Excerpt from "The Girlspell - Book One" by William Avon

 

Platt led Melanie by her leash between the high wrought-iron gates and onto the oval acre of gravel that formed the central court of Markham Hall. An imposing columned portico rose the full height of the main building, flanked by many windows. Curving quadrant corridors linked it to two wings, each with its own smaller courtyard screened by high walls pierced by archways of different sizes. Rolling paddocks extended beyond them.

Melanie shivered as the gravel crunched under her feet. How many eyes were watching her from those tall windows right now? Out in the fields her nakedness had seemed less unnatural, but these grand surroundings only emphasized her humiliating situation.

"This is what you belong to now," Platt told her proudly.

He let her stand, trembling, exposed, helpless, for a full minute, as though knowing exactly how the sight was affecting her. Then he led her towards the right-hand wing.

Through the archways was the stable court, a broad stone flagged space bordered by the walls of three smaller yards. Opposite was a set of large double gates through which she could see a row of stable doors, while the sound of dogs yapping came from the yard to the right.

A lad ran up as Platt dismounted and took his horse's reins. The boy looked Melanie up and down with frank interest, causing her to turn her head aside with a renewed blush of shame and clench her thighs in a vain attempt to conceal her pubic curls.

Platt's riding crop flicked across the front of her thighs. "Stand straight! Legs apart! Let the boy look at you. Packgirls aren't allowed any modesty here, so you'd better get used to it."

"Ain't she brown, Mister Platt," the lad said as Melanie displayed herself as she had been ordered. "Where's she from?"

"Somewhere far away in the south, Billy."

"She's got good legs. Bet she's fast."

"We'll see, lad; we'll see."

Platt led Melanie towards a green wooden panelled double gate set in the wall that formed the fourth side of the court. Beyond was a covered passageway with a wrought iron gate at the far end. Passing through this she found herself in a brick-cobbled yard overlooked by the windows and doors of its enclosing block. Suspended from a bracket projecting from under the eaves of one of these buildings was a naked woman.

She hung with the backs of her legs facing outwards, concealing her face, which was pressed up against her shins. From the front all that was visible were her cuffed hands and bare feet, soles facing upward and outward, and the stretched length of her legs, broken only by a strap about her knees. There was something dangling beneath her...

Platt stepped over to the captive, dragging Melanie after him.

Appalled and yet fascinated, Melanie's eyes trailed down the bunched muscles of the girl's calves, the tight tendons behind her knees, the gentle pear-like swell of her thighs and hips and the fleshy undercurve of her glossy taut buttocks. It was here that the girl's tender exposed groin took on a rosy hue, her pale skin criss-crossed by the scarlet stripes of a cane or whip. Swelling from between her thighs was the blushing furry peach of her pudenda and below, like the dot of an exclamation mark, was the round pucker of her anus. Protruding grotesquely from this orifice was a glistening metal hook on which hung a ticking alarm clock. Its weight had pulled on the shaft of the hook embedded within the girl, distending the ring of rubbery flesh and opening a dark crack above it. Platt checked the clock and gave it a little tug. The girl twitched and gave a gag-muffled moan, her body swaying from the bracket.

"This is Gillian," Platt explained. "She put on a foolish display of tight-arse and disappointed one of the Major's guests. Now she's learning better. Do you want to be hung up like this?" Melanie shook her head vigorously. "Then you'll try hard to please, won't you?" Melanie nodded.

Platt led her across the yard and into an office. It was cluttered with a couple of plain wooden chairs, a heavy roll-top desk and chests of drawers and shelves, their dark brown varnish scratched and worn. As they entered a girl of about Melanie's own age was filing papers into one of the drawers. She had short blonde hair and was wearing jodhpurs and a white shirt with rolled sleeves over her neat sturdy figure. A switch topped with a spray of leather thongs hung from a loop on her belt. She turned a bright rosy-cheeked face to them, displaying the same look of frank and open interest in Melanie as the stable lad.

"Oh, is this the outlander you went off in such a rush about, Mister Platt?" she asked.

"That's right, Alison," Platt confirmed with a smile, handing Melanie's leash over. "Go on; assess her properly. It'll be good practice for you."

Alison turned Melanie's head critically from side to side, as though examining a prize canine, causing Melanie's eyes to pass over the walls of the room. What she saw made her start in disbelief.

The walls were lined with rosettes and photographs of the sort normally associated with horse trials and county shows. But instead of horses, dogs or prize livestock, they featured naked girls in bridles and muzzles, some harnessed to carts or ploughs in teams, others poised on all fours.

"Well, she's very exotic and pretty, isn't she," Alison said. She dropped her hand to run it over Melanie's lower stomach, causing her to squirm and drag her incredulous gaze away from the photographs. "Thick fluffy bush and a plump cunny... trim waist, and lovely smooth skin." Alison cupped and squeezed Melanie's breasts. "Good heavy titties... plenty of bounce." She rolled a full dark nipple between her finger and thumb and Melanie groaned in embarrassment as her flesh treacherously responded. "Oh, look, she has nice big stand-up nipples." Alison examined Melanie's back. "Strong full hindquarters and lovely round bottom cheeks. I see Miss Arabella has already paid her some attention there..."

Melanie did not take in the rest of Alison's assessment of her attributes as a curious detail penetrated her dazed senses. Platt's eyes rested not on her own exposed body, but on the tight seat of Alison's jodhpurs as she bent down to examine Melanie's calves and ankles. In his eyes was an expression of unrequited longing. Then he suddenly looked aside as though with a firm effort.

"That'll do, Alison," Platt said, sitting down hastily at the desk and drawing out forms and record books. "Remove her gag, will you."

Alison pulled the ball from Melanie's mouth while still keeping hold of her chain. Platt had her spell out her full name and give her age. He wrote for a minute, then turned the copies of the form and pen towards her. Alison released Melanie's right arm from its cuff.

"Sign or make your mark," he told her.

Melanie read the neatly printed document framed with crests and flourishes. Strangely it gave her some slight reassurance. It confirmed there was law and order here, if of an outrageous kind.

DECLARATION OF VOLUNTARY SERVITUDE

I Melanie Kingston, aged twenty-three (23) years, resident of (no fixed abode) do this day Monday 12^th April 1999 freely give my person into the ownership of Major James Havercotte-gore and his rightful heirs, of Markham Hall, Shaftwell, West Wealden, England, as a Class Three (III) servant for the period of One (I) calendar year(s). During this period I accept and submit to whatever lawful duties, functions, restraints or punishments may be imposed upon me, according to the Female Public Servitude (Femling) Act of 1769. (And as amended 1782, 1788, 1795, 1811, 1837, 1890, 1936).

Femling? Did that mean what she thought? Never mind what it was called, she was one now. She took a deep breath and, with a shaking hand, signed. Platt and Alison witnessed her signature in the spaces provided below. As they did so, Melanie noticed Platt had labelled a foolscap-sized folder and a slim, red-bound book with her name and a number 9. On the book was embossed: Record of Health and Punishments. The documentation completed, Platt led the way through an inner door and along a short corridor to a door bearing the sign: Examination and Sick Room.

The room within had whitewashed walls, fitted with more tethering rings, and a quarry-tiled floor. Dangling from the ceiling were chains supporting crossbars with padded cuffs on the ends. An old-fashioned wood and brass tripod-and-bellows camera stood beside a glass-fronted cabinet with cluttered shelves, together with a stand-on weighing machine and a fixed wall scale for measuring height. The back of the room was closed off by floor to ceiling bars, enclosing a couple of utilitarian iron frame beds. In the centre of the room was a heavy table surfaced with white porcelain tiles and fitted with ominous looking straps and polished metal implements.

Alison removed Melanie's collar and cuffs and Platt ordered her to take off her trainers and socks. Melanie obeyed mutely, eyeing the switches dangling from her captors' belts. Totally naked, she was measured and weighed, Alison entering the details in Melanie's record book as Platt called them out. Not only her bust, waist and hips, but also the circumference of her neck, wrists, upper and forearms, thighs, calves and ankles were measured. A set of numbered thin wooden boards with circular holes of varying sizes cut in them were slid over her breasts until the snuggest fit was found. Her mind raced wildly as she tried to imagine to what purpose they would put such an intimate detail.

From the cabinet Platt took a rubber stamp with a head some three inches square, together with a tin box holding a felt inking pad and a sheet of paper. He adjusted a dial on the back of the printer, inked it and pressed it to the paper, then showed Melanie the result. It was the Markham Hall crest surmounting a bold number 9 framed in chain links.

"This won't wash off," Platt explained, "and it'll be over-stamped every month to keep it sharp. If you move while I'm marking you and make a smudge, you'll be joining Gillian out in the yard."

Melanie could see the girl's trussed body through the window. "I'll be very still, Mister Platt," she promised sincerely.

"Face the wall, brace yourself with your hands, legs spread," he commanded.

Melanie obeyed. With a towel, Alison wiped the upper curve of Melanie's right buttock until the skin was dry and clean. Platt re-inked the stamp and pressed it carefully against her, holding it in place for a count of ten, then lifting it cleanly away. Even on her brown flesh it left a clear bold mark.

"Stay in that position while you dry," Platt said.

While she waited Platt set up the camera and old-fashioned flashgun with a large, polished reflector. Portrait shots of her face square on and in profile, then full-length shots of her body front, side and back were made.

"Shall we test her responses now, Mister Platt?" Alison asked.

"We'll wait for the Major. Meanwhile let's get her into a harness."

Melanie was led through another door bearing the sign 'Harness Room.'

She smelt metal, leather and polish. The walls were covered with hooks and racks, all neatly labelled, on which were held all manner of rods, straps, buckles and chains; fashioned into every type of harness and restraint imaginable for the female body. In the middle of this Aladdin's cave of bondage Melanie was ordered to kneel, spread her knees wide and clasp her hands behind her neck.

On a bench were a hammer, anvil and a set of chisel-like letter punches. Platt used them to stamp her name onto a small ringed metal disk. Then he took a thick glossy black collar from a rack and clipped the disc to it like a dog's nametag. He held the collar before Melanie so she could read what was inscribed on the metal strip riveted to its side.

'GIRL 9: PROPERTY OF MARKHAM HALL HUNT PACK'

"Nine's been free since Linda left. This will be your number from now on. You'll answer to it just as though it was your name, understand?" Melanie nodded meekly. "Head back, neck straight".

The collar itself was four inches broad with rounded padded edges and hung front and back with large fastening rings. It closed about her snugly with a very secure sounding click, its constraining pressure forcing her neck straight and lifting her chin up.

"Sit on the edge of the table," Platt ordered.

From a shelf Alison took down a pair of black ankle boots with enormous wedge-soles at least six inches high at the heels. Slender shin pads topped with rounded knee protectors hung from their insteps, while metal rings dangled from the backs of the ankles. As they were slipped onto her feet and buckled into place, Melanie discovered they were surprisingly light; the wedge soles apparently made of cork and only surfaced with rubber. The most solid parts were their stout toecaps, evidently designed for heavy wear.

"Hold your arms out straight, fingers together," Platt commanded.

They fitted her with black fingerless and thumbless mittens, buckling them about her wrists. As she tried to flex her fingers she found the mittens' thick padding made any dextrous activity impossible. More rings dangled from the inside of the wrists.

"Get down, girl," Platt commanded.

Sliding awkwardly off the table Melanie found the wedge heels on her new boots made it impossible to walk upright, forcing her to drop onto all fours. Suddenly she understood the function of the gloves, shin pads and the broad collar that braced her neck. This was how she would move about from now on.

Platt rummaged in a box and then withdrew what looked like a curving, foot long foxhound's tail, made of hair as black as her own. Attached to its root was a cone-shaped rubber plug an inch across. As Melanie watched in growing dismay, Platt opened a small tin and smeared the plug with petroleum jelly.

"Dip your back and spread your legs," Platt ordered.

But the thought of what he was going to do so appalled Melanie that her nerve failed her. "No... Please don't..."

"Brace her Alison" Platt ordered crisply.

Alison straddled Melanie's head and trapped it between her warm sturdy thighs, forcing her to remain on all fours with her bottom facing Platt.

"She's very new, Mister Platt," Alison said.

"That's no excuse, Alison," Platt replied, as he unclipped his switch from his belt and positioned himself. "She's been warned..."

There was a swish of air and Melanie yelped as a streak of fire seemed to sear across her buttocks. "Be firm with bitches from the very start and they'll respond quicker..." Another swish and smack of flesh, bringing forth a fresh gasp of pain from Melanie. "They respect it and it's kinder on them in the end..." Swish, smack. Melanie's buttocks trembled and clenched against the blows. "A few light flicks now may save them a harder session later..." Smack. Melanie's hindquarters bobbed and heaved but could not evade the remorseless switch. "You'll have to learn that if you want to be a head keeper one day."

"Yes, Mister Platt," Alison said dutifully.

With two final cutting blows across Melanie's now well-chastised bottom, Platt rested his arm and examined the marks he had made on her smooth brown flesh, feeling their heat. Satisfied he stood up. Alison released Melanie's head and stepped back.

Her bottom burning, Melanie swayed on all fours, blinking back hot tears of pain, mingled with those of shame and anger. Platt was right; she had been warned. She was now a sex toy: a femling, the switch had driven home that fact very effectively. Now she must act like one.

Platt held the artificial tail in front of her face.

"Markham Hall packgirls all wear one of these," he said. "Now beg to have it fitted."

And Melanie found herself saying, "I'm sorry, Mister Platt. I'll never do that again. I'll...I'll wear it proudly." She gulped. "Please put it into me." Then, on a sudden wild impulse, she kissed the tip of the rubber plug at the tail's base.

Platt smiled approvingly. "That's better."

Melanie felt dizzy, yet paradoxically elated. She had surrendered to the inevitable and it had given her a strange thrill of relief, as though a great weight had been taken from her shoulders.

Platt examined the dusky pucker of her anus for a moment before sliding the plug into her, easily overcoming the final instinctive clenching of her sphincter. Melanie gave the softest of gasps as the plug bedded itself in her rectum. She felt the tail curving jauntily upright and clear of her buttocks, almost as though it was growing from the base of her spine.

"Now she's a proper Markham Hall bitch," Platt said with satisfaction. "Tether her in the yard so she can look at Gillian until the Major comes. It might remind her not to be so foolish in future."

Alison led Melanie away on a leash. Her new tail bobbed with the shuffling roll of her hips, the movement of its mounting plug teasing and stimulating her tender flesh, its continual penetration a reminder of what she had become.