ALICE: SLAVE’S FINAL REVENGE (2 page)

“
And how did you get your hooks into Lord Gabriel now?” Christopher narrows his eyes shrewdly. “I hear he has quite the sexual appetite. There’s been talk of a unique human ‘farm’.”

I blush. I’m not one to blush easily, but the memories of that farm come rushing back, unbidden.

Christopher catches this.

“
Oh, so you are acquainted with that farm. What role did you have to play in it, tell me?”

Now I’m embarrassed. Here I am, trying to reinvent myself as a corporate raider (albeit with a lot of help), and I want to appear as a tough woman. A woman to be reckoned with in the boardroom. A woman with a high I.Q. and remarkable business wiles. I certainly don’t want to be reminded of my role as a human milk cow in the hierarchy of the farm.

“
I want the truth,” Christopher demands. “Your father has not been truthful in many of his dealings with me. How are you, a Devlin, any different?”

I suck in a deep breath.

“
You are right,” I say. “To show you how sincere I am about doing this, I will tell you the truth.”

Briefly, I outline my time as a milk cow on Gabriel Wolfe’s sex farm. Christopher asks me some intimate questions (“How roughly did they squeeze your tits?” “Did they fuck you while they were milking you?”, and I hold nothing back.

Finally, when I have finished, he says, pertinently, “Did you like what was being done to you, lassie?”

His bushy eyebrows are raised and his eyes are cornflower blue and very sharp.

I don’t think it’s in my best interest to lie.

I say, “Yes.”

And I gaze steadfastly into his blue eyes to show him my honesty.

The smile on Christopher’s face is cunning.

“
How far are you willing to go, lassie, to gain my support?”

This is it. I can feel the net closing in. His and mine. But my justification is concrete. My father has punished me, and I have taken my punishment in my stride. I have even enjoyed it.

I say, “Anything.”

Outside, the clop clop clop of a horse’s hooves arrests our attention.

“
Hey, Dad,” calls a male voice.

A very tall, very blond young man comes to the door. He is also wearing a kilt and a simple white shirt for a top. He stops short as soon as he sees me.

He smiles.

He does not take his eyes off me as he says, “I was going to tell you, Dad, that we have a visitor. I could see the car from the hills. But I see you’ve already met her.”

He is a very handsome youth. Quite the image of his father when he was young. I wouldn’t mind . . . oh well.

Christopher says, “This is Alice Devlin. I have an interesting proposition for her – something that will satisfy you lads.”

“
Really?” The blond youth steps inside. He holds out his hand to me. “Devlin . . . the name sounds familiar.”

I shake his hand. His warmth permeates my flesh, sending pleasurable tingles through me.

“
That’s because she’s that bastard Russell Devlin’s daughter.”

“
I never knew he was a bastard.” The youth smiles at me. “I’m Philip.”

“
Alice here is willing to do anything to get my bloc of voting shares.”

Philip’s expression lights up.

“
Anything?” he says in a lower, seductive voice.

4

Christopher McArthur has seven sons. Can you beat that? Seven.

I am a little nervous. Here we are, about to play a little game of ‘catching the fox’. Only I am the fox this time.

Why did I agree to this again? Oh yes, because I want revenge on my father. And I’m willing to do anything for it.

They made me wear a little bikini made out of red fox fur. It isn’t enough to warm me. My nipples are only just covered and my breasts jut out voluminously in their tight confines. I clasp my hands around my torso to keep warm. Out here, the winds sweep in from the north. Even at the end of summer, it is desperately chilly.

Christopher studies me, shivering in the cold. We are alone at the edge of the forest. His sons are still at the stables, curry-combing their horses and saddling them up and doing whatever people are supposed to do when they ride horses.

“
You’re a strapping lass,” he observes. “Sure you can take a wee bit of cold?”

My teeth clatter. “It’s colder than I’m used to.”

“
Then the hunt will warm you up.” He takes out a pocket watch. “I’ll give you a head start of . . . fifteen minutes. After that, you have about an hour to run and hide. Whatever happens during that hour will depend on whether you get caught.”

I listen mutely.

“
Do you understand?” he says in a sharper tone.

I nod. “What happens . . . happens.”

“
Good, daughter of Russell Devlin. Now let’s see how well you play at being prey. Go!”

I turn and flee. My feet are shod in some sort of fur-lined moccasins. I am perfectly aware that my skimpy apparel is made out of animals these Scottish men hunted and shot and skinned. And now I’m their prey.

I’m not sure what happens if I’m caught. These men are tough, virile, unpredictable.

The ground is hard under my soles. My feet fly, throwing out clods of dirt and bits of grass. My blood pulses and races throughout my whole body. Christopher is right. I am warming up. But where do I run? Everywhere I look, there are trees and more trees. I am about to get hopelessly lost because I wouldn’t be able to find my way back without a compass. But maybe I don’t want to be found. Not for at least an hour.

I am quite a good runner. But I haven’t been running for a long time, and so I’m getting winded. I slow down. My thighs ache from the constant pumping and there’s a constriction in my chest that has to do with not getting enough oxygen to nourish my exerting body.

I should stop. I should rest. I pause at a tree, panting. My vision is swimming with stars and little green dots. Overhead, the sun dapples the ground through the latticework of foliage. I gulp in the air. It is crisp and fresh and cold. But I have warmed up sufficiently now.

My bra has come down because it is strapless, exposing my breasts. I adjust it to cover my nipples again, which are very erect because of the cold and excitement.

I look up. I am in front of a tree. Maybe that’s the best hiding place. Up above where the sturdy men on horses can’t get me.

I inspect the tree. I am a fair climber. There are enough stumpy branches for me to latch my feet on, and so I start to shuffle up the tree. I climb and climb as much as I can until the ground completely recedes from my view.

When I decide I’m high enough, I pause. I balance myself in between two branches and gaze out into the forest. I’m not high enough to take in the whole valley, but the view here is a lot brighter, thanks to a lot more sun.

I will stay here.

Let them find me, if they can.

I smile, envisioning those horses trundling below me and the young men astride their backs, unable to find me through the morass of trees. Oh yes, I can while the whole hour away like this. In fact, I have a fifteen minute head start.

This is totally a good idea.

It is then I hear the baying of the hounds.

My face falls.

5

Hounds! They brought hounds!

That isn’t fair!

OK, technically this is a hunt, and so they have a right to bring hounds. But hounds can sniff out my scent. My scent is all over my stuff in my suitcase, which I have conveniently left in the draughty guest room they allotted to me.

I can track exactly where they are by the yelping and barking of the hounds. They are coming closer. The hounds are picking up my scent. I cringe back into the tree, wishing desperately I can meld with the wood. I honestly don’t know how far they will go if I am caught.

The wind catches my hair and blows into the direction of the hunters. No! That is exactly not what I want. Maybe I should shimmy down the tree and run again and take my chances. But my thighs ache terribly, and I’m not sure I can run a hundred feet, let alone to the edge of the forest – wherever it is. I’m better off up here.

Or maybe not. I don’t know.

I’m scared. Despite telling myself that they are not going to hurt me even though I’m the designated fox here, I have seen enough of the hunting trophies on their walls to sincerely doubt everything.

The hounds are coming closer. I can hear the galloping of hooves now. Voices, shouting:

“
Over here! He’s got something!”

I hug the branch I am on and try to flatten myself.

And then they are here. Right below my tree. I can see them and the hounds can see me. Two beagles and a bloodhound, yelping, whining. Their tails are wagging furiously as their paws scrabble against the bark below.

“
She’s here!” cries someone.

The horses canter to a stop. Beneath my tree, horseflesh and men boil on the ground, filling the air with the smell of hide and leather and animal sweat. I can hear men dismounting.

“
There she is!”

“
Yes, you can see her legs!”

They crowd around the tree.

“
Hey, Alice, you up there?”

Laughter.

“
Who’s going to get her?”

“
You, Billy. You were always the best climber.”

“
Who gets to her first gets first dibs at her cunt.”

“
But we can’t all climb up there. The tree won’t hold us.”

So one of them is going to climb up and get me. But not without a fight! Yes, I know I consented to whatever will happen to me here. I even signed the contract in front of Christopher. But it doesn’t mean I can’t put up a fight, just as it doesn’t mean they can’t put up a real hunt, complete with hounds and guns.

“
Go get her, Billy. Drag her down for us and we’ll do the rest.”

Laughter.

Yes, Billy. Come right up. I’m waiting for you. A fox just doesn’t roll over and die that easily.

I brace myself as Billy – whom I can see as a blond head and a flash of tartan kilt – climbs up easily. It’s seven against one and I can do whatever I want, right?

Billy is getting closer. His blond hair catches a glint of sun. It occurs to me that I can really hurt him if we are staging this mock hunt. But if I hurt him by kicking out at him, causing him to fall off the tree, they can really hurt me too. All bets will be off.

Do I really want to drive a wedge between me and my possible benefactors?

Billy appears through the leaves. He is a broad-faced youth of possibly eighteen. Freckled complexion. Smiling. He has broad shoulders and long limbs, the testament of healthy country living.

“
Well, hello there, little fox,” he says. “What are you doing up here so high up above the ground?”

“
Come closer, and I will kick you off this tree,” I warn him.

He guffaws. “Little fox playing the part well, aren’t we? Let’s see what sort of bite you have.”

He comes closer, putting his foot against the bark. His large hands reach out for me.

I dance out of reach by ascending the branch I am on. We are quite high up. Twenty feet at least. I wouldn’t want to fall.

“
If you want me, you’re going to have to come and get me,” I challenge him.

“
I love all you feisty American foxes.”

He gets onto my branch. He is truly a hulking young man, and I fear for the branch as it begins to creak and flail with our combined weight.

“
Don’t come any closer,” I warn.

“
Why not?” He inches forward. The branch bends alarmingly.

“
Because this thing is going to break and send us crashing down.” Isn’t it obvious, or is the guy dense?

“
So you’re afraid of a little fall? Huh, little fox?”

Seriously, this guy is crazy.

I scoot to as far as I can up the branch. And then what I fear actually happens. The branch I am on cracks.

Unfortunately, it cracks not where Billy is, but at the juncture right between us.

I am too stunned to react.

I scream as I plunge to the ground with the branch.

6

I don’t know how I must have done it, but I manage to latch onto another branch lower down. There I am, holding on with my sweat-slippery hands. My feet are dangling just above the barking hounds and the men. I am aware of the sight I must present to them – Tarzan’s Jane and her twirling white legs.

I scream again.

“
Hang on now, little fox,” says someone from the ground.

“
Hush!” someone else tells the barking dogs.

The bough I am hanging from bends.

Oh no.

All too soon, before I can regain my composure, it breaks off. I plunge again – right into the waiting guys.

A pair of arms catches me and breaks my fall.

“
Ho!” cries my captor.

Hands clamber all over my body.

“
No, no, no!” I cry out. I know, technically, once I am caught, I have to give in to whatever they want to do to me. But I intend to put up a fight.

Someone rips off my fur brassiere.

I kick out, flailing and punching.

“
Wow, what a bitch!”

“
Hold her.”

“
Pin her down.”

“
Are we supposed to do that? What if she doesn’t want it?”

“
She wants it all right. She signed on the dotted line. This is all play.”

I am getting excited despite myself. The mock rape is very real, and I’ve always entertained fantasies of being captured and ravished. I think I’m about to get my wish.

They hold me down – these young men in kilts. Off comes my fur bottom. I am now naked, and they are splaying my legs apart. So many hot bodies crowding around me. So many men in kilts. Fingers and thumbs tweak my nipples. Hands pry apart my pussy lips and display me. Finger pads rub my clit.