The Kennel Maid

Another story written on request so the kinks included are not necessarily mine.  I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea about me.  What's that you say?  Already too late for that?

Lucy panted, out of breath as she cycled furiously up the long gravel drive.  Stupid Lynda Arnold in double biology had passed her that drawing she’d done of Mrs Rolfe giving a practical demonstration of the birds and the bees…only with a horse and a goat…and Lucy had been the one to get into trouble.  Now detention had made her late for her after-school job up at the manor house and the dogs would be whining and yapping and waiting for their walk.

 

Sir Hugh watched from the library window as Lucy skidded round the corner in a shower of gravel chippings and pedalled urgently into the stable yard.  She had shown promise when she first arrived to work as a kennel maid, he thought.  Although she had been bundled up in a jumper and anorak with a scarf knotted round her neck, he’d noted her ripe pout and long eyelashes, the curve of her belly as she stretched, her jumper riding up a little, as she reached for dog biscuits off the top shelf, the firm jiggle of her buttocks in tight jeans as she trotted down the path, five dogs straining on their leads and dragging her behind them.

 

And now, watching her cycle, he reflected on how much she’d grown.  Her plaited hair and school uniform hid her new-found womanliness.  As her thighs pumped, her pleated skirt was blown up by the wind, exposing bare flesh between knee socks and the white triangle of her knickers against the leather saddle.  As her tie was blown over her shoulder, it revealed the buttons of her shirt, straining across her heavy breasts.  Sir Hugh rang the bell, a plan forming in his mind.

 

 

Skidding to a halt at the kennels, Lucy cooed at the barking hounds as she stumbled off her bicycle, snatching her change of clothes from her saddle bag as she shouldered the door into the kennel maids’ hut, switching on the kettle, reaching up for dog biscuits and unbuttoning her uniform all in one action.  In bra and knickers, socks and sensible lace-up shoes, Lucy stood, weighing out biscuits, pausing to sip scalding tea from a chipped mug.  Peeking round the door of the hut in both directions and seeing no one about, Lucy scurried out with dog bowls, still half-undressed, then scuttled back in again to change into her jeans while the dogs wolfed their food and wagged happily.

 

Unseen by Lucy, from the basement window across the yard, Foskett the Gardener sipped his own mug of tea as he watched her.

 

 

The sky grew leaden as Lucy walked the excited hounds.  They darted into coverts, snuffling at the trails of rabbits, they disappeared into the woods and didn’t come when she whistled and they barked and leapt up at her with muddy paws as she struggled to put them back on the lead.  By the time they got back to the kennels, the rain had been lashing down steadily for over half an hour and Lucy was drenched to the skin. 

 

With dogs still woofing and panting all around her, Lucy stood in the hut, peeling off her soaking clothes and hanging them over the back of a chair in front of the single bar electric fire.  As she crouched down to hang her socks over the chair rail, one of the hounds jumped up with its paws on her shoulders, licking her face.  Lucy squeaked and fell back onto her bottom on the floor, the dog still lapping at her cheeks as she tried to bat it away, laughing.  Other dogs joined in, licking her neck and toes as she giggled and lay back on the floor, giving in. 

 

Gradually, Lucy’s giggles subsided as the dogs’ rough tongues began to rasp more urgently against her thighs and breasts.  She let her arms flop above her head, her legs parting slightly as the dogs licked her ribs and armpits, her belly and the hollows of her thighs.  She arched, gasping loudly as the first hot tongue slurped along her slit, lapping up her sticky juices and grazing the tip of her clit.  Lucy reached down and gripped the hound’s collar, thrusting its head between her legs as she spread her legs wider.  Distractedly, with her other hand she scratched the snouts of two dogs licking at her throbbing nipples, her moans growing louder as she lost herself in the glow of he fire, mottling her naked skin pink, the rain drumming on the hut’s tin roof and the smell of wet dog, rising like steam and mingling with the smell of wet cunt. 

 

Bracing her feet against the walls of the hut, her cunt spread wide enough for two hounds to have their snouts to it, their tongues rasping in unison on either side of her aching clit, another hound wriggling its snout below the others’ to lick at the rim of her arse, Lucy began to squeal and then scream, her fists drumming against the floor, her head tossing from side to side, her face ecstatic as her orgasm ripped through every nerve in her body.  And at the peak of her agony she saw the flash.

 

Her screams turned to screams of panic and terror as she scrabbled away from the hounds, snatching damp clothes from the chair to cover her nakedness, pressing her back against the wall of the hut, her face burning in shame as Sir Hugh and his butler Soames, lowering his camera, gazed at her.   

 

“Well, young lady, I think it’s about time you and I had a talk.”  

 

 

 

In the library, in front of a roaring fire, Soames held Lucy down on an ottoman while Sir Hugh directed the footmen to take Lucy’s virginity.  “It’s of no value to her now and frankly it’s better if we just get it over with.  I want her broken in the cunt and arse but then once you’ve done that I leave it up to you how you finish her off.”

 

Some of the footmen had come from other establishments and had at first been surprised by this unusual duty Sir Hugh expected from them.  But they soon adapted to the daily round of village maids and vicars’ wives, school mistresses and their convent charges to be fucked and thrashed and disposed of.  The first footman prised Lucy’s pussy open with his fingers and spat on the palm of his other hand, rubbing it along his stiff cock until it was glistening and eager.  He grunted as he lunged into her, his grunt drowned by Lucy’s anguished wail of pain and shock.  Soames slapped her face hard and hissed “Be quiet in his Lordship’s presence, girl”.  She bit her lip, drawing a bead of blood as she struggled to be quiet and endure the pounding cock battering her bruised and pulpy cunt.  With a bellow, the first footman dumped his load into her and pulled out with a satisfied sigh, his spunk dribbling down her thighs.

 

The second footman gripped her buttocks hard, parting them with his thumbs as he bent and spat on her arsehole.  Lucy began to tremble and sob in fear as she felt the hot, hard head of his cock press against her tight, puckered hole.  He pressed forwards just a little, half an inch into her as she squealed, then pulled out, spitting on it again and rubbing it in with the pad of his thumb.  Then he pressed the head of his cock in again, a full inch this time as she moaned hopelessly.  Then out again and more spitting and rubbing.  Slowly the pain grew a little more bearable.  Each time Lucy gritted her teeth and screwed her eyes shut, hissing and gasping as he stretched her open just a little more.

 

“Oh, get a move on man!” barked Sir Hugh suddenly and the footman drove his cock brutally all the way up Lucy’s arse as she screamed and reared up off the ottoman, her eyes wide and frozen, her trembling lips wide in a gasp of misery and humiliation.  Sir Hugh, Soames, the footmen all laughed.

 

“That’ll do chaps.  Take her upstairs to finish her, I shan’t need you again tonight.”

 

 

In the cold attic bedroom, tied wrist and ankle to the metal bed frame, Lucy pleaded and wept as they took their turns with her.  Footmen and kitchen boys, grooms and valets, chatted and laughed, drank whiskey and played cards as they waited their turn to fuck her mercilessly, hammering their cocks into her, kneading her tits and spitting in her face.  As one of them pulled his cock from her sloppy cunt with a groan, he brushed Lucy’s hair from her face, briefly stroking her cheek in a tender gesture.  “How old are you, darling?”

 

“I…I’m…f…fifteen” stammered Lucy.

 

“Ah, that’s nice.  I’ve got a sister who’s fifteen.”

 

“Yeah” said the next man, pushing him aside and climbing on top of Lucy, “And she don’t make all this fuss when we fuck ‘er.”

 

In the cold dawn, Lucy lay stiff and alone, face down now, with streaks of dried spunk on her buttocks and thighs, shivering as she listened to the steady footsteps in the hall and the creak of the door.  Wearily, she raised her head and looked at the housekeeper, her arms full of Lucy’s uniform.

 

 

Only too aware that her silence bought her safety, the housekeeper said nothing as she bathed Lucy in a tin bath in front of the fire, drying her roughly and plaiting her hair again, only this time, pinning the plaits up around her head like a German doll.  Lucy gazed at her reflection in the broken shard of mirror propped on the fireplace for a moment and then flinched a little as the housekeeper broke her reverie. 

 

She squeezed her feet into black patent leather thigh boots, their five inch spike heels tipped with chrome.  Lucy teetered in them, her thighs hugged by the shiny leather, the heels changing her centre of balance and thrusting her boobs and bum out invitingly.  Her dress was black satin, severely corseted at her waist.  The housekeeper tugged fiercely with both fists as she pulled the draw strings ever tighter until Lucy’s waist was a hand-span and she thought she would faint from lack of air.  The skirt of the dress flared over layers of stiff white lace petticoats that skimmed her pussy, just concealing it but clearly exposed the swell and fold of her buttocks as she walked. 

 

The bodice of the dress offered her no modesty.  Instead of covering her tits, it scooped them up, offering them thrust up and wobbling like vanilla blancmanges topped with raspberries on a plate begging to be eaten.  The housekeeper spun Lucy around and surveyed her, then with an impatient sigh, she took a scarlet lipstick from her apron pocket and painted Lucy’s lips thickly.  As a final touch, she took a black velvet ribbon and tied it with a bow around Lucy’s neck.  Lucy peered at her reflection again, painted like a street whore and, backwards in the mirror, she read the inscription on the dog tag that jingled on the ribbon.  It read USE ME.

 

 

Lucy’s life of servitude began in the same way every morning.  At 6 a.m.it was her job to wake her master, creeping into his bedroom with a breakfast tray, pulling the curtains, picking up his clothes from the night before.  Every day there was something wrong – the newspaper folded incorrectly, a slight noise as she crept around the room, the wrong type of marmalade.  And every morning he instructed Lucy to open the top drawer of his bureau and bring him the ivory-handled, elephant leather crop he kept there.  Lucy’s fingers trembled as she lifted it, curling her fingers tightly around its plaited shaft and splayed tip.   

 

He thrashed her energetically, bent over the end of his bed, her legs kicking wildly in the air as she howled through anything between 20 and 30 strokes, depending on how benign he was feeling that morning.

 

For the rest of the morning, Lucy scrubbed floors – wooden floors in the bedroom corridors, stone floors in the service passage – on her knees with a galvanized bucket and a worn out bristle scrubbing brush.  From time to time another of the servants would stumble across her and she’d be forced to suck a cock or bend over to take it up the arse.  The younger men were especially unkind and laughed uproariously as they shoved her head into her bucket of filthy water, watching bubbles rise as she struggled and pushed back against their cocks.  But the other women servants were the worst of all.  In twos and threes they held her down, scrubbing at her cunt with her brush or ramming their mops into her arsehole.

 

She only had five minutes to clean herself up in the scullery before she served at luncheon.  Stripped of her dress and laid on the dining table, she lay still, hardly daring to breathe as Sir Hugh surveyed the food arrayed across her naked body.  Carelessly, reading the Racing Post as he ate, he tore the leg off a pheasant and slid it into her cunt, basting it in her juices before tearing into it with his teeth.  He stabbed absently at an omelette laid on her belly, the prongs of the fork prodding sharply into her flesh as she curled her fingers into fists.  Cutting into a piece of ripe cheese, the serrated edge of his cheese knife grazed her breast, its sharp tip speared her nipple.

 

Her afternoon duties were to assist the other servants, which she did nailed in a barrel with her lips pressed to a bung hole as disembodied cocks thrust into her mouth; or lashed by her wrists to the ceiling clothes drier and hoisted off her feet, spinning and scrabbling as the bamboo carpet beater swatted her bum endlessly; or sometimes just on her back any room or passage or staircase that suited the whim of her fellow servants, with every orifice filled and her belly smooth and round and tight with spunk.

 

And at night, every night, tied to the iron bed frame, she endured the smoke and whiskey fumes, the crude jokes and disdainful gambling of the footmen as they emptied their balls into her exhausted body before yawning and stumbling off to their own beds.

 

 

Lucy looked in the mirror every morning and saw herself changing.  Her schoolgirl plumpness left her on a diet of spunk and was replaced with a slim, curvy tautness.  Her expression grew blanker every day, her easy smile and ready giggles replaced by a solemn, wide-eyed passivity.  As the housekeeper laced her into her corset and boots they no longer felt like a constricting prison but like a second skin, the whalebone stiffening her back into the shape of the new person she was becoming.

 

Other things changed.  Sir Hugh sent her one day to the family jewellers, her wrists and ankles bound in the boot of his Daimler, his driver Dawkins her only company.  In the back room in Bond Street she lay on the workbench as the craftsmen of this long-established firm carefully pierced her nipples with golden rings and threaded the hood of her clit with a heavy golden ring that sat upon its tip and rubbed against it when she walked.  A trip to Harley Street saw the family consultant inject the base of Lucy’s clit with collagen to keep it permanently swollen and stiff, “…but not”, he explained with a leer as he flicked its tip with his thumbnail and made her gasp, “…not immune to the pleasures of the flesh.”

 

One morning, her routine changed.  The housekeeper looked pale and anxious when she entered to dress Lucy and she had a new item for Lucy to wear.  Lifting her skirt, Lucy watched in fascination as the housekeeper buckled a belt around her waist then ran another strap from that between Lucy’s thighs, spreading her pussy lips around it and pulling it sharply until it dug into her flesh and split her buttocks as it was fitted behind with a small silver padlock.  The housekeeper handed Lucy the key and spoke to her for the first time.  “Sir Hugh will see you in his study.”  Lucy nodded dumbly and made for the door.  As she reached it, the housekeeper urgently whispered “Good luck!” and Lucy turned and gazed blankly at hr for a moment, noting the tear in her eye, before heading for the back stairs.

 

 

Sir Hugh flicked a disinterested glance in Lucy’s direction as she stood, head bowed and hands folded behind her back.

 

“Soames tells me you’ve been an obedient servant and I’m pleased to hear it.  However obedience isn’t simply about obeying instructions, it’s about yearning to obey and surrendering yourself to another’s passions and cruelties.  It’s time to discover whether you have what it takes to be a true submissive.

 

“I shall be holding a small party on Sunday evening and I want you to be in attendance.  Until then, you are freed from your duties and your uniform.  You may dress yourself from the wardrobe of my unfortunate sister and live in the house as my guest.  And then, when Sunday comes, you must choose – to continue your life of freedom, or submit to a life as an amusement for others.”

 

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and Lucy stumbled from the room, dazed with the possibilities.  Her heart fluttered as she wondered what he meant by ‘a small party’ and ‘an amusement for others’.  As she climbed the grand staircase – no longer confined to the back stairs – she thought about fleeing, back to her bedroom with its pink bedspread and school books, her teddy still sitting in the chair as a memento of childhood, the posters on her walls once a sign of a burgeoning interest in boys, now a faded relic of the teenager she had once been.  No, she could never go back to that dreary round of homework and church, television and piano practice. 

 

In the bedroom, Lucy ran her hand along the clothes in Sir Hugh’s sister’s wardrobe, feeling silk and fur brush her fingertips.  She wondered idly what had happened to her – what was it that made Sir Hugh describe her as ‘unfortunate’?  Shrugging the thought away, Lucy dressed herself in a slim, black knee length skirt and white silk blouse, respectably buttoned all the way up to her neck and finished with a pussy cat bow but sheer enough to expose the dark circles of her nipples as they rubbed against the silk.  She finished the effect with stockings and court shoes, pearl earrings and a dab of Chanel behind her ears, a smart county lady – and yet somehow not quite.

 

 

The other servants glared malevolently at Lucy’s back as they watched her take her place at dinner.  She lowered her eyes, her hands folded in her lap as they served her, murmuring her thanks and waiting to be addressed by Sir Hugh.  It soon became clear he was not going to speak and so they ate in silence.  As Soames brought the port and Sir Hugh lit a cigar, Lucy withdrew to the drawing room where she sat curled up on a sofa before the roaring fire and stared into the flames, waiting.

 

 

Without her to amuse them, the servants had to find other little games.  Lucy watched one morning from the library window as a group of footmen circled round a frightened-looking young girl on the drive who had injudiciously come knocking on the door collecting for charity.  Laughing, they shoved her, from one to the other, each snatching at her clothing and ripping it away as she screamed and tried vainly to cover her growing nakedness, coins spilling from her tin as it rolled away.  Lifting her by her wrists and ankles, they held her suspended as they took turns at raping her throat and cunt.  Lucy soon tired of it and turned away before they had finished with her, picking up her book again with the girl’s pleas for rescue still distantly ringing in her ears.

 

Crossing the stable yard early one morning, pulling on riding gloves and sporting Sir Hugh’s sister’s snugly-fitting jodhpurs and riding boots, Lucy paused for a moment, tapping the tip of her riding crop abstractedly against the side of her boot, as she watched the maids shrieking with delight as they danced around the youngest of their number – a plump girl with what Lucy thought a rather plain, dull sort of face but a generously curved arse and heavy melon-shaped breasts.  Looking closer, Lucy saw that each maid held a stinging nettle gingerly in her fingers and whipped it smartly across the poor girls flesh as she struggled helplessly against the ropes that lashed her wrists to the pump handle.  Lucy bit her lip, suppressing a smirk, as she saw the bunch of nettles protruding from the weeping girl’s cunt.

 

 

On Sunday morning, Lucy dressed in a tight, dark suit, with pearls at her throat and a prayer book in her hand, a mink coat trailing the floor behind her as she walked up the aisle of the church on Sir Hugh’s arm and sat in the family pew. 

 

“The virtuous woman is submissive to her man as Mary Magdalene was submissive to her Christ, kneeling to wash his feet, to dry them with her hair, to comfort him in his time of need.   This unchaste woman, this sinner, this whore found transfiguration in her servitude, paradise in her passivity.  So let it be with all daughters of Christ, let them submit and suffer, never thinking of their own passions or desires, naked of their earthly concerns, kneeling at the feet of he who is their master, entreating him night and day to bathe their upturned faces in the seed of life.”

 

On the walk home, Sir Hugh asked quietly, “Well Lucy, have you chosen?”

 

Lucy blushed and looked down at her feet, “Yes, Sir Hugh.”

 

“And what do you choose, Lucy?”

 

“I choose submission, Sir.”

 

“Submission to what?”

 

Lucy looked up at him suddenly and hr eyes flashed.  “Everything!”

 

 

Standing at the top of the stone steps that led up to the front door, holding a heavy silver tray of champagne glasses, trussed up again in her maid’s uniform, Lucy shivered a little in the summer breeze as the first of the cars swept up the drive, quickly followed by others, disgorging gorgeously-dressed guests.  They hooted and brayed at each other in greeting, the ladies air-kissing flamboyantly, the men kissing their hands.

 

“I say, Hugh,” cried one of the women as she climbed the stairs, “is this the new girl?  She’s got nice tits.”

 

One of he men gripped Lucy’s chin, pulling her top lip up with his thumb.  “Good teeth too.  If it was a horse I’d buy it!”

 

Snorting with laughter, they all clattered past her, some inspecting her, lifting her skirt to squeeze her arse or tugging experimentally on her nipple rings.  Others took a glass from her tray without noticing her, which Lucy found far more humiliating.

 

 

The ballroom was transformed for the party.  Hundreds of wax candles dripped from magnificent crystal chandeliers and lined the rococo-mirrored walls.  Small groups of Louis Quinze chairs and tables, piled with musky orchids, dotted the rooms and in a corner a string quartet played blindfolded as the guests mingled and drank and subtly arranged themselves into small parties of mutual attraction and lust. 

 

Lucy walked silently through the party, proffering her tray with down-cast eyes, seemingly attracting little attention until a boorish, chortling man stepped back suddenly and jogged her elbow, sending glasses flying.  “I say, Hugh old chap, your tart’s not doing it right.  Here, let me show you, tart.  Down on your hands and knees like a good little slut.  That’s right, now balance the tray on your back – more glasses, quick, fill them right up to the brim – now crawl tart, and don’t you dare spill a drop or we’ll have to punish you most severely.”

 

Lucy set off gingerly crawling but it was impossible.  The glasses tinkled and clinked together with every move she made and soon the room was ringing with cries of, “She’s spilled it!  She’s spilled it!  Beat her bottom!”  And they did.  Some used their hands to smack her wobbling buttocks, one man snatched a bunch of white, long-stemmed roses from a vase and whipped their stiff wet stalks across her arse raising laughter from the room as Lucy squealed.  They laughed louder as one of the women took off her shoe to beat Lucy with, inserting its long spike heel into her cunt and then smacking her buttock hard, crying “Giddy up horsey!” as Lucy crawled away again.

 

“I believe from some of my servants that she’s an excellent cock-sucker” announced Sir Hugh.  “Apparently she’s got almost no gag reflex – or not any more at least – and they’ve been able to throat fuck her quite brutally for hours on end.  Please, do have a try and see if they’re right…”

 

With her hands behind her back, Lucy sat back on her heels with her mouth wide open as the gentlemen guests took their turns with her, shoving their cocks down her throat and yanking her hair, jerking her head back and forth, forcing their cocks deeper until their balls were crushed against her lips.  Lucy squirmed, her face red her nostrils flared and her tits heaving as she struggled for air.  Spluttering and with thick white trails of spit dripping down her chin and mascara streaking her face, Lucy moaned hopelessly as yet another pair of hands circled her neck or shoved the back of her head down onto a twitching, spitting cock. 

 

As she satisfied them, the men began to lace her face with streaks of cum, letting it pool in her open mouth until she gargled and blew bubbles of cum, aiming it into her eyes until her lashes were gummed shut, spraying it into her nostrils until she sneezed out spunk, spraying it across her tits to cheers from the guests. 

 

“That’s quite enough now,” said a strident female voice.  It can’t all be fun for the men, how about a little fun for the ladies?”  Swiftly taking charge, she directed the men to tie ropes around Lucy’s ankles and toss the ends over the two enormous chandeliers.  Dividing into teams, taking off their jackets and rolling up their sleeves as they chattered and joshed each other, the men grabbed hold of the ropes and, on the count of three, hauled Lucy up, clear of the ground, her legs stretched achingly wide, her arms hanging down limply as she swayed and the chandeliers tinkled, their candles throwing huge, dancing shadows across the walls. 

 

Calling for more candles from the wall sconces, the strident lady began to slide them, one by one, into Lucy’s slippery slit until her pussy lips stretched tight around them – when she switched to Lucy’s arsehole.  Soon both holes were stuffed full and Lucy whimpered as she felt the blaze of the lighted candles hot against her skin. 

 

“Hugh, be a darling and fetch me that lovely whip you brought back from Africa – the one you demonstrated so thrillingly on my poor bottom.”

 

Dizzy and disorientated, Lucy swallowed hard as she watched Sir Hugh’s feet approach, upside down, and the monstrous whip uncoil across the ballroom floor.  Easily six feet long, of dark, supple, oiled leather and knotted heavily along its length, the whip took most of the ladies both hands to lift.  Shrieking with laughter, they raised it above their heads, taking a few steps back and a little teetering run-up on precipitous heels before lazily curling it around Lucy’s waist or slashing it across her belly. 

 

Even such inept whipping made Lucy flinch and moan, the candles guttering as the first trickles of scalding wax began to trickle down their sides.  But the men quickly grew impatient with the women, snatching the whip away to disappointed groans.  Lucy held her breath as the whip cracked menacingly through the air and then expelled it suddenly in a scream as it snapped across her tits, biting into her flesh.  She jerked and the chandeliers rattled and the first heavy bead of molten wax flew off the tip of one candle and splattered against the hollow of her thigh. 

 

The whip cracked across her buttocks, striping them blazing scarlet, its knots landing like punches against her soft flesh.  Lucy wailed as hot wax sprayed both thighs.  Again and again it cut across her arse and the wax landed in a shower of hot little beads on her pussy lips and the soft fold of her buttocks. 

 

Now the whip began to smack faster against Lucy’s jerking, squealing body, slashing indiscriminately at her thighs and belly, her shoulders and her tits.  Wax trickled down her belly, over her ribs, onto the undersides of her tits.  It dripped onto the tender, stinging skin around her stretched arsehole, down the crack of her buttocks and along her spine. 

 

Lucy moaned as her skin glowed pink with the mingled heat of wax and whip, oblivious to the strident lady, sulky and pouting at being excluded from the fun, as she advanced with a candle in her hand.  “How clever of you, Hugh, to have had the bitch pierced, so useful,” she said coldly as she slipped her little finger into Lucy’s clit ring, gently tugging at the hood of her clit, exposing the pulsing, swollen bud beneath.  Then quickly tipping her candle on its side, she let three drips of hot wax land right on its tip while Lucy howled and thrashed, kicking wildly as crystals showered from the chandeliers, smashing on the ground around her.

 

“Oh, I say, you didn’t let her cum did you?”

 

“Don’t be silly.  That was pure pain.  Slaves don’t cum.”

 

 

On the terrace, in the cold and misty night air, some of the guests passed the time by drinking and chatting, wrapped snugly in their furs.  Others inspected the horses on the lawn.  And some amused themselves buggering Lucy, bent over the stone balustrade, her tits bouncing and flopping with each savage thrust of a cock into her arse forcing her whole body further over the edge as she struggled and squirmed.

 

Finally, Sir Hugh emerged from the stable yard, the pack of hounds milling round his feet, barking and snuffling excitedly, their tails aloft, wagging madly at the excitement.  Gradually, the guests began to mount their horses, the ladies first, leaning forwards with their arms wrapped around the beasts’ necks as the men mounted behind them.  The horses whinnied and snorted, stamping the ground with their hooves as the smell of wet cunt hit their nostrils and the ladies wriggled back onto their partners’ cocks until they were safely impaled. 

 

Sir Hugh dragged Lucy by her arm from the terrace where she lay crumpled in a heap, sobbing gently and hugging her exhausted body.  “Ladies and gentlemen, you know the quarry.  We’re sporting types so we’ll give her a head start but then let fortune favour the fleet.”

 

He cracked his riding crop across Lucy’s legs and with a shocked stumble she began to run, pounding across the lawn in her thigh boots, her tag tinkling at her ribboned neck, her rolling, jiggling buttocks white in the moonlight.  She was barely at the edge of the woods, already panting and shivering as sweat dried on her skin, when she heard the hunting horn behind her and the thunder of hooves and the howl of the hounds. 

 

Swerving through the trees, lifting her arm to cover her face as she crashed through the undergrowth, shoving branches aside, their sharp, splintered tips scraping her skin, Lucy ran blindly on.  She could hear the terrible moaning and squealing of the women as the galloping horses, leaping and striding, drove the men’s cocks remorselessly into them. 

 

Remembering her walks with the hounds, and the way they snuffled out their path, following exciting scents, Lucy clambered over rocks and splashed waist deep through the icy river, trying to lose them.  But it was no good, the hounds remembered the scent of her wet cunt that day in the hut, their blood was up for the chase and nothing she did could shake them off. 

 

With her lungs burning, her heart thudding and every nerve in her body screaming, Lucy forced herself on, feeling the breath of the hounds on the backs of her thighs, her ears ringing with their cry.  Darting across a clearing in the woods, Lucy tripped, fell heavily, rolling over and over in the bracken as the hounds circled her, licking and sniffing at her and the horses crashed through the trees, their riders writhing in the ecstasy of orgasm.

 

Leaving the women draped, gasping and dripping with cum across the restless horses, the men dismounted, pulled the hounds off Lucy and cleared a path to her for Sir Hugh.  Lucy’s eyelids fluttered and she peered wearily up at him, her eyes snapping wide open, her mouth a perfect O of shock as she saw the beast that strained against the heavy chain around its neck.

 

“The victim is caught,” announced Sir Hugh “and as it’s her first hunt, it’s time for her to be blooded.  Do you know” he continued, in mellower tone, “the funny thing is that she’s only here because she was ashamed to be caught doing the very thing she’s about to do for you, my dearly esteemed guests.  Look…”

 

And to Lucy’s horror, he took from his pocket a handful of photos and flung them to the ground.  The amused guests picked them up, laughing.

 

“Oh, how funny, do look, they’re the hounds and she’s their bitch!”

 

“God that’s priceless – look at her face, she loves it!”

 

“No wonder the pack was keen tonight if that’s how walkies usually ends!”

 

Lucy ignored them, her gaze locked on Sir Hugh’s dog, a huge black mastiff, straining and slavering, its yellow teeth bared, its purple tongue lolling, dripping saliva.  It’s ears were pricked, its hackles up and its cock, swollen and rigid, swung heavily from side to side as it paced, snarling.

 

“Do you remember, Lucy, how we went to church together and you promised me you would submit to everything?”

 

Lucy licked her lips and swallowed.

 

“Well now, I want you to submit to Satan.  I want you to do it willingly and I want you to tell me how grateful you are to me and how much you love it.  Will you do that for me?”

 

The clearing fell silent, even the horses seemed poised for Lucy’s reply.  Dragging herself up off the ground and stiffly kneeling, her hands clasped behind her back and her face lowered, Lucy said softly, “I will.”

 

Then crawling on her hands and knees alongside the shivering dog, she wrapped the fingers of one hand around its straining cock, rubbing it firmly and steadily as it whined.  She leaned forward and licked the tip of its cock, then pressed her lips around it, kissing and sucking it slowly into her mouth until her cheek bulged.  All around her, the guests closed in, watching in fascinated horror.

 

“£100 says she can’t swallow it all down!”

 

“£500 she can!”

 

Tipping her head back, with both hands wrapped round the base of Satan’s cock, Lucy began to feed it down her throat while the guests roared and hooted and jeered.  Choking suddenly, spluttering and heaving, Lucy surged back to a round of disappointed groans.  Taking a deep breath, she tried again, her face red and tears streaming down her cheeks as she struggled to force it down.  Satan threw his head back and howled at the moon which raised cheers.

 

“Old Satan’s going to shoot his load before he’s had a sniff of her cunt.  Quick, turn her round.”

 

Grabbing Satan’s collar, Sir Hugh dragged him, whimpering, until he stood trembling behind Lucy, sniffing at her dripping cunt, licking it and making her moan and squirm. 

 

“Beg for it, Lucy.”

 

Turning her wide eyes up to Sir Hugh and with an unsteady voice, Lucy said, “Please, Sir Hugh, turn your dog loose on me, let Satan fuck me and turn me into one of the damned.”

 

Sir Hugh smiled slowly, coldly and murmured, “Good girl” then let Satan loose.  He pounced up, his front paws on Lucy’s shoulders as she crouched on all fours, his nails scraping red gouges in her skin.  He sank his teeth lightly into the nape of Lucy’s neck, pinning her in place as his cock bumped against her buttocks, for a moment, forcing into her arsehole but then slipping out again and driving with a single brutal thrust into her cunt.

 

Lucy screamed as she felt the head of Satan’s cock bump against the neck of her womb, drilling mercilessly into her bruised and pulpy cunt.  Through the shouting of the guests and the growling of the dog she could hear Sir Hugh.  “Tell my friends what you are, Lucy…”

 

“I’m a dog-fucking whore!”

 

He chuckled, indulgently.  “Yes, Lucy, that’s certainly what you are.”

 

 

It was dawn and the clearing was shrouded in a freezing mist when the guests finally assembled the hounds and mounted their horses again.  Sir Hugh took his shotgun to Satan because “a dog’s ruined once it’s got a taste for human cunt”.

 

Lucy’s lifeless body lay, awkwardly splayed, her limbs twisted on the frosty ground, spunk drying on her thighs, her eyes staring and blank.  Only the slight throb of a blue, pulsing vein against the thin, translucent skin of her wrist betrayed any sign of life.

 

Foskett the Gardener wheeled his barrow into the clearing, hoisting Lucy up and dumping her in it, wheeling her back to the patch of land beside his hut.  There, among the beds of carrots and runner beans, lay a shallow trench.  He tipped Lucy’s body onto the pile of soil he’d excavated at its side, binding her wrists and ankles with garden twine before rolling her into the ditch. 

 

Lucy blinked up at the grey sky, unresisting as Fosket crouched down and prised her lips apart with his thumb and slid a length of hollow rubber pipe into her mouth.  Then standing again, he took up his shovel and began to toss the earth back into the pit, strewing it across Lucy’s belly, showering her face with crumbs of dirt.  As the earth pressed heavily against her body, Lucy felt its warmth enfolding her and gazed up gratefully at Foskett.  He worked on, gradually covering her, leaving her pretty face until last but then finally pressing the soil down, packing it tightly with the heel of his boot around the protruding inch of rubber pipe.

 

He stood back, leaning on his shovel with satisfaction at his handy work.  In truth, the pipe was a fancy of his – Sir Hugh never came back to a girl he’d broken – but this one had caught Foskett’s eye and he knew of a bull in the next field but one that would be coming into his rutting season any day now...

 

        

 

 

Comments

[somf1963-Charles Seguin]

Lucy,
You've done it yet again. As I sit here trying to put into words what I want to say I can't. What a Beautiful mind you have.Anyone who knows you is the better for it,I'm sure.I wish it were I.

I do wonder if you like knowing there are thousands of men out in the world mastrubating thinking of you?

Not just your stories.

I wish I could get my hands on the asshole who caused you to stop showing pictures of yourself.

Charles

[Hugh]

Lucy

I am just blown away. I think I come up with a perverse idea and you just take it to another level. Thank you so very much. I will have to go back and read and re-read that.

I am actually reading it in a hotel in Fiji - in the Business Centre. I wonder if anyone else has ever wanked to oragsm in this room before?

BTW - does that make me your longest distance fan?

Thanks again

love & lust

Hugh

[Faye]

Hello everyone. Whatever you fear most has no power - it is your fear that has the power.
I am from Swaziland and learning to speak English, tell me right I wrote the following sentence: "The body neuroanatomy works presented by the bone."

THX :-(, Faye.