Bound for Glory (7 page)

He jumped down from his seat as soon as a girl had taken the reins and the whip from him and embraced his former boss warmly. Carlo was still hale – though his thick hair was no longer quite as black as it had been – and his handshake as firm as ever and then Brian was being given a modest peck on the cheek by Tara herself – the legendary Blondie.

“How are you, Brian?” she asked.

“I’m fine thanks! It’s good to see you again!”

As she always did, she blushed slightly as he held her lightly by the upper arms and looked at her. The blonde hair was still a spectacular storm of waves and curls that foamed down to her shoulders and at five foot eight, she still stood out from a lot of other women. And despite a few laughter lines about her eyes, she was still very beautiful. But the problem they both had was reconciling their pasts with their present positions. Brian had cut his teeth as a trainer on her. He had led her by her now-removed tongue ring, he had whipped her for training purposes, for his practice, for discipline and for no reason other than his pleasure. He had seen her in dungeon sessions, her body sold to the highest bidder. He had seen her disport herself with other slaves on rare days off. But now she was Carlo’s wife and had been returned to the life of a free woman – to some extent. She still always wore a slender black leather choker around her neck, even when she wasn’t actually collared and everyone knew that she was Carlo’s devoted property. But she was no longer the mute slave he had known.

“Quite a jamboree!” Carlo said, looking around and Tara took the opportunity to go and attend to the pony they had brought with them. It was Jet. Brian let his eyes trail over the tall black girl harnessed to their two seater trap – and also noted that Tara’s low-backed, halter neck sundress drew attention to the fact that her tanned back and shoulders bore the traces of a recent hard flogging, the sight made him feel more at ease. Jet had been royally decorated for the occasion with a gold ring in one nostril chained to one gold ear ring. Her hair had been done in long corn rows and her bridle was festooned with short gold chains that shook and swung as she shook her head and champed at her bit. Her dark nipples had been pierced with gold rings which were joined by loops of gold chain that hung successively lower towards her stomach, where a gold pendant supported a sapphire that glinted and sparkled in the pit of her navel. She had no girth but a gold chain-adorned strap followed her hips and supported a crupper that separated her labia and drew the eye towards the gold rings that pierced them. Two in either lip. She was to die for.

All the original CSL stock had been sold off. Carlo and Tara had bought Jet privately and no one knew whether the imperturbable black girl who had been a partner in so many tight spots with Blondie had consented to continuing slavery or had simply been kept as a pet slave. Brian suspected the latter. His own pet, Purdy was on loan to a friend whose normal hacking pony had gone lame. Trouble and Ox, the two sturdy blonde lovers, were still in demand in a dungeon club somewhere in Romania he believed. El Tigre, the fiery little gypsy was privately owned in Scotland. Cherry was kept at a private stable a few miles away and he had enjoyed her at a party thrown by her new owner, only a few months ago. All in all he reflected as he watched Tara, tuck her white sundress in around her long, smooth thighs as she took her seat and Carlo took up his whip, ready for the next part of the day, things had worked out well and this latest change looked as though it would work well too. No one knew submissives and slaves like Peter Lang, and with the Prince’s money behind him, there was already talk of another Lodge opening up in the West Country.

Brian climbed back aboard the big carriage and waited for his passengers to finish their conversations and climb aboard behind him.

Chapter Six

Clive Mostyn was in some sort of heaven. He was talking to the PM who was treating him like an old friend and he was also chatting with the new owner of The Lodge and the Prince of Bakhtar, who had just come in on the most recent airship. As if that wasn’t enough, his two slaves had been delivered from the stables, tacked up with the studded harnesses he had provided and they had been the talk of the afternoon. Everyone was most impressed by their condition and they were stroked and petted until he had had to snap the reins across their tits a couple of times to calm them down. It was felt that he had got a bargain as there were only a limited number of the original Proteans in circulation and these two were in by far the best shape of any the men present had seen. And then of course there was the new chip. If it continued to perform as well as it currently was, it would make things so much simpler, more commercially viable and so much more pleasant for those who could afford such luxuries. Both slaves were going to be thoroughly tested later that day but Clive was perfectly confident they would come through – quite literally - anything with flying colours. At the moment he was basking in the praise as some of the foremost handlers of slaveflesh in the world of the arenas were squeezing the ponies’ breasts, examining the cruppers for signs of dampness, looking closely at teeth and buttocks.

It almost came as a bit of a disappointment when the CSL rigs arrived and the group broke up to move down to the party site by the lake.

The big four-in-hand, with Brian perched high up in the driving seat took John Carpenter, Peter Lang, the Prince of Bakhtar and Patti. Amelia drove Lang’s rig which was pulled by what was called the AA Team by fans of the Girl Squad, whose colours they competed in. Ayesha and Angel, black haired and blonde; Ayesha was beginning to show her age but had had a late re-flowering of her career in the arenas, Angel was still as tall and strong as ever and they made a formidable combination in the arenas under Amelia’s direction. Technically they were owned by Lang, but he was quite content for them to compete in Girl Squad colours.

Clive watched as there were the usual invitations to give lifts, the swapping of passengers and drivers, just as there always is at gatherings where large numbers of people have to be transported by any means. But all of a sudden Dandy MacIntyre was beside him.

“Mind if I climb aboard, Clive, old thing?” he asked.

“Of course not!” Clive could scarcely hide his pleasure in being selected. He and the PM might both be seated at the cabinet table in Number Ten Downing Street, but everyone knew that he rarely dispensed the favour of his leisure time on colleagues. He tightened his slaves’ reins as Dandy climbed aboard and the weight of the rig shifted while he settled himself. And just as he did, Brian Holden cracked the long driving whip he was using for the four-in-hand, in the air and everyone quietened. He told them as there was no way the big carriage would fit through the arch at the back of the house’s stableyard, they would go in procession the long way round, back down the drive and then off right and onto the grassy tracks that crossed the golf course, then along by the side of the woods before re-crossing the course and arriving at the lake. There were cheers all round as it meant the pleasure of driving fine ponies on a fine day would be prolonged very satisfactorily. And even as they made ready to move off the photographers who had been engaged to capture the day were moving amongst the rigs, snapping each one and taking notes of the names of the drivers and passengers for a record of the great day that would only be available to those present.

Brian cracked his whip again and then wielded it in a long figure of eight across the four slaves’ backs and the wheels of the carriage began to crunch on the gravel, then, in his wake other whips began to snap and hiss, other wheels crunched and other steel shod sandals scraped and scrunched as drivers sorted themselves into a long procession behind the big carriage that had ponderously managed to turn around.

Clive deftly piloted his trap into a gap about half way along the single file procession, just behind Amelia Johnson, whose passenger was Alberto Salazar, an arena owner and the two could be seen busily talking trade as the slaves got up to trotting speed. Clive made sure the whip had left his two in no doubt that he wanted a good high stepping gait and once he had achieved that he relaxed in his seat.

The parkland looked superb in the bright summer sun which flicked across them as they passed under the trees that lined the drive. Ahead of them the slaves looked beautiful as they trotted, their buttocks rippling and their plumes nodding – his wore the scarlet of The Lodge, but the CSL ones had green and gold while the Girl Squad pair sported their stable’s yellow and black.

Beside him Dandy breathed out in a sigh of pleasure and lay back against the quilted leather of the seat.

“It’s been a long, hot summer, Clive, but I’m hearing that estates up and down the country are quiet and that law-abiding folk can walk out to take the evening air in safety. It’s working isn’t it? Everything we put in place is working at last!”

“It looks that way, certainly,” Clive replied cautiously.

“The people love us for it because we don’t just clean the streets we take the sweepings and make them into something better. Our party now indubitably rules the hearts and minds of the public. The salt of the earth, the people who really make the country tick! And we must make sure that that’s how it stays.”

Clive wasn’t sure where this was going so he stuck to making an approving grunt and flicking the whip over Nine’s back a few times, before switching to Six and lacing her paler flesh as well.

The column of traps had reached the path across the golf course and swung to the right and out into open sunlight, the ponies’ hooves stopping scraping on the tarmac and instead making soft thuds as they trotted out onto turf. Dandy, turned in his seat to watch the rigs behind them emerge from the trees, one after the other, more pony traps in one place than most men ever got to see – as he observed.

“Makes you proud to be British,” he said as he turned back and relaxed again, maddeningly he seemed quite content to shed no further light on what he had been leading up to. Clive curbed his annoyance, he had seen Dandy use this tactic before to irritate someone into making a wrong move. He would divulge what he wanted Clive to know in good time. In the meantime if he, Clive, held his tongue, he would go up in Dandy’s esteem. He lashed his slaves a couple more times to calm himself down and beside him His Majesty’s Prime Minister hummed a happy little tune as the breeze caressed their faces.

It was over a mile down to the lake by this long way and the ponies were lathered and restless when they finally arrived and were hobbled and tethered to the branches of the trees that lined the shore in spinneys. Smoke rose from barbecues set down by the lake’s edge, making the woods fragrant, and trestle tables were laid and ready for everyone.

As the long afternoon wore on; dish followed dish – mostly of seafood, nothing too heavy that might deaden the carnal appetites of the gentlemen – and speech followed speech, until finally, after the ceremonial handover of The Lodge, Peter Lang bade them toast John Carpenter’s superb work with The Lodge and once that had been drunk, he asked Patti to grant permission for the girls to strip down to corsets so that the fun could begin. She graciously fell in with her new boss’s wishes and a feast of a different kind was instantly on view to the men.

Clive immediately caught a blonde girl who had served him earlier, round the bottom as she passed by to stow her dress tidily away, and pulled her to him. She came willingly, giggling a little as she realised whose hand it was that was now slipping between her thighs and finding its way into her.

Beside him, Dandy was pushing his chair back from the table and pressing on a brunette’s head to encourage her down onto her knees between his legs. He smiled across at Clive as her small fingers began to unzip his flies as Clive’s hand began to stir the blonde up into a warm soup.

“Y’know,” Dandy said after a few moments, when the brunette had been able to get his rigid cock free of his clothes and Clive had stood up behind the blonde who was bent across the table and was preparing to take her. “I don’t get to do this often enough. It’s why I’m going to retire before the next election. And I want you to succeed me.”

Clive was watching his helm slide wetly into the blonde’s receptive cunt as the bombshell hit. Rumours had been rife for months but Dandy had resolutely kept his own council about when he was going to retire and who he would throw his support behind. Clive hesitated for a moment and then drove into the girl hard, making her grunt in discomfort as her hips ground against the edge of the table.

“Quiet!” he commanded. “Or I’ll hang you up and thrash you!” He gave her flank a ringing smack and she sighed in pleasure as he began to ream her depths.

“Andrews will have something to say about that,” he said as he thoughtfully continued to thrust in and out of the blonde. Phil Andrews was the charismatic young Foreign Secretary, who quite a few commentators were tipping for the top job.

For a moment Dandy didn’t reply; he had both hands locked behind the brunette’s head and was making her deep throat him. Her skilful efforts fetched a roar of delight from him as he spilled himself into her, then he pushed her away and rearranged his clothing as Clive grabbed his girl’s shoulders and rammed himself to his climax as well.

“Andrews doesn’t understand that we ride the crowd now. It goes where we steer it, Clive! It wants the arenas and we must give them the arenas!”

Clive resumed his seat and took up a glass of wine. “I’m not with you, Dandy.”

“The reason I want to hand the reins on to you is that you understand the power we wield. And the best demonstration of that power for the whole country to witness, is to give the people the best games they’ve ever had. More than that! We’ll challenge him to a games and the winner will take all - in this case, he’ll take the whole country! And the best bit is that we’ll do it all for free!” Dandy sat back, smiling broadly.

“Yes, but a million and one things can go wrong over three days of competition! How can we be certain of winning? And how will winning translate into votes in the party? And how do we do it for free?”

“Oh ye of little faith!” Dandy shot back with a grin. “Look around you! There’s the Prince, there’s Osman, there’s Salazar, there’s Lang, Johnson, Wei Wei Hok, Holden. Some of the foremost owners and trainers in the world. They all want to see you take over so the arenas will continue to prosper! They’re not going to let you fail – and Andrews has still got some liberal qualms when it comes to the arenas. So we challenge him on his own turf up North. We win, the crowds go wild and shout the place down for you. The show is of course seen nationwide and the Parliamentary Party sheep all come bleating into our pen. They know which side their bread is buttered on, Clive! They won’t dream of going against the people’s choice.” He leaned back and snapped his fingers at a passing girl who came over and offered her breasts for him to fondle as he sipped his wine. “Democracy in action!” he concluded.

Clive leaned over and clinked his glass against Dandy’s. “To democracy!” he said, and started giving Dandy’s words some very serious consideration.

Kath shook her hair back from her face and grimaced as she felt another needle slide in. She shivered as a slight orgasm rippled through her. They were almost constant now, coming as minor waves on the backs of tsunamis of lustful excitement. When she had been ankle suspended back to back with Sharon and they had both been whipped, the crescendo of sensual overload had been almost too much for them both, but then they had been wrist suspended face to face and the resultant orgasms under two whips then had been equally thunderous – as had been the applause from the audience. Then they had been allowed a sixty-nine on the floor by their owner’s feet and the audience had counted the orgasms that had ripped through them both until now they were nearly wrung out and ready for the slow build that needle play delivered.

The long afternoon she had spent tethered to the trees had tested even Kath’s well-learned patience as a slave. The midges and flies had tormented all the ponies and to make matters worse, the air had been filled with the sounds of orgiastic enjoyment from further along the shore – and occasionally some sights too. There had been glimpses of exciting ankle suspensions from where the gentlemen were gathered. There had been the delicious sounds of whips and paddles being plied and the cries of pain and pleasure. Occasionally a couple would stroll by and stroke and pet this or that pony, then make her life a misery by fucking up against the wheel of the trap just behind her. That had happened twice to Kath and Sharon.

Their owner’s whip as they pulled him and his guest uphill and back to the house had come as a welcome change. Once back there they had been hosed down, rubbed down, fed and watered and then carefully groomed to go into the house itself. Wearing just their collars, cuffs and four inch-heeled black court shoes, they had been led on their tongue leashes up some backstairs and had emerged finally into one of the biggest rooms Kath had ever seen. And it was thronged with the gentlemen and the girls, who were still not showing any signs of tiring. And why should they? From chandeliers hung long chains with cuffs attached. In places there were winches mounted in the ceiling, along the walls X frames had been bolted on. Beside the chairs that surrounded coffee tables, there were leather topped benches. The air smelled of leather, expensive spirits and cigars and the spice of sexual arousal underpinned it all. The myriad lights shone on naked female flesh as most corsets had long since been shed. As she was led towards the table her owner was seated at, Kath saw one girl being hoisted up by one leg and before her body had even stopped swaying, the whip was being plied between her helplessly spread legs. She passed a chaise longue where a fully dressed man was lying on top of a Housegirl who was taking him for an energetic and noisy ride. Kath felt herself immediately moisten and the chip-inspired need for orgasm began to flood through her once more. The afternoon’s boredom had quietened it a little but now it returned in trumps and by the time she was brought to her owner’s side, she knew her thighs were sliding wetly against one another as she walked.