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Review This Story || Author: Eve Adorer

Disconnections

Part 7

Disconnections

Disconnections

- a series of stories -

by Eve Adorer

 

She

Synopsis: Poetic licentiousness?

 

She

Spring 1 – Her big toes projecting on the wafer slim leather sole of the soft kid sandals, are right-angles-bent tortured penis parallels, bowing to her legs’ inexorable rise of her nine-inch heels’ sky rocket size.

 

She is bare legged this day. Other days She dazes and dazzles in stockings’ ways.

 

Stocking days She electrifies with her thighs’ rub of static spark risking nylon, frisking a whisper from her skirt’s church bell, as She stands, and her legs She switches to advance and retreat in the cause of comfort: strain in the commuter train withstanding, her heels heeding passion for fashion notwithstanding.

 

This day is hot. She is hot to trot.

 

On hot stocking days, a triangular spot in the darkness of her tolling skirt amid, is filled with her immaculate lips humid. Her panties are virgin white and pulled so tight that, unbid, they show the divide in her pouch inside hid.

 

Inside, unbidden, the lips show her tightness from never having been ridden. She is as tight closed as a silenced clam. Her immaculate smoothness is as if pre-puberty, for She is shaven and smoothed to a state of such nudity, as to show her vertical Mona Lisa smile with its outer lips turning in, to hide the sensationally sensitive sensual pinkness that dwells within.

 

Today in this heat She is sans panties replete. And She can feel a curious fly on her glorious thigh with his tickling feet.

 

His visit seems assured to be fleeting, but her visitor leaves an itch behind its retreating.

 

And then her mouth parts, and her perfect white teeth are licked by her tasty tongue long, to restrain the strange below feeling, and stop a cry of keening, as She nearly flips, feeling the fly wander, the tight crease betweening her virgin lips.

 

And there is nought She can do on the busy train, than let the fly crawl away, without refrain from feeling her thoroughly, where touched has no man nor maid nor She either, for wickedness makes her afraid, for She knows her duty is to maintain her godly perfection of beauty as maid.

 

But the fly is not shy and continues to tease as he crawls on her bare lips. And he itches and pleases as he zigzags along the line were her cunt lip’s crease is. And then stops as if a kiss to proffer on the spot where her dingle dangles on offer, now twitching and dancing in its little red hidey hood, hidden inside her.

 

And She can nought do to stop the naughty tease as the fly’s six legs and buzzing wings do as they please, and the tickle of torment finally causes her honey to flow. And She can no longer bear to have the fly crawl so, so She eases her legs apart to force its withdrawal.

 

But the fly, flies up into her salivating snatch, and her legs, now back together him in her tight Venus flytrap catch: ‘SNAP!’

 

And She crushes him to instant doom with her cunt as his tomb. And he drowns in her delicious myrrh, no longer able to drone or even stir.

 

And in her imaginative daydream distraction She has not till now noticed the attention, of an older girl her sexy motions have aroused to attraction.

 

And She blushes as her legs are longingly surveyed, and lip service to love paid by lips licked to the moisture that She herself has just produced in her oyster’s cloister.

 

And She wakes from her wet-daydream of something obscene, of which She is incapable in truth for good cause: her dream of the incessantly insistent fly meeting his fate in her crack, as it eats him with a voracious snap.

 

And in the blush and the train’s crowded crush, the older wiser girl presumes and intends to rush, to advise the young maid of an ointment made for what She has assumed to be the itch of thrush.

 

Spring 2 – How many years now has She been without? Her body shouts of its needs. She fights with her prayers indeed. She sits with her thighs on display. Monuments to beauty and monumental in their way.

 

The commuter train takes strain and her crossed leg’s thighs, rub stocking top on stopping top, blacker than the black of the stocks that covers the rest of the dreams her legs inspire: the spires of her incarnation as cathedral and higher.

 

Oh why do the nuns She would join number with, send her out this way, her sexy mission, to seduce and persuade into the Church of the Holy Girl, her fellow maids by improper proposition?

 

Stockinged thigh on stockinged thigh rubs, and She knows She must not squeeze them together hard, for She fears the fire in the purse on which sits at rest, on the rest of her miniscule miniskirt drawn up high at hem, and which flashed the reflected light white from her tiny tight panties, before She just now crossed her thighs in holy genuflexion, before another lovely girl of her own generation.

 

As if on purpose the train’s rocks and rolls serve only to serve up her breasts, as porpoises at play and free to have their way, as the nuns had insisted indeed that today, She tease without brassiere to impede their way.

 

Within her blouse and thus to further arouse the girl opposite with her eye on the wonder of her thighs, and her playfully porpoising breasts, her nipples are hard and scribble and scribe ‘L’ ‘O’ ‘V’ ‘E’ ‘M’ ‘E’ in the blouse covering her generous chest.

 

Wanting to know, despite her wanton’s heat, if She could make her day replete, by recruiting the opposite girl to the Church with her charms, She raises her hand and slender arm, and bends her fingers back to comb her curls aside, from the deep rich green of her glowing eyes.

 

She waits the seeming eons needed for the opposite apposite girl to travel her legs, to the spicy hot black bands of the taut tight tops of stockings and the snow white flesh, fresh, above them bare, till the two by two eyes stare with love, in knowingness of what and which they are both aware.

 

Then the train brakes of sudden and shakes two chains from cleaved four forefronts, as bosoms swing in recoil before recall of their nestling in natural nurture, and two crucifixes out flicked momentarily transfix.

 

And two would be Church of the Holy Girl nuns, realise they have commissioned mission of their fellow, and fall to pretty giggles, knowing that neither will this day, win a new recruit their way, with their sexy wiggles.

 

Spring 3 – Medusa’s curls were never this red, nor did such sweet scented snakes cover her head. But the powers of seduction are a common thread.

 

Natural as nature are these coils, coils no nurture has spoiled. Twisting and turning in mesmerising whirls, they mark the essence of this exquisite girl, and set your mind in total turmoil.

 

Yet She wears this halo, casually at ease cascading to ground without cease, in torrential twists teasing‘ mercy please’ pleas, as her angelic face smiles from within their halo, to shatter your heart and your peace, forever without cease.

 

As the sunset’s halo tries to match the glow of her glorious hair, She turns her sweet face from your admiring stare, and your heart and your cock are all the more forced to stir. Every millimetre of her total perfection would alone give a male a beyond massive erection.

 

And the bridle path ribbons behind your ride, as your ponies walk from the beach side-by-side, and you watch her breasts’ seismic echo of her pony’s bounding strides.

 

As She rides bareback the track, her reins are her pony’s mane in her pretty hands held slack, and her bare legs dangle long and wide, astride. Her legs are divided either side her crutch, to straddle with their stride as such, and you assume that in her bikini thong, decided, must be that her lips are invitingly divided.

 

In only a sloppy white tee-shirt and the virgin white bikini thong, her gold crucifix cross glints in the sun, as you ride from the beach after hours of watching her reach, and her breasts and her long legs leap, as the volleyball beach She keeps in play, for you to win some other day, when this winsome girl will let you hold sway.

 

And on the rare occasions when She has to retrieve the ball, and the breeze blows her hair to let you see it all, the sight of the site of her bare bottom holds you in thrall. Bare foot, She walks on the sand Egyptian queen, her bikini thong letting her buttocks be full seen, and you are mesmerised by its seduction, and its wiggle production is thus made obscene.

 

And She bends, with her two bare beach ball buns begging to be slapped till they are as red as the setting sun, and her bend shows the crutch of her white bikini where, her pouch is vouchsafed from the predatory penis bare, that longs for to place the full length of its shaft, in the pink sheath there: there in that place, or the equally pink lips on her lovely face.

 

As She rises again with the volleyball retraced, her visage is covered with curls that She must replace, from hiding the wonder of her freckled face. And you see in her eyes her vivacious beauty, and you long that her care was not your bounden duty.

 

And She giggles as She drops the ball when using her fingers as her comb. And over her body your eyes freely roam. But now She is in place to once more serve the ball. And her fitness and litheness are all that will ensure that you again lose the tussle despite your supposed superiority of muscle.

 

And as the ball to ground gives her the next point, She giggles divinely. But then her hand appoints to cover her pretty lips as She sees you tumble, and the look of her care for you makes you humble, as She rushes to help you up from the sand, frightened you have been hurt by the way you land, and her lips you long to kiss as She bends to lend aid, and her eyes show the gentle care of which She is made.

 

But you are not hurt, and She turns once more to golden laughter, for She does not know what your mind is after. And around her side of the net She once more wiggles, a girl in her body and her mind and her giggles.

 

And the wind catches her curls and flies them piratical flag, and just for the moment her bare feet sand drag, as if in her mind She is suddenly aware, that you are wishing her naked with your constant stare.

 

And She turns and attunes her intelligent gaze upon you in trust. And you look back over your filthy lust, and your answering smile says She can trust you are just.

 

And now her face lights with the delight of your reassurance, and She wiggles and giggles to return to the play, and thoroughly defeats you in every way.

 

And now as her pony trots, She bounces, legs divided, on her crutch, and you wonder how much her wonderful cunt, with its pink on display, is being pummelled to lust in that way.

 

And her feet point to ground giving her bare calves, a supremacy of shape that a sculptor could only carve, if Michelangelo’s David was dragged to her yard, and that inadequately endowed manhood put to the chisel, and replaced with a cunt in its legs’ middle, and the rest of the body given new shape, in the form of a girl to make earthquake, such as the girl whose thighs now rise as She strives to make more comfortable her intimacy’s ride, between her parted thighs, with her heaven’s doors surely open wide.

 

And for the moment your vision alters this picture, to a totally different mixture, where She is naked and in terrible pain, as your crop beats her buttocks again and again, and you pull on the bit in her pretty mouth, hard on the reins that control her wildness, as you whip her to the horizon’s witness of her tits frantic frolicking wild swinging wideness. And the wheels of your spurs run down her bare thighs, and though her long legs are coping to stride the loping you demand as you savagely ride, you whip her the more in your fury, for the desire She invokes, as the dildo you have forced up her cunt her provokes, and her body runs with sweat strain and blood, as you increase the agony of her pain, by whipping and spurring her again and again, amid her obedient’s tears’ gentle flood.

 

And now you think of her convent education ongoing, and you know of her decision, and that She is going to give up her place in the sun, to become a Girl Church holy nun. And you know what you think is going on in her panties, is not in fact the case, for her advantage is to pray, and each day, ensure that her virgin innocence will stay that way.

 

And you know you have thought thoughts about her that you did not ought to; for this beautiful girl is your loving daughter.

 

Summer 1 – Just left church: Sunday. Pavement sun shimmer. Her legs wander wonder wand in the distant rise heat haze glimmer. Her hell-high heels hello erogenous click clack clatter. Sweet sixteen. Marble white to marvel at, in black: dress; tailored jacket; veil with hat.

 

Cool despite her thick woollen dress, jacket, and veiled cloche hat. The dress hem high. Stockings, midnight, started pre-dawn on both legs of their long journeys, stopping at length, half-thigh, now thus circled in darker rings. Suspenders stretch these encirclings, to stop a fall from grace down her smoothness back to their starting place.

 

Closer, behind her behind as She walks seductive sway, the domes of her derriere rise and fall bewitchingly, alternately, as She heavens her way.

 

From under her hat conflagrational curls of peerless priceless assay, essay to tumble to the humbled ground. Her face is of sweetness profound.

 

Portray the proverbial picture She is as pretty as, and trash it, for only a mirror can show what beauty She has. The eyes devastate: the lips a kiss await, already proffering their own irresistible offering. Add freckles speckled delicately on her soft spectral complexion, and a pretty little nose, and you have the confection that is a girl in all her perfection.

 

As a man comes her way her eyes avert. She can divert; but She is no flirt. As he turns She feels his astonishment. While She graces on, his open mouthed stare causes her, aware of her powers, to lower her head in maidenly blush. And just that is just, for She is wholly holy whole, with all its magical power, and her maiden’s ring yet to become a former flower.

 

Summer 2 – Seventeen. Once more on the crowded train, the sensual scent of her hair fragrances and flavours the flagrant admiration of the older man, whose tired eyes follow the flow of her league legs, longing, knowing now that heaven has earth in thrall, where the one square millimetre each of her heelless stiletto-toed ballet shoes en-pointe her tall.

 

And She turns to squeeze a shy smile that says: ‘please admire me as a daughter’. A gold neck-chain glistens. A seat is vacant, he signals with his hand that She should it favour. And her shy ‘thank you’ with her emerald diamond eyes and pouted lips burn his memory forever.

 

She glides over, and slips, with underwear whispering its minimality. Replete with the suspender clasps that grasp her nylons at sighs’ sides, her cool cotton dress no longer hides the bare flesh of her upper thighs, as the seat She bides with her hem bell’s rise. And one leg over the other She slides and nylon on nylon rides, and the sound of the sizzling static of stocking sliding on stocking’s glide, sensationally sounds crackles, as She lowers the sweet head that should show her pride instead.

 

Summer 3 – She is enjoying her eighteenth birthday treat. Humidity diamonds her humility in a delight of trickling perspiration as She plays you, her uncle, to defeat.

 

Beneath her white tennis skirt, her bare thighs shine with sweet sweat, and flash their shapely strength as She wins the first set.

 

For her to play in white tiptoe ballet shoes is almost a cheat, for the beauty of her legs must lead her opponent to defeat: a defeat from attraction to the inevitably distraction, of following the flow of her strong legs in folly, as She flashes their fit shapeliness in the fast fought rallies.

 

She giggles in her joy at cutting the baseline with final ball. And you could spank her for holding you in such thrall. And her sweet voice joys at her musical call of: “Six love I think you’ll find!” as She dances on her tiptoes making her leg shape divine. And love is indeed all that is on your mind, as She is shied by you looking at her with the lust of all mankind.

 

And She waits for your serve at the next set’s start. And you hit the ball long in deliberate dart. And it hits her full on her breast as you intend, put pretend not, as She gasps with the blow that will bruise her nipple; and yet crouches again, her sweet face so trusting and simple.

 

Your next serve is harder still, and hits her other breast, so that She twists and falls. And She has scored neither of these balls, for She knows in her heart that the birthday treat that was to be Eden, is now turning to you showing her another meaning of ‘beaten’.

 

Bravely She rises, her bruised nipples making her cry, and your next served ball hits hard her bare thigh.

 

And your next hits her full in her belly, so She doubles over with lost breath and hurt, and her breathtaking breasts dangle in her shirt, so you long over the net to dash at the double, and use your racket her bum spheres to thrash and pummel.

 

Despite that your intent has become elementary, She rises and holds her racket at sentry, and your serve is full with the hardest yet whack, and the ball, as you intend, hits her full in the lap, and hard on her sweat-made-transparent panties, with a resounding slap!

 

And She cries with the pain of her cunt being hit. And She flashes her white thong as her hem up-flips. And the ball is still lodged in her thighs again, as She appears to roll it with her shapely muscles, and enjoy it’s feeding her pain.

 

And you cry out as if it were in the rules of the game: “JUICE!!” not ‘deuce’ as is the usual name. And She knows full well what you mean by that refrain. And you want to hit her again and again.

 

And you want round the net next to take your chase, and strip her to her tiny waist, and tie her arms back with her sweaty shirt, so her tits leap up taunt and flirt, and you whack them hard with your tennis racket, so her nipples are squeezed through the squares of the of the catgut trellis, with slaps you impart with increasing relish, as you beat her to perdition with voluminous bashes, till her tits are meshed with bloody squares from your full volley slashes.

 

But instead you hold your racket up to apologise, and glow with sweet sincerity, as you know in your mind She is suffering in verity.

 

And from thence on you whip her in the game She once led love-six: topping it with six-love, six-love instead. And her giggles are gone and her play has vanished, as from the tennis court She is vanquished.

 

All this is over in less than an hour, and you sneak your avuncular hand on her shining sweaty bare bum, as you prompt her to her shower, longing that her rape was within your power.

 

Autumn 1 – She knows. Her eyelashes lowered, alluring fans fuelling the flames of desire for her. Her alabaster face bedewed and bejewelled with bewildering freckles, and crowned and around with surrounding conflagration from incandescent furls of her incendiary curls.

 

Commuter still. She is in vest invested twice boldly by her beautiful chest. Her hair cascades carat claret curls galore to caress the floor flawless in red, to form carpet for her regal tread.

 

The emerald lasers of her startling sparkling eyes, tell the intellect of this dove. She is to be engineer or scientist or professor or doctor: and She is love.

 

Cavernous cleavage centre of epic domes, with domes on the domes from the domesticity of mothering teats. Teetering on tiptoe taut in leg and buttock, fronted with this sweet softness affirmably firm: a gold chain dandles a crucifix amid the abyss of the essentially sensual rise, either side the deep valley in which it resides.

 

Eyes cleave the cleavage. A girl, stood alongside where She now sits, looks down into the shadowed darkness as her eyes cannot help, at two wonders that do everything puppying, bar yelp.

 

The train is too crowded for her to move. The blush on her face could speak of a prude, or of some stirring in the shaven honeypot on which She sits nude. Her tits sway heaven’s way, affirming their firmness and freedom to roam, without the confines of a brassiere to kennel them in homes.

 

Disobedient of all bar their own will, their slow swing and rise and fall as her breaths thrill, and a brief glimpse of her nipples is more exciting still.

 

Her nipples could themselves be breasts on a less well-endowed girl. Thus She is double blessed on her chest, with a quarter of each breast, given to her nipples’ knurls.

 

Constantly dancing never at rest, her tits declare their independence from the rest of her chest, and her nipples press so hard in her vest, that its fabric contorts, as her chest cavorts.

 

She looks up at the girl looking down to assay, the wonder of her chest at rest and play. But the sweet look from her innocent eyes in plea, for the other girl not to mentally undress her, is met by a shock means for that girl to assess her.

 

For the train hits a kink in the rail, and the consequent jerk, causes two other girls’ drinks to unavoidably squirt, and her vest is soaked in the lemonade cola.

 

And the wetness helloes full sight of her nipples, huge in dimension and hard with the wet cold. So She is left blush incarnate, amid the stares bold, of the whole of the compartment’s multitude, craning her nipples to behold.

 

And even her frolicking freckles blush, as She hangs her red curls shamed by the her slit’s sudden gush, that confirms her a girl, as the cruelty of the stares She is exposed to, score a palpable hit that her heavenly face glows to.

 

Autumn 2 – Leafs’ turn, leaves leafs longing for comparison less unfavourable to her flaming curls. The tumble of their majesty befalls the Fall to fall behind in the league of nature’s wonders. For her hair thunders that this is girl, and all nine wonders of the world are thus thereby humbled, let alone the mere deciduous shed, as the leaves parachute pendulum down to carpet in red, where they long her sweet feet may deign to tread.

 

Kicky-toed She tiptoes her dainty way, flicking the leaves that lizard lounge in lay on the floor, to look up her skirt and espy the mound, flawless, punctuating her panties with pronounced pouch, as She saints by in dance, with the curves of her calves conspicuous from her being tiptoed straight lance, in shoes in which a ballerina would dance: shoes giving supreme sensuality to her stance.

 

Schoolboys passing glance. They stop. They turn. They stare astounded and astonished at her. Is She a vixen lost from her lair? Foxy with fiery curls of red hair, they see her as wolves would bunny rabbit instead. And their whistles whistle loud and sincere, as She wonders her wander past the seers She sears, her face aflush with maiden’s blush, as She is shied by their decided cries of adoration, as they are transfixed by her buttocks’ ruling role in her sumptuously seducing slow stroll.

 

And now She must walk past a window where the daily event, is a man with his cock in his hand leant, to paying her honour with his rampant pole, in the only way open to him without access to her holy holes.

 

And She is shamed by his blatant masturbation in worship of her wholly holy beauty, and his adoration, of her face and her body and her beautiful legs, long lithe and fit in her ballet shoe shod feet, as the wonderful girl, sexuality replete, lowers her head aside, to try not to see him his foreskin slide, with savage rapidity, to capture the moment of her passing on her way home from work, with his daily squirt of semen from his massive orgasmic jerks, as he stares at her passing, and the wiggles snaking her skirt.

 

Autumn 3 – The convent school seems so relaxed these days, unlike when her mummy suffered their ways. And mummy is here again to witness her daughter on stage.

 

This is remembrance of a not so distant past, by the ‘She’ of this story when She was just a fourteen-year-old lass: in educational duty, and even more so in beauty, top of her class.

 

Solo singing with guitars strumming is the choice She has made, and the stage is filled with this wonderful maid, as She stands with the microphone thrusting at lips, that god could only have made to experience the kiss.

 

And the microphone’s dildoic shape suggests another pleasure, in using her mouth at slow leisure, by filling it with a huge display of manhood at play, and exploring her throat with a vicious display, of how a girl can be choked to till She swallows his spray.

 

This is her first song on public display. Going on stage fills her with dismay. And her arrival there only gives cause, for stunned stares and rapturous applause.

 

She wears this night the gift of the girl with holy ring still tight: a silk mini-dress of pristine white, that shows She is attending the convent, to lead the innocent life, leading to becoming another girl’s wife.

 

On her slender shoulders with their bones delicate, the straps of the dress are simple not intricate. The garb in itself gives cover short shrift, consisting essentially of the lightest of shifts, with a hem so high it displays both thighs. And, as if in a dream, between them her intimacy can be seen. It is naked as nature before the arrival of puberty, with the soft down removed to demonstrate her purity.

 

In white ballet shoes She on top tiptoe walks, her legs shaped divinely with her young muscles taut. And now She blushes shyly, as the audience’s applause show they treasure her so highly.

 

To the front of the stage She parades a little angel, and sweetly curtsies to a leggy angle, that causes her lovely breasts to dangle, in a portent of what is to come. And to those longing to see her innocent cunny and the whole of her pretty bummy, the hem of her dress, grants complete success.

 

The microphone on its stand thrusts erect, before this plus-perfect member of god’s sweet elect. She is to sing a song to please an audience gathered, to be willingly relieved, of $1,000 dollars, perceived for the convents reprieve, from the last of a long lasting financial disaster, so that girls such as She, can continue their education thereafter, and their beauty’s incarnation can light the joy of all the nations.

 

Sweetly shy She stands with her hair tumbling down, a halo of auburn, a curly coiled crown, that flows from her head to kiss the thus humbled ground.

 

Her never kissed lips form the sweetest of pouts as She sings a love song; from her voice sweetly out, singing words of connubial bliss, despite that She is completely innocent of this.

 

The audience is silenced by her lovely voice, as She strums her guitar to accompany her choice, till the sudden advent of a discordant noise.

 

The poor angel’s guitar string breaks and whips up to near miss her pretty face, whipping her shoulders in its place, and cutting both straps of her white slip of grace.

 

Continuing to strum like a true troubadour, her lovely voice trills and thrills as her dress, down her supreme soft smoothness, slides to the floor. Hesitating and stopping momentarily on her pink nipples’ ripples, before sliding inexorably, as her young nipples flicker flexibly, and let it go, so that where once was her dress, are her unbearably beautiful bare breasts are now on show.

 

She sings on of love’s longings in the state of undress all girls should be in when they sing of their need for caress. And a second guitar strings tight as a whip, decides it will escape and take a vicious trip that hits her left tit and splits its proud pink nip.

 

Crying out with the pain as her blood pours, She just cannot sing any more, and lowers her guitar to the stage floor. Out of the dress surrounding her feet, her pretty legs in their ballet shoes leap, and the audience watches her cry and weep.

 

And then kicky-leggy She runs in a flood of tears and pain’s rage, to the comfort of her mummy at the side of the stage. And into mummy’s arms the honeybun runs naked, so her mummy can comfort the daughter She holds sacred.

 

And mummy kisses her face and strokes her hair’s grace, and wipes the sweet tears off her lovely face, and then kisses the place whipped by the string lace, putting her lips on the cruelly split nipple of the miss, to give its pure beauty a soothing healing kiss.

 

But the kiss lingers longer than even justified by the nipple’s painful harm, and She registers her mummy’s attentions as cause for alarm. And her voice sounds plaintive of a plea that is key: “Oh please mummy, that is not the right way to kiss me!”

 

And her mummy lets go her ravishing charms, releasing the angel from out of her arms.

 

But still She longs to kiss her again and show her sweet daughter loves gentle game. But now her head hangs with bitter shame, for feeling arousal, for the offspring of her espousal, to the daddy whose joint thrusts, left her in trust, after divorce had taken its bitter course.

 

And She sees her mummy’s pain, and runs naked into her loving arms again. And bathes mummy’s face with the grace of her kisses, to remind her poor mummy of what heaven and bliss is, as mummy holds her naked pubescent miss, and their kisses turn to the rapture of proper love’s capture, and the love that is not remiss in the comforting face kiss.

 

Winter 1 – Her furs infer that She does not care; but they are false and thus unlike her.

 

Were She naked She would be wonderfully warmed alone by the surround of her floor-trailing hair; but nature gives way to society’s affairs, and so She wears numerous lairs.

 

The soft zephyrs of her sweet breath silently vapour from the gently flaring nostrils of her pretty nose, with many of its summer freckles in hibernation’s repose, and the vapour that streams, from the sweet moist lips of the rosebud’s rich strawberry mouth, seems steam.

 

Now her long tongue lizard flicks, as her upper lip it licks to explore if She need restore its natural softness from becoming sore, in the cold winds bitter raw roar.

 

But She need have no concern, for the allure of her lips is not remiss in signalling that She is a walking kiss.

 

The face is pale the body hot, for beneath her furs She drips her drops. The scarlet tears She is crying are caught in a once virgin white pad held to her other mouth. Her face shows her period hurts her. She is paler than her pale pallor in usual nature, as her sacrificial blood falls from her altar, to alter the white line of the lining in her pristine white panties, with the red leak of her losing streak, dripping a Rorschach picture depiction, of a shapely girl being bad, on the white canvass of her period pad.

 

Winter 2 – Within her furs this different time, between the pouring of her monthly red wine, She wiggles street as She cannot but help, for She is built so her body makes for such appealing stance, and advance of stealing stealth in dance.

 

Is her ‘monthly’ her punishment for this way of hers, to be sheer She, as She cannot avoid?

 

She is sincere in her beliefs and has uttered her prayers in the church of the Holy Girl, for She is of the Girlist faith, Girlianity’s cross bearing witness, as it traces a pendulum swing, between the frontal domes of this walking cathedral of the wonders of woman eternally ethereal.

 

She wants so to be good, and, to show her faith, has given her troth to the lap of her god. And yet She knows as She traipses in her hot furs, that She glows with her natural wonder, and stuns with the sun of her smile, and captivates with her gentle ways, and arouses … but this, She prays, will not have its way, till god says She may.

 

And never come that day, for in her dismay, She is minded for the nunnery, and already made, a sacrifice of her love of mammon that way.

 

She is made to devastate as a sign of her sacrifice. She must entice but never ever let be spilled in her, spice, for her pleasure, or that of any other man or girl’s vice.

 

She accords with the beliefs of the church to which She accedes, and seeks to succeed to in time. She is dressed to thrill in order to ‘kill’, in her own ardour’s prime.

 

The time must be three years in the wilderness of the outer world, using all that makes her girl, to recruit for her church those who would take her to their beds, and find She will say only ‘no’, to their wish to be fed and to feast in her holy holes, with their penetrating poles their spitting seed to ease their fiery ache, and their thirst to slake with her pregnancy in wake, real or in appeal to their manly desires, for such husbanding of her fallow fallopian furrow, with Eros’ plough, and her furrows answering feminine fires.

 

Though in fact, her mission is not to recruit those who would her ride, but to seduce the distaff side.

 

Winter 3  In shower She now shimmers in riven rivers, holy water tributaries attributable only to tears’ tribute and duty, to the contribution of her uncontrovertibly overwhelming beauty.

 

Her cross gold on its gilt chain dangles and dandles, and dances as it dares to touch her awares, where no boy or girl is allowed within, and ne’er She either to caress for guilt of sin.

 

Her moist mouth pout poised shows her mind sears as she now soothes the soap over her smooth rear. Her graceful hands smooth soap to sooth her thigh. She is naked as sigh.

 

Her holy chain swings out as She bends, and it captures nipple as She rises again.

 

And nipple balloons monumentally momentarily, sensitive to the gentle flicks from the blessed cast gold Mary Magdalene crucifix. Mary naked on her cross, being dragged across nipple’s fore, till the holy cross is freed and centres the vale, twixt her pink crowned minarets once more.

 

She gasps.

 

Her myrrh secretes sacrifice at the altar in her cathedral.

 

She is in recall but not recoil. The men, the schoolboys, the girl who was her fellow nun to be: the knowing by her and them of her sensuality’s essentiality and essence. She knows She is girl. But She is in denial; or is She?

 

She has vowed. She is but child in life’s league length and never to know. She is given wife to her holy faith, her whole future to go.

 

Yet, as She feels her body flood from the touch of the holy cross, even though She decides that later, She must pray. For now today, She cannot help but wonder, if She could have shown her complete devotion to mother church in some other way.

 

Was this the devil at play?

 

Mirrored in the slowly obscuring steam trickles down the black tiles of her shower’s walls, She looks and is fleetingly appalled.

 

She can see the signs well. She had been told that day, the day of her decision, three years ago tomorrow, that if She chose the cross, there was a painful thread to follow.

 

Now She was wondering if the whole thing was sham.

 

And also this day, her thoughts did say:-

 

‘After these three years of my trial, is tomorrow the only way life to play?

 

Must my virgin’s cunt, forever and a day, stay so tightly sewn-up in this sacrificial way?’

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Review This Story || Author: Eve Adorer
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