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Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Anastasia
Synopsis: the true story
of the escape and subsequent disappearance of the Grand Duchess Anastasia: the
youngest daughter of the Romanovs, and the only
female royal not found among the dead bodies found to have been buried after
the 1917 Bolshevik revolution and subsequent regicide.
Anastasia
1917 and, for poor
“Highness!” the peasant girl almost sobbed, as she knelt in
the mud before the Grand Duchess: the princess, and
lowered her head to touch her forehead on the ground Anastasia made sacred.
Princess Anastasia, in white furs, no more than five-two
without heels, presently stood en-pointe atop the
squared-off toes of her balletic-booties, sweet red
curls, sweeping from under her bearskin hat, fluttering in the chill
north-east-wind, mauve eyes smiling with genuine tenderness, as she bid the
poor girl rise.
This was the only ‘front’ on which the Russian army had seen
any success.
Before the Russian military had collapsed and threatened
implosion, one regiment’s success had shone amidst the sorry series of defeats
retreats and capture suffered in the face of the onslaught from
But one regiment could not carry the war alone.
Anastasia, the Czarina Alexandra’s lovely seventeen-year-old
and youngest daughter, was honorary Colonel-in-Chief of the Clitorian
Guard: ‘the long legged witches’ as the Kaiser’s army had dubbed them.
The Clitorians had been recruited
for palace guard duties, in peacetime. The individual soldierettes
in the regiment had been chosen solely for their height - none was less than
six-foot tall - and for their facial and physical beauty.
Each company of the regiment was defined by hair colour. The symbol of the blonde company was a ripe ear of
corn; that for the brunettes was an Egyptian hieroglyph brown eye; the auburn
company had a badge showing flaming fire. Those girls with less readily defined
hair colour, were assigned to a company with a
roaring lioness’ head as its symbol.
The girl kneeling in the near-frozen mud at Anastasia’s feet
had a ripe corn ear on the badge fronting her red bearskin kepi. But she was so
filthy and dishevelled, her lovely eyes looking up
now from a mud-caked face, with their beautiful
Revolution was in the air. Royalty needed loyalty. The Clitorian Guard had been singled out to defend the
The dedication and fidelity to fealty of the Clitorian Guard was undoubted. But, even after only an hour
in their company, Princess Anastasia knew she would have to report back to her
dear momma, that this hope too was lost.
The all-girl regiment had been sextuply-decimated.
The pretty peasant down on her lovely knees before her,
showed the best of the state this, loyal to royal unit, was in. And she was
filthy, with her coat torn, her knee-boots evidently stolen from a dead German soldierette, her lovely long strong thighs bare in the
bitter wind.
Her only armament was a pitchfork, her rifle having been
abandoned long since, as it had been longer since that ammunition had ceased to
be supplied. And her broken bayonet was still buried in some unfortunate
enemy’s left breast.
Anastasia was feeling the Siberian breeze’s freeze. In honour of the uniform traditions: the dress code of the Clitorian Guard Regiment: the unit she was visiting this
day to boost the little that remained of their morale: under her furs she was
sans panties.
But, the tears that cornered Anastasia’s eyes as she looked
down on what had happened to the motherland, as epitomised
by the near-starving angel at her feet, were from more than the cold alone. She
was crying in pity for the poor soldierette at her
feet, for her country, and for the future of the Russian royal family.
……………….
Anastasia stepped naked as nature into the hipbath: a petite
angel, her confusion of flame-red curls gambolling
giddily down from her crown, to caper the mere five-feet two of her
unsullied-virgin’s ghost white body, till it tangled with her dainty ankles.
Her figure and limbs were firm and gently strong beyond the
superficial appearance from her China-doll delicacy.
Even as Anastasia had first begun to walk, she had also
begun to dance. And Anastasia had danced ever since, twice daily, to trim her
figure and shape her legs to the immaculate feminine muscularity, with which
the highest of high pure artistic beauty, was combined with the mundane duty,
her lower limbs presently lowered themselves to performing.
If only it had been allowed the blood royal, this daughter
of
As she stepped into her bath, her legs now displayed beauty
beyond magic. Even the everyday step of a level walk can be made emotionally
potent by the erotic romance of the means of the performance of that mere
motion: the means of making mere motion passionate potion to sear the seer: a
girl’s legs.
Anastasia’s face said ‘love’ without speech. She spoke love
too when she used the soft lips that clashed their cherry-red with the
gasp-making breathtaking glory of her abundant bundle-tumble of intermingling
interminable autumn auburn curls.
The cherry red of her mouth poised moist pert pout on the
phantom white of her freckle frolicked heart-shaped heart-breakingly
lovely face.
Anastasia’s mauve eyes flashed lightening green when she sparkled champagne in her giggles of excitement. Girl’s
giggles: an enticement to turn and look at heaven on earth in the only creation
god ever made of any true worth. A girl in all her glory: a girl pure and
simple: purely a girl: just a girl: as if the phrase ‘just a girl’ could ever
be justified for its implicit dismissal of the wonder of all wonders that is
girl: all girls or one girl: all wonders or one wonder: all just wonderfully
wonderful.
Anastasia’s breasts were touchingly tiny. She: at seventeen
just: she was a fully developed woman just; but still more a girl-woman than a
woman-girl.
Her breasts were no less lovely for their being small.
Visible only as smooth undulations that questioned if she had breasts at all
when she lay on her back; or at least would have raised such a deliciously
capricious question higher than her breasts did in themselves, were it not that
the rest of her body was so unquestionably feminine, and were it not also, that
her nipples comprised one-inch high teat peaks, peeking prominent cherry-pink
circular tepee pyramid, from the soft smooth gentle hillocks on her chest.
Princess Anastasia stared fixedly in a daydream. Anastasia
sat upright in the hipbath before the roaring fire: the fire striving to
out-glow the florid flames of the glorious curls torrenting
teasingly to the luxurious carpet. She a wet wet-dream of
pure unadulterated girl, with her silken soft complexion shimmering with the
flame’s flickering on the mirror wetness of the soothing smoothness of her
thighs.
Though they were perfectly proportionate
to her sweet petit size, her lovely legs bent at knee made her thighs look
enormous to the worshipping eye.
As she worked to bathe her immaculately shaven nude naked,
naked nude immaculate love lips, her nipples now caressed her shining wet
thighs.
As Anastasia bathed, her patient maids looked on and longed
to find champagne glasses to fill with the sheer intoxication of the water in
which this nymph of nature slowly washed, so that they might drink her, and
take her into their bodies to the same degree to which she was already in their
hearts and souls.
……………….
Anastasia’s tiny ears heard the howls. The winter had been
particularly early and cruel this year: almost as cruel as
Word had been that the ravenous packs had entered the
outskirts of the city. Word was too, that the packs were huge from the
combination of smaller gatherings into armies, united by the single desire to
satisfy hunger, and thus to unite as allies in their plight, where they would
otherwise have done nought but fight.
Even in her warm bath Anastasia shuddered. She was on the
verge of tears. Her lovely momma had ordered her to leave for
“Do please hurry Anastasia” the Czarina begged as she
nervously scurried about the room handling and then setting down priceless
treasures, as if assessing the shear impossibility of taking her palatial
belongings away from their proper setting.
There was, as the Czarina full well knew, no greater
treasure in that room than the girl in the hipbath.
“You must, but must memorise the
message from your papa. It is to be addressed directly before his cousin in
We have readied a troika from the streets. We cannot use the
royal vehicles. They are too readily identified. There is no fuel for the motor
cars anyway. Discretion is the order of this day, as it has been of every day
of late. You will drive yourself south to Gatchina,
where we are assured the railway is free, and you may entrain for
“Yes momma”, Anastasia reassured.
It was the tenth or twentieth time that her mother had
rehearsed these details with her, but the dutiful daughter’s beautiful voice
was loyal and true and sounded no sign of impatience.
“Colonel-General Natasha Lodst,
once of the Redstreak Hussars, will meet you at Gatchina Station. She is to be trusted. She and her
pre-descendents have been loyal servants of our family for ages past.
Colonel-General Lodst is as wise as she is beautiful,
and that makes her very wise indeed”, the Czarina thus tried to make light.
“I have known Natasha since she would sit me on her knee and
tell me of the delights of the Japanese girls she fought against in the war of
1905”, Anastasia reminisced, trying to divert the subject away from the mission
of high trust that she knew awaited her, in order to find some relaxation from
the stress both she and her mother were sharing.
“She would tell me of how the naughty bit between their legs
was horizontal, and not straight up and down like we Europeans. And I believed
her too!” Anastasia tried to make humour.
As Anastasia rose from her bath, just after the tears of the
water’s sadness at her departure had trickled their pearls from the imperial
jewel, the warmth from the crackling logs piled high in the hearth, replaced a
receding curtain of shining wetness on her delicate shoulders, with an
advancing line of dry soft complexion.
Two pretty negress
servant girls now surrounded Anastasia with a huge soft white towel, which they
skilfully worked under the wonder of her hair.
When Anastasia took the fluffy flannel edges in her own
dainty hands they curtsied. She then smiled her thanks to them by turn. They
were thereby awarding with gratitude more valuable than mere gold: gratitude
that had long since enslaved their very soul’s souls with love for their
mistress.
……………….
The stockings were first. White silk with seam, the negress beauties rolled them up
the swerving curvature of Anastasia’s pretty legs, as she sat, to the stocks
cease at half-mast on her thighs.
The same two servants now waited patiently with the garters
opened ‘O’ ready, as their mistress checked that they had, as indeed they had,
got her seams straight.
White Chantilly lace garters, rose
floral, next arose, and were slid up the legs of the rose, to the tops of her
silk stockings, and tied in place by the interwoven imperial purple ribbons,
tied in delicate bows at the sides of her delicious thighs.
The knee-boots were hand-stitched in mirror-mirage tawny
calf leather, of suppleness that enabled them to be eased over the stockings,
and take on a poor rendition, redolent of the shape of Anastasia’s curvaceous
calves.
Both her maids blushed as they held Anastasia’s wolf-fur
bloomers at the ready. Fur-lined inside, stitched fur on the outside, the blushes
were from the passing thought about the sweet lips this nether garment would
shortly contain.
After the waistband of the bloomers had halved the distance
up Anastasia’s handsome thighs, she stood up from her seat, and had them
gentled the rest of the distance, so that they covered her innocent intimacy,
the apparition of her apparently pre-pubic pod, as well as the exciting
elliptic enticements of her sumptuous rump.
Her boots being sans heels, Anastasia stood on the boots’
squared-off toes on big-toe tiptoe, her legs thus taking on the maximality of erotic shapeliness, her locked-back knees
delightful dimples, and her buttocks scooped scallops, as her muscles were
intentionally tensioned, and thus her bottom’s cheeks’ sides, were helloed to
hallowed heavenly deep concave hollows.
As she performed the dutiful beautiful honour
of drawing tight the imperial purple ribbon in the top of the bloomers, in the
waistband now just above Anastasia’s hipbones, into a neat decorative bow at
her lower belly, Anastasia’s senior maid blushed anew.
The pure white silk under-slip, was rolled up before the
slim arms aloft, went through its shoulder straps, and it could and would slide
down the equally silken smoothness of the soon-to-be wearer, till its hem flowed
to and fro momentarily, before settling its rose-weave
leaves-thorns-and-flowers trimming, just below Anastasia’s knees.
The pure white thick cotton dress had been chosen for its
plainness, and corresponding contribution to half-hearted disguise.
As the maids worked its waistband up over the underskirt,
its bodice hung forward loose. The waist in place and the skirt, which belled
out down with its hem at the heels of Anastasia’s boots, had any tucks or
creases straightened.
The dress’ bodice came next.
Anastasia’s pretty arms, with their minimal muscularity,
were introduced to the long sleeves, which were buttoned at cuffed wrists. This
after the peasant style dress, had had its bodice
drawn over her breast and breasts, so that it could be buttoned up its
mid-back, from where her curved spine swerved up from her bottom’s top, to the
high collar at her slender neck.
All this under the splendour
sensational of her ankle-length furious-fire-flame cascaded cavalcaded cape of
confusing circinate circumcentred
circumducting cupric copper circumfusing red curls.
Even as a girl, Anastasia had loved to touch her sweet cheek
on the white wolf-fur of coats such as the garment being brought to her now.
And the maids, who had known her since she was a child, let
her perform that delight and delighting little duty, before one lifted her
golden tresses, and the other helped her into the double-fur-lined inner, and
enfolded her wonder in the fur lined outer. So that Anastasia
cuddled and snuggled safe and warm in the three layers of wolf-fur the coat
comprised, as its double-breasted wings were overlapped and slowly buttoned,
from her ankles to the wing collar at her delicately dimpled chin.
The porcelain pretty face, with its delight of dancing
freckles, now smiled out with the confidence of its youth at her dear momma,
the Czarina, who could not help a tear of concern cornering her eyes, as she
looked on her favourite daughter.
Fine white tooled-kid-leather fur mittens the maids now
pulled onto her pretty handsover the cuffs of her
dress.
A wolf-fur muff was anchored to her left wrist with a slim
slip-chord, ready.
A white wolf-fur hat, a fur fez: a large soft fez festooned
with a peacock’s tail-feather for delight, and with ear flaps that, when tied
down, linked by a ribbon bow under the chin, was placed saucily on the
inspirationally sensational coiffure curls.
Anastasia was ready for her mission.
Anastasia’s pretty face flushed blushed.
“Are you alright my sweet treasure?” the Czarina coaxed.
After all the bathing and dressing, Anastasia did not like
to say that ‘she needed to go’ – that she ‘needed to spend a kopeck’. Perhaps
nervousness had prompted the need to liberate a libation. Anastasia told
herself to control her bladder, and smiled at her momma.
“I’m fine momma. Truly I’m fine”, Anastasia smiled with the
love in her heart shining from her sparkling mauve eyes, and her moist pursed
confident cheery cherry lips.
The Czarina kissed her lovely daughter’s sweet soft cheek,
and took her gloved right hand, to lead her to the stables.
……………….
A ‘jinkle’ ‘jingle’ from tossed
harnessed heads, seeming to nod in signal of greeting to the lovely princess as
she wiggled into the stables with the Czarina, told the two women that the ponygirls had been tacked out and were ready for the
shafts.
The ponies, all ex-Clitorian Guard
who had decided to extend the honour of serving the
royal household beyond military service, now broken to nervous skittish ponygirl, were all-three consequently over six-feet tall,
with legs of an incredulity of length strength and completely compelling
curvature: fresh, and correspondingly friskily frolicsome.
‘Iskra’, the astounding, simply
stunning negress, would lead the trinity as it pulled
the troika, and would be accompanied by ‘Pravda’ and ‘Siberia’, two very
attractive Caucasian blondes.
Anastasia had always marvelled at
the near nakedness of ponygirls in winter. The only
duty paid to the bitter cold of the October snows, was the fur garter the three
ponygirls wore on their left thighs. It could only be
assumed that the heavy load at high speed as they hauled the sleds, worked to
heat their muscles such that they did not feel the sub-zero cold.
Anastasia’s lifelong love of all things pony showed, when
she broke away from her momma, and wiggle-ran in her tiptoe topping boots, over
to Iskra, and stroked the negress’
face with the pure innocent love of the pure virgin girl she, Anastasia, had
been, and still was.
“We must act quickly now, Anastasia. The hostler will
harness the ponygirls to the troika landau. The three
chosen, are intelligent creatures and will take you to Gatchina
with all speed”, the Czarina reminded, rehearsing, yet again, the vital details
of the plan to get Anastasia to a port, and a ship sailing
for
Even as the Czarina fussed over these final details, she
stole an arctic fox stole around her daughters neck, and bade her enter the
troika, thereafter pulling a white wolf-fur rug over the sweet child-woman’s
knees.
The hideous haunting howls hollered as if in the same
building. But such was it the normalcy of expectation that such dissonant
discourse would be heard in the crisp air of the deepening Russian winter, that
only the high-strung ponygirls seemed to register it:
the Czarina and the Grand Duchess showed no sign they had even heard it.
Iskra, Pravda, and
Sweet Anastasia sat at the rear centre of the open-topped
sled, with the three reins in her lap, knowing she would not need them, but
could snuggle her hands in her wolf-fur muff against the clinging cold, and
trust the proud ponygirls to deliver her to her
destination.
Time was moving on so fast. The wish that she had spent the
metaphorical kopeck had increased, but Anastasia could not disappoint her momma
by delaying her departure for the leisure to fountain her golden treasure. She
must be at Gatchina before dusk. She would have to
stop off on the way. Some faithful peasants would surely let her use their
cesspit.
Even with the snow compacted to blue-sky-white sheet-ice at
the exit of the stable yards, such was the power from the six stupendous legs
which the tremendous strength the pony girls pumped to ground with the pounding
of their iron-shoe-shod wooden hooves: hooves that held their feet on tiptoe
within them, that Anastasia was thrown back in recoil, as the troika was
whisked away on its skis in the bitter biting cold freeze.
She was on her way. The loveliest daughter of the Czar and Czarina, was on her journey to make a personal plea to the
king of
With tears coursing down her proud face, the Czarina ran to
the gated palace entrance her daughter had just left through, and called
piteously after her youngest daughter: “Anastasia!!”
But a glorious golden-red curl surround crowned head had
already turned her way, and the Czarina could see the cherry-red lips on the
angel’s face whispering a pleading sad: “Momma!!!!” as Anastasia’s sled, sped
her into and beyond the horizon of history.
……………….
Anastasia could not help but cry. She was alone being
whisked toward uncertainty. She was so young, so vulnerable, and so laden with
the trust her parents had put in her, to get the
Yet, after five miles Anastasia’s lovely optimists’ smile
returned, and her face glowed brighter than the winter sun that was wanly
making the blue-white field of endless snow through which her sled was being
hauled, blinding to the sensitive eye.
A pack of wolves was spotted on the horizon. Anastasia
shuddered, and nestled her pretty hands deeper into her fur muff, after
arranging the rug higher up her lap.
Anastasia smiled; despite that she felt soreness in her
nipples from the arrival of a would-be familiar over-sensitivity: a prelude to
an interlude that she, though now seventeen, had never yet experienced.
Even had she known what was happening, she had nothing with
her to deal with ‘the curse’. Had she been aware, she must have hoped that her
flow would not begin yet awhile, and that she could make Gatchina,
where Colonel-General Lodst would help her provide
for her woman’s heavenly cycle.
Though Anastasia could not recognise
the signs telling her she was about to enter her period, she knew a more
immediately pressing need. And pressing her pretty knees together was no longer
getting the better of the burning in her bladder. Anastasia was getting
desperate to relieve herself.
……………….
Seven miles out of
The distant woods, despite the wandering wolves seen just
now before, seemed ever more attractive to a shy girl.
At the thought of dropping her knickers and peeing in the
open air, as she had once been told off for doing when she had been a little
girl, Anastasia’s musical giggles lit the lovely lantern of her face, and her
eyes glowed with her irrepressible zest for zoë.
The ‘shush’ of the skis on which her sled sped with the thud
of the hooves of her ponygirls, disposed Anastasia to
sleep. But she must, but must, answer the pressing call of nature, before
slumber’s sweet nurture would, or indeed could, approach further.
The edge of the woods had arrived. Anastasia took her gloved
hands out of her muff, and gentled the ponygirls’
reins to guide them into slowing and then turning onto a path that would take
them, she hoped, to a suitable place for a shy Grand Duchess of the Russian
peoples, to have a sly pee.
“Slow now Iskra, you darling
creature!” she coaxed, “slow now, slow Pravda and
The hoped for proximity to a place of relief, only increased
the need for Anastasia to ‘go’, and she would have danced her lovely legs to
increase her will not to pee herself, if it had not been so undignified.
As it was, in microseconds after her gentle call of “Whoa!”,
she whisked the rug off her knees, and jumped from the troika, careless of the
reins, as she trotted in her tiptoe boots, sliding twice on ice patches, but
recovering her hurry to find a hide where she might drop her bloomers, and make
true the saying that ‘a girl has to do what a girl has to do’.
The sound of Iskra’s pee
thundering steaming to the ground on the spot, where the ponygirls
stood and shook their bitted heads and leather reins, seemed to echo in the
eerie silence, and its hiss increased Anastasia’s panic for her own chance to
piss.
In the clearing there was a slope behind her. Anastasia
thought she heard a noise, but was too distracted by her need, to pay it heed.
Her muff was cast off, hanging by the ribbon around her
wrist. Her mittens came next, else she would never
undo her wolf-fur coat’s buttons and hooks.
Indeed, there was insufficient time to undo more than those
up to her knees and half her thighs.
She must lift the skirt of her dress, and her under-slip,
and get to the ribbon tie holding up her knickers.
The panic with which she fought to undress, and thus
increase a clumsiness not natural to her, would have
made her giggle helplessly if she had been a witness of herself, rather than
her actual self on the very verge of urinating in her panties.
Thank god her skirt was up, but oh the pretty bow tying her
bloomers’ waistband! If she had known of
Her bloomers were undone at last.
Anastasia danced on her divine legs to stop herself from
peeing before she could squat.
She lowered her bloomers to her ankles and squatted and,
holding her coat and dress and underskirt up, parted wide her perfect thighs,
and pissed a long glistering glistening sibilantly ‘sissing’
silently mellow yellow stream, made mildly rosé by her being on the cusp of her
moon month’s cyclic intervention.
Anastasia sighed and giggled galore with relief, as she
jetted a spinning spiralling parabola of her golden
wine, till it slowed to the last spurts she squirted; then a trickle, then
drips.
Yet there was so little! Had all that panic been for so
small a drop of her pure gold?
The proud product of Anastasia’s sulphur-yellow
stream, steamed in the bitter bite of the wind. Yellow in and on the compacted
snow, before the cold could freeze it solid, it trickled back between her
tiptoe-bootied toes, down the slope the stunning
princess was making throne.
Realising she risked wetting her
dangling bloomers if she did not stand and pull them up quickly, Anastasia rose
and, as she rose, heard a noise which made the fine red hairs at the back of
her swan slim neck hackle.
In her fear, her fur-lined fur panties hitherto braced by
her delicious booted calves, slid to her knee-boots’ ankles once more, and she
stopped her efforts to pull up her knickers and close and button-up her coat.
Anastasia had heard a noise of stealthy movement, and the
lovely flaming-fire-fringed curl-caressed crowned head of this escaped favourite daughter of the soon to be slaughtered crowned
heads of
The lead wolf sniffed the snow she had anointed, and its
cock crowed as it grew, bared red, throbbed, pulsed,
and then grew more erect anew, because the intimate scent of her piss as he
sniffed it, indicated Anastasia’s immediately imminent intimate heat.
As lovely Anastasia bent to slide up her bloomers, her
gloved pretty hand, held up, begged for delay and time and pity.
But she had not dropped the hem of her coat entirely, and so
flashed the innocent slit mid her thrilling thighs. Her hairless lips: the
labia of her silk-smooth intact-virgin-tight closed slit, flashed hot in the
clinging cold.
As the one wolf became ten, and seventeen, and twenty, with
those hitherto hidden in the forest pines bidden to come into the open by the
sweet scent sent by the silent breeze blowing over her pee as it slowly froze,
Anastasia was too terrified to scream.
As in the worst of her dreams, she could not move. Even as
the yellow-eyed evil-eyed grey-hide-flanked leader of the wolf packs, raised his greying muzzle
to howl ear-splittingly spine-chillingly hideously, Anastasia’s eyes just
stared in horror and terror too great for her even to tremble.
Time was accelerated and yet slowed down. As her fear fed
her mind with the need for self-survival, Anastasia was seeing the world at
whirlpool whirl; but with every detail of what was and was not happening as if
in a slow motion film.
Now she heard the thunder of the hooves, as her terrified
screaming ponygirls fled, and with them to the
inaccessible distant horizon and beyond, dragged the rescue refuge shelter of
the troika sled.
More wolves gathered. Count lost, countless, they slavered
from their ivory-toothed maws as their cocks throbbed red and raw between their
grey-flanked legs.
Called by the leader’s howl, they were hungry and starving
in binary ways, with a flame-red-haired honey-harvest standing on wonderful
shapely legs before them.
Anastasia adrenalin now kicked in, and she kicked her pretty
legs and fought to run and run and run. And hide she would if she but could;
but her fur-lined fur bloomers furnished her with a trip to end the kicks of
her race back to the snow track traces of the fleeing sled, and a longed-for
slide ride back to some form of amnesty and freedom.
And Anastasia fell.
Felled by her underwear, she slithered in the snow. And as
she slid, her fur-lined fur bloomers unbid, slipped
off her boots’ ankles: ankles below calves curved so thrillingly by the strong
beauty of her lower legs, and lay discarded by default in the snows, just beyond
a finger’s end reach by the lovely girl.
Anastasia scrambled to her knees too late to rise further,
as the wolf packs’ leader of leaders had her by the throat and kept her knelt,
and the leads among his followers forced their cold wet noses up the hem of her
coat and dress and under-slip, and smelled the smouldering
scent of essential desire central to the uncontrollable furious fires that burn
between the legs of young girls.
The wolf packs were hungry. The wolf packs were starving.
The wolf packs must have meat to survive alive.
But to eat could wait. There was another feast to be had
before the rending and tearing into a bloody screaming mass, and the ravenous
devouring of the fragrant feminine flesh knelt before them.
A hideous heart rending spine-freezing scream of: “No!!!!”
was followed by the sound of growls snarls doggish howls, and the rending of
nether garments to, never to be reassembled resemblance of shattered tattered
shards, as the wolves fought to get clear access to the source of the exquisite
fragrance that was driving them’ already wild, still wider wilder.
Anastasia cried in her helplessness. On her knees unable to
move, the savage wolves were stripping her to get at her cunt,
and she knew it.
Eager tongues slobbered as the wolves fought to lick between
her wonderful thighs.
Anastasia murmured mumbled jumbled prayers as the wolves
lapped her lips till her slit betrayed her, and displayed its minxish independence of her mind, by oozing the very scent
that the wolves were seeking, and that drove them wilder still with unsated insatiable desire.
Anastasia’s cries of “No!” and “No!” and “No!” and “No!”, were sobs of a soul in a totality of tortured torment
now.
The unspeakable horror of what was happening,
was only made the more horrendous by the way her very feminine body was
reacting to it.
To the ravenous wolves there was another hunger to be
satisfied to satiation before food was met by hot fresh flesh.
There was another imperative of survival to satisfy.
The anomaly of satiation before destruction would prevent
gestation and parturition, even had the genes been willing to match after the
mating, knew no dismissal in the dismal dark of the
animal heart.
There was hunger of another kind. And here was an intact
virgin bitch on heat for the forty and more wolves to make themselves
repeatedly replete, before Anastasia was torn apart by their terrible teeth,
and voraciously devoured as red raw tender meat.
The scream as Anastasia was mounted and taken by the wolf
pack leader, and surrendered her virginity with an excruciating snap in her
vagina, and a spurt of scarlet blood, was more horrible than the one she had
emitted when she first realised the wolves were out
to rape her.
But the screams that followed the screams that followed the
screams that followed the screams that followed, before a wolf’s huge filthy
cock stopped Anastasia's mouth, were hollow of horror, and told of a girl being
repeatedly endlessly reamed, as she fulfilled her function; and her wildest and
wettest of wet wet-dreams…
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