Hunted

 

The woods and fields of the Markham Estate echoed with the sounds of the hunt. Hooves pounded and harness jingled. Riders called to each other. Hunting horns trumpeted. Dogs yapped excitedly as they followed scent trails. The first squeals of cornered vixens began to ring out.

A naked packgirl darted through a copse with three hounds snapping at her heels.

One of the hounds closed its jaws upon her fluttering foxtail and dug its paws into the ground. The anal plug held fast and the sudden jerk made the girl stumble, breaking her stride. In a second the other two hounds were upon her and she crashed to the ground under their weight.

The hounds snarled, fighting over possession of the tail. They trod the squirming girl under them, marking her with their own muddy paw prints. The anal plug twisted inside her as the dog tugged to and fro, but it remained in place. The packgirl struggled to her hands and knees and tried to crawl away but the hounds bore her down again. Curious snouts began to probe between her thighs, snuffling at the source of the scent they had been trained to follow.

With triumphant shouts three riders wearing red and yellow striped sashes appeared, galloping hard towards the struggling group. As they drew up, one of the riders blew three sharp blasts on a small horn, then tossed a handful of chocolate drops from his pocket onto the ground. A second rider slid from his saddle and ran towards the melee. At the sound of the horn, the hounds released their hold on the foxtail and scampered over to the scattered sweets, their prey forgotten as they enjoyed their reward.

The packgirl staggered to her feet even as the second rider made a grab for her hair. True to Platt’s instructions she nimbly dodged his grasp and sprinted off again, outpacing her would-be captor. The dismounted rider cursed loudly as he and his companions spurred their mounts after their elusive prey.

They overtook her before she reached the thicker trees, swinging their long handled sticks with their flat rubber-paddle ends. The girl yelped as the stinging blows rained down, beating her to the ground where she rolled up into a ball so that only her smooth back showed.

The dismounted rider pounded up and threw himself onto the girl, grabbing her wrists and dragging her arms behind her back as he hauled her upright out of her huddle.

“Get her tag!” he shouted, as the girl jerked and twisted in his grasp.

They dropped from their saddles and caught hold of her. Even for the three of them it was no easy task. The girl kicked and struggled fiercely, exciting them with her futile resistance and forcing them to handle her naked flesh harshly, letting them know the strength of the wild thing they had captured.

Finally they managed to wrench her legs apart, exposing the silvery metal tag that danced and twinkled under her pouting pubic pouch. One of the hunters snatched at it and tore the securing ball out of her, bringing forth a gasp from the girl as it grazed her tender passage. The hunter pushed the chain into the slot of the recording clock he was carrying and twisted a key. The chain locked into place and the clock stopped.

As the click of the lock sounded the girl’s struggled ceased. Her masked head dropped forward and except for the heaving of her chest she hung limp and still in their grasp.

The three hunters checked the time on the clock.

“Not bad,” one said. “In the first five, I should think.”

“She ran well though,” said the second, pulling off the girl’s fox mask so that they could admire her flushed but pretty face. Their hands weighed her warm, plump breasts and stroked her smooth thighs. Stiff fingers were thrust into her slit and the sticky heat within told them of her state of arousal. Grinning, they tied her gloved hands behind her back with a team sash and threw her to the ground. Unbidden, she spread her legs wide as the first rider began unbuttoning his flies.

She had run hard and fast that day, but she had not finished providing her masters with good sport.

While he waited his turn, one of the hunters walked a few yards off and drove the spiked end of a flare into the ground and lit the touchpaper. In a few seconds a plume of orange smoke was rising over the trees.

When they had each done with her, wrenching an orgasm from her well-used body and leaving their coats and britches smudged with her body paint, the first rider drew out his penknife and extended a blade. The girl caught her breath and held very still as the rider pinched together a sprig of her pubic hair and cut it off at the root. The girl’s eyes watered as her tender flesh was stretched by the blade.

And so each rider took a cutting from her pubic bush - a memento of a fine day’s sport and the prize they had won.

Guided by the flare, George Platt and a groom rode up. Hitched to the rear of the groom’s saddle was a lightweight bamboo ‘A’ frame, which bumped along behind his mount on two wire-spoked wheels.

“How are we placed, Platt?” the first rider demanded as soon as the keeper was in earshot.

“We’ll have to check the tag clocks, but you’re just the second capture I’ve attended, sir,” Platt said.

“That looks promising,” said the first rider.

“I hope she ran well for you, gentlemen?” Platt asked deferentially as he dismounted and unstrapped his camera.

“Oh, she was a very lively little vixen,’ the second rider said, affectionately prodding the girl who sprawled limply on the ground with the toe of his boot. “A credit to your training.”

“Most kind of you to say so, sir,” Platt said, setting up his tripod. “Now if you gentlemen would like to take up your positions...”

The traditional hunter’s picture was taken with the three standing shoulder. The packgirl was rolled onto her side facing the camera and laid along their feet, so that the each rider could stand with a foot resting on her head, waist or hip.

When they were done the team’s timekeeper handed over the tag clock to Platt.

“Have we time to try for a brace of vixens?” one of his companions wondered.

“Why not?” said his friend.

“Back to the Hall for another clock, then. Tally Ho!”

They mounted their horses and set off at a gallop.

Platt packed away his camera, then helped the groom haul the exhausted packgirl onto the net slung across the wheeled frame, stretching out her arms and legs so they could clip straps onto her wrist and ankle rings. When she was secure, Platt lifted her head and gave her a drink from a canteen of water, which she gulped down.

“I ran well, didn’t I, Mr Platt?” she asked anxiously.

Platt checked the time on her tag clock.

“Fair enough, Molly. The gentlemen were pleased with you, that’s the main thing. Just you make sure you serve them well tonight.”

“Oh, I will, Mr Platt,” Molly promised.

 

Panting, Melanie crouched down in the shelter of a thin belt of trees.

It was midday. In the preceding hours she had run as she never had before. She was scratched, streaked with sweat, splattered with mud and weed from hiding in ditches. Her legs ached, her chest burned. But she felt wonderful. Twice she had been spotted by riders, but each time she had managed to lose them before they could close on her. She had heard hounds baying in the distance several times, but by backtracking and plunging through streams she had thrown them off her scent.

By making a great half-circle about the perimeter of the estate she had now arrived where she hoped she would be least expected; opposite the back of the Hall itself.

She could see its roofs through a gap in the trees. Stealthily she crept forward until she could survey all of the house and its immediate grounds. There were tiny figures of riders moving in the fields about the front courts, but there was no sign of life at the back. All attention was focused on the main drive where riders and captured vixens would return. Even the servants would be there, those not helping with the hunt watching from windows.

A ring of fallow fields and paddocks separated the woodland from the orchards and ornamental gardens surrounding the House. If she could get inside that ring and find some place to hide she should be safe for a while. Of course she would be caught eventually when the rest of the grounds had been scoured, but the thought did not trouble her. The inevitability of her capture was simply the natural conclusion to the hunt, and part of her yearned for the consummation to come.

She had discovered the pure delight and strange thrill of being a naked hunted prey. Yes, thrill was the word. She had run in a constant state of sexual arousal. The stimulation of the hard plug of her tail mount and the tag ball lodged so intimately within her ensured that. When they caught her she would be ready, but she wanted to be the last captured to please the Major.

The realization dawned on her that nothing she had done for days had been without the Major’s approval. She could not cover her nakedness, use her hands properly, void her wastes in private or choose when or how she had sex. She was an absolute slave. The knowledge should have appalled her, but instead it brought a strange sense of comfort.

Melanie edged her way along the fringe of the wood until she was opposite the end of a hedgerow: thick and high with several small trees growing out of it at intervals. As long as she kept in its shadow she should go unobserved. Much of the white bodypaint on her stomach and thighs had been worn off or obliterated by a coating of mud and dried duck weed. That combined with her dark skin and hair made for a pretty good job of camouflage. Pity a pale-skinned blonde trying to do this, she thought.

Melanie took a deep breath and darted out of the wood into the shelter of the hedgerow, crouching down immediately in the shelter of a clump of cow parsley. All was still and quiet, save for a horn sounding faintly in the woods on the far side of the grounds. She worked her way along the hedgerow in a stooping run.

She was half-way across when it happened.

Melanie never saw where the riders came from, but suddenly there were two of them on the far side of the field. Instantly she dropped flat into the long grass and peered between the stalks. If she just held still enough maybe they would miss her.

The pair showed no sign of haste. They cantered across the field side by side not quite towards her. As they approached she saw they were a middle-aged man and woman, both turned out in immaculate riding gear and wearing purple team sashes.

Thirty yards from her the pair suddenly divided, one turning up the field, the other down, and riding parallel with the hedge. Melanie’s eyes darted from side to side as she tried to keep both in sight without moving her head. Where were they going?

Abruptly both riders turned back on themselves, this time in the very shadow of the hedge. And suddenly they were not cantering but galloping straight for Melanie swinging their paddle sticks - she had been neatly cornered!

Melanie sprang to her feet and sprinted out into the field, even though she knew it was futile. They had known she was there all along and had cleverly forced her out into the open where they had the advantage. They would not let her reach shelter again.

 

They caught her before she had covered fifty yards, despite her desperate weaving run. Suddenly they were flanking her and she was walled in by horseflesh. Their paddles lashed out, the woman forehand across her rolling buttocks, the man backhand across the top of her breasts. There were two sharp cracks as the rubber paddle blades met her skin and Melanie cried out at the burning, stinging, shock of the blows. A second swing from the man caught the snout of her mask and knocked it down over her eyes.

Blinded, gasping and reeling, Melanie skidded to a halt. She tore her mask off and turned back the way she had come.

The riders checked their mounts, gouging ruts in the grass, wheeled about expertly and bore down on her again.

Crack, crack! The blows fell this time on her shoulders. Instinctively flinging up her arms to protect her now exposed face, Melanie opened herself to two backhand blows that caught her bouncing breasts full on. With a shriek of pain she doubled over, stumbled and fell.

They were back on her in seconds.

Before she could get to her feet they were circling about her, raining down blows with full swings of their paddles. They were not letting her rise or giving her any chance to crawl between them. Round and round they went, beating every square inch of her huddled body.

Dazedly Melanie realized there was only one paddle striking her. But before she could move, a booted foot descended on her ponytail of hair where it lay on the grass and trod it into the earth. She shrieked as it tugged her scalp and tried to pull free or push the foot away, but she could get no grip or leverage. However she squirmed or twisted her head was pinned down on its side and she couldn’t raise it. More paddle blows stung her. She could only roll up into a ball and hug her knees to her chest, knowing she was quite helpless in the hands of experts at incapacitating a bondslave.

A hand reached between her thighs to the tag dangling from her pouting split peach and jerked it out of her, the soft rubber prongs teasing the flesh ribs of her passage.

The key of a tag clock clicked.

The paddling stopped.

Trembling, Melanie opened her eyes and looked up at her captors.

They were a middle-aged couple, rosy-cheeked from their exertions. He had an old fashioned military-style moustache, she was blonde and slightly plump. She would never have given them a second glance back home. Who would have guessed what they were capable of? Melanie noticed for the first time that the man had a pair of binoculars slung around his neck. They must have been watching her from the moment she started out across the field.

“You were right, Sam,” the woman said heartily, eyeing Melanie with satisfaction. “There’s always one in the pack who tries this trick.”

“Well, my dear, we’re getting a bit too old to race around half the countryside. Leave that to the young’uns. Softly, softly, I always say.”

“But we’re not too old to enjoy ourselves, Sam,” she chided gently.

“Never that, my dear.” He looked around. “No need to signal for the keeper. We can lead her in ourselves and have our picture taken in front of the Hall.”

The woman looked at the tag clock then at Melanie. “It won’t be the fastest capture today, but I’m sure it’ll be the sweetest reward.”

The man chuckled and prodded Melanie’s fleshy buttock with the toe of his boot.

“James’s prize brown vixen. We’re going to have some fun with you tonight, girl.”

 

They led Melanie back to the Hall in style.

Her hands were tied behind her back with one of their team sashes, while the other was twisted in a figure-of-eight about her breasts, squeezing them out proudly. She held a riding crop clenched between her teeth, forcing her lips back in a grin. A tether was tied to the handle thong of a second crop, the end of which was buried in her dripping vagina so that its supple shaft bent and jutted out before her, wagging from side to side as she walked. Melanie held it tightly in place, knowing she must not let it pull free, even as she knew the degrading spectacle she made.

Every little tug on the tether worked the shaft of the crop deliciously round inside her; a sample of what was to come. She had no doubt she would give her captors pleasure that night. She had no choice; now all choices were made for her. All she had to do was obey.