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The Thrill Of The Chase (Michael Hunt)

The Thrill Of The Chase by Michael Hunt

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Sequel to 'THE PET MASTER'. The two men had been commissioned by the Pet Master to find a specific girl so they did, stalking her to the bar in the evening, and quickly transporting her to the Pet Master’s secure establishment where her training as a Pet would soon begin. In bondage, in darkness and in pain, she suffers sexually, in ways designed to break her spirit.

Meantime the Pet Master has invented a new gadget, a Clitcap, which can deliver shocks or pleasure when fitted to the clitoris, a device he is busy showing off to new, very impressed customers, who want to buy it, along with the very expensive Pets he has for sale.

There is another new dimension to the Pet Master’s world; he is about to become involved in the world of pony carting – along with his Pets!

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 2 / 2018

No. words: 31100

Style: Male Dom - M/F, Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter 1 - The Hunt

“I think she fills that dress rather nicely!” Ralph confided to his friend and confidante standing beside him as, with studied anonymity, they blended with the now thinning crowds.
Charles took a long cool drink straight from his bottle of premium lager and surveyed the scene. For a suburban bar the place had been really humming. As it was a Friday, many of the early evening drinkers had been here since 5:30pm when they had escaped from their tedious and boring jobs in the small local call centre, provincial estate agents and solicitors’ offices which provided much needed employment to the young and largely uneducated in the area
As it was now approaching 6:45pm, Bar Suburbia was in that peculiar interregnum as those customers, largely the office staff that had kept the tills ringing all through the early shift, were now wending their way home while the evening revellers had not yet made their appearance before heading into town for some serious clubbing and high-energy nightlife.
This was Charles and Ralph’s favourite time for hunting their admittedly unusual quarry and this bar, although they had never frequented it before, was their favourite sort of hunting ground.
Bar Suburbia was typical of a provincial and suburban hostelry that was trying to inject some referred glamour into the sad and futile lives of its customers. Loosely based on the set of ‘Friends’, large sofas and low coffee tables were casually scattered about with all the abandon that the space planning software at corporate head office’s IT department would allow. That is, none whatsoever. Customer density was paramount as rates and costs for the establishment were dictated by the square footage, marketing and retail planners needed to squeeze the maximum usage out of all the available space. As usual the Head Office staff had slightly overdone the required customer density (commerciality always wins) but to the provincial customers this little piece of urban chic was where they could pretend that they truly were on a film set and that vicariously a small piece of Hollywood glamour would imbibe their repetitive lives.
To Charles and Ralph, used to the bars and clubs of London, New York and Rio to name but three of the world stages they played on, Bar Suburbia was mean, pinched and plastic. And they loved it. Not for the fake mahogany furniture, the imitation modern prints and cheap false brass fittings that seemed to be ubiquitous. No, they had a fixed and clear objective and long experience had shown them that this was exactly the environment where they would be successful in their unorthodox and highly unusual venture.
Like all Big Game hunters they had scouted the territory before the day’s events and just after the doors had opened at five o’clock they had discreetly entered. Ordering two bottles of drinks they settled themselves in a dimly lit alcove that nevertheless gave an unrestricted view of the main bar area, whilst allowing the two men to remain unobtrusive.
In the sun-bleached plains of the Serengeti, lions (the top predator in that particular ecosystem) take up vantage points near watering holes when seeking game. The ironic analogy was not lost on either of these two rather well heeled human carnivores. They surveyed the two-legged herbivores as they came down into the bar to drink and quench their thirst after a long hard day. Watching sharply, they looked for the tell-tale signs that their next victim would inadvertently signal. Stretching the Serengeti analogy of big cats, hunting lions would be looking for a slight listlessness, an almost imperceptible limp or an overconfident juvenile, whereas in this suburban jungle their human equivalents were looking for the individual who had let their guard down a little too indiscreetly, was a little too tipsy or that had let themselves get separated from the rest of their particular herd of friends and colleagues. Here, though, the analogy broke down, for whereas a lion will take the easiest prey, often an ill or weak and undernourished individual, these particular human carnivores were after only the fittest and the finest looking specimens. But the end result would be the same: once chosen there would be no mistake.
They preferred suburban bars on the outskirts of provincial cities. It was near but not too near a regional airport, serviced by good quality roads and, at that time of the evening, the streets were relatively free of traffic and police. The prevalence of CCTV was significantly lower than in the centre of towns and cities and not only had their route to this particular hostelry been chosen to leave no video evidence, even their rather anonymous vehicle had been driven in a circuitous journey evading the city centre, keeping to a well reconnaissanced route. With a full gas tank and an extra gallon securely and safely stowed on board there was no chance that this particular vehicle was going to show up on the unblinking eye of a forecourt CCTV, nor would there be any tell-tale credit card slips for petrol. Like all good hunters they were covering their tracks well. Charles had remarked to Ralph that it was very similar to approaching prey downwind so as to give the unsuspecting creatures no clues to the arrival of the hunters that would soon take one or two of their number.
Charles looked at the girl that Ralph had indicated, no sudden movement however, just the studied casualness of a man in total control of his environment and his self; he surveyed her attributes for the role they had in mind.
The cheap chain store dress was of a simple cut, unlined, it seemed to pull and crease against her fulsome tits and buttocks that gave the garment a peculiarly sexy tightness that he found simultaneously attractive and somehow sad. The lower orders were so poor that they couldn’t even afford well-made clothes. But underneath that dress there was no mistaking a fine athletic body, fit, strong and, no doubt with the appropriate training and discipline, very welcoming.
The muscle definition of her arms and legs was fine and seemed to quiver with pent up energy for she was in fine physical condition and, as her voluptuousness was all contained on a rather petite frame, she was just what they were looking for. He noted with some initial concern the high heels that she was wearing, more to give her a few extra inches than to accentuate her already ample tits and ass but fortunately he was able to satisfy himself that the tell-tale thick calves that inveterate wearers of high heels develop had not had time to create an unnatural and unseemly bulge at the back of her legs. Their brief was very precise from their very demanding customer.
She had glossy, naturally blonde hair, which fanned out across her athletically broad shoulders and not a little way down her back. She had an instinctive way of intermittently flicking it with the slightest shimmer of her head, sending it cascading and shining across her slender neck which was nicely highlighted by a faux silver choker and her bare back as it caught the subdued lighting of the bar. The hair, flowing over her strong but feminine shoulder line, naturally created a rectangular block of her fine golden threads across her back and neck. It gave only tantalising glimpses of her lightly tanned and flawless skin beneath. At the front, after streaming over her delicate clavicles, the hair seemed to caress the fulsome breasts that formed a generous cleavage at her sternum. The dress was decorously cut, this was after all office attire but nevertheless she was well aware of her youthful charms and in the never-ending battle that was office politics she used her curvaceous figure to maximum advantage. She rightly felt that her generous and perfectly formed tits were one of her best features and she was therefore not coy about putting the goods on display, even if they were for show only, in her endeavour to curry favour with the more senior predominantly male members of staff.
He took a closer look at her face; it had a sculptural beauty and symmetry, with excellent bone structure and beautifully fair skin. Mostly without imperfection, a tiny ‘s’ shaped scar on her high and handsome forehead only seemed to add to her appeal.
‘Only Allah is perfect,’ Charles found himself thinking almost absentmindedly. He was gratified that the colour of her eyebrows seemed to match that of her hair; either she was a natural blonde or she paid attention to details. He liked that in a woman.
Earlier on in the evening, when the early revellers had been in full voice, he’d noted that her teeth were evenly spaced and regular; the results of good genes or a good orthodontist, he felt. They had been clearly visible when her fulsome lips parted in laughter and delight at some whimsical remark from one or other of her work colleagues. He paid attention to a woman’s lips for, through experience, he had discovered that they were a damned good indicator of her body lips and that, although until this evening these hidden intimacies had been for the delight and pleasure of a select number of lovers, they would be far more on display in just a few short hours.
“On the Serengeti,” he thought, “she’d be a gazelle,” for despite her drinking a little too much for so early in the evening she moved with grace and flair.
It seemed she was now momentarily alone and was getting to the bottom of her final lager for the evening. She’d waved her friends off with a laugh and a shout that was just a little too loud for Ralph’s taste, calling after them; ‘I’m going to finish this drink and my cigarette’. Her last ironic words to her friends followed the laughing group of girls out into the street as they made a frantic dash to the bus that would take them back to their starter homes or their parents’ semis for forty-eight hours of respite before embarking once more on their monotonous and tedious little jobs.
‘Take care this weekend and don’t get up to something that I wouldn’t do!’ she shouted to no one in particular and, although she didn’t realise it at the time, that parameter was going to give her friends an awful lot of scope as the next 48 hours unravelled!
With that unconscious communication that successful hunters develop as the bond of trust and friendship cements their relationship, Ralph and Charles both started to make their move across the bar towards their unsuspecting target. They had a minute, maybe two to execute this manoeuvre and that was more than ample for them. They didn’t say a word or betray so much as a sideways look.
Icy cool and calm on the outside, Charles could feel his adrenaline kick in, triggering the ‘flight or fight’ response in his body and instinctively he could see a little sharper, hear a little more clearly and his reactions were that bit tighter as he and his colleague moved in for the kill. He loved this buzz, the anticipation and the execution of an arduously rehearsed and oft repeated manoeuvre. To him it was a ballet, a symphony of orchestrated manoeuvres that was both beautiful and deadly.


He discreetly palmed the syringe, letting it slip from inside of his Marks and Spencer suit cuff. They were dressed as natives - no designer labels here - and he was particularly proud of the shiny bottom he had had one of his staff give to the pants. It was that attention to detail that had made them so successful and the Illuminati’s choice for exactly this type of operation.
There was no needle on the syringe; they didn’t need to risk giving her the slight start elicited by even an expertly applied injection. The small unobtrusive phial contained Rohypnol, more commonly known in the tabloid press as ‘the date rape drug’. Readily available over the Internet, Charles and Ralph both thought this was an excellent chemical and a real boon to their particular trade. Odourless, tasteless and completely transparent, within two minutes after it had been absorbed into the victim’s bloodstream it would begin to close down the higher brain activities, whilst leaving other brain functions largely untouched. This would have not one but two extremely useful effects.
One, the target to all intents and purposes would begin to appear drunk, but not too inebriated to make a scene and draw attention to herself and two, it would make her very amenable to auto-suggestions as her powers of critical reasoning quickly faltered and then failed. Rohypnol was Charles and Ralph’s method of choice for securing a target; clean efficient effective.
Ralph brushed against her, nothing obvious or gauche, you understand, but enough for her to turn and see a rather plain nondescript man and then hear him offer his mumbling apologies for being so rude, before disappearing into the gents’ toilets. And no one noticed the slight trickle of clear liquid snake across the inside of her glass, the one Charles had administered as her attention was momentarily distracted. The only tell-tale sign was a series of small break in the tidemarks of lager froth that had clung to the glass’s surface. The dose hadn’t even disturbed the surface of the amber liquid as it gently mixed with the swirling of her hands.
Charles was the more handsome of the two and he now swung into his role of engaging the target in some inconsequential small talk until she had taken the drink and it had accomplished its insensate task of the Trojan horse by getting the Rohypnol past her defences and into her system.
After a few moments though she’d decided that she really didn’t have time for this ‘Johnny come lately’ and with a definitive toss of her wrist she downed the remnants of her drink
‘You’re mine!’ he thought ‘Mine!’ He allowed himself a small conceited smile of success, observing her delicate throat slightly contract as she swallowed hard. She seemed surprised that Charles continued making polite conversation with her, as most failed suitors took the hint that frankly she wasn’t interested, but as the Rohypnol quickly took effect she distantly heard him breathe into her ear in a frankly intimate way
‘Night, night Dorothy! Say goodbye to Kansas!’ She’d heard that phrase somewhere previously she was sure, but before she could even begin to formulate the question as it were, the chemical cosh had taken effect.
‘That was the moment,’ Charles always felt, ‘that they really disappeared’; Not in a physical sense obviously, but as a person, an entity with her intricate and attendant web of connections of friendships, colleagues and family. Gone. Finished. No goodbyes, no rehearsals. She was there and now she wasn’t.
It has been said that life is what happens to you when you are busy making plans, but in her case this was an understatement. No weekend, no career, no mortgage but not no nothing. The old pattern ceased abruptly and her life changed then. That moment. An unexpected fork in the road, as her life changed fractally, careering down a new Mandelbrot route. A helter-skelter of uncertainty where the only thing for sure was that she was no longer in control. A sudden metamorphosis. As the stick of her life was swept into a new current in a single qualitative twist, frightening eddies, unforeseen vortices and unforgiving rapids were unknowingly unfolding. She just didn’t know it yet.
Although aware of being in the Bar Suburbia she began to feel isolated and all very confused and when this handsome man, Charles (she did seem to dimly remember his name) had suggested that they go outside for a breath of fresh air she thought for some inexplicable reason that that was a very good idea.
Charles had kept talking so that the other customers in the bar would see nothing out of the ordinary as he gently guided the unresisting young woman out of the bar in an unobtrusive way that would happen in different circumstances ten thousand times that evening all over the countless towns and cities of England. Perfectly normal, perfectly reasonable.
Outside, light rain was beginning to settle on the slightly greasy pavement and caused the streetlights to develop a slight amber halo around each bright yellow sodium tube. He guided her towards an alley, determined not to rush this moment.
‘Many a slip twixt cup and lip’ was a maxim from his grandmother that had served him well and he had no intention of breaking it now. They resembled a young couple about to sample a lovers’ aperitif prior to the main course in a bed-sit or rented flat nearby as he guided into the secluded alley not more than fifteen metres from Bar Suburbia’s welcoming entrance of neon lights and chattering voices and laughter. Out of sight (and out of mind) she collapsed quietly and quickly when he held a small handkerchief dosed in chloroform to her mouth and nose and she folded gently into his waiting arms. Almost simultaneously with an economy of effort that belied his expertise he forced the handkerchief into her mouth where it would act as a temporary yet very effective gag. Charles and Ralph always over-engineered everything; it was one of the factors that made them so successful.
While this small tableau was developing Ralph had not sat idly by, for almost as Charles began to take her weight as she lapsed into unconsciousness, the dark blue Ford Maverick with false plates and its lights off drove into the opposite entrance of the alley that Charles and the girl had entered.
Quickly killing the engine and applying the handbrake, Ralph opened the rear doors from the inside and helped Charles manhandle the nine stones of very desirable human flesh into the back of the specially adapted vehicle. The banging shut of the doors had a ring of finality about them, if only she had been conscious to hear them.
The adaptations within the outwardly looking very ordinary Ford Maverick were designed to facilitate the clandestine passage of unwilling human cargo. In addition the ability to deep clean the passenger compartment of any signs that any particular individual had occupied it was paramount and, with the advent of DNA analysis, that meant very deep cleaning indeed. A solitary hair, a broken nail or even a single spot of blood is all that it takes to establish unequivocally the erstwhile presence of a person. Forensic science has, in recent years, advanced in leaps and bounds and now using such limited material the authorities can tease out the suspect DNA found at the scene. This is then matched by the forensics and pathologists to the missing person’s DNA. This will have been previously identified from say some hair off a brush or even something as unseemly as dried saliva or other bodily fluids from a pillow slip or bottom sheet from their bed. With such sophisticated technology the ability to remove all evidence had to be absolute, watertight and foolproof. There was no margin for error. Consequently all passenger seats bar the two up front and all carpets had been removed from the vehicle in preparation. This made the compartment so much easier to steam clean after the delivery had been made.
At the same time there was little value in delivering damaged goods and therefore the hollowed out passenger cell contained what looked like a simple wooden box approximately the size of a desk. Although made out of wood, there was nothing ramshackle about its construction. It was made of timber so that they could be burnt after usage and its hinged lid had a series of air holes drilled into the top. Inserted into each air hole, a small plastic baffler allowed air in but prevented sound from coming out. The box was lined with bubble wrap not only to help protect the stock being transported, but also helped seal the container from any unfortunate seepage of the occupants body fluids. Finally inside the box, polystyrene chippings insulated and protected the occupant. These chippings also burnt with a very hot flame after successful delivery, ensuring that any telltale evidence would be consumed and destroyed.
Ralph took a small Swiss army knife from his pocket; the only thing that he carried that could be remotely described as a weapon and, with two workmanlike swipes of the blade, had cut the shoulder straps of the unconscious girl’s chain store dress. The fabric simply peeled from her skin and, as Charles lightly shifted his purchase on the girl, Ralph expertly removed the garment entirely. The bra was removed deftly with one hand slipping the catch as it nestled between her shoulder blades and her breasts made a rather lively entrance - almost leaping out of the restraining garment - for the men to enjoy. Charles snapped, ‘Come on, Ralph, be a fucking professional, for Christ’s sake!’ as Ralph licked one of her liberated nipples with his tongue. Ralph looked a little sheepish. ‘I know, I know, but they’re fucking perfect. I just had to sample them.’


I had high hopes when I first started reading this, as the author's use of adjectives and metaphors was amazingly pleasant to read, but the story is too tame for BDSM! No discipline, no pain, no resistance, no intrigue, ponygirls racing without being whipped, etc. etc. No excitement! Erotic in places, but vanilla. This needs a 3rd edition. 3 out of 5 (Sir Kaiser)

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pony writing!


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