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  Copyright 2009

  This edition published 2011

  The right of Sean O’Kane to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-907475-35-1

  All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental

  THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX

  Girl Squad

  By

  Sean O’Kane

  Chapter 1.

  “Number One and keep the skirt up.”

  Amelia read the text message and smiled happily. The incoming message alert had sounded, muffled through the fine kid leather of her handbag, just as she was leaving work early and now she stowed the phone again, closed her office door and walked along the plushly carpeted corridor of TPI Fund Management Ltd. and went into the Ladies’ toilet.

  Once safely in a cubicle she set her bag on the lid of the toilet and hoisted her short tweed skirt up to her hips and with her thumbs pushed her black lace thong down her thighs and then bent, pushed them right down to her ankles and shook them free of her feet, then she picked them up and put them beside the bag. She had been pretty certain that morning that her master would text her at about this time and so she had not worn the thick tights she would normally have on a cold autumn day and instead had come to work bare legged. It had been a chilly and bracing start to the day but now at least she didn’t have to struggle with the wretched things to obey her order.

  With her skirt rucked up out of the way she spread her legs and began to perform Number One.

  This involved using her right hand to gently ease its way between the delicate fronds of her inner lips and to begin to rub at the prominent nub of her clitoris itself until it erected. Then she would slide her hand further under her and, still rubbing with the palm of her hand insert two and then three of her fingers into her vagina. The receipt of the text message coupled with the fact that she was on her way to see her master had done the initial groundwork for her and her clitoris was already throbbing and hard whilst her vagina was hot and moist as soon as her fingers entered it. She shivered as the first spears of pleasure pricked through her. But biting her lip to concentrate, she began the second part of the order.

  “Every part of my body belongs to my Master. Even my thoughts are his. I may have no secrets from him, just as no part of my body is hidden from him,” she recited to herself. She was required to do this ten times for a Number One. Her master knew she had a long way to drive and so hadn’t ordered a Three, or worse in terms of carrying on normal life, a Four which required the recitation to be made forty times. She always found it hard to concentrate and get the right number of recitations with her hand rubbing her clit – the fingers inside her were purely because her master liked to know she had put them there – the real damage was done by the fact that she couldn’t be gentle with her clitoris even if she wanted to be; not while she was under his orders.

  Dimly she heard the next cubicle being used and tried to stifle her breathing which was becoming ever more ragged as she ground herself mercilessly. She was pretty certain she was on her fifth recitation now.

  “…..just as no part of my body is hidden from him.”

  Yes, it was definitely the fifth and she went on to complete the sixth. The cubicle next door emptied and she breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed even more fiercely.

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall as she started the seventh, her mind beginning to whirl away on visions of his face, his hands on her breasts, his whip stinging her back, his hand working her tight sheath amid all her outpourings as she waited to be possessed and used for his pleasure.

  She bit her lip hard and started on her eighth, trying desperately to concentrate on each word as she felt her legs weaken. The door of the cubicle behind her closed as someone entered it and saved her by dragging her up from drowning in sensations and memories – and expectations of the next week to be spent with her master. She finished her ninth and started the final recitation with a soft growl of determination to really punish her clitoris as she ground out the words in her head.

  Once she finished she had a moment’s struggle against her own inclination to continue for just a few seconds and see if she couldn’t bring herself off but the thought of the drive ahead finally forced her hand away from the hot and wet confines of her groin and she sagged against the wall, thanking her master for being cruel enough to always remind her of her subservience to him without making her normal life completely impossible, which he could so easily. After all, he knew she would obey any command he gave her.

  After a few moments she stood up properly, wiped herself clean, straightened her skirt, picked her thong off the cistern and popped it into her bag – a Number One meant going knickerless from then on – and hoping she didn’t look too flustered, she flushed the toilet and went out to repair her look in the mirror that ran the whole length of the wall above the sinks.

  After brushing her hair, applying blusher and just a tad more lipstick, Amelia Johnson appraised herself before setting off to see her master for a whole glorious week. She was in her late twenties with thick, dark hair that fell to her shoulders, her eyes were wide-set and large; dark brown and lustrous. Her face was often described as elfin, narrowing from its wide brow to an almost sharp chin below a wide and generous mouth with shapely and full lips. Her torso was slender but supported breasts that were quite adequate if not exactly big, but they sported nipples that were definitely big and charmingly tip-tilted as well.

  Where she was going she knew that there were plenty of men, apart from her master, who knew how to enjoy themselves with nipples like that. The thought reignited the warmth between her naked thighs and she quickly distracted herself by collecting her things together and beginning the brisk walk from the office to the tube and the journey to the over ground station where she had left her car. She just made it before the Friday rush hour kicked in in earnest and so she didn’t have the torment of being pressed against other bodies while being acutely aware of her state of undress. At least she could get a seat and sit with her legs demurely pressed together until it was time to change to an over ground train for two stops and then retrieve her BMW for the drive down to Berkshire. She had to wait until the interior light in the car faded before she could start off because her master had decreed one last humiliation and once she was in darkness, with a practised lift of her bottom and a quick heave on her skirt, she complied with the final part of her order – to keep her skirt raised. The cream leather of the upholstery was quite chilly for a while but from past experience, Amelia knew that as she neared her destination, she would be extremely hot and wet and would certainly leave an embarrassing mark on the pale leather. Her master knew that as well.

  She joined the flow of the traffic on the M4 heading west out
of London, streams of tail lights in the twilight making a river of jewels that swept her towards her destination.

  By the time she turned off the motorway it was fully dark and the last few miles along country roads had been slow going. But at last she was able to swing the car off the road, swipe her card through the recognition system that now governed the great wrought iron gates and, once they had swung ponderously open, drive through them onto the long avenue that led to The Lodge; the most prestigious and secretive SM club in the land. However for the last three years of its existence it had not only offered the most beautiful and submissive Housegirls for its members’ use, it also hosted in its extensive parklands the CSL stable where some of the finest female gladiators to grace the modern arenas were trained.

  Amelia’s master was assistant trainer there and she herself acted as a groom when she visited him. Now, as the car’s headlights picked out the trunks of the great lime trees on either side of the drive, her naked vagina began to lubricate and she was uncomfortably aware it was drizzling its juice onto the leather seat, but the prospect of returning to The Lodge and CSL, with all that that entailed, was one she was helpless to resist.

  She slid her car into a space in the car park that stretched out in front of the great house itself and got out, noting with chagrin that indeed she had left a damp patch on the driver’s seat and that the wind was now blowing coldly up her skirt and rapidly cooling her ardour. She shivered and scuttled round to the boot to retrieve her case and then hurried across to the sweeping stone staircase that led up to the front doors, she ran up and pushed one of them open. Within was a tall lobby with fishing waders, golf bags and umbrellas tossed carelessly on either side. Testimony to the fact that the members enjoyed pursuits other than just SM during their stays. Amelia walked towards the etched glass doors at the far end, enjoying the feel of the maleness the room exuded before stepping through into the warmth and light of The Lodge proper.

  In the great hall the chandeliers cast a brilliant light on the rich carpeting and the ornate staircases, and on the portraits and landscapes that adorned the walls. The girl on reception looked up with a beaming smile as the door closed behind Amelia, shutting out the weather, the dark and the outside world. She took a moment to just stand and breathe in the atmosphere of wealth – expensive cigars and wax polish - delicious cruelty and mind-blowing sex that pervaded the air of the house. A group of men in dinner jackets wandered across, heading for one of the lounges for a drink before dinner. One of them spotted her and came across, smiling broadly.

  “Miss Johnson! What a lovely surprise! If Brian and Carlo can spare you, I’d love to spend a couple of hours in a dungeon with you, I don’t mind which one,” he said and then took her hand to kiss it with grave courtesy.

  “Thank you Mr Gresham. If you mention it to them I’m sure they’ll make the necessary arrangements,” she replied bobbing a Housegirl curtsy.

  The man laughed. “I’m sure they will!” he said and strolled back to rejoin his colleagues. Amelia went up to the reception desk and signed herself in, the girl behind the desk was one she vaguely remembered from her last visit, like all the Housegirls she was dressed in a satin evening gown that was cut very low – almost to the point of displaying the areolas of her breasts – and Amelia knew that the full, pleated skirt of the dress was slit at the back so that the wearer could be groped perfectly easily by any of the members. This particular girl was black haired and her make up carefully complemented the red gown she wore.

  She greeted Amelia in English which was grammatically perfect but spoken with a pronounced accent and Amelia recognised that she was an owned Housegirl, a girl who had been bought at auction by the club. Some of the girls were owned by members and leased to the club either while the master stayed or while he was absent – maybe out of the country - pursuing business or different pleasures, but the majority were bought and owned directly by the club.

  Amelia picked up her case and made for the small door that led off the back of the hall and into the world of ‘below stairs’.

  The kitchens were their usual mad maelstrom of steaming pots, hissing and flaming pans and frantic, shouting chefs creating culinary masterpieces for the discerning palates of the members who regularly dined at the finest restaurants in the world and expected near-perfection in everything about them. Housegirls assigned to domestic duty for the evening meal rushed in and out as they laid tables in the dining room and prepared to begin serving. Some of them flashed quick, bright smiles of recognition at her as she hurried through, anxious not to be in the way. She stepped out from a side door into the old stableyard. This was where the pony girls were kept for as long as a member wanted them stabled. Amelia had known some girls dumped by their masters as ponies for as much as a month, while they were off somewhere else. Mostly though, it was just for a week or a few days at a time and the grooms were Housegirls themselves and could easily find themselves harnessed and stabled at a member’s whim.

  Tonight there was a pleasantly busy atmosphere from the stable block opposite. Light flooded out from the door to the main stables and threw a wide beam across the cobbles. Buckets clanked as stalls were washed out and floors were mopped, a Housegirl hurried across with a big urn that had had the ponies’ supper in it before it had been emptied into the troughs, and as Amelia turned left and walked towards the arch that led out into the park, she could hear the grooms laughing and joking amongst themselves. Madame Stalevsky, the formidable ex-ballerina who trained and oversaw all the girls would be along shortly to inspect the stalls before lights out and that would settle them all down until the inevitable creeping between beds began. The threat of a beating if they were discovered only made the furtive explorations and orgasms all the more appealing.

  Beyond the arch Amelia hurried along as the chill bit at her again and took a path on the right, illuminated by lamps standing in the shrubbery. Up ahead a large, unlit structure blocked out the stars.

  When she reached it she groped for the door handle and lifted the heavy latch using both hands, then she let herself in, retrieved her case and closed the twelve foot high door before looking around her. The light was harshly neon and ahead of her she could hear men’s voices and among them was her master’s. The steel structure amplified and distorted the voices but she would know him anywhere. There was the occasional smack of a whip and the sound of feet shuffling on sand or sawdust. This was where she really belonged, she thought, walking forward eagerly, past the dark green painted, luxurious horsebox with the letters CSL in gold italics on its side. On either side of her, banks of seats sloped steeply down to what the building’s designers had intended to be an equestrian arena. The seats were empty now, as those Lodge members who had been watching had gone to change for dinner and the arena slaves were finishing their day’s training. Amelia pushed open the low door in the boarding that surrounded the arena and walked in.

  Her master was just a few feet away on her left and standing behind an imposingly built, naked, black girl who was bent forwards, her upper chest resting on the top of the boards, her legs straight and spread, her hands clipped together at her back. She was running with sweat despite the cold evening, and even her dark skin could not entirely disguise the network of fine welts that laced her back, ribs, buttocks and thighs.

  Brian, her own master, had a clipboard laid on the slave’s back and was conferring with a younger man – the new assistant trainer, Tony, who was holding a long driving whip consisting of a thin, flexible pole with a length of stiff whipcord depending from its end. Amelia knew exactly what she was witnessing. The two men were deep in conversation about the figures on the clipboard, which would be times for how fast the slave had pulled a single seat trap over measured distances.

  As the slave in question was Fiji – a Polynesian girl bought at auction a few months previously – Amelia knew Tony would have been running her over quarter and half mile tracks. She was built for endurance rather than sprint speed and when she wasn’t r
acing, she formed part of CSL’s formidable whip melee team with two other slaves; Ox and Trouble.

  As she watched, Brian smacked the slave on her haunch as one might pat a horse after a good gallop, Tony took the clipboard and went back into the arena, Brian meanwhile unzipped his flies and tugged his rampantly erect cock out. It had been some weeks since they had last been together and Amelia’s throat went dry at the sight of the magnificent purple dome that she sometimes still struggled to contain in her mouth.

  He used one hand to bend the shaft slightly downwards and then slipped it between the dark-skinned slave’s thighs and moved forwards until his pelvis rested against her buttocks. Amelia watched fondly as the slave’s body adjusted to the penetration and she began a spectacular gyration of her hips to enjoy her trainer’s cock within her, she swallowed and her thick tongue ring rattled against her teeth.

  Amelia adored the ease with which her master took his pleasure with any slave that took his fancy, or which needed a reward. And increasingly she envied the slaves their constant availability.

  She put her case down and went to join her master.

  Brian looked over and smiled at her as she approached.

  “Hi. Good journey?” he said, perfectly unabashed at being up to the hilt in a squirming and humping slave in front of her. As was perfectly right and proper in Amelia’s eyes.

  “Not bad thanks,” she replied, leaning on the slave’s back and giving her master a kiss. “She still a good fuck?”

  “Yep. One of the best!”

  They both took a moment to admire the athletic way in which Fiji was bending her spine back and forth and rolling her fabulous buttocks against Brian’s pelvis. Amelia folded her arms and leaned fully on the slave’s back, craning her head towards her master’s crotch as she lowered herself and watching eagerly as an inch or so of his shaft was revealed when Fiji alternated her swivels with humps and hollows of her back, something she continued to do in spite of Amelia’s weight. Gentle groans of pleasure and more teeth-on-tongue-ring rattles came from her head as Amelia unfolded one arm, reached underneath the slave and began to knead a heavy, warm handful of breast.