Blonde Fury

Blonde Fury

By

Sean O’Kane

Prologue.

Brian Holden was not having a good day. True, the weather was fine and the sun sh
one from a clear blue sky onto the
tree-dotted parkland that surrounded The Lodge, England’s most prestigious SM club. And it was also true that he was driving a single seat trap which was being pulled by an exquisitely tacked up ponygirl. She was sporting the green and gold plumes of the CSL stable which owned and trained her. She was due to be
hired out to another stable for
a
show at an arena in Asia
in the next couple of days but had just gone lame.
He had been bowling along happily, enjoying the good weather and casually licking her with the driving whip to keep her attention focussed when he had noticed a slight unevenness in the trap’s progress along the smooth tarmac. He had sat forwards and seen how the pony’s head was beginning to jerk a little and the steering had begun to veer to the left. She was favouring her left foot.

Swearing under
his breath he had reined her in and climbed down. The girl was lathering around her bit and some saliva trailed down onto her bound breasts. He was running her without blinkers and her large blue eyes looked at him anxiously, trying to read his mood. He shushed her and patted her flank then squatted down and ran his hands down her left leg. Near the bottom of her calf she lifted her foot when his hands ran over it. She had some sort of strain.

Immediately he began to think of alternative slaves to hire out as he took her reins in his hand and started to walk her back to the stables, where he would get the vet to take a look at her. Then the day got worse. His mobile rang.

It was the owner of The Lodge, Peter Lang. He asked Brian to come to his office as soon as he could. Brian felt the warmth drain out of the day as he heard the tension in Peter’s voice. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good news.

Clicking his tongue, he urged the pony on as fast as he dared back to the house.

Half an hour later he
read the printed-
off sheet of paper that Peter Lang handed him.

“Just got it from my guy in Spain,” he said and went to stand by the office window, absentmindedly he reached out and caressed the breasts of the Housegirl who stood there, waiting to be used.

Brian read and re-read. A leaden feeling settled in his stomach. He felt sick and for a moment he had to blink back tears. “Is it?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Are they quite sure?”

“Quite sure. The
rescue party’s got there now but there were no survivors
. I’m afraid they’ve gone, Brian.”

Carlo had taken up flying only a couple of years previously and
had always now flown
the pla
ne
s that his wife, Tara
,
sky dived
from. Apparently this time they were simply flying to check out one of their properties in Spain. Engine failure was the authorities
’
first guess.
It had taken over a day before a rescue party could reach the crash site.

Carlo and Blondie had gone. Just like that. But then maybe there was a blessing – a twisted sort of one maybe, but it meant they couldn’t now be told about the child that Conor Brien had
made with her by taking eggs from her
while she was a slave
, impregnating the
m and hiring a surrogate mother
.
Then he had had the child
brought up in England and
finally
he had deliberately
ruined
her
to bring her into the arenas, where he had aimed to control her like he had never been able to
control
her mother. At least they had been spared that.

“The Proteus stable is bound to trumpet the news that they’ve got Blondie’s daughter,” Peter said. “They’d be fools not to with the publicity this’ll get. And that means…..”

“The whole world’s going to be looking for the
other
daughter
, the one
she had in Spain
with Carlo after he retired her from the arenas
!” Brian finished.

“And she’s going to
be
worth a fortune, but she’s disappeared. Moved from Spain when she was ten – and since then nothing. Seems like Tara and Carlo wanted her kept out of things. But there’s fat chance of that now! Her best hope is that we find her and bring her in – whether she wants us to or not.”
It was a loop that everyone in the world of the arenas had been round time and time again, ever since Conor’s scheme had come to light and the identity of the slavegirl known as Ace
– owned by the Proteus stable -
had been revealed. But if it was all going to go public, then a new urgency was added into the mix.

Brian couldn’t help doing it as well, picking at it even though he knew that wouldn’t help.
“She’ll be worth about half the national debt! Imagine the showdown between Blondie’s two daughters!”

Peter turned, silhouetted by the light from the window, but Brian could hear the tension in his voice.

“
I am doing! And so will every other stable in the world!
She belong
s here, Brian! We must find her and bring her to The Lodge!
This was where her mother was trained and this is where
she’ll
be trained!
”

Chapter One

London 2035

The water cannon’s jet shot across the hot, flood-lit square like a thick
, solid
snake of living water, uncoiling as it came and preparing to strike. Sophie screamed and dived for cover just as the front line of protesting students was mown down by the brutal force
of
it
slamming into them
. Even though she managed to get some shelter from Tom’s solid body beside her, the mask she wore was ripped from her and she frantically lifted her scarf to cover her lower face, whilst pulling down the hood on her sweatshirt
over her upper face
. It was vital that they didn’t get a glimpse of your face. Already
she
could see flashes from the police lines as cameras captured whatever they could for forensic examination the next day. Fortunately everyone’s phones would be set to signal disruption to discourage the nanodrones – small remotely piloted cameras
-
that would otherwise be buzzing
the crowd of protesters
.

“C’mon!” Tom struggled to his feet and grabbed her arm. His voice was muffled by the mask he wore and the scarf beneath it, despite the heat. The mask was in the image of Clive Mostyn the current Prime Minister and the subject of the protest.

Sophie struggled up
and stumbled after him as soft ‘
poc, poc’
noises from the police lines signified tear gas canisters
, stun grenades would soon follow
.
A gas canister
landed, spinning
,
just in front of them, already spewing its thick vapour. Tom kicked it away as they rushed past. They were both athletic and fit and were able to put enough distance between themselves and danger
in only
a
few frantic seconds
. Behind them they heard the police charge and the sound of rubber bullets, there were screams and cries from the protesting students
, then the thudding noises of the grenades
.

Tom pulled Sophie into an alley off the Strand and pulled his mask off, then lowered his scarf.

“Bastards!” he spat, looking about for any nanodrones.

“They couldn’t have got a glimpse of us!” Sophie panted, leaning against a doorway. “Let’s get home and see how many of the others got away.”

“Yeah!” Tom straightened up and cast the mask away, then smoothed his hair and tried to look calm and collected. It was late at night but with all the police tied up in Parliament Square, they ought to be able to get back to Sophie’s place unmolested.

Acting as nonchalantly as they could and hoping not to attract attention they made their
way by T
ube and eventually by walking to Sophie’s place in the North West of the capital. She was a rarity amongst the students at her college in that sh
e actually owned her own house.
It was in one of the increasingly common
‘
gated
’
estates
, where the residents had banded together to take over the running of all the utilities. A security company patrolled the perimeter
walls
but as the estate was in a ‘good’ area in any case, they were not overly zealous – allowing Sophie’s friends who knew the code for the gates to come and go reasonably freely.
The only drawback was that t
he residents used their
seclusion to increasingly indulge in slave ownership; the very thing that she and Tom had been demonstrating against.

As they entered the estate and the wrought iron
pedestrian
gate swung silently closed behind them, they saw two pony traps being driven along the road under the street lights. As the carriages met, the drivers reined in their ponies and began to chat. Sophie and Tom carried on walking past, trying not to show their outrage at the fact that the ponies were naked girls. They were bridled and bitted, guided by reins and urged on by carriage whips, just as any real pony would be. These however were the slavegirls that under Clive Mostyn’s government were becoming more and more prevalent among the upper middle class now that supply was increasing and prices were coming down from the levels where only the
arenas,
and the super-rich
,
could afford them.

As politely as they could, Sophie and Tom exchanged greetings with the drivers, while the ponies scraped their shoes on the tarmac and were quietened with taps from their owners’ whips. Sophie shuddered at the sight but kept on walking as calmly as she could.
At least neither of the girls had been enhanced, as far as she could see. It was becoming increasingly common for owners to have hormonal treatments administered to their purchase
s
to provide them with their
ideal
breast and buttock sizes. These girls looked
to be
examples of
the fairly tall but sturdily-
thighed variety that was considered to be
the best
for everyday hacking and daily sexual use.

Tom held
Sophie’s
arm tightly
, making sure she didn’t get into any kind of altercation. What made it all so much worse, and it was this which made
her
long to take those whips and wipe the smiles o
f
f those drivers’ smug faces, was that the girls would have been chipped. At the nape of their necks would be a chip that stimulated the production of endorphins and stimulated the sex drive as well. The result was that they were helpless to do anything other than love the treatment they got
and long for the next orgasm, however they got it
. The scraping of heels and fidgeting was not any attempt to be rebellious or disobedient. The girls were impatient for their masters to whip them up and in all probability they were hoping that a quick fuck back at the stable would ensue.

Biting her lip, Sophie
walked on and
let herself and Tom into the house. Her parents had been wealthy and
had bequeathed her the property
when they had died suddenly
a few months back
but the uses she put it to would most definitely not have met with their approval. Quite the opposite in fact and Sophie was happy with that. Since her parents had sat her down on her sixteenth birthday and explained where their wealth had come from, she and they had not been able to get along very well at all, and in fact anything that might have irritated them was fine with her.
She had even changed he
r surname by deed poll at the very first available opportunity and at least they had helped in that
.
They seemed very keen that she followed her own destiny – and Sophie had to admit that knowing what theirs had been, it was the least they could do for her. The suddenness of their deaths had come as a big shock though and even a childhood spent at boarding schools couldn’t cushion
her
against some grief.

Tom went straight to the kitchen to make coffee, Sophie stopped in front of the hall mirror and took a look to see if there were any traces of the evening’s activities on her face. With her hands she brushed the thick, honey blonde tresses back and examined the strong face that was revealed fully. The hair was purely from her mother, her dark eyes from her father. Her five foot eleven inch frame was definitely her mother again, but even more so
,
as s
he had been only five foot nine
.
And whilst her father had not had much more height than that to bequeath her, she had
his
strong physique that had seen her through boarding school sports days and early teenage tussles in the dark with various boys.

Her face had a few smuts
on it
but other than that she was okay. She took a wipe from the box on the hall table and cleaned her wide, full lipped mouth, and made sure her cheeks were clean, then wiped her nose and forehead. Her nose had been the bane of her early teenage years, it was – she thought – too strong and straight, but now she was in her early twenties, she had to admit it gave her
face
character rather than vapid good looks. She had had plenty of invitations to take up modelling, but prancing about
and
being ogled was definitely not for her! That was too near to what her mother had done
– although if that had been all her mother had done, it might have been easier to live with
.
At last she was satisfied and let her hair back down,
then
fluffed it up and went to join Tom. He was just pouring two glasses of red wine as the coffee cooled. She took one gratefully.