Lost Property (16 page)

Chapter Eleven

The nights were warm and Blondie enjoyed the soft breezes that blew through the gaps in her two-part stable door as dawn neared. When her breakfast was served in her trough by a young woman who always smiled and called her ‘Ma Blonde’, the top half of the door was left open and she could stand and look out at the yard, which stabled real horses as far as she could see, and for the few days she had been there, it seemed the weather was permanently sunny. She knew that everyone was speaking French but that knowledge had caused her some discomfort. It had been on the first morning when she had been properly awake. She had woken on her bed in her stall and there had been two people standing over her, one was a smartly dressed man in his mid forties and the other was a dark haired woman in riding clothes, complete with the sort of riding hat and gauze veil that women used to wear to ride side saddle. They had spoken to each other about her and she had recognised the words as French.

“She is a magnificent specimen when you see her close up,” the woman said.

“She is indeed. We’ll give her a couple of days to recover and then run her and start making arrangements,” the man replied.

She had been able to speak French fluently back in the days when she used to go skiing a lot. That was back in the days before she had been…Suddenly it was as if she had been paddling in the shallows of a friendly blue sea but had taken one step too far and had found herself in cold, dark, deep waters, sinking fast. She didn’t want to go back there! In an attempt to physically thrust the thought away she turned over and sat up.

“
Et voila
!” the man said. “Already she is well on the road to being fit and healthy once more!”

Then they had gone and she had not seen them since. Mostly she had slept and used the time to rest, the stiffness in her legs had gradually faded, the welts had been rubbed with some sort of ointment by her regular girl and were now almost gone, so far as she could see. As she padded about her stall, her chain clinking and slithering along the cobbles beneath the straw, she was aware that various strains and pulls were settling back down. At home, the vet would have checked her out and Patti and the rest of the grooms would have fussed over her but Carlo had seen fit to hire her out to these people who seemed content to let her recover at her own pace.

By the third day she was becoming restless. She was perfectly capable of earning her keep, so why was no one playing with her or using her? They must have paid plenty for her, after all. She was also feeling very horny. Having gone down so early in the finale, she had missed out on the action with the men, and it was that which made everything else worthwhile as far as she was concerned. She had always been the last, or one of the last, to go down and had always taken repeated shaggings and orgasmed time and time again for the cameras. But not on this last occasion and she was left with a nagging feeling of need in her belly.

So when at last she heard footsteps and voices approaching her stall, she was standing hopefully just inside when the woman and the man reappeared. The woman was dressed as before, in a perfectly tailored dark green jacket that hugged every contour of her spectacular figure. She wore it over a crisp white shirt and Blondie could see a fabulously expensive gold chain and locket hanging against the tanned skin of her neck. As she unbolted the door and entered, Blonde saw that this time she was wearing a calf length skirt, that matched the jacket and was cut generously, over soft, brown leather boots. The man was in immaculately pressed tan slacks and a blue sweater. Simple and elegant.

The woman came straight over to her. “Here, girl,” she said in slightly accented English, and held out her hand. In it was one of her favourite shortbread biscuits. Eagerly she bent her head and came forward as the woman held her hand up so she could take it with her teeth and crunch it up.

“That’s a good pony,” she cooed and reached out to stroke her hair. She was several inches shorter than Blondie was so she bent her head to be petted and the woman laughed in delight and patted her flank before returning to stroking her.

“She’s clear of any marks now,” the man said, walking behind her. “We’ll run her and see how she goes.”

“Okay, but I want her shod,” the woman agreed and summoned Claire, the groom. The shoes were not the clumsy hoof-like ones she was sometimes run in, but were quite feminine with three inch wedge heels, steel soled. As she stood, obediently lifting each foot behind her while Claire straddled her calf to shoe her, the woman and man fetched her tack. And it was immediately clear that they wanted a show pony. The bridle was topped with pale green and blue feathers. The girth had a beautifully worked silver coat of arms on a plate that covered her stomach, and the tail that came off the crupper, mounted on and lifted by, an upward curving silver prong, was real palomino. For her breasts there were silver cones to go over her nipples and a clever, silver filigree device that came down from the front of her high, silver collar, parted between the breasts and supported them with wire cups worked into swirling and circling patterns, so that nothing was concealed – just perfectly displayed.

Blondie relaxed, her master had sent her somewhere where they really knew about ponies.

The tack wasn’t studded so it was comfortable. The crupper strap had a clitoral rasp and there was a butt plug to ensure that the prong which mounted the tail was held steady, but that was all. She was well used to the pins that pierced her nipples to hold the cones in place and merely stamped her feet irritably when they were applied. When the bridle went on, the woman spent some time admiring the heavy tongue ring she wore, before she passed the bit through it and clipped it to the rings and reins at either end. It was good to feel the straps being tightened under her chin and at her cheeks and nape again. She was back under control and her thoughts couldn’t wander into dangerous territory again.

As she was led out, her sandals clip-clopping and scraping on the stone, she saw a trap very similar to the ones she was used to pulling at The Lodge. It was large wheeled and with a quilted leather seat, it was a two-seater with the shafts curved in so that her wrists could be shackled to them comfortably. The long carriage whip stood in its holder, the lash stirring lazily in the faint breeze. She was led to the front and backed between the shafts which were then lifted so she could grasp them while the karabiners were fastened to the rings in her cuffs. Then while the woman seated herself and Blondie adjusted her grip as the weight shifted behind her, the man clipped blinkers onto her bridle.

With the taste of the steel bit in her mouth, the tight strapping about her head and body, her vision restricted and her hair, gathered into a pony tail, bouncing on her shoulders, her tail swishing against her thighs, she felt alive again. The whip lightly touched the centre of her back and she immediately leaned into her work. Within a few paces she was able to break into a trot and the reins were dragged hard to her right as she was made to turn the rig and head out of the yard. Once the rattling of the wheels over the cobbles had stopped and the trap was running on the hard- packed, red earth track that stretched in front of it, Blondie felt the whip flicked backwards and forwards across her back and shoulders a few times. She picked up the pace.

“Good girl!” the man’s voice called. “Trot on now!”

The whip rested lightly on her back again to tell her to keep it up and feeling content and happy, Blondie headed out into the parkland which was all she could see dead ahead of her. Gradually the track bent to her left and eventually, still trotting easily, she saw the house from between her blinkers.

It was the most beautiful château that she had ever seen. The panes in the tall windows sparkled in the morning sun and the blue tiled turrets and steep roofs reached high into the sky above the dormer windows of the third storey. It was surrounded by a mill pond smooth moat and the track was leading towards a bridge that spanned it. She was whipped up as they approached it to help her trot up the upward slope and then they were coasting down and around to the front door.

“Whoa!” the man called, hauling back on the reins and making the bit slide back into her mouth, dragging her tongue ring with it. She reared her head and leaned back, bringing the trap to a smooth halt at the foot of the stairs that led to the front door which opened and a woman dressed in an old fashioned serving maid’s dress came down the steps carrying a hamper. There was a slight alteration in the weight distribution behind her and she knew the hamper was being stowed behind the seat. Then she was whipped up again and they headed out into acres of secluded pasture and woodland.

She was trotted and walked until the heat of the sun was making sweat run down between her breasts and her crupper was beginning to chafe between her labia. The couple driving her seemed content to meander along tracks that were sometimes in the shade and sometimes out in the full glare of the sun, but weren’t too hard on her. Nevertheless, after an hour or so her breathing was loud in her ears, saliva was hanging in strings from the corners of her open mouth and dripping onto her breasts and she could feel sweat running down her back and stinging as it found the stripes from the whip. Then whoever was driving decided that nothing would do except a full gallop. The whip began to land with real venom for the first time, and also for the first time, it was expertly wrapped to bite and sting her breasts, so conveniently held out-thrust by the filigree cups. Instantly all thoughts of discomfort were banished. More effort was needed and her master had taught her that her only reason for existing was to provide it for those who required it from her.

Joyfully she flung herself forwards and lost herself in the sweet sensations of physical exertion under the pleasure and pain of the lash. She was running almost blind from sweat and tears by the time she was reined in, gasping around her bit and slathering down her chest. The couple dismounted and thoughtfully the woman came round and wiped the sweat from her eyes and stopped them stinging, and as her breathing calmed down, Blondie settled down to wait. She knew she was in the hands of competent slave handlers who knew how to get the best from her. Her master had known best all along – as always.

Marie unpacked the terrines and the bread whilst Marcel opened the Krug and the pair settled down to enjoy the day, the food, the drink and the slave. Marcel had left Blondie with her hands raised and tied to a branch of the spreading chestnut they sat beneath. The pair sipped their ice cold champagne from the cooler and surveyed Marcel’s prize. He smiled in amusement as he noted how Marie feasted her eyes on the slave’s magnificent physique. His step sister had always been an avid collector of submissives – male and female - and here she was at last, alone with the most famous one in the world. He noted her breasts begin to heave as she took in the flesh and blood reality of Blondie’s naked breasts, she began to fidget her own thighs beneath her skirt as she surveyed the blonde’s long and graceful thighs.

“Make her dance for me,
mon cher
,” she said at last, sitting up straighter and unzipping her riding boots to wriggle her toes in the grass beside their picnic cloth.

“As you wish,” Marcel said, draining his glass and standing up.

He unscrewed the prong her tail was mounted on so that it wouldn’t hamper the lash and laid it carefully aside, then unshipped the driving whip. The big blonde watched him from over one shoulder calmly as he looked her over and measured his distance before beginning the beating. Whipping up a pony was always enjoyable, but was restricted to what would make her run better and keep her focussed on her work. But here, he was free to enjoy a full body whipping purely for the pleasure of it. And afterwards there would be all the considerable pleasures that Marie could provide him with – and had been providing him with for many years. Blondie offered a flagellator a superb body, the back strong, the shoulders broad. The waist was slender, flaring out to broad hips with buttocks that cried out to be lashed. And as for the breasts and the delta at the top of the powerful thighs! With her girth protecting her stomach, there was no reason to hold back.

He didn’t.

The blonde spun and writhed at the end of the rope as the lash smacked home, the long tail wrapping her and the weighted end thudding onto her. Occasionally a muffled grunt escaped her as a particularly spiteful lash bit at the fronts of her thighs or dug in between them. After about fifty he stopped for a break and strolled back to refill his glass. Marie had shed her skirt, jacket and shirt, and was wearing only the exquisitely embroidered corset she wore beneath them. She was kneeling up, her thighs well apart, one hand idly stroking between them. She smiled at him as he resumed his seat, her eyes bright and eager.

“She can soak it up alright! When can we play with her properly?”

“We’ve got guests in a couple of weeks and I thought it might be a good opportunity to begin to advertise – and to play of course.”

He watched the blonde whose breathing had now eased down once more. But her writhings under the lash had inflamed Marie and she flung herself onto her step brother, who lay back and shed his light sweater as she kissed him lightly and then began to make her way down his body. He knew that he was the only man in the world to whom she offered fellation and it made the experience all the sweeter. He lifted his hips to help her strip him of his trousers and pants, then she knelt up and urgently fumbled them down to his ankles, almost ripping his shoes off in her haste, then with a sigh of satisfaction she lay forwards between his spread thighs and began to lick her way up from his balls, her fingers gently looped around the rapidly hardening shaft of his cock. Marcel lay back and absorbed the pleasure of Marie’s industrious tongue as it foraged deep behind his balls and slowly worked its way back up, then there was the delight of feeling her soft lips furled carefully over her teeth as his glans was taken deep into the tight little cave of her mouth. Now her tongue worked its magic properly, flicking and licking delicately, exciting, teasing. He held on to his self control though – she would gladly swallow him if he chose to spend in her mouth, but he rather fancied the humid tunnel of her vagina. The sight of the blonde’s well-whipped body was driving him on, but he never fucked a pony slave while she was in harness; he felt it sent out the wrong message to her. So he would fuck his step-sister instead.