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The Girlspell Book 2 by William Avon

EXTRACT FOR
The Girlspell Book 2 
(William Avon)


Slaves of the Girlspell

1: Melanie

 

Melanie Kingston strained against the imprisoning straps of the riding machine, forcing the device to its maximum extension. As sprung rods thrust her backwards the Major's cock slid up the cleft of her coffee-brown buttocks, penetrated the rubbery oiled-ring of her anus and buried itself to the root in her rectum.

She groaned in mingled dismay and delight at the intimate intrusion, her breath rasping about the bit clenched between her teeth.

The Major's riding crop flicked across her sweat-streaked thigh and he hunched over her, clutching her swaying naked breasts. "Last furlong, girl!" he said huskily. "Give it your best!"

She thrust herself forward with all the strength of her legs, rebounding from the springs with greater force, impaling herself again and again on his hard rod of flesh.

She felt hot sperm spout within her.

Melanie woke with a start, blinking in the grey light of dawn as it filtered through the door bars of her kennel. Her fingers were thrust into the sticky cleft of her groin. It had been a dream! The Major hadn't ridden her last night. All the pack girls had been allowed to rest - because today was Hunt Day!

The realization banished the last of the sleep from Melanie's mind even as she felt warm slickness welling up afresh between her engorged public lips in anticipation. She was lubricating like a bitch on heat. But then that was exactly what she was - a bitch of the Markham Hall girlpack; a collared bondslave destined to be the sexual prize of whoever could catch her.

The thought should have inspired disgust and horror, but instead it only made her excitement grow more intense. She ran her finger deeper into her cleft and felt her nipples prick up and harden. Once again she was astonished at the transformation she had undergone.

Just a few days before she had been a constable in the Hoakam district police force. Determined to prove that a black woman police officer was as good as anybody else, she had tracked down an ingenious cat-burglar named Amber Jones; catching her in the act of adding to her secret stash deep in Hoakam Woods.

But Jones had resisted arrest. In the struggle that followed a stolen oriental-styled black lacquer box Jones was carrying had burst open, revealing a curious keyboard-like panel within its lid and three ivory phalluses. Both women had immediately felt an inexplicable but overwhelming desire to use the phalluses on themselves. Jones had briefly escaped with the box but its influence had drawn Melanie after it. When she found the box, one phallus was missing and Jones' jeans and pants were lying discarded beside it, but there was no sign of Jones herself.

Unable to resist the lure of the box, Melanie had used one of the remaining phalluses on herself, stimulating an orgasm more intense than anything before. When she recovered she found herself in woods different from those she had been in only moments before. There was no sign of the mystery box, only the inexplicable feeling that she had travelled a tremendous distance in some unknown direction.

She soon found out how strange this new land was when she was captured by the owner of the woodland estate, Major Havercotte-Gore, and his niece, Arabella Westlake. Recognising Melanie as an 'outsider', she had been forcibly stripped naked and whipped, then given a stark choice. She could either be prosecuted for trespass and vagrancy, the punishment for which was public auction and degradation as a bondslave; or else she could volunteer for a year's service in the Major's girlpack. This meant, by the customs of this alternate version of England, that she would be worked like an animal, given to guests as a sexual plaything and hunted for sport.

Melanie chose the pack as the lesser of two evils.

She had been put into bondage, been intimately and humiliatingly tested and examined, treated like a dog, run on a track naked, forced to make love to another packgirl and sodomized by the Major on his riding machine. But, against all reason, she found herself enjoying her subjugation. She became the First Girl of the pack and the Major's favourite, and his honest pleasure in her exertions, both sporting and sexual, made her feel more valued and more alive than she ever had before...

A key rattled in the outer door of the kennel room, interrupting Melanie's thoughts. The door opened and the lights came on.

"Time to get up, girls," came the cheery voice of Alison Chalmers, the kennelmaid. "We've lots to do before the hunt."

There were stirrings from the other cells as the rest of the pack awoke. With a clank of bolts Alison released the master lock of the tiered kennels. Melanie pushed her door open and crawled out onto the coconut matting that covered the floor. In a few moments there were twenty-two naked young women standing with her; stretching, rubbing their eyes and brushing back their hair. On the glossy black collars locked about their necks was a metal strip embossed with the words: 'PROPERTY OF THE MARKHAM HALL HUNT PACK', and a number. Melanie was number 9. The same number was imprinted in indelible ink on the coffee-brown upper curve of her right buttock, framed by a pattern of chain links and the Markham Hall crest.

Melanie felt the brush of silky naked limbs against her flanks and exchanged happy, anxious smiles with her sisters in bondage. She saw her own tremulous anticipation mirrored in their faces. Nipples of all sizes and hues were swelling and hardening at the thought of what was to come, and the air filled with scent of barely contained female excitement.

Alison's long switch flicked across rounded buttocks.

"Get along to the ablutions sharply, girls," she said. "Then straight outside for morning exercise. No dilly-dallying now."

In a chattering file the packgirls were herded towards the toilets. The prospect of the hunt was overwhelming. Thoughts of duty and speculations about the whereabouts of Amber Jones melted from Melanie's mind.

 


2: Amber

 

Amber Jones was roused by the toe of a boot prodding her side.

"Wake up, girl. I've brought you breakfast."

Amber squinted through bleary eyes. Narrow slots of low morning sunlight slipped past the sacking hung over the windows of the old loft, illuminating the disused three-sided planking storage bin she was lying in. Standing over her was a well-scrubbed and freckle-faced young man carrying a covered bowl.

Still half asleep, she mumbled: "Go away, Nigel. I'ss too early... You know I had a busy time last night."

Nigel Gosset prodded her again, this time less gently.

"You do what we tell you, girl. That was the agreement."

Amber came to her senses with a start, remembering where and what she was. Hastily throwing back her blankets she rolled onto her hands and knees and bowed her head over the young man's feet. The heavy chain padlocked around her left ankle jingled.

"Sorry, master," she said. "Your slave was not thinking - she really did have a busy night. Please forgive her."

She felt his eyes pass over her naked body, perhaps lingering on her buttocks which bore the crimson stripes of a recent caning. Gosset had helped put some of those stripes on her flesh. He was also responsible, together with four of his friends, for the well-used soreness of her vagina. She shivered at the memory even as a familiar tingle began to grow in her lower stomach.

"Sit up," he commanded.

Amber obeyed, sitting back on her heels and automatically clasping her hands behind her neck. The posture thrust out her neat, shapely breasts, which were also criss-crossed with cane marks. More stripes decorated her stomach and upper thighs. She felt the blood pulsing into her nipples, causing them to smart even more fiercely. Gosset watched her teats harden with open fascination, then reached down and squeezed a hot breast.

Amber bit her lip.

"Does that hurt?" Gosset asked.

"A bit, master - but in a nice way. Don't stop."

"You like what we're doing to you, don't you?"

"Most of it," she admitted. "More than I thought I would."

"You really wanted the cane last night."

Amber blushed but could not help replying frankly. "I know. I don't normally go out of my way looking for pain. But when it's mixed in with sex... well, it's different. It makes the pleasure more intense somehow - even if it is pretty exhausting."

Gosset put the bowl down and took off the lid to reveal a steaming helping of porridge. "You'd better keep your strength up then - because we're planning a lot more of both for you later."

With a fluttering stomach Amber ate. Gosset watched her with frank interest, as befitted the young master of an attractive sex-slave. She felt a warm slickness growing between her love lips.

How had she got herself into such an incredible situation, she wondered? But then who could have guessed what the puzzle box would contain. And it had been sheer bad luck that PC Kingston had turned up just when she'd discovered the box's concealed lock. What power within it had compelled her to use one of the phalluses contained inside when she should have been making her getaway? Of course she had got away, but rather further than she had planned! Using the phallus had somehow shifted her into a parallel England where outsiders had no rights and were considered fair game by one and all. Soon after arriving she'd been captured and gang-banged by three of Gosset's friends. Escaping from them she'd run straight into the arms of Constable Bailey, who proved only too adept at dealing with young female lawbreakers. Convicted as a vagrant and illegal alien, she'd been sentenced to public flogging and pillory in the police yard, then sale as a bondslave.

Amber finished her porridge. Taking a deep breath she shuffled over to her waste bucket and squatted over it. She didn't try to hide anything and kept her splayed legs facing Gosset, who watched intently as the pee spouted from her cleft. A bulge began to grow in the front of his trousers.

Gosset, together with the others who had first waylaid her, had sneaked into the police yard one night with the lockpicks they had found in her bag. They offered to give her the tools to break out of her cell if she agreed to be their sex-slave. Amber had accepted, thinking she had more chance of escaping from them than official captivity. Besides, they had the phallus which might hold the key to returning home.

Amber finished wiping herself with the crackling, school-issue toilet paper and began to wash. She saw Gosset was getting impatient, but she knew she had to keep him waiting just a little longer. Part of their agreement was that she should be housed in reasonable conditions and be allowed to keep herself clean and tidy. This old disused stable loft was dry and reasonably warm, and she had food and basic toilet facilities. However, the rest of her scheme hadn't gone quite to plan. She'd thought she could play along with them, putting up with their demands while gradually turning their adolescent lust to her advantage. But an unexpected development had occurred - she was beginning to enjoy being their slave!

Gosset's eyes were locked onto her every movement as she quickly soaped herself over, causing the pliant globes of her breasts to glisten, working lather into the cleft of her buttocks and the silky hair-rimmed furrow of her love mouth. A hot bath would be delicious, but all she had was a flannel soaked in a pail of cold water. She shivered as she rinsed herself down, causing her nipples to crinkle and harden once again, then began vigorously towelling off. Gosset's breath rasped in his throat. He pulled off the old jersey he was wearing and ran a finger around his collar.

Amber had dabbled in a little S&M back home, a world away. But here slavery was an accepted part of everyday life. And her captors, though rank beginners, were learning fast.

The five young men had turned out to be senior pupils at Cranborough House, a local minor pubic school. At the moment the boys were alone in the school apart from Sister Newcombe, the school matron, having had their Easter holidays curtailed as part of the punishment for an offence for which they believed Arabella Westlake had framed them. Amber had already suffered an uncomfortable encounter with Arabella while she was in the police yard pillory, and the desire for revenge on that cruel and spoilt young woman was something she and the boys held in common. Amber had planned a means of achieving this and securing her own early release, but it was getting harder to keep focused on her objective. The boys were each having her individually two or three times a day, when they could slip away from the odd-jobs they were doing round the school which Sister Newcombe was overseeing. Then at night they were sneaking out for an enthusiastic gangbang, sustained by raw lust and the recuperative powers of vigorous youth. It seemed that however many times they emptied their balls into her they kept coming back with more.

Amber finished combing through her short-cropped hair and turned to Gosset. The poor boy was half bent over, shuffling his feet awkwardly and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"There, I'm nice and clean and fresh for you," she said with a smile, knowing what was to come. "Now, how do you want me?"

With a grunt of barely contained need, Gosset took her by the shoulders and pushed her backwards onto the pile of blankets and sacking that formed her makeshift bed. He straddled her chest, making Amber gasp as his weight drove the breath from her.