Blonde Fury II (19 page)

The details of how the girls were to be deployed had already been sorted out and he
dismissed them
for the moment. He needed to find out how his entrants’
last minute preparations were
going, so with Selim trailing behind he headed for the stables and Mahmut.

Every single stall was occupied now that the arena slaves had been shipped in and an atmosphere of controlled chaos pervaded the stable. It was late in the day and as he had been busy,
he
hadn’t had the milkers brought to him. They were bellowing their distress through the echoing building and the palace grooms were rushing to milk them as quickly as possible. Meanwhile the arena grooms were trying to shower and rub down their charges while the three palace ponies’ food was being prepared. Mahmut stood in the middle of everything, seemingly unperturbed and directed operations, using his whip on grooms as well as slaves if necessary.

The
Prince
could see he was steadily achieving order and left him to it. Instead he made his way to Lightning’s stall and checked the paperwork hanging by her stall door. With only a week to go, he wanted to check on her times over a
three
mile course. He ran his eye down the records of the two runs every day for the past fortnight and smiled. They showed a steady decline
in times
as her fitness improved. A little bird had told him – a very well-paid and secretive
little
bird – that the Girl Squad’s entry was a clear two seconds off Lightning’s pace and another had said that Salazar’s entry, from Argentina was no closer
. He put the clipboard back on its hook and looked at the pony, clicking his fingers to indicate she should approach him. She came to the stall door and he reached through the bars and cradled one heavy breast in his hand. She sighed in pleasure and pushed nearer, trying to
thrust
her breasts between
the
bars. She partially succeeded and the
Prince
used both hands to grip, tug and twist the nipples as they throbbed into erection.

“Do not fail me, Lightning!” he whispered and saw her swallow nervously. Asil had reported back about her visit to the solitary cells. He smiled as he turned and left. A combination of devotion, fear and
the
whip, plus her native talent would see her home, he was confident. And what was more he had secured the services of the driver who had steered her to victory at the Pretty Pony races.

People began pouring into Bakhtar two days ahead of the races. The streets of the old city, usually only walked by back robed women and gellabiya clad men
were now thronged with the brightly coloured clothes of a cosmopolitan and hedonistic influx. For the final day, and while the last of the other entries were being shipped and flown in, the
Prince
attended Lightning’s early morning gallops himself after ensuring that every inch of the palace’s walls were under surveillance
and that interference devices had been set up to
baffle
nano-drones
. It was cold at this hour and there was a mist still burning off as he waited at the end of the gallops. It wasn’t a full
three
miles but for this last day she was just being run to keep her loose and supple and to let her driver get
used to her again
. He knew she had been warmed up on the lunge rein before being harnessed and now he glanced at
his watch and stamped his feet against the penetrating damp of the morning mist. Up above him a ghostly sun was already rising above the walls to the East and in a couple of hours or so it would be too hot to run her.

Beside him Selim too shivered and wrapped his coat closer around himself. Then faintly, through the grey mist, came the sounds of
a whip
and the
soft
rumble of wheels. Gradually an outline appeared and became solid. It was Lightning, moving with her customary ease and grace. She kept coming and assumed more solidity and colour as she did so until final
ly with a snort,
a toss of her head
and a cloud of breath
she was reined in hard and her driver jumped down.

“She’s
still a bit headstrong but
every bit as classy as I remember, your Highness,” he said coming to her head and dragging it down by the bridle so her could unfasten her bit and feed her a sweet. “There you go Lightning, girl!” he said as she champed eagerly on her treat.

“Er, your Highness,” Selim put in. “I’ve been meaning to say, is it…I mean... do you want her entered under the stable name she had in America? It’s not too late, I can change it today if you let me know.”

The
Prince
considered. It wasn’t something he had had time to think about, but now that Selim mentioned it, it did seem a shame to race her under another stable’s name. Especially as that stable hadn’t really owned her. Not the way he did.

He looked at her from the side, tall, blonde and powerful
, her breaths steaming in the damp, cold air
. Drops of early morning dew sparkled in her hair. She even had glints of it at her nipples. She seemed barely to be breathing hard even after her run. Her magnificent breasts scarcely rose and fell on her deep chest. The planes of her stomach curved smooth and tight down to her
prominent
delta which disappeared between the powerful haunches and the
deep
flanks. How he wanted to see how she would take him for a ride when he fucked her! And there was still the matter of the raw masochism he had detected on the plane, he was going to spend many happy hours playing with this one.

He ran through naming options in his mind as he looked at her and came to a decision.

“
On this occasion I must agree with the Americans. White Lightning sums her up perfectly. She is blonde, fast and, I suspect, will prove quite intoxicating!”

It was Martha’s first visit to the Middle East and the blast of stifling heat which hit them as they exited the plane came as a complete shock to her. As soon as she stepped onto the tarmac she could feel it striking up through her thin soles.

“Come on!” Peter called and gratefully they saw the
Prince
had sent a small fleet of cars to meet guests arriving on their flight.
They were spared all the hassle of customs and passport control and could relax in the air-conditioned comfort of the car’s interior while their driver took their passports and collected their baggage, then loaded it in and the small convoy s
et off across the airfield and
back into the city.

“His Highness has told me to show you the course for the races tomorrow,” he told them and they drove down from the hills into the city and then into the old city
itself
and finally to the bustling new docks. The barriers along the road sides clearly told them where the ponies would be running and Brian approved of the course, a bit of up and down but not too much, some good turns, some good overtaking straights. The
Prince
knew his pony racing alright.

“What are those?” Peter asked, pointing to odd looking posts at regular intervals along the way. They consisted of a straight upright
about ten feet tall
with a slender T bar set across its top. Two bracing arms spread out and up to meet its ends from lower down on the upright.

The driver grinned at them in the rear view mirror. “His Highness is going to put on a show you will not forget!” he said.

The passengers exchanged excit
e
d smiles as
the car turned up
hill and headed for the palace
, if the
Prince
was planning a spectacle, it had to involve his slaves somehow
.

Martha couldn’t help a whistle of admiration when she stepped out of the car. The palace was almost a small town in its own right. More men hurried out to help with baggage and they were shown to their rooms. Brian’s and Martha’s was on a corner and overlooked the city and the sea. Peter’s room was next door and the three of them convened before going downstairs for a drink and to meet fellow guests.

“You need to understand that at a time of his choosing, you will be able to do whatever you please with his slaves, Martha,” Peter told her. “But until that time it would be gross bad manners to touch one of them in any way. You can admire them and ask him anything but do wait until he gives the all clear before you enjoy any of them. It’ll be worth the wait, I promise!”

They went back down, guided by Peter who still remembered his way around from when he had been the
Prince
’s slave trainer. In a ball
room lit by a row of huge chandeliers and with a floor of polished cedar wood, a cocktail party was held for the guests staying at the palace and Martha found herself mixing with the aristocracy of the arena world. She found herself chatting with the Countess de Goncourt and her trainer Amelia, who had once been a groom at The Lodge and Brian’s submissive. But that had been years previously and the three women talked easily of the day to day business of running a slave stable. For what was still the only female owned and run stable, keeping over a hundred sex-addicted women calm and disciplined presented some additional problems, and these Martha found intriguing - especially when Amelia told her what the monthly bill for batteries was.

Brian introduced her to Mark Kavanagh who had been Conor Brien’s lieutenant and who had known Sophie’s mother intimately
-
and frequently. He was fascinated to know that Sophie had been in Paris and expressed his keen desire to see her stabled and trained somewhere – even if it wasn’t in his stable. She met Salazar from Argentina, Osman from Turkey, McNicholls from Montana and Wilbur Beckington-Floyd from the Pretty Pony, and she lost count of the smiles and handshakes. There were quite a few women present, she did recall that, and there were the slaves. The household slaves brought around trays of drinks and snacks and Martha had to admit that they were at least the equal of The Lodge girls. They were naked from the waist up and their nipples were all pierced and threaded with gold rings. Their figures were perfect, trim waists and neat breasts and their
lower bodies
were just covered by their gauzy skirts which somehow clung to them right at the widest point of the hips. And on the silky smooth, honey coloured skin of each girl had been inscribed a tattoo. Some bore images of climbing plants that twisted up their backs, the stalk emerging from the top of the buttock cleft and flowering across the shoulders. Others had more exotic blooms on the fronts of their torsos. Huge flowers were inscribed across
some
breasts,
on other girls
graceful Chinese dragons entwined on stomachs, their tails trailing down below the waistbands of the skirts, and Martha wondered with a sudden flood of warmth at her belly, how far down the tattoos went. The
Prince
was famous for the spectacular nature of his decorations after all and she would love to see tattoos that went all the way into a woman’s sex.

“Perhaps later we’ll see if we can get ourselves one with her entire buttocks decorated. They’re brilliant for caning,” Brian whispered and she couldn’t restrain a moan of desire.

And then there were the milk slaves.

They had been knelt, naked, along one wall and they had been put kneeling back on their heels, their backs kept straight by the wall. Their hands were cli
pped together behind them
, and their enormous breasts – forty something double G, Martha reckoned – were cupped and held in wooden stocks, the frames of which stood between their spread thighs. The three which belonged to the
Prince
had been labelled; Sherry, White Wine and Red Wine. One of the household slaves who were in attendance told them that these were the flavours the
Prince
had been encouraging in the milk. The other three had obviously been brought in by other owners and were dispensing straightforward girl milk for those who wanted it. And there did seem to be a brisk demand
for both
. The
household
slaves were kept busy palpating the huge udders and guiding the spurting fluid into small glass jugs, from which the guests’ glasses were replenished. Martha loved watching how their slender fingers almost disappeared into the massive cushions of flesh as they squeezed out the thin spurts into the jugs. She tried a sherry flavoured glass while Brian tried the red wine and both pronounced themselves impressed. Even above the pungent flavour of the milk, it was possible to get the distinct flavour of the alcohol – even the difference in nuance between red and white wine was discernable.

Every now and then one of the slaves in attendance would halt the milking and pick up a short tailed flogger. The dairy slaves’ eyes widened above their ball gags and muffled shrieks began as the other slave delivered five hard lashes to each swollen and sensitive breast. Martha loved watching their eyes widen and beg then fill with tears as their fingers splayed and clawed helplessly behind their backs.

“His Highness believes that the best milk comes from beaten tits,” she explained as she carried on whipping and the conversations continued undisturbed in the huge room behind her.

They tested the validity of that theory several times before dinner was served and Martha was transfixed each time by the size of the breasts.

“I’m spoiled for choice! I’d love to have one of those gorgeous tattooed ones but I’d so love to have those tits to torment some time!” she complained and then whirled around in chagrin as she heard the
Prince
himself respond.

“Madam, after dinner I hope to have another surprise for you. And after that if you and
Brian would like to order one
I’ll happily send
her
to your room. But as Brian will tell you, my evening facilities might throw up yet more choice titbits!” He smiled at her and then turned to Brian. “Good to see you, Brian! I’m really pleased to hear about CSL going back to specialist training. I think the time is ripe, and with Peter behind you, I’m sure the fans will have plenty to cheer very shortly. I think Ace has had things her own way for
far
too long! Now I have a couple in mind for sending over to you to see what you can make of them…”

Brian gave a short bow and shook his hand and the men were immediately deep in conversation. Martha looked back at the milk slaves, now coming to the end of their capacity. The slaves’ fingers could only coax irregular squirts out but she loved seeing how far into the melons the girls’ fingers went and longed to do the same. Above the ball gags, the milk slaves’ eyes closed in relief as they were emptied.

After a magnificent dinner which boasted the very best of Middle Eastern cuisine and the best of European and Eastern cuisine as well, the
Prince
unveiled the further surprise he had mentioned.

The cheese boards were wheeled around the tables on large trolleys and each one had a slave spreadeagled on its top. The cheeses were cut and served from the girls’ stomachs and breasts and no one minded much if the cutting from the breasts was a little inaccurate due to the soft nature of the surface from which it was cut. Diners could reach between the girls’ legs for their selection of biscuits and remove sticks of fresh celery from pleasantly lubricated vaginas, dipping them into the navels for salt.

But after them came the
pièce de résistance
. Three more trolleys were wheeled in and on each was a kneeling dairy slave. She was kept on all fours by her arms and her thighs being strapped to steel uprights. Her hair had been plaited and a thin rope had been woven into it so it was pulled back and anchored to an anal hook, keeping her back arched and her head up. She could only stare straight
ahead and moan through her penis
gag. It was well into the evening and long past their milking times. The swollen and distended teats hung ripely beneath each torso, each one was capped by a silver cone that was pinned through her pierced nipple, preventing any flow before it was required.

They were labelled, Whisky, Brandy and Port. Martha joined in the applause and laughter. It was a delicious
coup de théatre
and when the appropriate trolley came round, Martha tried the port while Brian and Peter both went for brandy. The spirits went even better with the milk than the aperitifs had. Their extra pungency made a much smoother blend of tastes and scents. The slaves’ mouths were
well stuffed
and so the guests were able to appreciate their offerings in peace and quiet but soon second and third glasses were ordered and the swollen udders began to subside bit by bit.

The
Prince
revelled in the compliments and the requests for recipes from those who either had dairy slaves or who had resolved there and then to buy some. Martha was among the latter and was urgently considering how best to sell the idea to Brian and Peter. There were many toasts drunk to their host and to the running of the first Open Classic and to several owners present for birthdays or for recent triumphs at various games
before
the company began to break up and drift off but Martha, Brian and Peter stayed at the
Prince
’s invitation. And at last just they and a couple of others were left. By then Martha had a warm glow inside her from the port and had to steady herself against Brian when they stood up in response to his invitation to accompany him to his evening quarters.

They followed the
Prince
along echoing, marble floored corridors and down wide, elegant staircases until they entered an airy room that took Martha’s breath away.

“My evening office,
and recreation room,
” the
Prince
explained. “Please be seated and coffee will be served.”

Martha looked around her and realised that even the standard lamps that provided the room’s light were made of living slaves, bound tight to uprights. The lamps shed light down onto brightly tattooed flesh. Brian sat down on a sofa formed from two slaves. They lay on their backs on a platform, their heads tied down at the front to keep them out of the way, their thighs forming the back and their shins tied down tightly to the reverse of the back panel of the platform. She sat carefully beside him and found the girl’s stomach pleasantly soft under her bottom. Brian had immediately put a hand down and was kneading a breast between his thighs. Martha looked around again and saw two different types of single seat
,
easy chairs. The
Prince
was sitting on one comprising two slaves, one on all fours, the other tied to an upright beside her so that her enormous breasts cushioned his head. There was another variety, a girl laid on her back and with her legs drawn up and over her head, then stretched out and supported by a low platform under her shins. The calves formed the seat of the chair while the thighs formed the back cushion and the buttocks provided a head rest. The
Prince
saw her examining it and invited her to try it. It proved surprisingly comfortab
le and Martha found that if she adopted the sort of lounging posture she might on a
chaise longue
, her raised elbow fitted neatly into the slave’s buttock crease
.

Coffee was served by one of the maids from earlier and
at the
Prince
’s invitation
the party made their way out into the atrium outside. They took their coffee by the edge of the large, ornamental pond where the ‘mermaids’ played. They were
more of the palace’s complement of slavegirls,
gathered on a rock in the centre of the pool, their
naked
bodies gleaming and slick in the moonlight as they made love to each other, their legs and arms entangling and writhing endlessly.

“You get the best from them if you’re naked
as well
,” the
Prince
told them. No one had any inhibitions and even though there were only two women present, they joined in eagerly. They all sat on the warm stone with their feet dangling in the cool water and using whips the
Prince
furnished them with they summoned whichever mermaid took their fancy. The sleek body would ease its way through the water and then make straight for the cock of the man whose lash had caught her. She easily lifted her head and shoulders clear of the water and immediately set to work. Soon every man present had a head bobbing busily at his groin. Martha found that if, once she had made sufficiently hard contact with the whip to attract a girl’s attention, she lay back but made sure her cunt was on the edge of the stone, the mermaids delivered a highly satisfactory cunnilingus
too
.

Eventually the night cooled and they went back indoors and drank a conventional nightcap
lounging comfortably
on the furniture before going to their rooms. Before they left, however, the
Prince
asked them what type of slave they required for their rooms – a milker, a mermaid – dried off of course – or a maid; a standard palace slave.