and let herself and Tom into the house. Her parents had been wealthy and had bequeathed her the property when they had died suddenly a few months back but the uses she put it to would most definitely not have met with their approval. Quite the opposite in fact and Sophie was happy with that. Since her parents had sat her down on her sixteenth birthday and explained where their wealth had come from, she and they had not been able to get along very well at all, and in fact anything that might have irritated them was fine with her. She had even changed her surname by deed poll at the very first available opportunity and at least they had helped in that. They seemed very keen that she followed her own destiny – and Sophie had to admit that knowing what theirs had been, it was the least they could do for her. The suddenness of their deaths had come as a big shock though and even a childhood spent at boarding schools couldn’t cushion her against some grief.
Tom went straight to the kitchen to make coffee, Sophie stopped in front of the hall mirror and took a look to see if there were any traces of the evening’s activities on her face. With her hands she brushed the thick, honey blonde tresses back and examined the strong face that was revealed fully. The hair was purely from her mother, her dark eyes from her father. Her five foot eleven inch frame was definitely her mother again, but even more so, as she had been only five foot nine. And whilst her father had not had much more height than that to bequeath her, she had his strong physique that had seen her through boarding school sports days and early teenage tussles in the dark with various boys.
Her face had a few smuts on it but other than that she was okay. She took a wipe from the box on the hall table and cleaned her wide, full lipped mouth, and made sure her cheeks were clean, then wiped her nose and forehead. Her nose had been the bane of her early teenage years, it was – she thought – too strong and straight, but now she was in her early twenties, she had to admit it gave her face character rather than vapid good looks. She had had plenty of invitations to take up modelling, but prancing about and being ogled was definitely not for her! That was too near to what her mother had done – although if that had been all her mother had done, it might have been easier to live with. At last she was satisfied and let her hair back down, then fluffed it up and went to join Tom. He was just pouring two glasses of red wine as the coffee cooled. She took one gratefully.
“The sods never even gave us a chance to protest peacefully!” he said. “They just charged straight in.”
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Sophie said. “Mostyn’s got the whole country in the palm of his hand. You saw those bastards driving their ponyslaves tonight! Like they’re going to vote against him any time soon? I don’t think so! And even those who can’t afford to own slaves queue up to go to the arenas and watch them!”
Tom put an arm round her, aware that the arenas were a sore point for her. He leaned across to kiss her, his lips tasted richly of wine and Sophie responded to the strong male presence. And with his arm thrown protectively around her shoulders, she allowed herself to be drawn to him, encircling him with her own arms and pressing against him. Immediately she became aware of the hardness in his trousers pressing against her lower stomach. She broke the kiss.
“Don’t you guys ever think of anything else?” she asked, giving him a flirtatious look from under her eye lashes. “I mean the whole country’s going to hell in a handcart and all you want is your legover!”
“Tomorrow I’ll worry about the country all over again. Right now, I want my gorgeous girl, naked, wet and willing!” He gave a playful growl and buried his head in her shoulder, nipping lightly at her ear in a way that drove her mad – as if he didn’t know!
She couldn’t help moaning and melting against him.
The front doorbell rang and Tom let out an expletive.
“That’s exactly what you’re not going to be doing now! At least not yet!” Sophie giggled and pulled away to answer it. They both knew who it probably was.
There were four people there; Matt, Tilly, Chas and Eve. Eve was limping and Chas helped her in quickly before the neighbours could report anyone looking as though they had been injured in any way. Tilly’s eyes were streaming from the gas and Matt was coughing a bit, but all things considered they were not too bad. Not compared with some others. Over coffee they told tales of other students carried bodily away into wagons. Boys in one; girls in another. Under Mostyn’s Law – as it was commonly known - any males convicted of anti-social behaviour were set to work on chain gangs, maintaining the country’s infrastructure and labouring on building sites – like wherever a new arena was springing up – and there were plenty of those. The girls were chipped and sold.
For half an hour or so Sophie was kept busy doling out towels for people to use after showering and helping Tilly wash her eyes out. Eve’s leg had a nasty bruise from a tear gas canister, Matt had a black eye, but it was nothing beyond what anyone could expect who protested against Mostyn’s Law these days. When the bell rang again, Tom answered it and let in Gray. He was holding a handkerchief to his face and Tom hustled him inside before anyone saw him. It turned out he had been caught by the water cannon, but had been so stunned the police charge had gone straight over him. But when he did get up, he had had a skirmish or two before he could escape. His mouth was bleeding and he had quite a nasty head wound. It took another half hour to patch him up. But after that no one else arrived.
“Looks like we’ve lost Annie, Charlise, Phil and Viv,” Tom said at last when it was clear that those present were all that had made it back from their group.
“Annie, Charlise and Viv will be on the auction block first thing in the morning. The bastards!” Tilly said. Under the fast tracking allowed in law now, any female caught in ‘anti-social’ behaviour could be charged, tried, convicted and sold in a matter of hours. It made it easier for society to adapt to slavery when a girl’s fate was sealed so quickly.
Sophie drained her glass and re-fill
ed it. She had always had a nightmare about coming home one night and seeing one of her friends harnessed and whipped as a ponyslave and sex toy – and loving it. And with every demonstration and every arrest, it became a little more inevitable that one day it would happen.
“It’s getting too dangerous,” Gray said, his words a little slurred through his thick lips. “One of these days one of them will tell the filth where we are to get a lighter sentence.”
“Hah! Fat lot of good that’ll do them!” Tom laughed bitterly. “Everyone knows an Owner just pays a magistrate to sign a slave on for an extended sentence!”
“Yeah, and everyone knows how they want paying! In part at least. Even some of the women ones now!” Sophie added.
“I heard where there’s one who takes his trousers off when he sits at his desk every morning so he doesn’t waste any time in between blow jobs,” Phil put in.
“Do you think that’ll stop them squealing?” Gray asked angrily. “They’ll try anything when the chain gang or the auction block’s a few hours away and the chip’s got your name on it!”
There was silence for a moment.
“He’s got a point,” Eve conceded. “I’d do it and hope like hell it would help somehow.”
“Ok. We need fake passports so we can get out of the country if they get another haul like tonight’s. I know a guy in Hoxton who can do them. It’ll cost, but it’ll be worth it,” Gray said.
That night Tom was on good form. It always seemed to Sophie that whenever they got involved in direct action against the government and it led them into danger, his libido was triggered into firing a full-on broadside. His athletic six foot five frame had always been able to enflame her lust. His chest was broad and muscular; his biceps the thickness of some girls’ thighs and the muscles on his forearms were braided like rope. But it was his thighs that really set her insides to melting, they were thick and strong and promised a girl a night she would be unlikely to forget and as he slipped into bed beside her she rolled over immediately to face him and her hands went straight to the join of the powerful thighs and found the already hardening cock. She gripped it with both hands and felt it throbbing as it continued to erect. Then Tom was on top of her, his weight was pinning her down masterfully and she immediately parted her own legs to accommodate him. When he was in one of his no-foreplay moods, she knew he just wanted to feel her body around his cock. He was selfish in these moods and didn’t take any trouble to ensure she came, but somehow she always did. It just needed him to thrust into her, arrogantly assuming that she was turned on enough to have lubricated, to make her do exactly what he wanted – open for him. Then he would build up a punishing rhythm, slamming himself into her, making their pelvises slap together as she bucked up against him. There was always something fierce about sex with Tom, she felt, and she responded to that. They almost seemed to be racing to see who could orgasm first and most powerfully.