Chapter Twenty

 

Devices and Desires

 

It was Tuesday morning when Belinda next met Jemima on a seat by the village green. She saw the secret smile light up her face as she sat down beside her.

‘Wasn’t that amazing and so deliciously naughty on Saturday?’ Jemima said. I know you liked it because you had lots of orgasms.’ A deeper blush suffused her features. ‘And you tasted really lovely, your pussy, I mean. I just wanted you to know.’

Belinda steeled herself to smile back. ‘And you tasted lovely too,’ she assured her. ‘Look, do you want to come over to my house tomorrow after lunch and stay over? There’s a new… slave restraint device I’ve found that I think you’d be interested in trying out.’

Jemima’s face had lit up again. ‘Is it naughty?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And a bit painful?’

‘A bit.’

‘Then I’d love to try it out.’

 

In a corner of the Equipment Room of the Markham Hall girlpack yard the exercise wheel turned smoothly on its well-oiled spindle, with the steady click of its revolution counter and tick of its timer marking its progress. Strapped within it was a naked and sweating Alison Chalmers.

The wheel was a drum of light wooden plank treads three feet deep and eight feet in diameter, extending from the side of a spoked wheel through the hub of which an iron axle was mounted. The axle was carried by a low sturdy “A” frame set on a low wheeled base. The other side of the wheel was open, allowing its occupant to be put in place and observed without hindrance.

Extending from the axle boss into the interior of the wheel was a metal arm and right-angled rod like a crank handle, the offset of which allowed for different heights of its users. Alison’s arms were crooked and pulled backward so that the rod could pass between the insides of her elbows and the curve of her back. Her wrists were cuffed and strapped across her belly while more cuffs about her upper arms were chained to rings set in the rod, ensuring she could not slip off its end and step out of the machine.

The arm and rod were hollow and through them a set of wires and pulleys were geared to the rotation of the wheel at the hub. These wires actuated two devices attached to the end and middle of the rod.

Extending from the middle of the rod back over Alison’s haunches was a slender pivoted “Y” shaped metal arm with a pair of small spiked metal balls on its tips. These hung over her rolling buttocks and could be seen to rise and fall slightly as her pace varied. The second arm extended forward from the end of the rod, bent in a right angle and crossed in front of Alison’s bouncing breasts. From it ran a pair of steel wires with spring clips on their ends that were clamped about her nipples.

As long as she maintained the pace that had been set on a dial on the axle hub relative to the rotation speed of the wheel, the spiked balls remained raised clear of her bottom and the nipple wires remained slack. But if she slowed down the wire clamps began to tug painfully on her nipples while the spiked balls dropped down onto her buttocks.

At the moment the sole observer of Alison’s exertions was George Platt who regarded her efforts with deep approval, only a fraction of which he dared let show on his face. Trying to sound businesslike he continued his explanation: ‘A packgirl has to have endurance while she’s running upright, both for hunts and track sport. That’s a basic requirement. The wheel not only lets you examine her running action it lets you test her stamina with facts and figures, so you can build up a chart of her progress. Of course you can’t always watch her for half an hour or more, so you set the machine up and leave it to monitor her. Then she has no choice but to complete her allotted distance. It might seem a bit cruel but she has to get used to it.’

Alison’s bottom already bore a few bloody pinpricks while her punched nipples were a dark pink. He did not want to damage her lovely flesh and yet at the same time he wanted any mark on it to be put there by his will, symbolising these brief precious moments when he had absolute power over her.

And yet she did not seem to realize this. Her pretty, flushed face was set in a look of studious attention as she took in his remarks while straining to maintain her pace. Sweat was already beading between her jiggling breasts and tricking down over her belly to sparkle in her pubic curls. She looked so earnest and lovely and alive, and yet she had no idea of the effect she was having on him. So near and yet so far, he thought bitterly.

There came an urgent knock on the door leading to the office, which caused Platt to curse under his breath. He unbolted the door and opened it a crack to see Billy Meddings holding the post in his hand

‘You could have put it on my desk as usual, Billy,’ Platt told him brusquely. ‘I said I wasn’t to be disturbed unless it was important.’

‘But this one’s special, Mr Platt,’ Billy said excitedly. ‘It’s addressed to Her, Sir. Bitch Number Nine. Melanie.’

‘What? Let me see…’

It was a letter bearing a local postmark and it was indeed addressed to Melanie, care of the Hall Packyard.

‘All right, Billy, I’ll deal with this.’

He shut and bolted the door and then opened the letter. He read it and then scowled.

It was almost unheard of for a pack girl to receive post. Pack girls should work in harness, serve in bedchambers or stay in their pens under lock and key. It wasn’t natural to let them stand upright too often, unless for a race of course, far less get dressed and roam about free. It might give them independent ideas. But Melanie was the Major’s prize bitch and it was not his place to question his wishes regarding her.

He had to pass this on.

‘I’ll just be a few minutes,’ he told Alison. ‘You keep up to speed…’

 

Platt found Melanie in the gardens harnessed to a barrow that a gardener was loading with grass cuttings. He showed her the letter.

 

The Post Office,

High Street,

Shaftwell.

 

Dear Miss Kingston,

 

A matter has arisen concerning your recently opened saving account which I regret requires your personal attendance. Since it would not be proper for customers to witness a bondslave engaging in matters of personal finance on post office premises, would you please call at my private house at 5 pm tomorrow (Wednesday) to resolve this problem. My address is Rose Cottage, Caldicotte Lane, which is the turning by the Church off the village green. Kindly be punctual.

 

Yours faithfully,

 

Elenora Skelton (Mrs)

Head Postmistress.

 

‘I’m sorry, Mr Platt,’ Melanie said. ‘I can see this Mrs Skelton is not happy about this either but obviously I must go. I won’t let it spoil my training. I’ll do extra laps when I get back.’

He could not fault the girl for her dedication. ‘Well, we’ll see about that, girl. Just don’t be late.’

 

It was just before lunch when Belinda spoke to Arabella from the village call box. ‘It’s done. She’s coming as arranged.’

‘Good,’

‘You won’t do anything too bad to her?’

She heard Arabella chuckle. ‘It sounds like you’re going soft on her. Was that last session too intimate? Found yourself a lover, have you?’

‘No, of course not. But she’s so, well, nice.’

‘And yet she betrayed me,’ Arabella reminded her. ‘And they do say take an eye for an eye.’

Belinda put the receiver down.

Arabella was frightening her now. The threat of the anonymous letter had forced her to cooperate in all this miserable scheming and now she was in dangerously deep but she did not have the courage to defy Arabella outright. Nothing would deflect her from having her revenge, although Belinda did not see how she expected to get away with it. She was no longer sure how she herself could escape blame. The end was coming, one way or another.