Hot Pursuit (19 page)

‘Didn't you think that I might want to go pony-carting?' Donald demanded.

He hurled another shot across the tops of her thighs.

One of the favourites winced in sympathy.

The Welsh master called out with hearty approval.

Ginger didn't hear any of the sounds as she gasped against the Isis's bonnet. The burning pain across her backside was enormous and she willed herself not to be ensnared by its pernicious warmth. It was an instruction she had given herself a thousand times before and she knew it was almost impossible to obey. Donald delivered his discipline with brutal force, driving unrelenting blows across her buttocks and making Ginger's need rise in spite of her resistance. The inner muscles of her sex clenched and convulsed and she knew her labia would be glistening with a hateful display of her treacherous appetite.

‘Didn't you know that I wanted to use your pet as a pony-girl?'

Another slash of the crop punctuated his question.

Ginger was no longer sure if she was meant to answer, or simply remain with her sweltering breasts sticking to the bonnet of the car while she kept her mouth shut. She reasoned that he couldn't really expect a reply because he wasn't allowing her the chance to say anything, but the worry that she was disappointing him in some way nagged relentlessly at the back of her mind.

Another blow came and went in a furious rush. His aim was despicably accurate and the blend of pleasure and pain became seamless. She couldn't decide if she was cresting a peak of pure agony or riding on the wave of an orgasm. And, as the climax of anguish convulsed its way through her inner muscles, she found herself beyond caring. Her master continued to bark unheard questions, their host and his favourites applauded and gasped with each shot, and Ginger was left to endure the discipline in her own private elation. By the time Donald had struck the final slice she was sobbing freely and mumbling a delirious stream of thanks and apologies. Every limb quivered
and the embarrassing stickiness of a release soiled her inner thighs. She felt weak, sore and gratefully relieved of her guilt.

Two of their host's favourites, a pair of dark-haired Welsh beauties, rushed to Ginger's side. They started to help her from the bonnet but Donald told them he wasn't finished.

Meekly, they backed away.

Ginger's stomach folded queasily as she realised there was more suffering to come. She quietly cursed the inner muscles of her sex for shivering with eager anticipation and told herself it was wrong to enjoy this upset.

‘Where is your pet?' Donald asked stiffly. ‘You still haven't told me.'

Ginger couldn't bring herself to meet Donald's gaze. The idea of lying to him was beyond her. The need to defy him was something she couldn't bear. She was still puzzled by Lucy's motivation for leaving the baronial hall and instigating this chase. Quite how the favourite had managed to cope without Donald's leadership, was something that Ginger didn't want to contemplate. She couldn't imagine life without her master's guiding hand gently encouraging her in the correct direction, or disciplining her when she went the wrong way. The concept of existing as Lucy had for the past three days organising her own travel arrangements, living off her wits and ingenuity and making her own decisions frightened Ginger more than her master's foulest display of temper.

‘Where is your pet?' he asked again.

Ginger swallowed before replying. She couldn't make her eyes meet Donald's demanding gaze. ‘I . . . I sent her on an errand,'she stammered.

‘I know you sent her on an errand.' His frown turned thunderous. The briefcase he had left at his
feet trembled each time he stamped impatiently on the floor. ‘You've already told me that you sent her on an errand.' The crop in his hand quivered like some wicked divining rod sensitive to rage. ‘But you haven't told me where she is. I want to go pony-carting. Your pet blonde makes an excellent pony-girl, and I want to know where I'll find her so I can take her out in a buggy.' He was almost breathless with fury and Ginger noticed he was raising the crop higher with every word. ‘What errand did you send her on?' he bellowed. ‘Where is she?'

Ginger almost groaned as she realised she could no longer keep her secret from him. There was no way to stay silent about what she had done and she knew it was time to tell the truth and face the consequences. She opened her mouth, not sure if she was going to beg for understanding or forgiveness. She was only certain that she was going to say that her pet was in the library, guarding Lucy's deeds of indenture.

The trill arpeggio of his mobile rang out before she could speak.

Donald mumbled an impatient curse, and snatched the phone from his trouser pocket. Thrusting it into Ginger's hands, fixing her with a warning frown, he said, ‘Let's hope this isn't another red herring. My plans have had enough setbacks so far on this chase.'

Trying to stop her hands from shaking, anxious that he shouldn't see her relief at this momentary reprieve, Ginger took the telephone and fumbled with the small buttons. The LCD screen trembled almost too much to be read but she easily caught the gist of the first seven words. They gave her fresh focus for her anger.

‘Run, run, as fast as you can
. . .' she read.

Donald's foul mood evaporated as though it had never been there. ‘It's from Kitten,' he exclaimed. ‘It's
another message from our Kitten.' The transformation from his thunderous anger to his obvious delight hurt more than any of the blows he had administered. His smile was almost jubilant and Ginger wouldn't have been surprised if he had started to dance on the spot. ‘What does it say?' he asked impatiently. ‘What is she telling us this time?'

Ginger glowered at the text message.
‘Run, run, as fast as you can,'
she repeated.
‘You can't catch me, even though I'm in the buggy heading toward the gate.'

As one, they both looked up and watched a white and green single-seater hurtle along the path. A near-naked blonde was in the harness and her slender buttocks were snatched from view as the buggy rounded a corner and hurried in the direction of the exit.

‘The little minx,' Donald mumbled. He followed the buggy's progress with his gaze. ‘The cheeky little rapscallion.'

‘That's her, isn't it?' Ginger growled.

Before she could chase after the cart, before she could run and catch up with Lucy and start to right some of the wrongs that had been done to her, Donald had clamped a restraining hand on her wrist. His broad ringers encircled her hand and the idea of escaping his grip seemed like an impossibility.

Donald tilted his head toward the Welsh master's three favourites and told Ginger, ‘You won't go after her alone. You'll make up a team with them.'

She rolled her eyes, amazed that he was going to let Lucy slip through their fingers again. The buggy was picking up speed and, Ginger believed, if they didn't try to stop her soon, Lucy's escape would be inevitable. If Donald let her pursue the runaway now, Ginger felt sure she could catch up with the buggy before it slipped through the gate and entered the sanctuary of the surrounding woodland.

‘I could catch her,' she complained. ‘I could run her to ground and . . . and . . .'

Her voice trailed off when she saw the stern disappointment in his expression.

‘Didn't you learn anything from your discipline?'

She remained silent, knowing there was no way to properly respond. She couldn't tell him the discipline had taught her nothing. That sort of reply would earn her another six stripes. Nor could she say she had learnt a lesson when he clearly thought that wasn't true. Impotent, she took a final glance in the direction of the dwindling buggy, then fell into step with the other favourites to make up the team. Her frustration bit more deeply than any of the stripes she had been made to suffer and she ground her teeth together to stop herself from spitting with rage.

‘You don't seem in a great hurry to catch your runaway,' the Welsh master observed.

Both men were a pace behind their favourites but neither seemed in the practice of lowering their voice for the sake of discretion. Ginger listened attentively for Donald's response because it was the same remark she had wanted to make.

‘Where's the pleasure in hurrying?' Donald asked. ‘What fun would there be in running after that buggy, making myself breathless, and struggling to overpower a reluctant favourite? I'd just make myself look like an oaf or a buffoon. I think it will be far more civilised if we take after her with a dressage team.'

Ginger chewed her lower lip to contain a volatile outburst.

‘Do you think you can catch her by being civilised?'

‘I won't catch her by being any other way,' Donald assured their host.

They rounded the front of the building and walked through the arched gateway that led to the stables.
The cobbles were a nuisance, her heels slipping and sticking beneath the rounded stones. But, determined that she wouldn't be seen as less capable than their host's favourites, Ginger struggled to keep up with the others as they headed toward the open garage doors.

‘I thought the buggy was one of mine,' the Welsh master mumbled.

‘You're saying Kitten stole it from here?' Donald asked.

‘And probably not that long ago. I have a security patrol check the stables every half-hour. I'd guess, if we'd come here fifteen minutes earlier, we might have trapped your runaway here in the courtyard.'

Ginger was appalled to think that Lucy had been here moments earlier. The idea that they had so narrowly missed her fuelled Ginger's impatience and made her want to ignore Donald's instructions and chase after the buggy. She resisted the impulse, following the other favourites through the open garage doors and walking through to a dusty tack room. With practised skill, she selected a harness and bridle and began to thread the leather straps through the rings of her piercings.

The experience with the riding crop had left her sex swollen and flushed and the gentle pressure of the leather was slyly exciting. She didn't want to succumb to the temptation of those sensations, and fought the wayward pull of arousal, but the torment of the harness was too difficult to ignore. As the leather passed over and along her labia she was captivated by its gentle caress. Her clitoris throbbed with a sullen ache made worse when she nudged the ring of her piercing to one side. A flurry of delicious pleasures trickled through her sex and she hurriedly snatched her hand away. It had been galling enough to suffer
Donald's wrath once today. She didn't want to earn his disapproval for a second time by being caught masturbating. Breathing deeply, caught in a limbo of wanting to exorcise her orgasm and not daring to, Ginger steeled herself to ignore the stimulation as she secured the harness straps in place.

‘Who's the accomplice she had with her?'

Ginger glanced in the direction of the voice and realised the Welsh master was addressing Donald as they circled a large wagon. Identical to the rest of the livery – white and trimmed with green – its shafts were wide enough to hold a team of four. Donald was admiring the lime tassels that adorned the snow-coloured surrey and his smile was a picture of simple appreciation.

Ginger tried not to make her interest too obvious as she waited to hear his response.

‘The blonde?' Donald asked. ‘The one who was pulling the buggy?'

‘Yes.'

‘I was wondering about her myself,' Donald admitted. ‘Kitten was the only one who took flight from my hall, so she's not one of mine.' He held up a placatory hand and said, ‘I think the same girl might have been driving for Kitten last night, so I'm not suggesting she's one of your cadre.'

‘Could she be a norm?'

‘It sounds unlikely, doesn't it?' Donald agreed. ‘But then, you don't know about Kitten's special ability.'

Ginger turned away and drew the last of the leather through her piercings. She pulled it tight, almost hurting herself, and savouring the stiff rush of discomfort. Her pussy lips were tugged by the strap of leather and she grimaced with short, bitter pleasure. It wasn't the climactic thrill she knew she could have squeezed from her aching sex but it was
sufficient to temporarily sate her need. She knew this was neither the time nor the place to be indulging her own appetites and she was grimly thankful for the small appetiser. Her only regret was that the distraction wasn't enough to lessen the hurt of Donald's words.

‘Kitten is a remarkable young lady.'

She closed her eyes against the threat of tears.

It galled her that Lucy could run away – turn her back on their baronial home, taunt them with her stupid text messages, and blatantly flaunt her insurrection – yet Donald continued to call her ‘Kitten' and boast about the bitch's special abilities. His infatuation with Lucy made Ginger feel second best and undervalued and she wondered how he could be so insensitive.

‘She can read people,' Donald droned. ‘With one look she knows . . .'

Ginger shut out his voice, loathe to hear the praise being bestowed on her nemesis. Not thinking about Lucy, determined that her anger wouldn't get her into trouble again, she enlisted the help of one of the favourites to secure those buckles on the harness that were beyond her reach. Steel bars were slipped across her breasts and their cool lengths squeezed her nipples. The arousal she had been resisting was given fresh impetus as flurries of tense excitement were pressed from her sensitive flesh. Not sure she would be able to contain her growing desires, worried that she was likely to say something if Donald didn't tend to her arousal soon, Ginger happily accepted a bit between her teeth.

It wasn't the first time she had filled the role of a pony-girl and, as a pet attached the dressage bells to the piercings at her breasts and clitoris, she took some sly satisfaction from the image she presented. As a
quartet, she and the other three favourites looked surprisingly similar in their harnesses. Admittedly, the Welsh favourites were all pale, their naked skin unblemished by freckles, but Ginger thought that difference was little more than the incongruity of having a dappled mare leading a trio of white colts. When they walked out of the garage, their bells jangling melodically with each step, she was struck by the simple fun that came from being used in this raunchy fashion. The restraints were a constant presence, invidiously exciting, and the pressure on her nipples inspired a warmth that spread slickly toward her cleft. Savouring the inferior role, even though she was determined not to enjoy it, Ginger remained with the three favourites as they waited for their next instruction.