Prologue

 

In Another Place.

“Gillian’s ready now, Mr Platt,” Alison said, putting her head round the door of Platt’s office.

George Platt looked up from the account book he was working on and smiled at the bright, helpful face of his kennel maid. “Thank you, Alison.”

Platt took a medium weight cane from the selection hanging from a row of hooks on the wall and swished it experimentally through the air. Pocketing a couple of other items he followed Alison out into the yard.

The yard was a brick-cobbled square some twenty yards across enclosed by Platt’s office and lodging, the stores and workrooms and the kennel block itself. Iron rings had been set at waist height in the sections of blank wall between the overlooking doors and windows, while from under the eaves above them projected heavy wrought iron angle brackets.

It was from one of these brackets that the only other occupant of the yard was suspended.

She was a woman in her early twenties, very slim and pale-skinned and, apart from a broad black studded collar fastened about her neck, completely naked. Her taut body hung from her upstretched arms so that her toes dangled two feet from the ground. Thick leather cuffs secured her wrists to a few links of chain and the ring that hung over the hook on the end of the bracket. A leather strap had been buckled about her knees, while another set of cuffs with a trailing chain bound her ankles. These constraints shaped her body into a slender arrowhead, twisting slightly from side to side as far as the chain that held her allowed. The stretching of her pectoral muscles exposed the pale hollows of her armpits and pulled her small high breasts into pointed pink-topped lozenges. Nervous breathing caused a rapid swell and contraction of the shallow double-dome of flesh under her navel that perfectly complimented her lean waist. Her head, crowed by a mane of blonde hair tied in a simple pony-tail, hung forward between her upstretched arms as though in shame. Her eyes stared sightlessly down at the ground.

A flick of Platt’s cane across her midriff jerked her back to her senses. Blue eyes wide with apprehension met his stern gaze.

“Now then, Gillian,” he said. “You know why you’re here.”

“Yes, Mr Platt,” she whimpered. “To be punished. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again, I promise!”

“No you won’t girl,” Platt said assuredly. “This session will make certain of that. Alison: lift her feet.”

Alison grasped the chain trailing from Gillian’s ankle cuffs and climbed the small stepladder placed beside the unfortunate girl, drawing the chain after her. Gillian bent in the middle like a jack-knife, the strap about her knees forcing her legs to remain straight, until her feet were almost level with her bound hands. Alison hooked the ankle chain over the bracket and then reached between Gillian’s legs and chest. A snap ring dangled from her collar, and this Alison fastened to the strap about her knees so that Gillian’s face was pressed against her shins.

Alison stepped down.

Now Gillian hung like the gourd of some exotic fruit ripe for picking, her hips almost at shoulder height, leaving her genitalia completely exposed. Her tightly bound knees squeezed her thighs together and forced her mounded cunt lips, from which the golden curls of her belly hair had been trimmed back, into an unwilling pout.

But it was the orifice below this that held Platt’s attention. He poked the dark pucker of Gillian’s anus with a stiff forefinger, making the girl jerk helplessly within her bonds.

“Now, girl,” Platt said, “what’s this?”

“My… my bottom hole, sir,” Gillian said despairingly.

“And what’s it for?”

“To void my excrement, sir.”

“And what else?”

“To… to give pleasure to anybody I’m serving, sir.”

“Good,” Platt said. He took up a stance to one side of Gillian and rested his cane across her tight buttocks. “Now we’re going to drive that message home so you’ll never forget it.”

The cane swished through the air and smacked into her flesh.

Gillian yelped, twisting on her chain like a plum bob. A thin red weal burned across her bottom cheeks and the split peach of her cunt that rose between them. Platt let her come to rest, and then asked:

“What can be put up your bottom hole, girl?”

“Cocks, fingers, dildos… bum plugs… anything! Sir.” Gillian gasped.

Smack!

“And how often can these things be put up there?”

“As many times as my user wishes…”

Smack!

“And do you have any say in the matter?”

“No, sir… not my place, sir…”

Smack!

“What if it hurts you a little?”

“I’m… here to suffer, sir.”

Smack!

“So will you ever refuse your bottom hole to anyone again?”

“No, sir… they can cram it full with whatever they want, sir…”

Smack!

“What are you?”

“A bond slave… a pack bitch…”

Smack!

“And don’t you ever forget it,” Platt said, lowering the cane.

As the girl hung sobbing and trembling he examined the results of his handiwork. Her bottom was crisscrossed with weals and scarlet with heat, but the skin had not been broken. Long experience had taught him just how much force to use on such occasions. Now there was one final detail and the punishment would be complete.

“You’ll stay up here until lunch, girl,” he told Gillian, “then back to work. I’ll see you later to make sure you’ve learnt your lesson. Understand?”

Gillian nodded as far as her bonds allowed and said faintly: “Yes, Mr Platt… thank you.”

Platt took out of his pocket one of the items he had brought from his office. It was a hook set in the end of a length of inch- thick wooden dowel with a shallow screw thread carved into its surface. “Now, I need a place to hang a hook. Do you know of one, girl?”

Tremulously Gillian replied: “If it’s convenient, sir… please use my bottom hole.”

With the tapering wooden thread forcing her anal ring open, Platt screwed the dowel into the yielding tunnel of her rectum until only the hook end was visible. Then from another pocket he took an old tinplate alarm clock, checked it was wound, set the alarm and hung it on the hook protruding from its fleshy mount.

“That’ll remind us when you’re ready to come down, girl.”

He turned to Alison, who had been watching the whole procedure in attentive and fascinated silence.

“Gag her. I don’t want to hear a peep until the alarm goes.”

“Yes Mr Platt,” Alison said dutifully.

Platt returned to his office. Through the window he could see Gillian’s pale, slender form dangling in the sun. He noticed she shivered occasionally, probably having a cry to herself now the worst was over, he thought.

Still he knew it had been necessary, and in the long run it would make her term of service easier. George wanted the girls under his care to be the very best, so sometimes he had to be cruel to be kind.

 


1: The Puzzle Box

 

Amber Jones flitted through Hoakam Woods like a wraith, her black tee shirt and jeans merging with the shadows under the trees as her trim form moved with cat-footed sureness.

Reaching a large oak tree, its base half concealed by bushes, Amber halted and looked around her intently. Once assured she was not observed, she burrowed into the shrubbery and pulled back a fold of turf. From under this she withdrew a heavy sack wrapped in thick black plastic sheet, which she opened lovingly. Within it was piled select small antiques, solid silverware, strings of pearls and assorted jewellery.

Amber smiled in satisfaction at the precious items, her attractive face lighting up as her lips parted to reveal white, even teeth. The set of her jaw was determined, her nose delicately square-tipped and slightly uptilted, while her cool clear hazel-blue eyes held a mischievous sparkle. Her eyebrows were boldly marked and her forehead smooth, high and intelligent, rising under a crown of short cropped brown hair.

Amber unzipped her black nylon hold all and the proceeds of her latest robbery joined the stash. She was about to add her pouch of trusty lock picks when the puzzle box caught her eye.

It was a black lacquered box about six by ten by three inches deep, inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory in the design of an oriental dragon with a tail that ran all the way round the box, so that the beast appeared to be eating the tip. She’d acquired it two jobs back, but so far she had been unable to discover its concealed catch and didn’t want to damage such beautiful workmanship by forcing it open.

But this time, as she handled the box, she felt one of the dragon’s baleful pearl eyes shift downward slightly under her finger. Ahh, was that the trick? She felt across the lid. One of the claws also seemed to give slightly. She felt around further, finding a scale on the dragon’s encircling tail was slightly proud of the rest. She pressed firmly down on all three elements at once. There was a tiny click from within and the box sprang open.

Amber gaped in amazement at the interior.

The inside of the lid was laid out with many small raised ivory buttons, resembling a calculator keypad, each marked with the characters of some oriental script. Other buttons were set apart, rather like function controls, on either side of a central block laid out in a five by five grid. This was strange enough by itself, but in conjunction with the items in the lower half of the box it was positively bizarre. Nestling in beds of white silk, were three ivory phallus heads, coloured red, green and blue, with three screw-topped handles resting beside them.

The heads were about six inches long and slightly curved. Each had the tiny carved figure of a nude woman at its base, her legs and arms embracing the shaft and chained together at the wrists and ankles. The figure’s back and neck were arched, lifting the uptilted head away from the shaft as though in ecstasy.

Amber shook her head in wonderment. Though the ‘keypad’ had to be modern, both it and the phalluses had the indefinable aura of genuine antiques. Curiously she pressed a couple of buttons. Nothing happened. Perhaps the battery’s dead, she thought wryly.

“You’re under arrest,” a woman’s voice said behind her.

Amber froze in astonishment and dismay.

“Bring out your bag and whatever you’ve got in your hand,” the voice continued. “We can collect the rest later.”

Very slowly Amber backed out from under the bush, stood up and turned around.

A young black woman of about her own age faced her, dressed in a runner’s shorts and singlet, with a small pack slung over her shoulder. She was holding out a warrant card for Amber to see.

“Constable Kingston, Hoakam police,” she said, pocketing the card again. She stepped forward and took Amber by the shoulder. “Amber Jones, I’m arresting you on suspicion of burglary…’

Amber felt numb as her rights were read, only managing to protest feebly at the end: “Look, I just found this box under the bush. I don’t know anything about it.”

“So your fingerprints won’t be on any of the other stolen items I bet are hidden under there?”

They were, of course. She’d handled them without gloves after she’d stolen them. Careless!

Amber looked hopefully into Kingston’s face. It was rather attractive actually; smooth coffee-dark skin, clear deep brown eyes, wide full lips, crinkled hair tied back in a thick ponytail. Unfortunately there was no sign of a gullible nature, just determination. In all not a combination of characteristics she normally associated with police personnel. Well, it would have had to have taken someone a little out of the ordinary to catch her.

Amber shrugged resignedly. “How did you find me?”

“By thinking for myself. There was a different style about these jobs, a touch of bravado. The boys from area crime -”

“I’m flattered to hear they were called in.”

“Because you burgled so many influential people around here. Anyway, they thought whoever did it was heading back up the motorway to the city after each job. But there was no word on the street about it and none of the items were being fenced. So I thought maybe it was bolder and simpler than that. It was a long shot but I made enquiries and sure enough you’d rented a small cottage on the edge of Hoakam woods, almost central to the robberies. But you haven’t got a record, so to prove my hunch I had to get you with the goods, and I knew you wouldn’t keep them in the cottage. I’ve spent all my off-duty time since training here, and today I finally tracked you down.”

“Now I remember seeing you about. Good disguise.”

“I’m a serious runner.”

“And now you’ve proved a local plod can solve the crime wave when the big city boys couldn’t.”

“A local black woman plod, yes.”

“Ahh. I can see that would make you go that extra mile.” She looked down at the puzzle box she was still holding. “Well, I suppose you’d better have this. Odd thing, isn’t it -”

And she threw it into Kingston’s face.

Kingston twisted aside to avoid the box and leaped on Amber before she had managed a couple of steps, catching her round the legs and sending them both crashing to the ground. Struggling and kicking they rolled over through the mud and leaf litter, Kingston trying to twist Amber’s arm behind her back while Amber tried to land an incapacitating blow. But her opponent was faster and stronger than she was. This time there would be no escape -

Then they rolled over the puzzle box which lay open where it had fallen. Amber’s flailing elbow rammed down on the keypad.

The air seemed to warm and thicken about them while the rustle of the breeze in the leaves grew muted. Their tussle took on a dream-like slow motion quality. Amber felt her nipples harden and her vaginal muscles contract as lustful desire replaced fear and anger. The fight also seemed to be draining from her opponent. As her grip slackened Amber pushed her to arm’s length and saw the confused expression on Kingston’s face, saw her nipples peaking through her singlet and knew she was feeling the same sensations as she was. Burning desire and desperate need that overwhelmed all else - but not for each other.

As one they turned their heads to the puzzle box. The simple functionality of the phalluses nestling so invitingly within it suddenly seemed irresistibly appealing. Amber didn’t stop to wonder why, or how unlikely the sudden onset of desire was, she only knew she had to use one.

They both reached for the box together.

Amber kneed Kingston in the stomach. “It’s mine!” she shouted.

As Kingston doubled over whooping for breath, Amber scrambled to her feet, snatched up the box and her holdall and sprinted away through the trees.

But she had hardly gone fifty yards when she realised her pants were wet with the thought of a hard, smooth rod of ivory thrusting up inside her. Her body was one big hole that needed filling. Though it was crazy in the circumstances, she had to satisfy herself immediately!

A little way above the meandering path was a slight hollow in the wooded slope where the roots of a fallen beech had pulled a great bite out of the earth. Amber scrambled up to it and threw herself down in the soft moss and old leaf litter, resting her head on her holdall. Feverishly she pulled down her jeans and pants, dragging them off over her trainers and kicking them aside.

She spread her lean and shapely legs; her glistening pubic lips gaping wide to the open air while leaves stuck to her bare bottom. Breathing faster, her hands trembling, she took a phallus head from the box, screwed a handle into it and without any preliminaries plunged it into herself, grasping it in both hands as though she was wielding some sacrificial dagger.

She gasped and arched her back, feeling her sheath contract around the phallus, trying to draw it deeper inside. How could mere carved ivory feel this good? It seemed to swell, fitting her perfectly, the upturned head of the chained figure at its base burrowing into her upper cleft and grinding against her already erect clitoris. She worked it vigorously up and down, feeling an inexorable wave of ecstasy rising within her… surging higher… cresting… bursting.