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.