Disconnections

Episodes

by Eve Adorer

  Synopsis –

Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....

  Episodes

by Eve Adorer

  Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch heeled pinnacle platforms. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. She would perform her final surgery relying on the contents of the black bag she took on visits to patients’ homes, the pad of prescription forms she had just taken from that receptacle, and the gold ballpoint pen she had been given at graduation.

  The speculation over whether or not the twenty-five-year-old blonde temptress wore panties, was the unspoken conversation in her waiting room. Just to watch her tiptoe in and smilingly enquire who was next for her to see, was almost a cure in itself. The thought that she probably shaved it to immaculate pre-puberty was a decided tonic.

  The gorgeous deep dark brown eyes of the stunningly pretty Cerisa sparkled with her high intelligence and sweet gentleness. The curl-coiled warm-gold hair shone, fresh showered shampooed and scented as she was. The voice, the velvet voice of the beautiful Cerisa seemed to come from deep within her chest. She was wonderfully endowed: twice and twinly.

  Her breasts had been such an embarrassment when she had been at school. That had not been for their size, it had been for their non-existence.

  At fourteen, she had been the proverbial bean-pole. And then she had begun to demonstrate how wonderful the meaning of the phrase ‘late developer’ could be, and it had been as if her development would never stop. 40DD had been a point, two points, superbly passed into the past before, her voice gone sensual contralto as if her breasts were her lungs, it was so deep and they so magnificent, she had finally got to the need for tailoress-made brassieres.

  But Cerisa was a sexual girl. She preferred to defer to baring all under. She adored the looks she got from the other girls as her chest flowed within her blouse to wave gravity’s greatest efforts to haul them down, sprightly prancing goodbyes, as they nodded and waved their refusal, dancing in like manner to heads nodding assent to dissent.

  They had blossomed like flowers; but no floribunda could match such wonderful abundance, and no mere rose out-beauty the colour of the pinpoint peaks performed mid the discs of her divine two-inch diameter dark-pink areola.

.......................

  Moments before, their giggles had angeled the air; but now the two whispering girls fell silent. Their conspiratorial corridor conclave was disrupted. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain had never felt so lonely.

.......................

  Abrisha Gnomen PhD (Hale), headmistress of Barnmouth’s world renowned St Saviours Academy for Girls, assured the grieving daughter, the recent inheritor of the Countess Beaumont-Fortain title, the new Countess Beaumont-Fortain:

  “We would be honoured to have your stepdaughter here at St Saviours, Countess. The loss of your dear momma, Victoria Countess Beaumont-Fortain, a pillar of the community both here in Barnmouth - on her estates at Barnmouth Magna - and as a stalwart of the House of Ladies in the Hondon parliament, is a blow to the nation let alone this humble backwater”.

  “But we must begin, I fear, with teaching your stepdaughter not to cross her pretty legs like that. It is so vulgar!!”

  “A girl should always be availably vulnerable. To cross the legs is to be aggressive, or, at the very least defensive. When she leaves these hallowed halls and becomes a debutant in the marriage market, those very pretty legs will turn the other girls’ heads without a doubt. But unless prospective wives see that she sits herself properly, and unless they perceive that she is accessible: that the petals that guard her pink are not in themselves guarded, no worthwhile marital prospect will ever come even remotely near her.”

  At the scolding look cast her way by the headmistress: particularly evidently at her, Cerisa’s, crossed-thighed one leg swinging, to her own surprise, Cerisa, a headstrong girl in anyone’s estimation, uncrossed her long shapely limbs, and put her pretty hands together in the lap of her minimal-mini-skirt, blushing with embarrassment.

  “Here at St Saviours we have, as I am sure you recall Countess, an unparalleled reputation for ‘harnessing the inner girl’. Our motto is: ‘Noli ludere cum sacris lucra causa’ – ‘Do not trifle with sacred things for the sake of gain’.”

  “Speaking of the very essence of which, one trusts your delightful stepdaughter is indeed wholly and wholesomely whole, and that she has not acquired the execrable disgrace of exploring herself: in the manner of, the er..... what is sometimes called the, er...…the.... ‘Parisian pursuit’?” Dr Gnomen enquired, with a tone redolent of one holding a rotting rat by its tail at arm’s length, with the handler’s nose pegged by fingers to ward of the stench.

  “My dear Dr Gnomen, though it was long before your time, I, as you well know, was also a St Saviours girl myself. I am therefore as fully steeped in St Saviours mores and morals as you are, if, pardon me for saying so, not indeed more so. Accordingly, you can rest assured that Cerisa is as pure as the first dawn”, Racanata Countess Beaumont-Fortain responded, in a voice questioning why such a doubt was considered remotely appropriate.

  “It was only my recently ended sojourn abroad as England’s Ambassadoress to the United States that prevented Cerisa attending St Saviours before now.”

  “I wished to pay specific attention directly to her moral needs whilst we were away. Accordingly, I appointed a six-girl rota of St Saviours approved governesses: all of whom had my written permission to spank her for even the slightest misdemeanour. There has been no looseness of any kind for my little girl, or her half-sister Victoria, who is now my heir apparent, and especially not, indeed absolutely not, anything of the ‘Parisian pursuit’, as you put it, of that I can absolutely assure you”, the countess continued

  “I do beg your pardon countess; but in this modern age, these young girls run ahead of their years, with a different tart in their beds every night as well as playing with their naughty parts as often as they may....” Dr Gnomen’s voice tailed off at the dismissive look this caused on the countess’ imperious countenance.

  “Cerisa is absolutely pure: you have my word for that”, Cerisa’s step-mother asserted in a voice that excluded any further challenge on the subject.

  This particularly delicate part of the conversation being over, Dr Gnomen nodded to Cerisa’s personal lecturer, and the protective headphones, that for Cerisa’s pretty ears, had replaced the preceding conversational proceedings with the beauty of J S Bach’s music, were removed.

  “Welcome to St Saviours Academy for Girl’s Cerisa”, Dr Gnomen gushed.

“For the formal record, let me enter your full name in our register of pupils”.

  “One is Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain”, Cerisa responded in a sweet lisp, with her beautiful negress inheritance lips.

  “Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain”, Dr Gnomen repeated as slowly as she wrote it in the school register with the goose-feather quill she wielded to essay her perfect copperplate script.

  “Now Cerisa, Miss Manners will introduce you to the uniform that you will, I just know, honour for the four years till you graduate from this historic institution.”

“The Academy has, as your dear momma has no doubt informed you, a 100% success rate in admissions to Camford. You may therefore rest assured, that your future is entirely golden”.

  “With the uniform go a number of little peripheries that may arouse your curiosity. You may not know what they are for. Suffice it to say that they are entirely in your best interest. They are to guard you from going astray as you mature. I am sure that a pretty girl like you harbours the dream of marrying a rich girl, one of your own class? Well, abide with our little peccadilloes, little lady, and you will, by default, be trained to be the perfect wife.”

...............................

  Moments before, their giggles had angeled the air; but now the two whispering girls fell silent. Their conspiratorial corridor conclave was disrupted. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain had never felt so lonely.

  Cerisa’s pretty legs ached. This was the last day, the seventh, of her first week at the school. She was still, even yet, unused to having to stand and walk all day, en-pointe in squared-toed heelless ballet shoes.

  She had been told it was to shape her legs, but what was the use of shaping her legs when, like all the other girls at the school, she spent all day shrouded from head to floor, and therefore beyond her tiptop-tiptoed feet, in a white cotton burkha shroud, or, at dinner, a floor-draping skirt, or in bed a burkha nightgown?

  Lessons were conducted with the girls standing on tiptoes, and that meant standing thus for twelve hours a day. Cerisa had had it explained to her that, because a chair seat might exact pressure where it should never ever be allowed, for a girl to sit when it was not really necessary, was a risk to her morals; but the fourteen-year-old innocent didn’t understand.

  The tinkling stainless-steel-chain hobbles she wore between her anklets and, just above her knees, between silk-lined leather garters on her thighs, restricted her to a two-inch tiptop-tiptoe step. These, she had been told, were as much to keep her legs apart as they were to keep them together, and that too was a baffling statement to the exceptionally pretty fourteen-year-old Cerisa.

  A warning against touching herself ‘down there’ had followed, and a further one followed banning any wiping herself after she had urinated or defecated.

  The chances for the latter were non-existent. There were no wipes or tissues in the lavatory cubicles. There were also no trips to the lavatory that were not overseen by one of the teaching staff. And there was no activity, be it urination or defecation, that did not have to be followed by sitting over the ice-cold jets upthrust by the stainless-steel bidet. And wet knickers when pulled back up over the dripping posterior and anterior’s interior, thereafter.

  Cerisa’s daytime view of the world was restricted by the uniform burkha, which included a cowl completely covering her head and her glorious glow of impossible whirling curls, with a narrow slit at eye level: that slit being covered over with two layers of muslin through which she saw the world as best she could.

  Her lovely slim arms bore white mitten gloves up to her armpits. Only her gloved hands came beyond the sleeves of her burkha.

  Computers were considered unfeminine, and were therefore banned from the academy. Ballpoint and roller-ball pens were forbidden also as: appallingly slovenly implements. Fountain pens were adjudged to be shaped such as to be too redolent of the erect male part, and therefore particularly prohibited. Accordingly, Cerisa must learn to wield a quill in her mitten-clad right hand. And woe-betide her if she got ink on her glove or burkha.

  Around her waist there ran a stainless- steel chain. That chain included a larger link in the middle of her back. Through that first chain ran another which included wrist-cuffs. The chain with the handcuffs was only long enough for Cerisa to advance one arm at a time. Accordingly, she must stand and write with her left arm held behind her back.

  The stricture of the chain did not apply to the older girls, yet, Cerisa noticed, its rein over them when they had been younger, still showed by the way they held one arm behind their backs when they wrote.

  Cerisa longed for the evening, when she was allowed to change into a uniform, comprising a loose white thick-muslin blouse and floor-length grey cotton skirt. With the donning of this evening attire, came the chance for ‘free-association’ over the vegetarian meal and citrus fruit that was served at dinner, along, of course, with a refreshing glass of chilled non-alcoholic girl-pee.

  Yet, even after lessons, discipline was all, and the all-female teaching staff ensured the schoolgirls kept their distance from one another. “Head down girl!” and “No talking!” were constantly barked as the girls wiggled between classes or to their individual dormitory cubicles.

  At meals, each girl sat side by side in a long row at an equally long table: sat that is, inside individual stalls with high wooden walls that stopped them seeing each other. Opposite them sat the teaching staff, with their brief to keep up standards at all times.

  Admonitions constantly heard during meals, were such as:

  “Princess Nefania, the blouse is always buttoned all the way up to the neck, and we decidedly do not tuck its hem into the waistband of our skirts. We are not here to try and reveal the shape and size of our top bits, young lady! Go out of the room with Miss Unction right now, and come back after you have adjusted your clothing to correctness. And if, as I suspect, you are wearing a brassiere, you will surrender it immediately so that it can be confiscated and burned young lady! And just think yourself lucky that you don’t get your top bits smacked!!!”

  “Jefedzda Ngola, you are almost as untidily dressed as your sister Nefania. Straighten your necktie this very instant!”

  “Apalatia Morton-Palmer, the rubber ring on the seats of all the dining room chairs is for a purpose. We must not risk putting pressure on our naughty parts now must we? So sit yourself upright, or I will have you sent to your bed!”

  Bed was another torture to Cerisa. Every girl had a separate cubicle in the dormitory. In that cubicle was a desk for their evening studies: a desk at which they must stand en-pointe and work till midnight each night, seven nights a week.

  Along with this was a dressing table with a chair, and the inevitable virtue-protecting rubber ring on its seat for her to sit upon. The mirror for the act of blow-drying, brushing and combing hair, was only uncovered, briefly, after the morning shower.

  The bed itself was a coir mat over a coil-spring frame. After a shower and cleaning her teeth, each girl must don her shapeless grey itchy woollen night-burkha complete with the inevitable head-enveloping cowl, and lie face-up on the mat, submitting, for the sake of her morals, to sleeping with her wrists and ankles making an ‘X’.

  Unable to move over much, because chained at ankles and wrists to the bed, sleeping was a challenge, especially in the winter. The Academy was never heated. Artificial heating was viewed as not conducive to strengthening a girl’s character.

  Immediately after waking, once unlocked, Cerisa must take a cold soap-fuelled-water shower, walk on into the clear-water rinse shower, which was also cold water only, and finally pass through the warm air that would blow-dry the darling diamonds of water that sparkled on her soft skin. She must never ever touch herself. She would be expelled if caught doing so.

  The morning shower also gave the girls the first chance to relieve their bladders and / or defecate after their sleep. Any girl who wet her bed, as some did, because they were bound to them immovably, would be made to wear rubber knickers for twenty-four hours, and not allowed to remove them till the time was up, even though they would, by then of course, be filled with her pee and shit.

  After the shower, on return to her bed cubicle, Cerisa ate an apple or pear for breakfast, cleaned her teeth, and then dressed in fresh knickers and a clean burkha for the day: clipping on her own hobble-chains on trust.

Miss Manners, or whoever was on duty that day, oversaw that only one girl entered each of the row of twenty separated showers at a time. So that no girl would see another naked, they must walk with their heads down looking at their feet still in their night burkhas, and not undress until in the individual cubicle. A fresh towelling burkha must be donned before returning from the shower to her dormitory cubicle. Any girl caught looking other than at the ground would be given ‘six of the best’ with a cane across her bare bummy.

  After Cerisa emerged from the shower passage, breakfasted, and had duly dressed in her head-to-toes school-uniform burkha, Miss Manners, her moral guardian, checked she wore her hobbles, and locked her in her wrist cuffs, before Cerisa exited the dormitory to wiggle, unavoidably excitingly enticingly, to her classes.

  .......................

  The growing Cerisa was finding life at school very confusing.

  The isolation within her cruel uniform was one thing. But, the strange feeling she got in her tummy, when standing at her desk during one particular lesson, had begun when Mademoiselle Cocksure (pronounced, of course, ‘Co-shore” with a silent middle ‘K’) had walked into the room, and bid the assembled fragrance of girls:

  “Bonjour Mademoiselles!”

  To which the girls made their expected, but, in Miss Cocksure’s case very decidedly enthusiastic response, of: “Bonjour Mademoiselle Cocksure”

  And, at the very first instant of this, her very first formal French lesson, Cerisa had known just how “bon” a “jour” could be. For Miss Cocksure, Mademoiselle Cocksure, a kitten with a Parisian meow to her meowing-purr pronunciation of sweetly broken English, personified passion.

  There was no girl in her classes that did not have a crush on la belle Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure. Cerisa was, for sure, no exception.

  The strict rules that left Mademoiselle Cocksure facing a sea of girls dressed as if they were babushkas or skittle-pins from a ten-pin bowling alley: all draped over with white cotton cowls with the cruel narrow slits for them to see through, the all-enveloping hoods covering their faces, and a muslin mask guarding even the sight of their eyes: those strict rules did not apply to the teaching staff.

  Mademoiselle Cocksure’s five-six tall body spoke of her dedication to exercise. She had taken particular pains to sculpt her limbs. Her arms were deliciously feminine, but had clearly evident biceps and triceps. Her legs were unquestionably those of a girl who had trained, and was still training, to dance ballet. Her belly was supremely flat; her waist completely without waste.

  Her feminine charms, frontally, were no affront: she was a delightfully big girl. They were exquisitely firm and stood challengingly boldly without the aid of a brassiere.

  Her bottom demimondes were devilish in swinging their thing and undulated as she paraded fit to excite any girl to ululate in celebration of a site and a sight fit to incite even the singularly celibate.

  But what fascinated even more, were her incredible nipples. Even without them being excited, they gave such promising prominence in the proud way the central pinnacle of her teats depicted their pronounced presence, punctuating and almost puncturing the sky-blue tee-shirt she wore, that the longed-for confirmation of the secret passed on between the girls in the school, that Mademoiselle Cocksure never wore panties, was almost a side interest.

  Katsumi Cocksure’s face showed she had Japanese blood in her vivacious veins. Her nose was slightly flat and delectably flared. Her eyes were a simply sumptuous brown, as was the soft skilfully-untidy tousled shoulder-length tresses. Her mouth was small with an imperious upper lip. Her closed lips a burgeoning rosebud.

  Katsumi was careless with her clothing. As a girl of twenty-six working among girls, she paid little heed to the prospect that her bending forward to talk to an individual pupil might have that pupil gasping at her gaping cleavage and desperately trying not to imagine caressing her breasts. Nor did she seem to hear the collective sigh when she reached to point out, in passing, the parsing of a sentence on the further corner of the whiteboard, while more than coincidentally flashing the bare flesh of her strong thighs.

  But despite even the briefest of briefness of her hem, it constantly disappointed the promise to reveal confirmation of the rumour that even the women in the teachers’ staff room longed to know the truth about, and whether it went with the also much speculated upon complete hygienic depilation.

  The totally innocent Cerisa was devastated by this horny young woman. The fourteen-year-old had never felt such feelings as had overwhelmed her when Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure had first walked into the classroom in her five-inch stiletto slingbacks, and straight-seamed azure stockings. This, Cerisa was sure, was love.

  And, even within the first few seconds of Cerisa setting eyes on the unsettlingly sexy beauty of Katsumi, she – Cerisa – was already dreaming and scheming that she would write her a note to tell her that she adored her.

  And then Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure had come close to Cerisa’s desk, and Katsumi’s lovely eyes had sparkled, and Cerisa had breathed in the sensual scent of this woman: this woman who had an indisputable natural erotic aroma around the centre of her. Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure carried a powerful musk. Cerisa could smell Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure’s subtly fragrant fresh washed cunt.

  And even as la belle Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure merely came near, Cerisa felt the strangest sensations in her own nipples, and a twitching in her other mouth, and was terrified that she had ruined her school issue knickers, their crotch was so suddenly damp.

.......................

  Moments before, their giggles had angeled the air; but now the two whispering girls fell silent. Their conspiratorial corridor conclave was disrupted. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain had never felt so lonely.

  “Who are you?” a voice muffled by a burkha’s cowl enquired.

  “Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain”, Cerisa responded, a little despondently.

  “Oh that’s okay then. One can’t be sure in these bloody burkhas. You’re the same height as that bitch Emily Fraser!”

  “I ask you: Fraser! Of all the sows - head girl at fourteen! And it’s well known that her mummy is in trade! Jumped up little tart! A shopkeeper’s daughter for god’s sake! What is the Acad doing letting such trash in in the first place, let alone appointing them to lady it over us?”

  With all three girls draped in their burkha shrouds, Cerisa was none too sure who was talking to her, but thought it was one of the twins, either Princess Nefania Ngola, or Jefedzda Ngola. Still an innocent, she could not recognise Emily Fraser’s voice for sure, and wondered if she was being tested by a deception being practised by the head girl.

  “Oh god, of course you don’t recognise us. This is my kid sister Jefedzda. You’ll have to take our word for it Cerisa.”

  “We were just talking about it; but have you heard about Nigella Bown? Poor darling! Her momma has been ratting on the Acad’s fees. Word is Nigella’s lost her inheritance through her momma marrying for love. There’s to be an announcement at the assy!” Princess Nefania confided, as the three girls wiggled along, side by side, with their two-inch-restricted steps on their tiptoes in their ballet shoes, making their bottoms swing all the more enticingly.

  Suddenly: “You three there! Stop talking this very instant!!” came the oft repeated order from behind them. “You will not walk together like that! Break it up right now!” “And get your eyes down on the floor, you wicked creatures!!”

.......................

  The morning assembly - ‘the assy’ – as the girls called it among themselves, preceded lessons. Lessons began at 07.00. The assembly began at 06.00. All the girls at the Academy stood shrouded in their pure white cotton burkha’s to listen to the headmistress’ announcements.

  This particular morning began in the usual way, with Dr Abrisha Gnomen seeking to boost morale.

  The success rate in admissions to Camford for the Michaelmas term was repeated. More exciting news than even that followed, in the headmistress’ decidedly horny contralto:

  “The unparalleled benefit of the regime that this school imposes upon its pupils has been illustrated in the wonderful headlines we have all heard this morning.”

  “I too was a St Saviours pupil. I too knew the strictness of the strictures that you girls are forced to abide by. The rules and regulations of this institution, steeped as it is in five-hundred years of history from its foundation as a nunnery, are not a matter of whim. Harsh though they may seem they serve a purpose. That purpose is to fit you, all of you, without exception, firstly for tertiary education, and secondly, that step completed, as wives for the lucky girls I have no doubt you will one day meet, fall in love with, and marry.”

  “And today’s news is both illustrative and amplifying of the point I make, this day and every day, about the benefits of the Academy’s regime.”

  “Let us all now give three cheers, for Christiania Lennox and Clytemnestra Mainwaring, who, in their gap year, between attending the Academy and going up to college, and no doubt taking brilliant degrees at dear old Camford, have brought literally the highest honour to be bestowed on this school, by becoming the first girls to climb to the pinnacle of Mount Everest, completely naked!”

  “Hip-Hip!” called the headmistress, three successive times, and wild cheers in alto, soprano, and contralto, were interspersed between first and second, and second and third, with the longest cheer and glove-muffled applause following the third and last of her rallying calls.

  The headmistress now signalled for calm, before she continued:-

  “Nobility comes in many forms, young ladies. As you will already have heard, for their magnificent achievement, her majesty Queen Elspeth of England, has awarded Christiania and Clytemnestra, a Girlhood. Therefore, henceforth they will have the honour of being addressed by us all, as: ‘Girl Christiania Lennox’ and ‘Girl Clytemnestra Mainwaring’.”

  “But, proud as I am of the achievements and the honour gained by Girl Christiania and Girl Clytemnestra, I am equally proud, if not indeed completely humbled by what I have to announce to you all next.”

  “This noble academy has, as you know, for some years now, adopted an annual charity. Such an arrangement was introduced by my predecessor as headmistress, and I am only too welcoming of the opportunity to continue with it, in the hope that, in time, it too will become another tradition.”

  “The Academy is, of course, itself a charity. As such, therefore, it is unable to exist without the fees your mommas faithfully contribute, additional contributions they gift to us in their lifetimes or, sadly, in their wills, and the sums thus accrued in the St Saviours Trust, held in the reassuringly safe hands of Clits and Co, our bankers.”

  “I know that heartfelt sympathy will be felt by all of us, the teaching staff and I, and you warm hearted young ladies not least, that one among us is unable to stay the course. I speak of course, of Nigella Bown. Nigella is seventeen now and so close, yet so far away from completing her Academy education.”

  “It is not for us to criticise Nigella’s momma’s decision to live with a man. Some regard such a surprising choice as a perversion. By most it is viewed as, at the very least, unwholesomely unnatural. Indeed: our parliament, in its wisdom, has seen fit to make it impossible for men and women to officially marry. It is, of course, highly unusual for there to be such unions these days. But I for one, do not agree with the gutter press calling Nigella’s momma a ‘gay’ or a ‘queer’!”

  “However, the nobility of the daughter is to be seen in her volunteering to leave the school, thus to avoid the scandal potentially attendant upon the discovery by the media that she is a pupil here. We simply cannot have the Academy’s name besmirched on television in the press and on the internet.”

  “If I had the power, I would award Nigella a Girlhood myself for her sacrifice in leaving us, and thus taking away the risk of taint.”

  “But, typically for a St Saviours girl, good will come out of the bad.”

  “As you know from the notice boards, this year’s adopted charity is: ‘AfraAid’. Our dearest wish as a nation has, for many years, been that Africa, as a continent, would be visited by greater fortune and less pestilence. And, indeed, the economies in a number of its constituent states have, of late, taken off and shown phenomenal growth.”

  “But that still leaves the wreckage of such long-misruled countries as Xambabwia. And it is to Xambabwia that our darling little Nigella has agreed to be sent. And a family that I myself had a hand in choosing, a family of ten orphaned teenage girls, in a village devastated by the collapse of the local mining economy: the gold mines in which they were once so happily employed, will be rescued from starvation, when Nigella goes out there to be their slave”.

  “I would ask for three more cheers at this juncture; but sometimes silence is more eloquent.”

  “And sometimes actions are better not taken. Is that not so Princess Nefania?!”

  A gasp filled the silence: an intake of breath caused by the headmistress’ sudden change of tone. One among the fragrance of schoolgirls standing on tiptoes in ordered ranks in their pure white burkhas, showed her evident agitation. Princess Nefania stepped forward, as if she was about to run, as if she could run in her ankle and thigh hobbles, and then staggered back into ordered line.

  “Did you imagine for one moment that the kiss would go unnoticed? Just because you were on vacation, does not mean that the school rules are relaxed Princess. You were seen kissing your sister, Jefedzda at Camford railway station!”

  “You thought you would get away with it didn’t you? You thought that nobody would see you indulging in an act of such despicable depravity. ‘A peck on the cheek’ in so called ‘chaste greeting’ it may be considered to be by the outside world; but you, Princess Nefania have let this Academy down unforgivably shamefully. You have wilfully taken the first step in the never ending downward spiral that leads inexorably to hell! No Academy girl ever kisses until her wedding night. Accordingly, she is as wholesome and pure, as you, Princess Nefania, are now sullied and irrecoverably filthy!!”

  “You will, of course, be expelled.”

......................

  St Saviours girls were forbidden from communication with each other. Therefore silence between the girls was only broken in sneaked snaps of conversation in corridor corners; but even that ceased with the sentence hanging over poor Princess Nefania.

  On the day of Princess Nefania’s condemnation, the headmistress had concluded the morning gathering with instruction that the whole school must muster in the assembly hall after dinner to witness the formal expelling of their fellow pupil.

  On departure from the hall that dawn, the girls lowered their heads to study the ground they blessed with their ballet-tiptoed-toes as they wiggled away to their lessons for the day.

  That same evening, in the assembly hall, serried ranks of scented girls stood en-pointe on shapely legs, their firm young bottoms dimple-sided by their stance, their pert-firm-soft bosoms outthrust, their pretty faces earnest and anxious for little Princess Nefania; but none of this showed below the snow-white, the crisp-white, the virgin-white, of their all-enveloping head to floor cowls.

  Some coughed nervously soprano. One sobbed: Jefedzda Ngola, Nefania’s younger sister.

Dr Abrisha Gnomen stood on the raised stage from which she had addressed the school at the morning assembly. Once satisfied that all were present, she ordered: “Bring the little traitor in!”

  The five-five figure of Nefania was duly marched in from the wings of the stage, by the sexy Katsumi Cocksure. Nefania was in school uniform, but seemed to tiptoe in her ballet shoes more freely than the girls in the assembled fragrance could, as if she, unlike they, no longer had her legs shackled at ankle and above pretty dimpled knees.

  The order that Princess Nefania be stripped, the lovely body of the little Asian-Indian angel: dark brown eyes and raven black straight hair that tickled her delectable bottom: the making her kneel and the binding of her ankles to her thighs at her crotch, and hands behind her back: and the hauling of her from the stage up by nooses under each armpit so she swung free as an imprisoned bird five feet off the ground: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of Nefania’s lovely thighs with the spiked-steel-ball ended platted leather four-foot long blacksnake that kissed her thighs with such horrendous slaps: the dancing and the shimmering light from the girl’s glimmering sweaty thighs as she fought to avoid the kiss of the lash: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs to make her part them and show her shaming pink as she must if she was not to endure the unendurable: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs: and the cries of Nefania’s pain: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs again and again: the glow of the spotlights reflecting on the beauty of Nefania’s sweaty whip-striped thighs: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of those thighs until Nefania opened them wide and was whipped by Miss Cocksure inside her sweet innocence and clapped her thighs shut with a loud sweat-wet slap, and danced them with the pain: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs till she must open them wide again: and the lash that caught her in her opened pink and cauterised her with the fire of a lightening strike: and the gasp of joy from the swinging girl as the whip had kissed her clitoral pearl to remind her that she was a girl: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs to make Nefania open them aside again wide: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her sweaty dancing thighs: and the sighs from Nefania that were redolent of joy as the whip kissed her in her opened pink wound, and found her praetorian ring with the wicked cutting ball, and then pretty Nefania slapping her shimmering thighs shut with a resounding sweaty smack echoing off the hall’s walls, and a scream that chilled, so great was her pain: and a slow trickle of brilliant red running onto to the divine cheek of her bottom and then dripping on the stage, as Princess Nefania was a virgin and a St Saviours schoolgirl no more, her chances of marriage gone, a maid unmade with the whips kiss, with the evidence of her deflowering pooling scarlet on the floor, showing she was ruined for evermore.

  Cerisa could recall all this now, as well as the innocence with which she thought that she had peed her knickers, they had become so wet as she watched.

.......................

  Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch stiletto-heeled sandals. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. It would be a while longer before official opening time. It would be a while longer before she called in her first and last patients from the waiting room.

  At college Cerisa’s studies had become sublimation.

  She had taken a triple-starred double-first and become a Spinster of Medicine with the highest mark the university had ever conferred. ‘Cerisa Kissheart MS’ was proudly etched into the brass plate beside the entry door of the former rectory she had subsequently made her surgery, here in quiet Barnmouth.

  At college Cerisa had been hiding, the strain that her marriage had been under. Aileen Kissheart, her wife, had been a childhood friend. Pre-St Saviours, the two girls had grown up together, and the assumption, unspoken by their parents and siblings, and even between the girls themselves, had always been that Aileen and she would marry.

  After St Innocents for Cerisa, they had met up again, and a whirlwind marriage had followed its namesake romance.

  They had had a white wedding. They had only been eighteen. Cerisa had yet to go to medical college. Aileen was yet to find a goal in life.

Cerisa had been unable to say ‘no’ after that wonderful evening at Bidet’s restaurant.

  But four subsequent years at St Gynos College Camford had matured Cerisa. Four years of Cerisa’s absence from Barnmouth, other than at college vacations, seemed to have driven a wedge between the couple.

  Truth told, Aileen was hopelessly unimaginative in bed. Cerisa had fought off other would-be lovers wearing her wedding ring with pride and as a shield to ward off the many girls at college who longed to bed her.

  That day in the college refectory, in her third year at St Gynos, had been its dawn. Cerisa had got quite used to the three younger students joining her at breakfast.

  Cerisa was hiding, always hiding. She would never be so daring as to wear clothing so as to reveal cleavage. She knew how much it teased and pleased that her nipples’ provokingly poked pinnacles in a blouse or summer dress, she also knew how much more revealing it was that she revealed so little. To have dared and bared cleavage would have been to get glances. To bear her bosom bare-under without underwear, was to earn prolonged admiring and astonished stares from swiftly turned heads.

  It had begun with Ellen’s, the pretty redhead’s sweet lisped: “Do you mind if we join you...you see we’re new here, and you have such a friendly face....”

  From then onwards for a month and more the girls had assembled at the same table, so often, that none of the other students bothered to occupy it until they had come and gone.

  Cerisa had bathed in the younger girls’ admiration of her face and physical charms. She had an eye for a pretty girl herself, and none of her three companions was less than exceptional, even at a university stocked with lovely young women.

  So routine had it eventually become, that Cerisa had begun to join them at breakfast rather than them joining her. They were, all three, veterinarians, or at least veterinarians to be when they took their degrees. They were only in St Gynos for a term to learn something about the human animal to take back to their own specialist studies.

  They admired Cerisa’s wedding ring: the gold wedding ring Cerisa wore through the pierced septum of her nose, and giggled over the girls they had kissed, and the girls back home that they missed, but swore they would never marry.

  It had come into the flow of conversation out of nowhere. The redhead had come out with it as naturally as if she had been enquiring which lectures Cerisa recommended from the day’s timetable, or which choices from that evening’s dinner menu.

  “When are you next due your bleed?” Ellen had asked matter-of-factly.

  As she had tried to recover from the shock of being asked so personal a question so directly, Cerisa had nearly blushed the colour of her own nipples. She had stumbled over her words and continued talking about the subject that had been in the air just before the astounding enquiry.

  Then, as suddenly, and still blushing English Rose, she reposted, shyly, eyes down, with a sweet whispered, a deeply curious nervously giggled: “Why?”

  “Oh, because Suzie, Alana, and I, want to whip you”, Ellen answered matter-of-factly.

  “No?” Cerisa had responded loudly, unintentionally phrasing it with the intonation of a question, before saying it again as a supremely sensuous soft negative, even as the gusset of her panties was answering with positive curiosity.

......................

Cerisa could not recall how precisely she had got out of that predicament. She could only recall that she skipped breakfast for the next week, and that when she returned to her routine, the three younger girls were no longer to be seen. Accordingly, Cerisa assumed they had gone back to the veterinarian college.

  Here and now, Cerisa had become bored with general practise. She was still young. She wanted to give something to the world. The misfortunes of others in the poorer countries of the globe were, she was determined, to be more than just a headline or picture she quickly turned the page of the newspaper to escape.

  AfraAid’s leaflet had been at the train station that day: the day she had, of necessity, been in a long dress to cover herself up after.

  AfraAid’s website defined its mission as that of providing a unique opportunity for the individual to help a village out of starvation. They were particularly seeking girls to volunteer to go to remote areas of Xambabwia where, despite or perhaps because of the recent overthrow of a vile dictator, the peoples were struggling.

  The plight of the villagers of the Handangwe district was particularly pointed up. With the local mines exhausted, these villages had been deserted by the husband-girls who had abandoned the wives to live and work in gold mines hundreds of miles away. Of course the husband-girls remitted money home. But they were paid only a pittance and the women in the villages unable to cope. As always seemed to happen, a draught had come next, and the farms on which the villagers relied had been duly devastated.

  Cerisa recalled from school, the day, now ten-years since, that the headmistress had announced that Nigella Bown was to do service out there for this very same charity. Cerisa had found that event so inspiring. How much might she, now she was a qualified and experienced medical doctor, be of more help than a mere schoolgirl.

  Cerisa wanted to do something positive with her life. Nigella Bown had missed out on the full benefit and opportunities opened out by a St Saviours education. She herself had not. She could return to England later. She would give AfraAid her full CV and see what happened. She had tapped out her application online that very day.

...................

  Going back to then: tee-shirt and jeans had been her choice for the day.

  As she walked across the quadrangle, her breasts seemed particularly frolicsome, and Cerisa wondered if she should have looked out a bra. Her cowgirl boots beat a nervous tattoo on the paving as she swung her bottom in her tight jeans toward her destination.

  The next fingerboard read ‘Equestrian and Canine’. Cerisa wondered if the sign might have been twisted round to point the wrong way though. The younger students did that kind of thing after they’d downed a few strong girl-pees on a Friday night: perhaps she’d go back to her dormitory and do some revision after all.

  It was a warm afternoon. Ellen was on her own. Her door stood ajar. Cerisa tapped nervously. The pretty redhead turned and smiled lovingly:

  “Cerisa hi!! It’s so lovely to see you! Do come in. I was just boiling the kettle for a drink. Do you like Indian or would you prefer Chinese? Suzie and Alana are coming round here in a mo....”

  “May I just have some water?” Cerisa asked nervously.

  “Of course you may sweetheart. Help yourself from the fridge. There’s bottles been cooling there for days, and ice in the freezer compartment if you want to add some. Then take a seat. Suzie and Alana will be here before long”, Ellen smiled bewitchingly.

  “You look absolutely knock-dead gorgeous by the way”, she added, as Cerisa dropped her golden curled head and blushed.

  “We, Suzie Alana and me, had to get back to college...this college...so we’ve skipped breakfast over your side. Too far to go, even to see a lovely girl like you. How’s it been with you?” Ellen enquired sweetly as she lifted the kettle off the stove, and poured its boiling contents into a silver teapot.

  “I’m on my red”, Cerisa answered, determined to get it out before she lost her nerve, and then embarrassed at having blurted it out, and then further embarrassed at the thought she might not have been understood.

  “I thought you must be. You’re still looking a little tired under the eyes sweetheart. It only makes you look even more beautiful you know”, Ellen answered, tidying some china cups and saucers on a cheap plastic tray, without turning to look at Cerisa.

  “Are you using a tampon?” she then added.

  “Yes” Cerisa answered with a quaver to her voice.

  “That’s good. We’ll take you to the stables of course”, Ellen affirmed.

  As she put the tray with teapot and china on the table, Suzie and Alana wiggled in, calling “Hi” and kissing Cerisa on her soft hot face in greeting.

  Then, while the two newcomers poured themselves some hot girl-pee-tea, and asked Cerisa if she would like some, Ellen busied herself in her bedroom.

  A few moments later, she came back with three whips.

  “I’ve got two ringed bulls and a special”, she informed Suzie and Alana, “We’ll draw lots for the special”, she then giggled.

  Cerisa’s mouth went dry when she looked over the two six-foot long bullwhips: both with tight metal rings squeezing their tapering length at six inch intervals, and ending in a ring. They were horrifying. Cerisa fought the feeling of movement in her bowels, but still could not avoid parting with a fart from fear.

  The three girls smiled at this.

  Blushing with her embarrassment, Cerisa’s gorgeous dark brown eyes were now on the third implement. It comprised a foot-long wooden handle with a loop at its end to go around the wrist of the girl who would wield it, and, at its ‘business end’, a single quarter-inch-thick leather strap, about one-and-a-half feet long. Along the entire length of the business strap, front and back, were frequent metal studs. These were round headed for the most part, but three-quarters-up changed to a close ring of spiked studs: studs with quarter-inch-long vicious needle points.

  The other three girls were talking about their studies and a gorgeous new lecturer: a French girl called Katsumi Cocksure who had come up from being a teacher at St Innocents, and hardly heard Cerisa’s dry-mouthed enquiry: “What is that one?”

  “Sorry Cerisa: which one?”: “Oh that one: yea: that’s a tit-tamer. It’s used to teach a girl’s tits how to behave? The spiked studs are to punish the nipples for being nipples of course....”, Ellen responded dismissively.

  “Oh please heaven, you’re not going to use that one on me are you?!” Cerisa begged.

  “Cerisa: you have two very fine examples of the very problem that such an implement is designed to deal with. If ever a pair of breasts were in need of discipline....!They are wild and wilful. They wander around completely irresponsibly. They need rounding up and teaching their place. You’re to blame. You should have corralled then in a brassiere. They have gone feral. They spend all their days idly teasing the eyes of other girls. They constantly provoke sexual desire. They need to be tamed. You’re going to have them whipped whether you wish it or not. It is for their own good! And anyway, you’ll find the entry door to this apartment is now locked”, Ellen answered with genuine severity in her voice.

  At this dirty talk, Suzie and Alana giggled, and Cerisa began to realise her isolation from the circle of gathered girls.

  “Go into the bedroom and strip off”, Ellen instructed, “You’ll find a pair of heelless ballet shoes in there. You will put those on so that you’re superb legs are looking their best.”

  “And while you are in there, don’t under any circumstances tell your tits what is coming: we don’t want them trying to run away do we?” Ellen then mocked, and all three younger girls instantly fell about in uncontrollable guffaws of golden giggles with unconstrainable tears of mirth trickling from their sparkling eyes.

  Lonely: Cerisa rose and went into the bedroom, found the ballet shoes and obeyed the instructions she had been given.

  After a while, Ellen came in and fastened Cerisa’s slender wrists in girlacles behind her back, while whispering....

  “A girl as beautiful as you needs to be whipped. You were made to be whipped. It is the only way in which love should ever be made to such a beauty as you possess: such a beauty as you are. You must be given over to the pleasure of the never-cum: the ever belief that the next lash will service you, together with the torment of knowing it must always be just one more stroke and yet more pain until you cum, and then just one more stroke and yet more pain again, and then the ever-conclusion that maybe you’ll cum when you are next flogged, when you next have your bleed.”

  “You will never ever know other than frustration unless you surrender to such kisses as only a whip can deliver. And then you will know the joy of frustration as we flog you with our whips until you can take no more, but still want more because you cannot believe that you cannot cum, because even as you are flogged until it is not just your cunt that is bleeding, you will want it never to stop.....”

  As she uttered this sensuous whisper in Cerisa’s lovely ears, she clipped a dog leash to the wedding ring through Cerisa’s pretty nose, and led the naked beauty out into the main room and then out of the students’ accommodation and along to the stables where the zoology department kept the zebragirls and giraffegirls, as well as the tamed and trained ponygirls.

  As Ellen led the tiptop-tiptoeing Cerisa, who was wiggling wickedly wonderfully, along by the ring through her nose, Suzie and Alana carried their bullwhips coiled, but coolly cruelly ready to use on her if Cerisa showed any sign of resistance.

  Wolf-whistles and jeers met Cerisa along with cries of: “Give her one for me!” as she wiggled submissively along, the dangling draw-strings of her only clothing fluttered between her wonderful thighs. And, as she wiggled, her fifty-inch-chest proved the very point: the very points that Ellen had been putting across earlier, about it being high time her tits were taught a lesson in proper behaviour.

  “You’ve got a real cracker there: what’s she in for?” Cerisa’s lecturess called, as Cerisa was wiggled by on her tip-top-tiptoes in her ballet shoes on her superb legs.

  “Tit taming!” Ellen answered.

  “Yea” Cerisa’s chief lectureress responded: “And it’s not before time either. It’s long overdue if you ask me. Can I come and watch?”

  “Yea: sure, we can do it in the yard ‘stead of indoors. I reckon there’ll be quite an audience for this one” Ellen assured.

  Tied by her wrists, her wrists girlackled behind her back and touching her bare bum: tied to an upright post in the cobbled yard outside the university’s zoological stables, dressed only in her ballet shoes and her saturated tampon, Cerisa prepared herself: prepared her tits to face front, and take what was coming to them like a girl.

  It was then that Ellen pressed the button to set off the fire alarm which sounded out a hideous clanging, summoning the whole university to leave what they were doing and come to witness the stunningly gorgeous Cerisa being whipped. The ringing was deafening and seemed to be getting ever louder....

...................

  ....Cerisa reached out a pretty arm and dainty fingers to stop her alarm sounding, and her wet-dream ended.

  She drowsily turned back to go to sleep once more and: oh god, what was this mess on the sheet? Goodness knew that that was not the only wet-dream she had ever had; but there was a vast patch of now chill dampness.

  “Oh my god; I must have squirted”, she murmured.

  Bleary-eyed she rose and headed for the shower, pulling the saturated under-sheet off her bed and throwing it in the collection readied for the college laundry slavegirls as she went.

  It was then she saw how her orgasm-squirt had also soaked her duvet and was even now trickling down the curvaceous muscularity of her inner calves, and onto the carpet.

  “Oh god what a mess!” she moaned as she threw up her pretty hands in abandonment of clearing up after herself for now.

  As was her lovely way of walking barefoot, she glided, dancing on the balls of her pretty feet to the shower cubicle.

  After the shower, awake and smiling beautifully because of the relief from her cum in the wet-dream, Cerisa cuddled in her towelling bathrobe and hugged in her delectable fingers, the cup of hot rich morning girl-pee-tea she was sipping.

  Her thoughts were on her lectures for the day, but she noticed the date she had ringed in appropriate red on her wall calendar: the date of the first day of the week in which she was next due on: the date a week hence, alongside which she had written Ellen’s phone number, to remind herself to make contact in order to talk about being whipped.

...................

  Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch heeled pinnacle platforms. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. It would be a while longer before official opening time. It would be a while longer before she called in her first and last patients from the waiting room.

..................

  White was the colour for funerals. The untimely death of Cerisa’s husband-girl, Aileen Kissheart, in a motorcycle accident, had seen the grieving widow parade behind the cortege in the now time-honoured fashion.

  Sexual purdah was required of Cerisa after the funeral. During the parade though, she was expected to show what the world would be missing when she continued to be married but without a living wife.

  Beneath the saucily slanted white top-hat with the sprig of spring flowers woven into the white bow-tied ribbon of the band: the ribbon, the tails of which fluttered in the gentle breeze beyond the hat’s brim rear: beneath the saucily slanted white top-hat, her golden curls tumbled tumultuously to her swinging buttocks, swept as they were, her curls were, back from the gorgeous face with the sad brown eyes holding back the tears, as her wedding ring, the ring through her nose, sparkled her unavailability forever under the sun moon and stars: starting with the sun for now.

  Beneath the tight white micro-dress the pure white quarter-cup bra uplifted her magnificent enormity to two outthrust smooth soft-firm wonders that its low round neckline swooped to avoid hiding, suffusing Cerisa’s lovely cheeks with a constant blush of shame and embarrassment to have her fifty-inch bosom so crudely paraded, with both of her nipples showing top quarters like two suns rising to greet the dawning of the first morning of her mourning.

  A polo-neck choker was formed by the halter-neck topping out the back of the white silk dress and was the only means, apart from its caress of her every wonderful contour, by which that garment was prevented from sliding down her perfect smoothness, to reveal all her physical charms.

  Her hands and arms wore white silk gloves that reached all the way to her armpits, and she carried, held at her belly, a single sunflower head, itself lowered in the sadness of her loss.

  The shoes were square-toed soft white leather heelless ballet, with long long white leather laces that traced the shapely calves of her wonderful legs, in criss-cross lattice, till tied in neat bows, the dimpled knees just below.

  Otherwise, the legs were bare, and was that a beauty spot there, as if it could be anything other, on the thigh, high on the thigh, the left thigh on which she wore, three-quarters up its powerful potency, the black band as an erotic garter: the black velvet band of mourning for her lost love and lover?

  The hem of Cerisa’s white mourning dress flared out to reveal the orgasmically bi-lip-pouched white thong panties, and revealed she bore her bold bottom boldly bare so that the fascination of its natural undulation as she paraded in perambulation, showed in its superb firm live animation: deep-scoop-side-dimpled as it was by her tiptoed stance as she wiggle-walked.

  The wolf whistles from the passing schoolgirls were posies scattered on the path of passion on which Cerisa paraded her sadness behind the hearse in which her dead wife’s coffin lay. The wolf whistles from the passing schoolgirls merely pointing up the poignancy of the loss of this perfect petal to purdah: to Cerisa’s sentence of an eternity of marriage to a vacated vacuum’s vacuum: the wolf whistles from the passing schoolgirls being therefore more painful than red hot lashes.

........................

  The wonderfully attractive girl was dressed in funeral white: the beauty spot on the unblemished flesh of the left of her huge bare thighs: the black thighband marking her mourning for the wife in the casket on the hearse drawn by two six-foot-six-tall Nubian ponygirls: the hearse behind which she paraded alone: the peach: the two peaches of the sexy bare bottom flashing mourning in Morse: her mourning for never being allowed to marry again: her mourning for being now married to an eternity of emptiness.

  To the passing housewife, this lovely girl in the black garter marking new widowhood, brought back a memory of loves young dream.

  That poor girl parading her wares so publicly must be Aileen Kissheart’s wife. She’s lucky. Though widowed husband-girls had always been free to remarry, at one time it had been expected that a wife be buried alive in the same coffin as her dead partner. But, the housewife supposed, maybe even that was better than being alive and married to complete celibacy for the rest of your days such as: yes, that was her: young Dr Kissheart: what a lovely girl she was: what a lovely girl she is: paraded that way she might almost as well be naked, and all those girls leering at her, and giving her wolf-calls, knowing she will never know love again: but she’s a human being: those schoolgirls just see her dressed like that, like she was just three love-holes walking in formation: mind you, she’s got terrific legs, and a wicked bum on her: it was her in that restaurant: open air it was where they were sat: her and Aileen: we was out celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary, me and my wife Mandy: couldn’t afford to eat at Bidet’s normally, but it was a special treat: they was in the open air on those wicked wicker chairs no cushions and all that lattice work what would leave a pattern on your bum: the lattice work was all made into heart shapes somehow, and the courting couples: well, they liked to get their bums marked up, so as to show their girlfriends: Bidet’s got customers that way especially on Valentine’s Day: saucy when you think about it: you could tell who was going to be the husband-girl, what with Aileen in her motorcycle leathers and her, Dr Kissheart: Cerisa!, that was it! that was her name! Cerisa: pretty name: so feminine: pretty girl mind you: she wasn’t yet a doctor then: she’d be not long out of school: it nearly didn’t last: her maid said college drove them apart: but they was meant for each other really, you could see it in her eyes: Cerisa’s eyes: lovely big dark brown eyes: they glowed: they really glowed like the saying says: she was so in love with Aileen: but it was really so naughty of her, Cerisa, with that skirt she’d almost got on: I say ‘almost’ because it was so short: glad I sat Mandy where she had her back to them: they was outside on Bidet’s patio next to the lake with the swans?: we was just inside the open doors: summer too, so long nights: and that leather skirt she’d almost....: and I mean with no panties!: well I ask you: asking for it that is: and then again why shouldn’t she be ‘asking for it’ as they say?, though it’s against the law to even touch till you’re married: she was at St Innocents too: just imagine that: she’d be a complete virgin: completely innocent: suppose it’s why they call the place that, now I come to think about it: that’s so sweet: wonder if she lost it later when she was at college: they married after she graduated I reckon; or was it before?: you hear about them there clubs they have there: pretty girl like her must have had offers: wonder if she let herself be flogged?: never fancied that myself: but just look at the bum on her and those legs: bet she was asked all the time with her being a virgin if they hadn’t married yet and all that: with no other kind of relief it being illegal to master-whatsit: you know: play with yourself and that: anyway there they was looking into each other’s eyes with their girl-pee untouched in their glasses: French it was too: heard Aileen do the ordering: showing off!: ordering two bottles when one would have been plenty enough!: in the ice bucket with the moisture running after the sommelier had tasted it and: what was it she said: “parfait” or some such: the cork nearly hit a chandelier: think she was new: she couldn’t handle girl-pee-champagne and that brand is five-hundred dollars a bottle: foaming on the carpet like that till she caught the glass under it: I mean the real stuff from girls who live on grapes: that must be good for your figure: maybe I’ll try that: anyway her in no panties and I reckon she must have had a wet on: when you’ve got all that beautiful equipment you is just made for love and they was young and her thingy all virgin fresh and all that: gives me goose-bumps to think about it: and the bee: there was several in the end: she must have felt it but she never let it show: they were only eyes for each other: I couldn’t believe it: I mean just look at her now at her wife’s funeral, paraded for the world to see what she’ll be missing forever from now onwards: she’s such a big girl up front: they must be natural too: wonder if that runs in the family?: and that lovely complexion and that gorgeous mouth there must have been a negress-beauty in there somewhere: all the really beautiful girl are black: but half-casts are even more gorgeous like she is: and it found its way through the lattice and I was going to warn her, what with her lovely legs apart like that because they teach them never to cross their legs: I hear tell many a girl has been spanked at St Innocents for that: I don’t reckon there was any hem on the chair: but when you’ve got legs like hers why wouldn’t you want to show them off?: It was too short to be decent though, I mean that skirt: leather too: wonder how much she paid for it, apart from too much what with it being so tiny, almost as short as the mourning dress she’s tumbling out of over there today: but she wasn’t filling a thong like heaven as she is on this funeral parade: stark naked she was under her skirt back then: and I reckon she was all juicy-melon like young girls are when they just look at their lover: and the bee went up one of the holes in the seat of the chair right where it would be: I couldn’t believe it!: I mean with the lattice holes of the cane chairs and no cushions: and the waiter came and asked Mandy and me what we wanted for our first course; but even Mandy turned her head when she heard the sexy sigh: and I’m sure I saw the bee fly off to its hive after: but another three had come and were hovering under Cerisa’s wicker chair: and I ordered prawn cocktail for starters: and Mandy said I should try something different because I always have prawn cocktail she said: and I like my prawn cocktails and I told Mandy as much and I knew they’d be special at Bidet’s because my friend Clare said she’d served them at Lady Barnmouth’s place: and I couldn’t help looking again and it was like they was queuing up under her chair flying in circles and taking turns, and I’m sure I saw one fly up through the lattice right where it would be as she sat: and another come down from between her thighs after it had been in it: and her big brown eyes were closed and her pretty mouth was open as if she was being surprised by a wonderful feeling: and the prawn cocktails came and I teased Mandy for teasing me, because she’d had prawn cocktail as well: and it was spring and all the flowers were open: and the next sigh was more like a squeak: and Mandy said they ought to do something about these insects: bees they looked like: they were flying about everywhere she said: and that she couldn’t see what could possibly be attracting them: and we ordered our main course: and I couldn’t, I really couldn’t help glancing over and there was a host of bees now and two flew up through the lattice-work of her chair seat, even as Cerisa was sipping her sparkling girl-pee: and then one settled on her mouth as if it was kissing her to thank her, and I’ve never seen a girl blush so divinely: and the bees below her chair were a regular swarm by then: we ordered our sweet course and Mandy complained about the bees and the waitress was very nice, and she said how sorry she was for the disturbance, but that the pretty young lady had left now: and Mandy looked at me as if to say ‘what on earth is this waitress on about?!’ and as if Bidet’s were employing loonies: and we’d had a really lovely three-course dinner and after a half-bottle of the house girl-pee I was quite squiffy: ‘nectar is nectar’ I said, and Mandy just threw up her hands looking totally baffled, and I leaned over and kissed her: and it was the lovliest anniversary: and we flew out to see our daughter in Australia that same year: and a bee flew right past my nose and then flew back again like it was looking for a perfect pink flower with petals lightly opened: petals blessed by soft curly blonde hair between two stupendous thighs: but I looked and saw that Cerisa had indeed left the restaurant by then: and I bet they’d been sipping from her heaven’s wedding ring, what with her being intact and all that.

...................

  The night was young, and so was Cerisa. Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals. The white tube-top she emboldened with her braless fulsome frontal frolicking, went with the tiny white leather skirt she blessed, and the latter only just disguised that she wore no panties. The honey-blonde angel was excited, and it was wet, and she giggling at the wonderful feeling between her thighs. Even the dusk’s chill could not cool its moistness. Her pretty presence was accompanied by the love of her life, the girl to whom she longed to become wife: Adele Kissheart.

  The two girls had known each other since the dawn of time. Adele’s family were related to the 17th century founders of Clits and Co, the exclusive Hondon bankers. Cerisa was the stepdaughter of Racanata Countess Beaumont-Fortain, who, along with Lady Barnmouth, was one of the two centres of power in the southern English port and resort of Barnmouth. Both girls were made for each other, and their friendship, which had grown to love, had parental approval on both the Kissheart and Beaumont-Fortain sides.

  Not only was the night young and innocent as the sweet curls that crowned the queenly head of the adorable Cerisa; but so was Cerisa. She had just turned eighteen. This was therefore her first week since leaving school.

Cerisa’s last four years had been spent in the closely-cloistered high-walled St Innocents Academy for Girls: a world-renowned finishing school for young women from ages fourteen to eighteen, located near the centre of Barnmouth.

  She had therefore only just shed the shroud. For four years, as she matured from early puberty to full-girlhood, she had had to wear the St Innocents uniform: an all enveloping white shroud draping and dragging the floor she had flawlessly blessed in tiptoe-walk-heelless ballet shoes under it: a shroud so completely covering, it included a cowl hiding her head and face, which even had muslin sewn over the narrow slit through which her stunning dark brown eyes would otherwise have shone her adorable vivacity as she fought to see.

  Even her hands had not been allowed to be exposed. She had worn gloves up to her armpits under the long sleeves of her school-issue burkha. Sleep was spent in a burkha nightgown. Trips to and from the morning and evening showers were shrouded. In the morning, the burkha nightgown could only be discarded after entry of the solo shower cubicle, and a towelling burkha must be donned before exiting. The evening routine was the same with the cowl donned immediately after dinner, discarded for a burkha nightgown after the shower.

  The principle concern behind these rules was that a girl’s body is too exciting to be exposed, and complete covering twenty-four hours a day would equate to complete concentration on lessons, away from the devastating distraction of matters of the flesh, such as a pair of handsome thighs.

  Like most St Innocents girls, Cerisa came from a wealthy and privileged background. Her momma could afford to ensure that, prior to going to that institution, she had been strictly overseen by a team of nannies, mostly French au pairs, with written permission to spank her if she showed the slightest sign of being sexually naughty. She was thus saved and intact, and completely innocent of the ways of girls in the wider world.

  For Cerisa and Adele, now they were both eighteen, this was their first night together without their respective teams of chaperones. But the two girls were yet to touch. Even holding hands was illegal before a girl married.

  It had been rumoured that the Girl-Control officers patrolling the streets of all English towns, had discretion to overlook hand-touching if both girls were wearing gloves; but that had been disproved by the recent public flogging in Hondon, of two Irish colleens who had dared to indulge that perversion, and been promptly arrested by the Girl-Police. After one-hundred lashes each, both girls had been exiled, and neither would ever be permitted to know where the other had been ordered to go and live.

  The night was young, and innocent and Cerisa bowled over by the confident Adele.

  Adele had been tutored at home privately. She had never lacked self assurance. Why should she when she was guaranteed the million-dollars-a-year post of head of foreign exchange at Clits and Co? From there, she would continue to be groomed for the Clits and Co boardroom too, and become president of the bank when her momma decided to retire.

  Meanwhile, she had money to indulge in what pleased her, and what pleased her most was pretty girls.

  Cerisa’s assumption that Adele had been totally faithful to her during her four-years at St Innocent’s, was part of Cerisa’s charm. Adele had been faithful in her fashion, but that fashion had included regular drunken ‘quickies’ in the pink-light district of Camford, the university town just up the road north from Barnmouth.

  For the past two years and more, she had had a favourite among the whores at Madame Cumstock‘s emporium. Nefania Ngola was still calling herself ‘Princess’, even though the real title had been taken from her and transferred to her twin sister Jefedzda, after Nefania Ngola had been expelled from St Innocents. Poor Nefania though, thought it added a touch of class that raised her above the gutter in which she had been metaphorically thrown by her expulsion from the Academy, and consequent exclusion from the marriage market.

  For Adele, over the four years of their parting, neither girl seeing the other except during school vacations, Cerisa had been reduced to the status of ‘a good catch’. She would be a great ‘trophy wife’, bringing the Beaumont-Fortain influence and high society connections with her. Clits and Co were bankers to the English royal family of course, but at least two Beaumont-Fortain women were at the Court of St Janes, and one a lady-in-waiting for Queen Elspeth herself.

  Adele had, in those same four years, learned to have a ‘good time’. She was a close companion of Cerisa’s slightly older half-sister, Victoria Beaumont-Fortain, and regularly rabble roused and caroused, cruising around Hondon in a wildly driven ponygirl chariot. Of late she had burnt the candle at both ends playing poker with slave girls as human chips.

  The night was young and Cerisa swept off her feet. Adele was minded to propose marriage. It was a chore, but she had to get it out of the way.

  The meal at Bidets Restaurant had been superb. Cerisa, as she sat with it scenting her seat, had been impressed by Adele’s world-wise maturity and melted like a spoonful of the girl-milk sorbet with which dinner had concluded.

That is to say that Adele had been minded to propose marriage, but an over-indulgence in the French girl-pee champagne she had ordered to celebrate Cerisa’s anticipated ‘yes’, had precluded the putting of the question, and minded Adele instead to indulge a particular delight she had found, and was sure was an even better preliminary to going on one knee to beg Cerisa to marry her, than even a tete-a-tete dinner at Bidets.

  Cerisa herself had not wanted to leave Bidets. As she sat, sans panties, on the notorious wickerwork chairs on the open lattice love-heart pattern with which their seats were interweaved, the pressure was adorning her bare bottom impressively, as she sighed, with her wonderful wilful unconstrained twins rising and falling in her tautly challenged top.

  Unharnessed, they usually knew their own minds and were disobedient and playful like roaming romping rolling ruffians, but the sigh had found them in unusual unison with the girl they adorned, for her sigh was from surprise, and they wanted to join in her joy.

  The late May day was still light when Cerisa and the love of her life had alighted and taken seat at table outside the restaurant beside the magically illuminated lake, with the black swans as much a couple as they, but without the love that Cerisa felt in her golden way.

  Cerisa knew of the Valentine seats and wanted to sit herself bare bottomed to impress her love with her love by the love hearts her one-hundred-and-ten pounds of pure girl would earn by sitting there. And the lovers sat with their champagne in an ice bucket, awaiting their crème-de-la-femme coffee.

  It was on the seat too of course as she sat with her lovely long legs bare and tanned, her knees almost pressed together to defend against the overlapping of superb thighs, a single crossing of which would have double-crossed four years where there had been hobble anklets to constrain against it, and a St Innocents training under which to cross one’s legs would earn a girl a severe bummy caning: it was on the seat too of course and it was spring and the flowers in the gardens by the lake at the rear of Bidets Restaurant were fresh and fragrant too: and it was fresh and fragrant as a rose; if not so flagrant: it was on the seat too of course as they busied themselves with the roses, soporifically sounding their short sojourn between each flower on display, before tasting its entree, and then burrowing in to borrow the nectar for the honey it would provide tomorrow: it was on the seat too of course, the heart and soul of a girl as young as Cerisa: its petals new knew that it was spring too, and her sitting parted them prettily, partly to petition that her pink included an orchid in rendition: it was on the seat too of course and its positioning more redolent of the clam than even the oysters with which Adele’s meal had began: and within each oyster there could be a pearl; but that ‘could be’ is a ‘would be’ when it comes to a girl: it was on the seat too of course, and silent but for its scent and that scent’s source and sauce the secretions of a girl wet with abandoned wanton and wanting for her love to pleasure her aroused treasure: it was on the seat too of course and an orchid more attractive than a rose: did she indulge it with a wider parting?: she was ripe and her sap singularly sweet: and the busy buzzing rose through the gap in her seat flying toward heaven with its entry gates agape, revealing the pink of the outer clam’s inner orchid: but first the dangling pearl within the hood, it checked and kissed before it flew out the clam again and below the chair and down and up into the orchid itself to find the ring was there: and did she indulge it?: she knew it was there under her chair and her succulence making it curious: and once it was in it, she was Venus flytrap as well as rose if she chose to close it: but its gentle kiss tickled her where no girl had ever been nor even her: and her flow flourished as it crawled within to kiss her where she was unsullied by sin, her ring of devotion protecting her within, and signalling her marriage to heaven: and her pretty mouth fell agape as the bee made its escape and three more took turns in the same place to lap up the nectar pooled behind her unsullied hymen, and take it to hive wherein to feed the queen bee within with the wages of Cerisa’s innocent sin: it was on the seat too of course: and the noise of the restaurant drowned out their wings, but not Cerisa’s innocent siren sigh at the sounding of which, all conversation stopped for a momentous moment, and did not begun again without the customers smiling at each other and the single soft signally surprised sound with its sensuous sexiness.

  Was Adele jealous? She watched the bees with fascination as they grew in number and knew where they were going. It was on the open lattice wickerwork seat and no doubt providing an open invitation.

  Adele found the sigh incredibly erotic. The squeak of near orgasmic pleasure that followed later from the bees continuing invasion of it, to sip on Cerisa’s nectar, either unnerved Adele and filled her with concern; or made her green with envy that the bees were enjoying what Adele herself would not be allowed to taste, until Cerisa and she enjoyed their wedding night.

  “I think we better move on darling, before you get stung” Adele whispered.

  Cerisa touched by her love’s concern for her, waited till the latest bee had flown out of it, before she stood and thereby covered her orchid by closing her clam. And as she waited to stand she sipped her champagne, only for a bee to seemingly kiss her gorgeous mouth and thank her for her nectar before she left.

...................

  The night was young, and so was Cerisa. Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals. The honey-blonde angel was excited, and it was wet, and she giggling at the wonderful feeling between her thighs. Even the dusk’s chill could not cool its moistness where the bees had so recently entered her secret harbour.

  University awaited the bewitching Cerisa. She had won a place at St Gynos College Camford, where she would shortly begin to study medicine. A highly intelligent girl, she was equally highly principled, and her loving caring ways had determined her to spend at least some of her life helping the less fortunate in a third world nation. But first she must work hard to become at least a Spinster of Medicine.

  Xambabwia was much in the news and had been much in Cerisa’s mind since her earliest days at St Innocents, when one of her fellow schoolgirls, Nigella Bown, had volunteered to go out there.

  Nigella had volunteered to go to Xambabwia so as not to bring shame on the Academy; news being about to break that her momma had married a man: an indulgence that was now, strictly speaking, illegal.

  Cerisa wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong tanned legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals, her love walking by her side from Bidets Restaurant into the very heart and centre of Barnmouth, the historic cobblestone-paved ‘Girl Market Square’.

  In the doorway of Merod’s, the world renowned girl-pee vintners, a shapely shadow moved and Cerisa shuddered, longing that she was allowed to cling onto Adele for comfort: Adele who seemed impervious to the event.

  The shapely shadow then took form and came toward the couple.

  “Care for a feel: she’s completely shaved?”, a sad voice fought to say with the sexiness its fear would not let it convey.

  “Only a dollar to slide your finger in and have a taste of her”, the girl continued.

  Then she started with fright, and slipped startled into the dawning night.

  Her fear was from the recognition of Adele, that much was clear. She knew Cerisa too. But she only knew Cerisa when Cerisa had been in Academy uniform, and therefore looked like every other girl at St Innocents. But Cerisa had recognised Princess Nefania Ngola, as Nefania had then been, and heartfelt horror for the poor girl and what she had been reduced to, since she was stripped naked before the whole school and whipped into her expulsion.

  Despite her fright at this sight in the yawning night, Cerisa arousal from the visitation of the bees was still so strong that it overcame even her compassion; and she was only aroused the more when she recalled Nefania’s brutal deflowering and realised the highly treasured prize that she, sweet Cerisa, still bore intact in her inner sanctum.

  “Did you know that girl?” she glowed with a laughing glower at Adele.

  “Who? Oh the hooker. No”, Adele lied, before adding as insurance to guide if her answer needed to be amended or qualified: “Why?”

  “It’s nothing darling: only she seemed to know you”, Cerisa smiled.

  “Well, I’m such a horny chick I expect it’s more like that she wished she knew me!” Adele joked weakly, only to be reassured by the innocent Cerisa’s golden giggle, that no damage was done and all was well and she would not have to confess or tell of Madame Cumstock‘s supply of such girls.

  “Let’s go to the Lawyer’s Briefs shall we?” Adele then added. “You wouldn’t believe the pretty honeys they have serving there..... oh, and the midnight entertainment, when it’s on”, Adele added.

  The night was young, and so was Cerisa. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals. She wanted this night to never end. Adele had been so right about Bidets Restaurant; she would surely be as right about the bar she proposed they go to next and, in Cerisa’s sexy near nakedness of dress the chill air was a little cooling of any desire to linger in the streets.

  “Take me there right now darling!” Cerisa smiled, and giggled divinely shyly as Adele blew her a kiss in response.

...................

  “A finger of Scots on the rocks: that ‘Dawn-Mist-Miss-Piss’ over there’ll hit the spot: on second thoughts, make that a double”, Adele instructed the bar-girl.

“And what will you have sweetheart?” she then enquired of Cerisa as the gorgeous barmaid waited, smiling prettily at Adele’s lovely girlfriend.

  “Oh may I try one of those?” Cerisa responded.

  “It’ll blow your head off if you’re not used to it!” Adele warned: “Pour her a single with water and ice please Natasha, and we’ll find a table if we can. This place is heaving with humanity: you got a show on later?”

  “I dunno. I’ve just come on duty Adele. But I’ll ask about and let you know. Hey: there’s an alcove freeing up over there, with those two chicks just leaving, grab it quick and I’ll get a waitress to bring your drinks over”, Natasha answered as she asked with a smile of her light blue eyes what the next girls waiting at the busy bar would like served.

  No bra beneath the crisp white blouse with three top buttons undone to show the delightful site and sight of cleavage, was clearly part of uniform at the Lawyer’s Briefs. Natasha behind the bar had worn one and so did the lovely waitresses who scurried in hurry everywhere.

  Name badges above left breasts told of a ‘Tixie’; a ‘Belana’; a ‘Penni’; and of Natasha herself, as four among many more serving wenches.

  As she was partly hidden behind the bar, it could only be assumed that Natasha too wore the green-tartan mini-kilt, and the tight white school-issue-style knickers that flashed seductively when these waitresses bent forward to tempt and attempt to put the contents of their trays on the customers’ tables among a tangled tentacle of hands eager to take hold of theirs.

  Their shapely legs were adorned by white seamed-stockings with crisp white saucy suspenders on open display below the hems of their mini-kilts. On the very tip-top-tops of their big-toes in soft black leather ballet shoes they traipsed a tapestry of dance as they wiggled and swerved to serve around the floor.

As they weaved their winsome way between the crowd of happy drinkers, they combined the skill of not spilling the drinks on their trays, with entirely interrelated expertise in avoiding having their bottoms patted or pinched.

  Their smiles and giggles were genuine: they were pure honey honeys.

  “Aren’t they pretty? No wonder you wanted to come here Adele”, Cerisa teased, “Where does Natasha find them?”

  “Find who? Oh the tarts. Yea: most of them were at St Innocents. Earlier years than when you were there sweetheart. Natasha was there too. They graduated Camford some of them: all of them I reckon, now I come to think about it. They go for this gap year thing to make some cash before going on to do a Mistress of Science degree or whatever”, Adele informed.

  “They’re all specials”, she then added without explanation, “Many of them are in the market for a good marriage, and showing off their wears here is a good intro to the rich businessgirls who come over from Hondon for a boozy weekend”, she then concluded.

  As they moved to the leather upholstered bench behind a table, Cerisa’s tiny leather skirt slipped up her supreme smoothness to ensure that, when she sat in the alcove, it was kissing the seat again.

  Then Adele suddenly looked up with the words ‘wow and how!!’ spoken by her eyes, as a divine little girl, no more than five-four to totally adore, came over with her silver tray and the two ‘Dawn-Mist-Miss-Piss’ on the rocks that Adele had ordered.

  Blushing prettily she showed delicious divide as she bent forward and her breasts followed gravity’s gentle guidance within her blouse. She was blonde with her hair cropped raggedly short and frizzed up with jell like she’d had a cartoon electric shock: it included an irregular peek-a-boo fringe over her light grey eyes. She was pretty, very pretty: her face only marginally short of whatever mystery it is that takes a girl the one further step to beautiful.

  She was exquisitely pretty and she was shy. She was a peach among the honeys, with a figure that made a number eight look out of shape, and legs that showed she was befittingly fit, with calves that had benefitted from four years on constant tiptoe during her time at St Innocents, and thighs that spoke of tennis and skating since she’d gone up to college.

  She was exquisitely pretty and she was shy. She had been devastating all the girls in the bar all night. Her face was constantly blushing. Of course she loved the fact she was causing such distraction because of her attraction, but, once in a while, she blew sweet zephyrs up at her forehead with her tiny bold-lipped mouth to cover for embarrassment, by pretending she was trying to get her fringe out of her eyes while her lovely expressive hands were too preoccupied by her tray.

  As she tiptop-tiptoe-wiggled toward Adele and Cerisa, she knew she was being mentally undressed by Adele’s appreciative eyes.

  Now she was close up, Cerisa noticed that her two top front teeth were longer than usual and that she had the look of an absolutely darling rabbit. Her mouth closed, her top teeth pressed gently on her constantly wet lips, still showed her smile. She was adorable.

  When she put down the tray and took off the drinks on their paper coasters, she bent forward straight-legged and flashed her knickers to the lucky girls at the table behind.

Her eyes cast shyly down, she spoke with a smile as she whispered: “Your two Scots”. And, as she took the glasses off her tray, her hands were so dainty dexterous and decorous that you could have fallen in love with her for her hands alone.

  Her name badge said she was an ‘Angel’ and her name badge was not wrong.

  “Would you like to buy a ticket for the vote show?” she quietly enquired as she slid the drinks toward Cerisa and Adele, “I’ve forgotten my pen, but I’ll run and get you one if you want....there’s space for your choice right there”. She pointed with a pretty finger as she offered up a cheque book type document, more stubs than pages, talking as if she didn’t really expect a positive response, before returning it to her tray and beginning to move away.

  “Sure I’ll buy one: two in fact, if it’s tonight”, Adele answered.

  “They’re two-fifty dollars each; but one-hundred goes to AfraAid? It’s all for charity really you see”, Angel whispered in her soft sweet tones with a touch of polite concern about the expense.

  “I got a pen thank you Angel”, Adele replied as she took the book, wrote a single name on two stubs, tore out the two hitherto attached tickets, one each for Cerisa and herself, and tossed a crisp five-hundred-blue on Angel’s tray along with the now empty ticket book.

  “Thank you ma’am. They count the votes at 11.30 and mark the choice just after. Anyone without a ticket has to leave before midnight, when the doors are locked....”, Angel advised.

  “Thanks Angel: but I’ve been here before”, Adele assured, to save the pretty bunny-toothed moist-lipped doll her sweet lisping breath, “What’s the theme?”

  “Oh gosh!” Angel shot a pretty hand over her mouth in sweet apology, “Oh I’m so sorry. I forgot. I think its schoolgirl? I’ll go and find out for you for certain sure if you like....” she gabble-giggled as she blushed divinely.

  “That’s alright: I’ll take a chance; and no need to apologise, you’re doing us all a power of good just by looking so great!” Adele complimented.

  Angel didn’t respond, except by blushing deeply, lowering her eyes sweetly, and turning to try and dash away: “Thank you”, she whispered as she began to wiggle wonderfully.

  As the waitress tried to escape, still blushing: “Angel! Sweetheart!!” Adele called above the noise in the bar, and instantly the lovely little girl turned around again. Bring us two more Scots please – a single and a double with ice in both, and 50:50 water in the single; and a cigar for when the show is go”, Adele ordered, as she threw a one-hundred red on top of the five hundred already on Angel’s tray, and added: “If you’re allowed tips, then keep the change honey....”

  By Adele’s side, Cerisa was now pretending to clear her throat to remind Adele that there was another girl for her to pay attention to, besides the devastating distraction in the tiny kilt.

  “Well you can’t blame me!” Adele laughed as she registered Cerisa’s teasing.

  “I don’t. She’s an absolutely doll”, Cerisa responded before taking a sip of her Scots and being instantly bathed in Adele’s loving laughter, as the strength of it took Cerisa completely by surprise, and she began to cough and splutter and had to use a napkin to dab the sudden tears from the corners of her eyes.

...................

  A short while later, the arrival in the bar of la belle Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure, Cerisa’s former French lecturer when she, Cerisa, had been at St Innocents, was spotted by Cerisa, who, though sat at a considerable distance, suddenly felt guilty for being so simply-skimpily dressed.

  Adele spotted Cerisa’s look and her shuffling in her seat as if to try and get her microskirt’s hem to cover it.

  “What’s the matter sweetheart?” Adele quizzed.

  “The dark haired woman over there? She used to teach class at St Innocents. She taught me French” Cerisa replied guiltily.

  “You’re no longer at school now Cerisa, and anyway just look at the way she’s dressed by way of an example!” Adele answered reassuringly.

  Cerisa looked at the tattered jeans and the chequered shirt, which Katsumi seemed to have taken from the wash without the trouble of ironing, before filling them with her fulsome womanly charms, and the fresh washed unkempt brunette locks that caressed Katsumi’s shoulder-blades as she stood at the bar, and had to agree that her former teacher was no example of tidiness.

  “Will you take me home now please Adele, I’m feeling so yawny?!” Cerisa begged dopily.

  “It’s that sip of Scots Miss Piss, sweetheart, it’s gone straight to your pretty head. You can’t go without seeing the cabaret....!” Adele quietly insisted.

  “No. I suppose not”, Cerisa replied, desperate not to spoil her love’s evening.

....................

  “Oh great! You made it, Katsumi!” Natasha’s voice was heard to call distantly but distinctly from the opposite end of the bar, when she spotted the gorgeous French girl.

  Immediately after that, Cerisa grew curiously awake as she heard cheers and wolf whistles.

  A gorgeous negress waitress now came over with her tray to Cerisa and Adele’s table.

  “Your two Scots on the rocks, a cigar, and a table-lighter”, she smiled.

  “What’s all the whistling for?” sweet Cerisa asked the new waitress.

  “Oh, that’s little Angel. She was selected by the draw tickets? Not as if anyone was surprised there! She’s dressed up as a St Innocents schoolgirl right now: all authentic kit even down to the gloves and hobbled ankles and thighs? I think the wolf whistles are what you might call irony, seeing as how she’s covered head to foot in a drape-shroud and windowed hood.

  “Gee, I spent four whole years in that uniform: talk about claustrophobia: sheesh!” the waitress continued.

  “You got tickets cos they’re sold out now and you gotta leave pretty soon please, if’n you ain’t ticketed up....” she then added as an afterthought.

  “We got tickets okay, and we both voted for Angel”, Adele replied.

  “Me too. Who wouldn’t eh”, the waitress responded as she began to move away with her empty tray.

  Very few of the all-female clientele of the Lawyer’s Briefs had left by the bewitching hour.

  The cat-calls and ironic wolf-whistles continued unabated as Angel tiptoe-totty-wiggled in her ballet shoes and two-inch chains hobbling her legs at ankles and thighs, saying: “Thank you for picking me” and “Thank you for your vote”, her soft whisper of a voice muffled behind her head cowl: a covering with only a muslin curtained slit for her to see through: a slit so devised that her gorgeous grey eyes were completely hidden from view.

  “Where is that wicked schoolgirl?!” Katsumi Cocksure’s kittenish French accent now called in the manner of the bad actress she was.

  “Where is that wicked schoolgirl?! Running away won’t stop you being expelled!!” she called next, making no attempt to in fact catch Angel who was clearly in view.

  Two silk rope nooses now hung over the oak beam at the centre of the Lawyer’s Briefs bar.

  “Can I ask you to take a seat please, ladies and ladies, so that we can all enjoy the action?” Natasha called from the bar.

  “Where is that wicked schoolgirl?! Running away won’t stop you being expelled!!” Katsumi called again.

  “Ah there you are. You have been wicked, very wicked and you are going to be expelled” Katsumi continued, as if she could think of nothing else to say.

  “Natasha and Mo, will you strip this naughty schoolgirl for me?!” Katsumi commanded.

  The whistles were continuous now, and must have been audible out in Girl Market Square. But for the door of the bar being locked and the blinds drawn, yet more passing girls and their girlfriends would have been drawn to the sound.

  At the hauling off of the white St Innocents burkha, a loud cheer went up, and pretty Angel tried to cover her quivering breasts with her tiny sweet hands.

  Under the all-enveloping burkha she wore authentic St Innocents gear: white school-issue knickers, white heelless tiptoe ballet shoes and hobble chains between her ankles, and between her thighs just above her knees.

  “You have been wicked, very wicked and you are going to be expelled” Katsumi repeated.

  As she sat scenting her seat, Cerisa began to take an interest in this very pretty girl. Something else also liked what it saw of Angel’s body and it was moist at the sight of her proudly pert breasts, her slim arms, her lovely hands, and her gorgeous legs.

  For Cerisa this mocked-up scene brought back the memory of Princess Nefania Ngola’s expulsion, and she knew what was coming, and so did it, and it was anticipatorily wet.

  “Tie the wicked creature up and haul her aloft!” Kasumi instructed with the voice of a sexy French version of a Victorian melodrama’s leading actress.

  As Katsumi flogged the lovely girl without remorse, Adele picked up the cigar the negress waitress had brought on the tray, held it between forefinger and thumb, and rolled it at her ear, to assess it by the sound of the interfolded-leafs’ rustle. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel’s full firm sweat-lubricated thighs. The lace expressed veil and dress. “We can discretely measure and have them expanded. The Tsarina’s was exceptional small”. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. Angel rolled a cigar between her thighs. The noise from the hooves of the ponygirls as they arrived at Barnmouth Magna could not have, and the shouts from the audience at the Lawyer’s Briefs did not, drown out Angel’s screams of pain as her thighs were flogged and flogged to force her to open them, and let her sex be whipped, so as to break her as a schoolgirl is broken before expulsion. Why did Katsumi not whip the plums? “Oh they are so lovely! Please may I have them Adele: oh please! “Modom has exquisite taste”. “You will, of course, wear the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds”. The nooses went under the armpits before Angel’s wrists were tied behind her back. Then they strapped her ankles to her thighs next her crotch, and hauled her off the ground: thus readied for whipping. “We can expand them”. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. The dress was lace as white as unsullied snow. It was moistening the seat. The engagement ring had been so painful: now for the eternity. “Oh they are so lovely! Please may I have them Adele: oh please! “Modom has exquisite taste”. High sky white sky bright sky white peacock plumes bobbed on their heads as they proudly trotted. The plums fascinated Cerisa: she was not sleepy now. “We must prepare your pretty nose for the gold one my lady”. The pain of the engagement ring made her queasy. When she knelt, before they hauled her up by the under-armpit nooses, Angel was below Cerisa’s eye-line. Angel’s legs were really lovely. The ponygirls trotted on gold-tipped ballet shoes clip-clopping clitter-clatter clop-clip over the cobbles to the front of the manor, hauling the steel-tyred girl-gig by the shafts up their cunts. Her sister Victoria oversaw her makeup. Cerisa’s tummy felt empty but for an utter flutter of butterflies. “The engagement and the eternity ring for modom?” Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel rubbing her full firm sweaty thighs as Katsumi flogged her lovely legs without mercy. It was: they were: so tight! Lace worn in cascade as veil and dress combined held in place with a thousand-diamond tiara. “We have to insert these in your nipples my lady”. The black strap whip whistled and cracked its unmerciful slaps on Angel’s fabulous sweet-sweat-lubricated thighs. Then something red-tipped escaped. Innocent Cerisa gasped at the sight. Adele bit the tip off her cigar and spat the bitten off bit onto the floor. The smooth strong long muscular legs of the negress ponygirls reflected the September sun. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel dancing her sweaty thighs in her suspension to avoid the whip’s wanton licks. It was attached to the plums. It was: no: they were so tight but Cerisa was now formally engaged. “It will always be painful for modom, especially if modom gets a little frisky”. At the gracefully erotic ‘display legs’ in which the ponygirls slow-marched kicking their wonderfully womanly limbs up to the sky, after shaping them, leg folded calf on back of thigh toes down bye-and-bye, Cerisa hugged her stepmother, beside her in the open girl-gig, beside herself with love and joy. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel’s lovely legs as Katsumi flogged her full firm sweat-sheened thighs without relent. You could see Angel had lovely plums: what were they? Cerisa had never seen such curious things before. She was too shy to ask Adele. Then as Katsumi flogged her without let-up it shot up from between Angel’s thighs, and Cerisa gasped and held pretty fingers to her lovely mouth, as, between her legs, it gave her seat a big wet kiss. “Do you Adele Kissheart take this girl to be your lawful wedded?” Then it shot up from between Angel’s thighs as Katsumi flogged her without mercy and it bobbed and it throbbed as Angel tried to protect it, with her gorgeous thighs mirrored with sweat. The lace expressed veil and dress. “We can discretely measure and have them expanded. The Tsarina’s was exceptional small”. The ramrod was whipped again. Katsumi’s aim was unerring. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. Then, as Katsumi flogged her with full force, it shot up from between Angel’s thighs and all in the Lawyer’s Briefs let out the loudest cheer, bar Cerisa who squealed with surprise. It was so tight! “If you get frisky it will hurt modom; but that, of course, is to remind you that you are a girl”. Katsumi was trying to whip it and the girls in the Lawyer’s Briefs on their feet were urging her on, and Angel showed her plums as she fought to shelter it with her sweaty thighs. “Do you Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain take this girl to be your lawful wedded?” It was one: veil and dress: clasped by the thousand diamond tiara it flowed all round in multi-fold, revealing her mystery discretely for she was naked under, bar her ballets and the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds: the huge hollowed diamonds: the massive umbrella-hollow diamonds held by inserts forced into her nipple-ducts. Then, as Katsumi flogged her without cease, it shot up, red-tipped and throbbing, from between Angel’s thighs and all in the Lawyer’s Briefs let out the loudest cheer. They were so tight around her clitoris: engagement and eternity rings. Katsumi was trying to whip it and the girls in the Lawyer’s Briefs on their feet urging her on as Angel showed her plums as she fought to shelter it with her sweat-mirrored thighs. It was huge. Cerisa had never seen the like. “There modom: it is all done, and may I be the first to congratulate modom on her engagement”. Katsumi brought the whip up on the plums and Angel screamed and dropped her thunderous thighs to protect the lovely sack from the whip’s unmerciful crack. “Engagement and eternity for modom”. The wonderful legs of the ponygirls as they kicked them to the sky. “Oh they are so lovely! Please may I have them Adele: oh please! As Adele turned unaltered at the altar, the apparition in folds of pristine lace shyly smiling under the lace cape capable of veil and dress and trailing train, her everything glimpsed and the diamonds, the huge diamonds that covered and formed Cerisa’s new nipples, the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds inserted into her nipples, made electric-blue-sparks in her brown eyes as she smiled. Katsumi’s whip slapped the rod and everyone cheered. “Oh please don’t let me squirt!” “Once a Tsarina’s. They were created by Labiarge”. It stood up ramrod hard. Cerisa giggled. The wonderful legs of the ponygirls as they kicked them to the sky as the church was approached by the coach bye-and-bye. “Do you Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain promise to obey?” Her body was so beautiful. “I do”. The ramrod was whipped and Angel’s squeal took on a decidedly different appeal. It was fascinated. “Oh please don’t let me squirt!” The audience clapped and counted every time it was hit. It flicked: positively a metronome. And Angel loved it and hated it and loved it because she hated it. “You will wear the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds inserted into your nipples. She tiptoed on her incredibly supremely shapely legs tiptopped on her big toes in her white kid-leather heelless ballets, escorted by her stepmother, all her glory, all that made her that wonder of all wonderful wonders that is a girl, bare and barely veiled by the pristine lace that trailed where her toes had anointed paradise by their passing touch. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. “Oh please god don’t let me squirt!” “Do you Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain promise to obey?” Angel had lowered her thighs now. “I do”. It was out just up from straight and Katsumi was trying to whip it down. Adele at the altar seemed only to stare at the bedazzling blue-sparks from Cerisa’s new nipples. Cerisa felt ashamed. “Have them expanded” Oh please god don’t let me squirt. It rebound from every wicked lash. “We can have them expanded if modom wishes”. “That won’t be necessary”. They hurt: they were so tight. “We must pierce the septum of your nose my lady: for the wedding ring?” Engagement and eternity both gripped her clitoris agonisingly tightly. “They will hurt terribly if you get frisky modom.” “Cerisa: we need to discuss what you can expect on your wedding night.” “Yes mummy”. Escorted by her stepmother, all her glory all that made her that wonder of all wonderful wonders that is a girl, bare and barely veiled by the pristine lace that trailed where her toes had anointed unsurpassable paradise by their passing touch as she heavened the aisle. The blue sparks from her temporary new diamond nipples dazzled in her lovely loving deep brown eyes, and she was so ashamed when she saw that Adele only had eyes for the diamonds. “You will bleed for a while my lady, but the hole is a clean and clear one”. “You may feel pain and bleed Cerisa. I am sure Adele will be gentle with you. But you may bloody the sheets when it is broken. “When what is broken mummy?” Engagement and eternity both gripped her clitoris agonisingly tightly. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel rolling her cigar between her full firm thighs as Katsumi flogged her lovely legs without remorse. At the slow ‘display legs’ in which the ponygirls slow-marched kicking their wonderfully womanly limbs up to the sky, after shaping them leg folded calf on back of thigh toes down bye-and-bye, Cerisa hugged her stepmother beside her in the open carriage. “You may bleed when she first gives you joy. But you have no right to joy and should not expect to receive it.” “A good wife only gives. If you do not want to lose Adele, you must learn to give and not expect”. They hurt terribly. Engagement and eternity. Cerisa felt soiled as Adele’s eyes toiled over and along her long long long long long legs. Why did her love not look at her face? “You may bleed for a while”. Adele lit her cigar. The sparks of blue light glinted from the crystal table lighter: Cerisa’s maid inserted the huge Beaumont-Fortain diamonds in her nipples. Angel was shimmering with perspiration as it was whipped from side to side and down, and sprung up ever and ever and ever again as she moaned with joy and pain. The girls in the Lawyer’s Briefs shouted out the strokes: “One-hundred and two!” “One-hundred and three!” and giggled and guffawed with glee. When Adele and Cerisa emerged merged, outside the church, confetti from friends and family showered them. “I now pronounce you wife and wife” “Two-hundred and nine!” “Two-hundred and ten!” As Adele and Cerisa emerged merged, outside the church confetti was poured over them by family and friends. “Three-hundred and five!” “Three-hundred and six!” Angel jerked as she squirted what to Cerisa looked like: “Oh god: the poor girl, she’s bleeding!” That’s not blood darling, that’s cum. As Angel jerked and spasmed as if she were dying, her confetti squirted and spurted forming tears on her nipples. “You mean you’ve never heard of a cock-girl before?” “She’s beautiful!” “Is that what they call a penis?” Cerisa whispered. Her semen was joy for Angel, this far-more-girl than boy. And it was upright and uptight and ready again: “Three-hundred and seven!” “Three-hundred and eight!” “I now pronounce you wife and wife” And in the bar of the Lawyer’s Briefs, Adele looked down ashamed and blushing at the trickle on the floor, and the drips still dropping to plash the pool. “Oh god Cerisa, it hasn’t squirted has it darling? I’m not sure I could ever marry a girl who cum-squirts”. “I now pronounce you wife and wife” “Adele: you may whip the bride”.....

..................

  Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch stiletto-heeled pinnacle platforms. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. It was now official opening time. It was time to call in her first and last patients from the waiting room.

..................

  As the lovely Cerisa walked in in her microskirt, among several women and girls waiting, three particularly admired her full womanly figure, before noting the gold ring: the wedding ring: through the septum of her nose, and the black thighband on the bare leg telling of her widow status: the left leg, flawless in beauty, and adorned by an endorsing heart-shaped beauty spot. If they had had doubts before, they were now sure that this was her: that was the ID mark she had noted on the passport she’d scanned and emailed with her form.

  “Who’s first?” Cerisa smiled, her wonderful brown eyes greeting the three Afro-English girls who rose to follow her into her surgery.

  Once in there, as she turned and sat before her computer and asked, in her usual sweet way: “And what can I do for you?” one of the three girls put a coiled multi-ringed blacksnake on her desk.

  Cerisa looked up in surprise. “AfraAid” came the whispered answer. “Your application? Let’s not have any trouble darlin’. Just get up and strip off and do it now: okay?”

  “Ah.. Ah y’yes” Cerisa responded nervously. I..I’ve resigned from practise. This is my last surgery. I’ve packed just the essentials”. She waved a dainty hand indicating with a curvy finger toward a handbag-purse and suitcase-grips behind her, only to see another of these very attractive girls rifling her handbag.

  “I’m an experienced doctor...” Cerisa continued... “I look forward to setting up surgery out there in Xambabwia and helping a village to....”

  “What has you bein’ a doctor got to do wiv anyfing darlin’?” the leader among the girls responded with clear contempt.

  “Fucking tampons!” the girl tipping out Cerisa’s handbag scoffed behind her. “Fucking tampons! Why she’d go and pack dem for?”

  “I’m a...I’m a modern western girl of course... but I’m sure I could always wear whatever the native girls wear out there, if they can’t get tampons, or panty-liners....” Cerisa response tapered off with fear audible in her tone.

  “Where you is goin’ darlin’ you’ll bleed open and natural and fink yerself lucky if the dogs lick it off of yer lovely fighs”, the lead girl: the girl who had put the whip on Cerisa’s desk answered.

......................

  In the neighbouring waiting room, Cerisa’s other would-be patients sat and listened to what sounded a little as if a scuffle was going on in the doctor’s room. But like all well-mannered English girls, none spoke their thoughts, or thought to see if Dr Kissheart was okay.

  The rule of library-like-silence was only broken when an exceptionally pretty schoolgirl giggled:

  “I thought this was a doctor’s not a vets. I’m sure I can hear hooves in there!”

  At that, the schoolgirl who had spoken, turned her head open mouthed and asked an unspoken but obvious question of the older woman next to her, for in through the doctor’s door came Dr Kissheart naked and trussed up in savage bondage.

  Both of her pretty arms were bent up her back, and tied by black leather girlacles and harshly tensioned straps, to a black leather halter, buckled and padlocked around her slender neck. Her anxious hands were thus left making inoffensive desperate fists on her shoulder blades. Her mouth was opened very wide and had had a ring of steel inserted like a gum-shield over her teeth, a ring that was tied off by two black straps drawn to the back of her head, buckled and padlocked also, and thus holding her lovely moist lips whispering a constant orgasmic ‘O’. On her long strong extremely shapely legs: she walked on the very tips of the tips of her big toes, her big toes alone being inserted into wooden clogs: held there by ‘hose-grips’ that had been screwed down unmercifully tightly to fix-on the cloven-hoof-clogs she must now wear forever. She was being made to walk by the non-too-gentle pull of a crude rope inserted through the wedding ring in her nose. But for her bondage and hooves and wedding ring, she was naked bar, of course, the thighband: the black garter around her magnificent left thigh distinguishing her as a mourning widow.

  The schoolgirl who had spoken, then turned her head open mouthed and asked an unspoken but obvious question of the older woman next to her, for in through the doctor’s door came Dr Kissheart naked and trussed up in savage bondage, her huge and wonderfully wonderful bosom bare, and wandering wildly wilfully, with her two sunflower-sized nipples fascinating the eye as her breasts danced divinely erotically, while she wiggled wantonly as she was being whisked away to the waiting trailer, parked outside the surgery, with two strong ponygirls harnessed to haul it.

  “Ooh! Hasn’t she got super-big titties mummy?! Where are they taking Dr Kissheart?” the sweet schoolgirl asked.

  As she calmly rose, realising that she would now have to take her pretty daughter elsewhere to have her hymen examined and certified intact: which had to be done and soon, as the girl would not be allowed into St Innocents Academy without it: “I’d heard she volunteered for AfraAid”, the girl’s mother replied.

  “But where are they taking her right now: Africa?” the sweet vacation schoolgirl enquired.

  “Well; not straightaway. They’ll have to put her to the girl-bulls first”

  “What’s a girl-bull mummy?”

  “It’s a girl with a boy’s lance, who can make Dr Kissheart with calf”.

  “Is that why her mouth is tied open like that: for the bull-girl’s lance?” the innocent enquired a little mischievously, having heard the whisper from her fellow pupils at her present school, that that was how a girl got made pregnant.

  “Well no: not quite darling: you see, it’s just that that way the girl-bulls will have all three options, especially if they choose to use her collectively”, the mother answered intriguingly.

  “And after that, after the girl-bulls and all that kind of thing, will Dr Kissheart go to a poor African village to practise medicine there?” the insistently curious schoolgirl asked next.

  “No darling. No. Not quite. You see it’s not like that in the real world sweetheart.”

  “When Dr Kissheart is with calf.... though actually it’ll be controlled with pills so it’s only a ghost one, but still a transformative pregnancy......”.

  “Isn’t that a divine beauty spot on Dr Kissheart’s left thigh mummy”, the distracted schoolgirl interrupted, musing rhetorically, with her panties wetting again at the memory of the vision she had just experienced, of the sexy Dr Kissheart’s superb body: “It looks just like a tiny love-heart!” she enthused, blushing an extremely attractive pink as she moistened the crotch of her innocent’s panties once more.

  “It is very pretty indeed and very apt”, the mother agreed, before adding: “Yes: she’ll be fine out there as long as she continues to be useful....”

  The fourteen-year-old schoolgirl’s curiosity was assuaged. But she had one last question.

  “And will Dr Kissheart be in the AfraAid village forever then?”

  “Not forever darling: nobody lives forever. When Dr Kissheart is with calf, her lovely titties will fill with milk. She’ll be able to feed a whole village then. And as long as they milk her daily, she’ll keep producing”, the mother replied.

  Then, fearing she might give her daughter concern about Dr Kissheart’s longer-term fate, she added as an intended diversion: “But, I expect they’ll farm her for her hair too: they’ll probably use that to make those adorable teensy-weensy crocheted panties you can buy out there on the tourist trail.....”