BDSM Library - Story: Disconnections, Chapter: Part 26

Kebroo
by Eve Adorer

Synopsis:
This fantasy is a sequel to ‘Sendara’. So, if you wish to read ‘Sendara’ first, it can be found at Part 15 of ‘Disconnections’
Coinciding with oil’s final demise as it did, the second Wall Street crash took the world’s economies back to ground-zero. Then, from the ashes of the financial funeral arose aggressive agrarianism. To drive economic recovery, political change had been needed. In England, that change had come with the rise to power of the Hetzi party under its leader Adela Hilter......Did that mean an end to the essentially female-only, so called “fragrant society”?

Kebroo
by Eve Adorer

It was rumoured that, in her youth, the Lord High Protector of England, Adela Hilter, had been jilted by a beautiful film starlet, who had subsequently mysteriously died. But, once Hilter had come to power, nobody wise gave voice to that notion.

The catastrophe of the second Wall Street crash, coinciding, as it had with the final proceeds of the world’s oil resources being reluctantly and, excessively expensively, dragged up from the tundra beneath the snows of the Antarctic, had forced a major economic rethink.

“Back to basics” had been the cry of the last-but-one democratically elected English government; a government that had fallen in a whirlpool welter of discontent, with mass unemployment and the deprivation so sharply felt by a population that could still remember the automobile, when their homes had had a market value, and when English Dollar notes were worth more than the innumerable noughts it was now necessary for them to have printed on them to give them any value.

The just fallen government had spelt out the need, post oil, to return to an agrarian economy which, as no oil meant no motorised agricultural machinery, necessitated human or animal power being deployed on a grand scale, or starvation at a similar level.

“The fragrant society” in which, for decades, girl births had been preferred to boy births, and the former engineered by the so-called pink birth pill, had to come to an end. Men could be bred to be much stronger than girls, so men were needed more than girls now. Accordingly, girls must return to heterosexual practices, and breed boys. For the immediate future, the blue pill must become the pill of choice.

Hilter had pointed out the inability of the previous government to face up to the truth, that a nation that wealth had caused to enjoy luxury, relaxation, and the bikini, could only undergo the transformation necessary if, for the future, heterosexual marriage was made a legal requirement, not merely a free-will whim.

Accordingly, the “rampant lesbianism” brought about by the “pink pill society”, as the Hetzi’s demonised it, had to be stamped out. For that to be enforced in the essential timescale, the country needed a strong woman to lead it to the promised-land, and that woman was, in Adela Hilter’s eyes, Adela Hilter of course.

The English electorate had agreed. The final democratic election had swept Hilter to power.

Hilter’s first act had been to abolish further elections. Next thereafter, any girl without a college degree had been conscripted to hew in the coal mines, which had been reopened post oil’s demise, or to work on the land harnessed to the plough or the reaper, and hundreds in selected herds, consigned as stock on intensive breeding farms.

In parallel the few men left in “the fragrant society” had been taken away from the sperm-bank factories girls wishing to get pregnant would visit in former days, and put to work on farms as studs to sire with the breeding herds.

Initially, wealthy girls wise enough to provide funds for the Hetzi Party, and the female intellectual elite, were saved from enforced labour and compulsory breeding.

For them, for the time being at least, bringing forth males still remained voluntary, rather than the law of the land. But, just as in the wider society, all lesbian marriages were annulled, and lesbian practices made illegal, because lesbians were now deemed “non-productive societals”.

The bravery of some girls in resisting the ban on lesbian relationships had made them a target.

Firstly, their resistance had resulted in the government setting up the CLITS, the Central Lesbian Identification and Termination Sisteren: the Hetzi’s morality police. Secondly, a society distracted by economic distresses, had not objected when, resisting lesbians identified by the CLITS, had been forced to wear a pink garter on their left thighs to literally label them as under-girls. Nor had there been any protests from other than intellectual quarters, when, in order to distract the country from its worries, rebel lesbians had begun to be brought before the courts in a series of trials televised to entertain.

The public had its stresses and strains. The “non-productive societals” became the focus of any blame that could be named. Society needed a safety-valve; the resisting lesbians would be punished for their resistance. Nobody who could change matters in that regard was going to succeed in doing so.

The gorgeous Kebroo Allove came to trial in mid-summer of the first year of the Protectorate. The brilliant academic, now twenty-three, but already a professor at sixteen, had been the darling of the celebrity worshipping world, for being the date, as she had been, of a string of lovely actresses.

From merely being background decoration on the arm of some pretty girl who was playing the current love-rat in the TV soap ‘Sappho Street’, Kebroo’s looks, and legs, had become a paparazzi prize, and the gossip columns of the popular press and the blogosphere asking ‘who’s that girl’, had begun to follow pretty Kebroo rather than the models and actresses she was honey-bate for, knowing that Kebroo was a hot item in her own right, in bed not least.

Because they now only covered Hetzi Party personalities, more recently, Kebroo no longer appeared in the gossip-columns. But when she last had, Kebroo’s amorous relationship with a lovely fellow-academic, Sendara Angelskiss, had become a public secret. And, just before Kebroo had disappeared from the public eye, a shocked public had seen paparazzi photographs of what was undoubtedly Kebroo, wearing a wedding ring on her finger, and a pink garter just above the knee on her shapely left thigh.
...............................

Even from a distance, as they crossed the ponygirl-cart park, the quintet of uniformed CLITS had been distinguishable. The five blondes in blood red shirts but otherwise black leather: peaked caps, jackets, miniskirts with side vents revealing stockings held up by sinful suspenders, with wheel spurs worn at the top end of the heels of their twelve-inch stiletto, knee-high, calf-hugging, black leather jackboots, had strutted into St Hymenia College’s refectory as if they owned Camford University.

As they arrogantly slinked in, marking the wooden flooring indelibly with their stiletto heels, their strong thighs played peek-a-boo when the vent at the left side of their skirts flashed stocking top and their Hetzi Party thighbands: a garter, blood red but for a white circle, in which, embroidered in black, a huge erect human phallus was piercing a tall slim oval ring, as in penis penetrates venus.

“We’re looking for a lezzie slag called Sendara Angelskiss!” their leaderess drawled loudly at the wide-scattered suddenly pin-drop silent assembly of students and lecturers.

The bar-girl did not have to say anything. She was not being addressed. The lead CLITS officer was looking straight at a girl in a light lemon shirt and matching miniskirt, and casting obviously appreciative eyes over her heavenly bosom, when a nervous Kebroo, for it was she, put her tall glass of crushed-ice-chilled girl-pee-cola back on the table she graced, and her breasts displayed unison in their independence, as they swayed a little one way, then back from where they had just emotioned, before resettling in her blouse.

The CLITS’ corporal liked what she saw. She was not wrong in her speculation that Kebroo’s profoundly proud entirely natural breasts, were bare under her blouse, and that it was indeed Kebroo’s conspicuously conical nipples that were prominently pointing out their particularly provocative presences.

Her eyes went up to the face, graced by the straight nose and the passionate pink full-lipped ever-moist mouth, and haloed by the incredible complex of radiantly red curls that surely flowed straight to the floor behind the chair and table at which this spectral-complexioned freckle-kissed vision, with the sparkling dark brown eyes, sat.

The face was serene, intelligent and gentle, queenly but not haughty. The girl, not just the face, but the girl taken as a whole, was stunning.

Kebroo’s shy eyes, her dark brown eyes, were alluringly averted. She was not trying to seduce and, by not trying, was unintentionally making herself all the more seductive.

From her largely side-on view of her, the corporal could see Kebroo’s dainty feet were on tiptoe in fashionable square-toed heelless ballet shoes in lemon-leather, that her cream-white supremely smooth legs were bare, with a tiny heart-shaped beauty-spot high up on the outer-side of her left thigh. And that her shapely legs and expansively exposed thighs showed she was a fit little honey. And she could also see that the circumference above Kebroo’s bent knee supported a band. The girl with the angel’s demeanour, wore an indicative regulation one-inch deep pink garter, just above her left knee.

“We’re looking for a lezzie slag called Sendara Angelskiss!” the CLITS corporal repeated, more loudly.

The bar-girl did not have to say anything. She was not being addressed, but the terrified girl blurted, blundering in fear, nervous that even the high counter she was behind might not hide the pink garter she also wore around her left thigh, just above her pretty knee: “.....Professor Angelskiss is....has....she’s in Africa .....Ntoli”..

“B..but that’s her wife over there.....” she stuttered, before she hung her head in shame at her cowardice fear and betrayal.

“Who’s the wife? The redheaded tart?” the corporal sneered.

“Yes....” the bar-girl mumbled, almost inaudible in her deep shame.

“Well now...ain’t that nice....” the corporal mocked, as she grasped a bottle of girl-pee-cola from the chiller on the bar counter, and slowly slinked over to where Kebroo sat.

The closer she got to the gorgeous Kebroo, the more stunning Kebroo looked to her eyes, and the more overcome the corporal was. And so, though a more than merely pretty girl herself, she became consumed with jealousy.

“Girl behind the bar says you’re in need of a bit of this darling”, the Hetzi CLITS sarcasmed, as she put the cola bottle on the table in front of Kebroo, and slowly slid her fingers down and up its condensation-lubricated neck, as if she were playing with the foreskin of an erect penis.

Kebroo blushed, and her sweet countenance glowed glorious rose.

“What’s your name sweetheart?”, the corporal demanded.

“I’m.....”..... Kebroo gathered her courage..... “I’m Kebroo Angelskiss: Mrs Kebroo Angelskiss. I am the wife of Professor Sendara Angleskiss”, she whispered, defiantly.

“Just a moment sweetheart...Just a moment....This here palm-top of mine, says that that there Professor Sendara Angelskiss me and my platoon have been sent to find, is a lezzie: so that makes her a girl don’t it. And girls marrying girls is not legal no more. So are you sure you is ‘Mrs’ Angelskiss darling?”

“Yes”, Kebroo whispered, her pretty hands trembling as she braved the moment.

“Speak up sweetheart!”

“Yes”, Kebroo repeated, knowing her first ‘yes’ had in fact been heard, and that to have changed her answer now would have had no affect other than to condemn her even more.

“Stand up! Stand up you lezzie slag, and get your knickers off!”

The order was a routine one. It was necessary for what was to come, but the public shaming of pink-garter labelled lesbians was quite permissible, the choice of method left to CLITS operatives. The corporal was looking forward to seeing what panties this angel wore. Something exceptionally expensive and correspondingly tiny she presumed: probably a g-string needing a microscope to see it. And as for the opportunity to scent the divine musk in the crutch of Kebroo’s still warm underwear....!

“I’m not wearing any”, Kebroo shyly whispered.

“You fucking dirty cat!”

“Is that so you can play with it then lezzie? Was you playing with it under the table just now sweetheart?” the corporal sarcasmed, as her companions sniggered.

“I don’t masturbate”, Kebroo responded, “I have never masturbated”, she proudly added.

(‘God how could such beauty resist such beauty!’ the astonished guard thought to herself.....)
...................................

The house party was in full swing, and Kebroo, new on campus and not due to take up her professorship for another week, was in a stranger’s kitchen, her sweet brown eyes following a lovely redhead with turquoise eyes to mesmerise.

Kebroo, her fame just about still aflame in the gossiposphere, had been invited to the party by a friend of a friend of a friend, making her just short of being a gate-crasher. But everyone was so sweet and friendly, that she soon felt as welcome as if she herself had been the hostess.

The beauty with the turquoise eyes was definitely more than a little drunk. Professor Sendara Angelskiss’ relationship with a gorgeous little negress, Sukie, Sukie Lovemade, had broken down, and they had broken up. Sendara was drowning her sadness in heavy sighs, a riotous party, and abundant cheap girl-pee-wine swigged straight from the bottle.

A mutual friend caught the line of Kebroo’s eyes, and a prompted Sendara suddenly turned Kebroo ‘s way, making Kebroo blush, knowing that her admiration of her fellow redhead had been communicated to the hostess, Sendara.

Then, two minutes later, as she leaned against the kitchen wall, filling her blue-jeans like a pocket venus, and puckering the pockets in her denim shirt twofold boldly, her exquisite curls tumbling conflagrationally to where they trailed train on the floor she blessed with her tiptoed feet en-pointe in white ballets, Kebroo lowered her eyes shyly; and suddenly a mouth was on hers and a passionate kiss full on the mouth took her by astonished alarm, as she swung the full glass she held away from spillage’s harm, and her eyes shot wide with shocked surprise till when she closed them and took leaven with her fellow redheaded heaven, and a fleeting moment became an eternity that lasted a haunting microsecond, till....

“Mmmm, not bad, not bad at all!” the hostess teasingly whispered, as she took her lips away before she staggered tipsily into the hall.

As she passed the stunned Kebroo, who was blushing profusely, the mutual friend kissed her forehead, and Kebroo hung her head as stunned as she was suddenly shy.

From that moment Kebroo had held back from overindulgence in alcohol, and quietly ensured that, without being rude, every time Sendara looked up, she would see Kebroo looking admiringly and smiling at her.

An hour or so later, at the bottom of a narrow staircase, urged by a full bladder, Kebroo made her way to fulfil a metaphorical powdering of her nose, before a gentle hand caught hers and she stopped as her hand continued to be held, and two turquoise lanterns looked straight into her heart.

The hallway and the bottom of the stairs were crowded, but to Kebroo only two people were there.

“God I need more wine.....” the lovingly drunk Sendara slurred.

Did Kebroo hear the cheer when Sendara reached for the hook on her blue-jeans, and began to open their flies and slide them and her panties within them down over the doubly smooth bold resistance of Kebroo’s gorgeous bottom? No, she did not.

Did Kebroo lose her long longing loving fingers in the glorious red curls of the beautiful girl who next knelt and cupped her lips at her slit and then parted its lips with a hot tongue folded unfurling-leaf? Yes. Oh yes. Oh yes she did. Oh yes. Oh yes.

And did Kebroo long for the tongue to lick? Yes. Oh yes. Oh yes that yes.

And did the guests cheer to the rafters the beautiful redheads in their world of love, as there was a silent hiss, a pitter-patter sound, a wet patch to be found slowly widening on the carpeted ground from the spray that missed, when Kebroo over Sendara’s lovely lips and into Sendara’s longing mouth, pissed? Yes. Yes. Yes of course they did. Yes.

And, when she had peed her carafe empty, did Kebroo’s lovely brown eyes close and her heart leap as her mind was shrouded midst love’s mists, when Sendara, with her mouth still wet with Kebroo’s piss, kissed Kebroo’s mouth? Yes. Oh god yes..... Oh goddess yes. Oh goddesses yes. Yes. Yes.

That Kebroo should, the next day’s morn, awake in Sendara’s bed was an inevitability fed, by the partygoers taking them both by the hand and dragging their mock-reluctant goldenly giggling loveliness to that private nest, and leaving the party soon after to let love take care of the rest.

Did anything happen, or did the drunken Sendara collapse straight into deep sweet sleep?

And when she awoke, did Kebroo bathe her awake in a shared shower?

And when Sendara smiled over the coffee later that next morning, did Kebroo shyly whisper: “When you make up your mind to ask me if I will marry you, the answer is ‘yes’”?
...................................

These thoughts ran through Kebroo’s mind and the follow-up secret lesbian wedding and her devotion to Sendara’s cause, a return to lesbian egirlcipation, and her contacts that had enabled Sendara to escape to the still liberated France by boat, and fly on to Africa by French government plane, using precious rare fuel, to make a speech for tolerance in Ntoli City before the gathering of the Terrestrial Women Against Terror: these thoughts too ran rapidly over a mind trying to distract itself from fear.

When Kebroo rose as ordered, the quintet of CLITS officers looked admiringly at her lovely legs. As Kebroo tottered on the tiptop of her big toes in her heelless tiptoe shoes, her calves’ curves confirmed that she had been called to the bar, the ballet bar, when still a little girl, and had practiced before the mirror that must adore her, religiously assiduously ever since. And the CLITS corporal tried not to think of the impossibly erotic vision of Kebroo sitting with her bold strong thighs innocently crossed.

As Kebroo now stood her full five-six, her crowning cloud of curls draped all around and down her femininely arched back, over her firm miniskirt fulfilling buttocks, to kiss the ground in golden glory profound.

Within her blouse Kebroo’s nervous breathing gave her breasts no rest, and her nipples rose and fell inside it, as if they must surely slit the silk that strained to contain her magnificent significances. And the corporal’s eyes were not the only pair to note that the pair in there, confirmed Kebroo was a big little girl.

“Lift your skirt!”

Kebroo nervously grasped her miniskirt and blushed scarlet as her pretty hands fluttered delightfully lightly like little butterflies at the hem.

When she began exposing her thighs the more, wolf-whistles of amazed admiration knew no restraint, when she managed to slide her skirt’s clinging closeness up over her bold bottom, thereby proving true that she wore no panties. But what had taken the eyes to and breath away, was the filigree of flaming gold that dangled between Kebroo’s thighs: the heavenly helixes that spiralled there: for Sendara had wanted Kebroo to cultivate her hair there where its cupidic curls now glinted their glory: Kebroo’s six-inch long pubic hair.

“Is that to keep it warm in the winter then darling?” the CLITS corporal mocked, to try and cover for her astonishment at the sight of this site of such erotic treasure.

For the present, there was still a stock of the plastic models, so it was a pair of plastic panties that one of the CLITS passed to Kebroo. The device was akin to a thong, and transparent and strong. Kebroo eased her transparently strong means of emotional motion, her gorgeous legs, into the leg holes of the rigid plastic panties, and drew them up to where the leg holes – two hoops in fact - ringed her thighs high where her bottom just began.

The waistband and the crotch-containing under-sling of the panties met at the rear, but were, as yet, loose ends.

Alike with cable ties, one end of the waistband could be pulled through a clasp on its other end, and, with the pull tightening the band only one-way; it could thereafter not be removed except by cutting.

The hitherto loose ends of the waistband were pulled tightly together to ensure the plastic panties could not be hauled down past the natural safeguard against that proceeding provided by Kebroo’s hips.

The loose end of the crotch-including under-sling, was, alike with the cable-tie design of the waistband. Its clasp was located precisely on top of that of the waistband. The two ends of the waistband having already been united, the hitherto loose end of the thong’s under-sling was now pulled up hard through its clasp.

The plastic thong fitted, Kebroo’s pubic curls flickered tongues of inflaming red out of the sides of its crotch, as if the crotch were on fire inside, as well it might be for what it contained.

Forward diagonally down from the crotch, which was shaped like a funnel over Kebroo’s slit, ran the open tube of the “funnel”. This was to enable Kebroo to pass piss.

“I don’t think I believe you never play with yourself darling. And just in case I’m right, them panties is a chastity cage to make sure you can’t touch it. And to be sure the uvver girls in the cells can’t have a feel of it neither!” the corporal sneered, as she held Kebroo’s wrists behind her back, and clasped their slenderness in ratchet-tightened steel girlacles, leaving the thus imprisoned pretty hands to touch Kebroo’s half-bared buttocks.

Standing behind Kebroo, the corporal’s flared nostrils breathed the arousing aroma of Kebroo’s fresh washed hair, while the difficulty of easing Kebroo’s tight skirt over her chastity panties was overcome with a struggle.

When this was completed, a bulge at the front of the still unlevel hem that was the outcome of the struggle, denoted the location of Kebroo’s pee pipe.

Open that lezzie tit-suckers mouth of yours darling!” the corporal commanded.

“Wider!” she barked.

“I said fucking wider!!” she shouted, as poor Kebroo struggled to comply, and the corporal managed to get the upper groove of the gum-shield-formed O-ring over Kebroo’s top teeth.

“Wider slag!”

The pain in Kebroo’s jaw made her wince, and tears came to her pretty eyes, but, at last the O-ring was also over her bottom teeth and gums. And, as her tongue flickered and sought to lick her delicious lips, her lovely mouth gaped open as if she were totally astonished, or screaming on Munch’s bridge.

“Now don’t that look good eh darling? You is now all ready for a cock in your mouth, any time any place anywhere, ain’t you sweetheart?” the corporal mocked, as she watched Kebroo’s long tongue lick around the huge O circle her mouth was now held open permanently in.

“Are we drawing lots on who drives the cart then corp?” one of the underling CLITS enquired.

“Sure Constable Botome. Why not? The best things in life are free and all that..... But I’m included out of course.”

“That’s not fair corp!” came the mild protest.

“Sounds fair enough to me Botome”, the corporal retorted “Some of us ‘as to go in the back of the wagon and make sure this tart don’t try to escape don’t they. And I need to take charge of them.....and the lezzie slag of course!” she added.

The latter was added as the corporal was squatting, displaying a pair of very handsome thighs, while she put a linked ankle-hobble on the very pretty Kebroo.

Rising from that duty, and taking the chance it afforded her to run her eyes up Kebroo’s lovely legs, she cruelly sought to stare into Kebroo’s dark browns, as she slowly; purposely slowly; undid the buttons of Kebroo’s blouse, one; by one; by one.

Kebroo hung her head, as if ashamed.

As the corporal revealed Kebroo’s cleavage and down to her navel, she was astounded by Kebroo’s more than merely wonderful and entirely natural proportions:

“Oh my god, aren’t you a big girl” she whispered to herself in her astonishment.

Then she recovered her composure, and returned to cruelty: “Atween this here university and the precinct, we’ve got a bit of a journey sweetheart. You’ll be nice and snug with most of us, the ones that don’t draw the short straw and have to drive, and me of course, in the back of the van now won’t you?”

“And, you know what? No? Well, I’ll tell you then, cos I expect you is dying to know why I’m undoing your shirt buttons. Did you know...no I suppose there’s no reason why you should. Well, put it this way, orders and regulations are that we take you to the station house darling. But, believe it or not, and I can hardly believe it myself, there ain’t nothing in them orders, or them regulations, as says me and the other girls can’t have a feel of your tits on the way! And you got a massive pair of melons ain’t you sweetheart?”

“Now walk you lezzie bitch!” the corporal hissed.

Kebroo took a tiptop-tiptoe step in her ballets and nearly fell. As she forwarded her dainty tiptop-tiptoed right foot, she was aware of a clicking, as the device that bound her ankles and limited her step, made her advanced foot swing around, such that its balletically-raised heel went exactly half-an-inch in front of the toes of her still stood foot, but no further.

It was the shortness of the step that had caused Kebroo to stagger. But now she realised she was wearing a wiggle-hobble, limiting her to a half-inch step, and forcing her, through means of a ratchet that would not release the trailing ankle until the advanced foot was placed precisely in front of the rear foot, to walk with erotic precision. Thus her natural wiggle was to be erotically magnified.

The humiliation of Kebroo’s struggle to walk, was multiplied as she was left alone, isolated, terrified as she was, to wiggle her top-tip-toe tippy-toe tiny-steppy half-inch-stepped way across the refectory’s floor, her bountiful bosom swinging open her unbuttoned blouse and promising to burst twice forth into the eagerly waiting world, but leaving that world wanting and panting for their out-popping, as she fought to merely walk and weave her wiggle between the canteen’s chairs and tables.

“I’m so sorry Kebroo”, the barmaid whispered as Kebroo tippy-top-tiptoe- totty-trotted her wiggle past the bar.

“There’s no need to apologise to the lezzie tart darling”, the CLITS corporal sneered.

“Tell you what. You come around this side of the bar, and slap her lezzie bum for her”, the corporal mocked.

After she had struggled to wiggle up its ramp, and the ramp had been lifted and slammed shut, Kebroo found herself in the prison van, in which two ponygirls were to haul herself and the CLITS officers to the police station.

She sat with her arms behind her back on a bed of her glorious red hair, and could do nothing, as enquiring fingers assessed the open edges of her shirt, and the corporal of CLITS menaced:

“Now let’s see what the lezzie tart has got in here shall we Constable Botome? What do you reckon, eh?! My bet is that there will be two of them: one each......”
...................................

As, amidst flashbulb lightning, Kebroo struggled down the ramp of the police van, now lowered outside the precinct station house and surrounded by paparazzi, her shirt had been ‘mysteriously’ re-buttoned, and only the saliva drying on her exquisite nipples told that she had been forced to give love-suckle all the way to town. And only the consequent wetness in her slit, told how her body had been girl and let her down.

The press had suddenly rediscovered its interest in Mrs Kebroo Angelskiss, as Kebroo Allove claimed still to be, and her lovely face body and shapely legs were being eagerly photographed for the next internet update, and the next day’s early print runs.
...................................

“This one says she’s ‘Mrs Kebroo Angelskiss’”, the corporal called to the shapely blonde desk-sergeant as the prisoner struggle-wiggled into the station house.

“Couldn’t get the Sendara Angelskiss tart. She’s stirring up shit in Ntoli by all accounts: so this lezzie slag, claiming to be her wife, is here instead.”

“Fair enough corporal! Here, catch this and screw it on will yer!” the desk-sergeant responded, before making sure the corporal of CLITS was ready to catch, and tossing her a transparent plastic bottle-shaped device.

“That’s not my job sarge!” the corporal of CLITS joshingly bemoaned, but made Kebroo stand, while she screwed the bottle onto the end of the tube in the crotch of Kebroo’s chastity panties.

“She’ll be....hang on a mo’.....3.....no....no....she’ll be 43DD2337” the desk-sergeant called across.

“Put her in cell five”, she instructed, “There’s a load of prossies in there, ‘call girls’ they calls themselves would you believe? With a bit of luck though, they’ll keep their hands off of her”.

“She’ll be up before the judge first thing in the morning. First up is 10.00 o’ clock...... Should be a lot of interest in this one. She was a ‘hot bit of hand-in-hand’ with loads of famous actresses at one time.....”

“You’ll love it here darling! It’ll be good for your gorgeous figure, cos you’ll be getting porridge for breakfast lunch and dinner: no charge!” she called after sweet Kebroo, as the honey-girl with the betraying pink garter on her thigh, just above her dimpled left knee, struggled to wiggle-tiptoe, in her half-inch-step-confining hobble, her way to the cells.
...................................

As she sat her pretty bottom on the wooden slats of the cell’s wall-bench, with her sweet mouth held wide open in an O for orgasm, lovely Kebroo could not talk. But she could cry: and cry she did.

The three other girls in her cell were as frightened as she. None came over to where Kebroo sat midst her gloriously golden curls, till one saw her tears, and tiptoed over to kiss her forehead.

“The way they’ve got you trussed up: ankle-irons, girlacles, O-ring, and chastity panties too if I’m not mistaken in this light, they’ve got you down as a politico sweetheart. Seeing you bound-up like that makes me glad I’m just doing a night in the cells for being a hooker...” the kindly girl whispered as she tried to comfort Kebroo.

Kebroo tried to smile with her eyes to thank her.

“Try to sleep love”, the gentle prostitute advised.
...................................

It was just after midnight, an hour after Kebroo had pissed into the bottle attached to her chastity panties, and managed to close her eyes, that the cell door opened.

“43DD2337 will stand up!” a new female CLITS corporal ordered.

Nobody in the cell moved, for Kebroo had quite forgotten the desk-sergeant’s call of yesterday’s late afternoon.

“43DD2337 fucking stand up!”

Uncertain as to whom the instruction applied, Kebroo rose to her tiptoes in her ballets, her sweet eyes noting that no-one else had moved, and her sleepy mind thus making a process of elimination assumption.

“Are you 43DD2337?” the CLITS corporal asked sternly.

Kebroo nodded her lovely curls, and was immediately slapped hard across her pretty face.

“Then fucking stand up when you’re told to, you lezzie slag”, her new guard shouted.

“Now walk!”

The all-but petrified Kebroo began her sexual bum-wiggle-walk in her half-inch-step-limited ankle hobble, down a steady ramp in the semi-dark toward a steel door she could see standing open, and a mirror on the far wall of a lit room the door led to: a mirror her slow advance was mirrored in, starting with her lovely legs, and slowly stealing up to her strong thighs, as the mirror reflected the complete shapeliness of her gorgeous legs.

The age it was taking for Kebroo to wiggle in half-inch steps even the twenty-five yards from her prison cell to the new room, prompted her guard to leave the terrified girl to it, and go ahead into the lit room, keeping an eye on Kebroo’s progress by means of the mirror.

“She’s filled the bottle”, the new corporal was heard to say to a hidden companion.

“Good”, the hidden CLITS officer was heard to respond, distractedly. Then there was a short buzzing noise, which stopped, and then there was another short buzzy burst.

Then the hidden girl’s voice whined: “They’re both in order now, but I do wish people would put them back tidy after they’ve used them. I had the devil’s own job untangling the cords.....”

The inevitability of fate found lovely Kebroo slowly tip-top-tiptoe into the room, and find herself staring at her open mouth, her mouth forced into an orgasmic O by her gum-shield-gag, resulting in the insulting denigration conveyed back to her lovely brown eyes by the mirror.

“Stand facing the mirror 43DD2337, and don’t move”, the corporal that had ordered Kebroo out of her cell now instructed.

And, as she obeyed, the guard Kebroo had been yet to see, came in front of her, and casually unscrewed the bottle from Kebroo’s chastity thong, before putting a screw top on the removed container. This same girl, then reached for a label and marker pen.

“She’s ‘43DD2337’ isn’t she?” this girl enquired.

“That’s right”, her companion answered. And the girl with the bottle wrote Kebroo’s number on the label, put the top on the marker pen, peeled the back off the label to expose its self-adhesiveness, and placed the labelled label on the bottle of Kebroo’s golden piss.

“This’ll go for a small fortune”, the labelling girl mused to herself.

Then she daringly unscrewed the bottle top, put a long middle finger into the bottle’s neck, and tipped the bottle so that some of Kebroo’s piss wetted the finger. That finger she then quickly put on her tongue to taste.

“Oh my god, that is so, so smooth! That is cream, pure cream!!”

She wet and licked her finger again: “Wow! When that’s fermented one sip’ll knock your head off. Bet they distil it to sell it as ‘Slattern Comfort’. I doubt I’ll get the buy, but I’m certain sure going to put a fucking bid in on O-bey....”

“Left or right?” her companion enquired.

“I don’t mind”, came the answer.

“Well, you take the left then”, the corporal that had ordered Kebroo out of her cell proposed.

In the echoing room the buzzing sounded like demented bees magnified to terrify a horror movie audience. In the confined echo of the room, it was louder by more than double how it had sounded in the brief bursts when Kebroo had been wiggling down the corridor ramp.

It was done very matter-of-factly.

Each girl came to one side near front of Kebroo, as she obediently stood looking at herself, put down a kick-stool apiece, stood themselves on it, and, before the mirror, and, without hesitation, used the electric cutters that vibrated urgently in their hands, to shear off Kebroo’s hair.

Realising the horror of what was taking place, the stunned Kebroo watched huge channels being sheared from her forehead back over her crown, and down her neck, and witnessed her beyond-beautiful glorious golden curls falling like autumn’s leaves to the cell floor.

Kebroo screamed, and burst into tears, and her tongue flickered in her oh so wide O-held open mouth, trying to make the words that would convey her begging for her tormentors to stop.

But the CLITS officers were not going to stop, and nor did they.

The shearing was swiftly accomplished, and one girl finished it by trimming off Kebroo’s eyebrows. She then ran a hand over the stubble that was all that was left on Kebroo’s head, to brush off loose strands of hair, while her companion practicedly whisked something in a sink, with a little round brush.

The brisk soaping of Kebroo’s sheared head, was brusque, and she was threatened with a slap across her face if she did not stand still.

The final shaving was carried out with freshly stropped cutthroat razors, and the remains of soap, and soap-clotted with golden hairs from Kebroo’s head, wiped off with a towel.

Then one of her tormentors swept up Kebroo’s precious glittering golden curls from the floor, and threw them in a trash can, whilst the other stood behind the utterly crying totally bald Kebroo and taunted her.

“Oh don’t she look pretty now eh?! Expect bald heads is all the fashion in Paris right now!” she giggled.

“Here: don’t she look just like a pretty bird?”

“What do you think? Just like a pretty bird don’t you reckon?”

“A fucking bald eagle!!!” she shouted, as she doubled over with laughter her companion joined, till both girls had helpless tears of mirth in their eyes, gasping for breath till when the corporal managed to struggle out between gasps and guffaws: “It’ll never grow again darling. But never mind eh. They can always transplant your fucking pubes!!” And she screamed as she and her companion tried to stop laughing and straighten themselves up, only to see their companion in hysterics, and collapse into helpless laughter again all the more uncontrollably in consequence.

The third girl cried too, her tears being of total humiliation and degradation: humiliation and degradation as utterly complete, as the baldness of poor pretty Kebroo’s head.

Still wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes with the heel of her hand, and trying not to let giggles take her over yet once more, the CLITS corporal used scissors to cut off Kebroo’s shirt, pausing in astonishment at what that process revealed in the mirror and before her wide-opened eyes.

“Oh my god, aren’t you a big girl?! And those fucking nipples! Bloody hell, she’s got nips like doorknobs...Aren’t her tits just so beautiful...” she remarked to her junior.

As she unlocked Kebroo’s girlacles to free Kebroo’s wrists, the corporal’s companion answered: “That’s as maybe.”

The two CLITS now made Kebroo wiggle toward a wall in which were embedded three rust coated steel rings. Kebroo walked her wickedly sexy wiggle on her long legs: legs up-stretched in her tiptoe ballet shoes, till she stood facing the wall. And her wrists were then taken and fastened, by individual girlacles, to the two shoulder-high rings in the wall, so that her arms were outstretched, but not pulled out tightly.

When her bare belly touched the third ring, Kebroo winced at the chill. And then, as her tongue moistened her lips by taking the long trip around the wide circle of her enforcedly O open mouth, her beautiful dark brown eyes opened almost wider than her distantly expanded lips, when a cold chain was hooked over her neck, and a board placed between her chest and the wall.

From the bottom edge of this large square wooden board, another chain dangled. That chain was now fastened to the hitherto still spare ring in the wall: the one at the level of Kebroo’s lower belly.

As the corporal slipped the loop at the end of the handle of a four-foot long three-strand-plaited leather blacksnake around her wrist in readiness, Kebroo was already all too aware of the six-inch-long sewing needle sized needle-sharp spikes in the board: needles that were prickling her. And, as the first lash of the whip across her bare white, soft white, smooth white shoulder, cut her back, it also instantly knocked her off her pretty toe-tops smashing her into the wall, and she screamed with the horrendous pain, her scream echoing even outside the ten-foot thick walls of the prison, as this first lash of the whip drove her nipples and tits hard into and onto the impaling spikes in the board, the back of which by the forward thrust of her body was slammed into the wall. The second guard eased Kebroo back standing, and the bottom chain holding the board to the wall, pulled the spikes out of Kebroo’s tits, but again, the whip whistled brutally and slashed a line of livid red fire across Kebroo’s back and right shoulder, and she could not stop her nipples and tits being impaled up to the hilts of the six-inch long needles that were in the board, and she screamed and screamed. And the second guard eased her body off the spikes once more as two tear-filled begging eyes poured out their plea for mercy, before the whip wound itself in a third and loudest yet crack across Kebroo’s naked back, and Kebroo was knocked off her toes as her tits were impaled on the nails a third time and she hollered her horror. And the guard eased her bleeding breasts off the board, and nodded to the corporal. And the whip slashed Kebroo’s bare back again, and again she snaked her body inexorable forcefully forward and again her nipples and tits were driven onto the board and the spikes spitefully tore into her supremely sensitive breasts and ripped her lovely pink nipples. Now the blood trickling from the wicked red raw welts on Kebroo’s nude back, was no match for the blood that trickled from her tits, and the red ‘milk’ that was seeping from her torn nipples. The guard eased Kebroo off the spikes yet once more, and yet once more nodded, and the whip cracked on Kebroo’s back, and she howled with agony at its pain, and again at the agony’s agony of her nipples and tits being slapped into the board and the board onto the wall from the impact of her just-whipped body, and her tits being impaled on the dozens of nails that tore them as she hollered and howled and screamed her unbearable pain again. She was eased off the spikes and now stood on lovely legs trembling with her terror, and the whip slashed her back yet again, tracing a track of flaming fire of livid pain across her naked flesh, and Kebroo shot forward and gave her tits to the spiteful spikes that stabbed her down to their six-inch hilts, and she begged for mercy, her words understandable if undecipherable from her O forced mouth, as her tits were ripped on the brutal board yet once more. How any girl could ignore the imploring in Kebroo’s lovely dark deep dark brown eyes tearfully turned to her in Kebroo’s terrible pain, cannot be explained. But she was eased back off the board again. And again the whip whistled and again she screamed with absolute pain, as her body slammed into the board and she took the nails deep into the soft flesh of her beautiful tits once more and dropped drooped, dragging her nipples and tits off the spikes as she collapsed at her pretty knees in a no feint faint.

The ice-cold water thrown from the bucket over Kebroo’s flogged back had been liberally salted. And so, not only did it bring her round from unconsciousness and turn the livid red of the blood from her whipping into a watercolour, but it bit and stung her wounds and made her all too awake and all too aware of pain, as the whip flashed up once again and cracked on her bare wet back, and she screeched as her nipples and tits were embedded in the bed of nails yet again. Kebroo’s lovely legs could hardly keep her standing now, but managed as they shook and her lovely calf-muscles strained to hold her up, as the whip whistled and lashed her nakedness and her chest flew forward and smashed into the spikes and the board crashed into the wall and her tits were impaled yet once more. In her pleading for mercy and a cease of this never-ending flogging, Kebroo slowly shook her bald head from side to side, her eyes opened beggingly wide as tears coursed down her lovely face while she was eased back off the board, and braced herself for what she knew must come again. And again it did come, a flash a lash a flame of burning fire on her already bleeding back, an uncontrollable reflex forward-thrust of her chest, and the stabbing of her nipples and tits as her body slapped the board into the wall and her exquisite nipples and beautiful tits were impaled on the brutal unyielding nails yet once more, and yet once more she screamed and screamed as she was eased off the nails yet again, only for the lash to slash her nude back yet again, and she howled as her already savaged tits slammed into the board and the weight of her body crashed the board into the wall and her nipples and her tits were stabbed six-inches deep by the vicious needle-nails yet once more.

Almost breathless with the effort and strength she had expended in whipping Kebroo, the corporal cruelly gasped out: “You got an extra one for fainting sweetheart!”

Kebroo’s body, sagged at her pretty knees, her knees bracing her body from a fall as she pressed them to the wall, and she hung from her girlackled wrists as if she clung to the blood spattered wall in front of her, for her dear life.

A knife was used to cut off her blood-streaked miniskirt. Kebroo’s chastity thong was then cut off.

And now, while she still dangled sobbing in chains, she was eased off the nails on which her nipples and breasts were still impaled, and her wrists were unfastened from the other two rings, while the neck-chain of the bloodied nail board was lifted over her bald-shaven head, and the board left dangling against the wall.

Dressed now in nothing bar her blood spattered yellow ballets, her ankle hobble, and the pink garter around her strong left thigh just above her knee, Kebroo was eased away from facing the wall, and ordered to wiggle over and look at herself in the mirror.

As she looked in the mirror, her O wide open mouth a suitable expression of her horror at her ripped nipples and torn tits, tears tears tears tore down Kebroo’s lovely face.

“That’s what you get for being an unreformed lezzie slut, darling”, the corporal assured Kebroo. But Kebroo did not hear. She was in too much physical and mental pain, her lovely brown eyes, her dark brown eyes, unable to believe what the flogging had done to her beautiful breasts.

As Kebroo stood blinking and silently crying before the mirror, bucket after bucket of heavily salted cold water was thrown over her, to wash away the trickles of scarlet blood on her body and shapely legs: all bar the fresh blood that would still seep from her wounds. And thus the lesbian-labelling garter on Kebroo’s strong left thigh, was turned a darker shade of pink striated with streaks of darkening red.

The corporal now knelt before Kebroo and opened Kebroo’s slit's lips, before she inserted into Kebroo’s pretty pink pissy-hole, a long tube device. This device had a one-way valve, on which the corporal nextly used a bicycle pump to push air through and thus up the tube. And, even amidst the pain from the brutal whipping, Kebroo could feel the distinct discomfort of a balloon expanding just beyond her urethra.

Then a prison dress was rolled up and Kebroo’s was bidden to put her slender arms through its armholes, before its neck-hole was eased over her bald-shaven head.

Kebroo made no resistance. She could not, she was too totally exhausted.

The prison dress, a mini-dress just hiding the bottom edge of Kebroo’s firm bottom as she stood, was a jute sack, roughly and readily recycled as a dress, by having the corners at what had been the sack’s bottom, cut off diagonally to provide holes for Kebroo’s milk white arms to go through: a hole cut in the middle of the former bottom providing the escape route for Kebroo’s neck and head.

The crude jute weave was rough and rubbed Kebroo’s whipped stabbed and salted body to add to her echoing agony.

Kebroo’s wrists were held behind her back again, and once more girlackled.

“Walk bitch!” came the cruel order, and Kebroo obediently wiggled her taut bum in her ankle hobble to make her way out of the torture room and up the ramp back to her cell again, on her long strong high-risen ballet-posed en-pointe erected gorgeous legs.

Once in her cell, Kebroo slumped on the wooden bench she had sat on before, and moaned when her whipped and salted back touched the wall, making her flinch forward before easing herself gently back once more.

The cell door slammed. A key turned. And a gentle hand was on Kebroo’s tearful face, as the prostitute who had comforted her before, muttered: “You poor poor darling! What have they done to you?! What have they done to you, you poor little sweetheart?!”

But, in the dark, the gentle tears in Kebroo’s lovely dark brown darkest of dark brown eyes suddenly dried, and her eyes opened; opened wider than wide, as wide as her O forced mouth, as if mouth and eyes were as three and as one in total astonishment, as Kebroo came; and then came; and then came; and then came again; and again; and again.

“Oh my god darling, are you having some kind of fit?!” the frightened friendly prostitute whispered urgently; till she realised what was really happening, and pushed Kebroo harshly away as she shouted: “You fucking dirty lessie cat, you’re having a fucking cum off me!!!”
...................................

At 05.00 the next morn’s dawn, the cell door opened once more, and the corporal of CLITS that had flogged Kebroo came into the cell.

“43DD2337 will stand”, she instructed.

Kebroo obeyed stiffly but instantly.

Without any further word, the corporal unlocked Kebroo’s girlacles, made the pretty prisoner put her slender wrists to her front, and girlackled them together once more.

She then pointed out a two-litre bottle of water she had put on the bench, and Kebroo’s lovely brown eyes thanked her for this mercy.

“43DD2337 will drink all of that bottle. Any spillage, and she will be whipped again. Do I make myself clear?”

Kebroo nodded assent. The guard left, and the dreadfully thirsty Kebroo eagerly grasped the plastic bottle, only as she removed its already-loosened top, realising how difficult it was going to be to drink with her O forced open mouth.
...................................

At 09.15, the cell door opened again, and again the corporal that had whipped her came into the cell.

“43DD2337 will stand”

Kebroo obeyed.

The corporal looked behind Kebroo and smirked when she saw the emptied water bottle lying on its side on the slats of the bench on which Kebroo had been sitting and trying to sleep.

“She’s been trying to go to the bathroom, but she just couldn’t pee”, one of the prostitutes daringly told the CLITS corporal.

“Good!” the guard snapped back, with a hint of glee in her tone.

At that, the corporal reached a finger into Kebroo’s slit, and Kebroo flinched.

“Like that do you lezzie?!” the corporal sarcasmed.

A hissing sound came. The guard had located the valve ending the tube inserted in Kebroo’s urethra, and was letting down the balloon in Kebroo’s bladder. When the guard began to slide the tube out of her pretty pissy-hole, Kebroo gasped and fought not to piss on the corporal’s fingers.

The guard sensed that, and brutally ordered: “Don’t you fucking dare! You’ll piss when you are told you can piss and not before. Do you understand you lezzie shit?!”

Kebroo felt the burning in her urging bladder, but nodded her understanding nonetheless.

“Now walk!” the guard ordered, and indicated Kebroo must this time take the opposite turn out of her cell, toward an open oak door, a very grand-looking polished oak door standing ajar afar.
...................................

On the tips of her big toes in her heelless ballet shoes, Kebroo wiggled along snail-paced by her half-inch-step-ensuring ankle hobble, swinging one very shapely firmly stretched and beautifully curved calf before a shin, before she swivelled her other shapely beautifully curved calf before her, as she put down her advanced toe-tips and anchored that foot to swivel round the other foot before her once more. Her progress was slower than slow, but at least the concentration she must employ in wiggle-walking, distracted her from the intermittent waves of acidic burning in her bladder.

Behind her, the corporal was watching Kebroo’s firm bum as it swung pendulum in her sack-dress. And she tried not to think of the way it was dimpled into hollows at its sides: the exceptionally erotic dimple-hollows caused by Kebroo’s standing and walking on tiptoe, the sexy conspicuously-concave-hollows that had driven the corporal to the fury with which she had flogged Kebroo during the night.

A camera crew drew near. Kebroo hung her head in shame at the knowledge that her near naked body and her mocking shaven head, were being filmed and also shown live on O-bey TV, for the entertainment of a world-wide audience: at least the world in which the Hetzis and their allies now ruled, which was to say, all the English speaking nations.

As Kebroo tiptoed her lovely body toward the now no longer distant doorway, the babble of eager soprano and contralto voices increased in volume, and the realisation that she was entering a courtroom dawned more certainly in Kebroo’s tortured mind.

When she entered the court, she was not initially noticed by the all-female gathering; but then a chorus arose, of catty-calls and cheers and jeers and loud whistles, many of them cruelly mocking, but thoroughly deserved if they had been more lovingly intended wolf-whistles, and Kebroo fought not to burst into tears.

“’Ere.....have you got a hairy one darling?!”

“Show us your bum as well, love! Bet it’s not as bald as your fucking head!!”

Loud mirthless mocking and deriding laughter followed these crudities.

But then silence fell, other than from the shifting of seats when the public and officials stood in respect; silence fell as the judge entered in her Hetzi CLITS’ Lieutenant-Colonel’s uniform.

The judge sat and her dark-blue eyes looked over her half-moon glasses at Kebroo, who stood with her bald head humbly lowered.

At that, the audience and officials also sat, except for the CLITS corporal who stood at Kebroo’s side.

“And this one is....?”

“43DD2337 m’lady”, the corporal responded.

“Has she been given the pre-court flogging?” the judge enquired routinely.

“Yes m’lady. Last night m’lady. The tit-spikes were used m’lady.”

“Good.... good”, the judge responded: distracted because she was looking under her desk, paying attention to adjusting the height of her seat.

“Has she a record?”

“Yes m’lady. Her papers were placed on m’lady’s desk by the Clerk of Court this morning m’lady.

The cool calm judge pushed her spectacles up her nose, and turned to several piles of papers that were in front of her.

“Thank you corporal, I have it now.”

Bar from noises from TV cameras trying to find the angle that would give them a better close-up of Kebroo’s wonderful legs, and, with luck a bit of her lovely bum, or of the dangling glittering glistening glistering golden-red curly pubic hair that was challenging her prison dress to fully hide it, the courtroom was silent while the judge read the front page of two A4 sheets, then lifted that page to glance briefly over the one immediately behind it.

In the meantime, the cameras and court could not help but notice and enjoy Kebroo seemingly dancing in her bonds, working her lovely calf muscles as she bent at her pretty knees and then straightened her legs as if she were fighting against something: as if a fly were crawling among her golden-autumn pubic coils and tickling her slit perhaps.

“Ah yes corporal. I see here that 43DD2337 has one previous offence for claiming.....”...... the judge returned her half-moons toward the end of her nose to check the document directly with her eyes, doing so by looking over her glasses while she held the paper up at arms’-length. Thus she sought to remind herself of the precise wording, before turning her startling blue eyes back on the nervous corporal..... “For claiming to be married to another girl....” the judge concluded.

“That is correct m’lady.”

“Quite so corporal, but, unfortunately, this submission is remiss in informing this court what the developmental proceedings were, commensurate or otherwise, from that charge.”

“Beg your pardon m’lady?” the puzzled corporal blushed.

“I mean, quite simply corporal, that the submission does not say if 43DD2337 was punished for her previous offence..... an offence which I note is, unfortunately, the very same as that for which she is before a court again today.”

“Thank you m’lady. I understand now m’lady. 43DD2337 was sentenced by a lower court to have it sewn up m’lady.”

“It?” the judge enquired, puzzled, “What exactly do you mean by ‘it’ corporal?”.

“Begging m’lady’s pardon for my language m’lady, I mean her cunt m’lady.”

“Ah; so she was sentenced to infibulation!” the judge remarked, in confirmation that she now understood.

“No m’lady, she was sentenced to have her cunt sewn-up m’lady!” the nervous corporal responded.

There was a snort of suppressed laughter and some sniggering at the rear of the court. But, when the judge glanced in that direction, it ceased instantly.

“Was that sentence carried out?”

“No m’lady. The judge in the other case suspended the sentence, saying a second offence would necessarily take the first offence into account m’lady. At least I think that was what she said m’lady..... 43DD2337 just had her nipple prints taken, and was then given a caution m’lady.”

“Has she been prepared for passing judgement on herself?” the judge enquired.

“Yes m’lady.”

“Well, while we await that proceeding, I don’t think 43DD2337 properly understands the meaning of the pink garter she is wearing on one of her rather excellent thighs. So, take her into the side room and show her the meaning of the lesbian-label-garter in the usual way corporal, please.”

“Yes m’lady.”

While Kebroo was led by the corporal into a side room, the judge allowed quiet gossip in the well of the court, while she caught up with the remaining business for the day, by reading other papers on her desk. But that gossip was silenced soon enough as Kebroo’s screams echoed from the anteroom she had just been wiggled into.

The gossip now grew more urgent, and, even though no individual words could be deciphered at a distance such as that at which the judge sat, the fact that the gossip now conveyed puzzlement and enquiry as to what had just been done to Kebroo in the anteroom, was clearly evident from its new tone.

“Walk properly bitch!”, the corporal could be heard to menace, as the lovely Kebroo gradually reappeared, her face contorted with pain as she sought to walk with blood trickling down the curvaceous contours of her very shapely left leg: blood from the barbed-wire garter, a single strand of barbed-wire that had been wrapped tightly thrice around her left thigh on the very site of her heart-breaking heart-shaped beauty-spot, three-quarters up its elegant excellence, three-quarters thigh-length up above the pink garter, so that the blood that trickled tearfully down Kebroo’s smooth milk-white soft flesh, the blood that trickled tearfully down the smooth milk-white soft flesh of her left thigh: the tears of pain and blood from the barbed-wire garter she now wore, were being soaked by the lower elastic garter, thus reinforcing its pink, and thus reinforcing the message behind its being pink.

The TV cameras focused in on Kebroo’s new agony, and in the distant studios, educated loquacious voluble very highly paid and correspondingly over-well-dressed pretty reporterettes, as if they could possibly know, gave their viewers a running commentary on just how painful a barbed-wire garter would be.

Standing once more before the judge, Kebroo lowered her bald-shaven head, and, despite that when she moved her gorgeous legs her barbed-wire garter was scratching the soft smooth complexion of the inside-side of her right thigh; indeed even as it did so, she soon resumed a St Vitas’ dance, flexing her legs and dipping at the knees.

The judge’s cool dark-blue eyes looked over her half-moons at Kebroo.

“43DD2337, if you withstand one hour standing as you are before me now, I will let you go free, without punishment further than the humiliation, flogging, and reminder-garter-binding that you have already endured. But if during that hour the court is given a further sign of your guilt, you will be waltzed.”

The judge looked at her watch, and confirmed: “The hour in question starts now...”

But, even as the judge spoke that last word, Kebroo was just no longer able to control her bladder, and she pissed herself. Fighting to stop herself peeing, she cried out at the strain of holding back her immensely full bladder, but her constrained piss still leaked despite herself, and her attempts to hold it back made it trickle, and then, suddenly, this hot honey let her hot-honey, her hot-honey-coloured, her hot-honey-scented, her hot-honey-flavoured piss, gush, and, girlackled at the wrists as she was, she put her pretty fingers between her hot honey’s gorgeous thighs to cover her slit and stop the rush of her honey-coloured honey-scented honey-flavoured girl-pee’s whoosh, but that only made it splash, and it sluished onto the insides of both of her immensely strong thighs, and rolled around her supremely shapely legs in twin whirls, corkscrewing helter-skelter-tracked around both of her thighs before its golden stream enveloped her knees and then bathed her superb calves, as it answered gravity, as if to anoint her legs’ beautiful curvature with the glistening gold, the honey gold, the honey scent, the honey taste of this honey of honey’s honey piss, of her golden-girl confirming piss, as she hung her shaven head in tears of shame while her tiptop-tiptoe-stood long lovely legs were kissed glorious heaven by her golden shower as it poured around her legs in a spiral of inspiring glistening glistering glowing gold, till she stood on her tiptop tiptoes, a honey dish being marinated in a pool of honey piss, the piss, the hot piss, her hot piss, puddle-pooled at the dainty feet of this lovely miss. Her hot-honey-coloured, her hot-honey-scented, her hot-honey-tasting piss had showered her legs, and her glorious golden-girl-piss baptised legs, her girl-piss baptised legs, her gilded golden girl’s legs had been baptised beautiful beyond beautiful by Kebroo’s golden piss. And Kebroo’s pissing her legs till they glistened and glowed mirrored gilt, had confirmed this golden girl’s guilt.
...................................

The new court was integral to the new police station. Such a convenience ensured prisoners could not readily escape, as they might more easily have done, if the court and the police headquarters had, as had previously been the case, been distant from each other.

Despite the furnishings of the courtroom looking distinctly historic, the building containing court, police quarters and police cells, was in fact modern, having been completed within the last two years. It had been constructed with ‘green credentials’ to the fore. And, with the economy of heating and lighting that would be attained therefrom, it had been built onto the already existing City Hall.

The City Hall, a splendid grey-stone construction of the later 19th century, featured all that was the expectation of that earlier age, including the ballroom in which the higher-echelons of the local Hetzi Party, were enjoying a dinner-dance gathering, with their guest of honour. Their guest of honour was a blonde Lieutenant-Colonel of the CLITS, a visiting circuit judge, a forty-year-old fulsomely curved very handsome woman with startling and frighteningly intelligent dark blue eyes.

There was no particular celebration being commemorated. But it had, since long before the Hetzis had taken power, become tradition for Girl-Court circuit judges, to be entertained before they moved on to the next city, and the next court on their timetable.

The two corporals of CLITS that had dealt with Kebroo to date, were not too happy.

They had carried out the court’s instructions, but it was not that, that they were unhappy about. Nor was it the swallow-tailed dinner jackets of livid scarlet livery that they wore, as they were now in full-number-one-dress ceremonial uniform. These they considered very becoming, as indeed they were.

What was causing the rumbling discontent that the corporals’ faces would never dare show, was that they had drawn the duty of being general dogsbodies for this gathering of their anointed seniors and betters, and had had to wiggle around looking for empty glasses to fill with more sparkling wine, at 500 million English Dollars per bottle, as it was in these hyper-inflationary times, French girl-pee no less, French girl-pee that was being consumed as if the guests, and the guest of honour not least among them, were taking a bath in the vastly expensive stuff.

Since, technically, they were paid for a twenty-four hour day, the corporals of CLITS would get no extra emolument for these duties, and would have to be on hand, no matter at what early hour of the next day at which this gathering might end.

As they were forbidden to take alcohol when on duty, their one compensation, was a chance to have a meal from whatever had been left over from the five-course dinner that was just ending. And the two corporals of CLITS that had dealt with Kebroo to date, were not too happy about that either. Neither was vegetarian. Both had had experience of these gatherings before. Both had therefore been sustained by the thought of at least getting a hearty feast from the leftovers. And both had had to stand behind the table at which the guests gorged, with a bottle held ready, as the guests ate, to recharge the guests’ glasses. And both had briefly dared, to glance their disappointment to each other, as they watched huge slices from the twelve piglets that had been spit-roasted for the occasion, being voraciously consumed, leaving only some decidedly unappetising-looking ribs on the silver meat dishes.

Dinner over, the corporals joined the serving girls in clearing the table, so that the inevitable speeches, and recycled jokes; jokes that only those who had imbibed as much sparkling girl-pee as these people had, could possibly find so uproariously hilarious.

This was the opportunity for the small orchestra to slip away.

A CLITS sergeant nodded to the corporals, and they took that permission, to join the orchestra in having their free food in the City Hall’s kitchens.

Once that was over, the orchestra’s conductor slipped back to the banquet hall to check on how matters stood, and then scurried back, to hurry back to the ballroom, the instrumentalists instrumental to the dancing that was about to commence.

If the judge was guest of honour, perhaps Kebroo might be ascribed the sobriquet of ‘maid of honour’, for she was about to be made to honour.

Her dress won a gasp and a round of applause. Kebroo had been walked in by the two lucky CLITS corporals, each honoured to hold high, the delight of the light tips of Kebroo’s long slender very pretty fingers.

“Cross your thighs!”

Kebroo still had her lovely mouth forced into an obscenely suggestive O for obedience. Her head was, of course, still shaven completely and utterly, and utterly humiliatingly bald. And, even though the hem of her dress was well beyond the minimum length needed to keep a lady discreet, it could be seen that she was still on the very tip-top-tip of her toes in heelless ballets, with all the incredibly erotic consequences consequent therefrom, in the shaping of the sinews and muscles of her lovely legs.

“Cross your thighs!”

Her dancing dress was strapless, borne up, in part, by the generosity of her bosom. Its material wound around her, clinging to Kebroo’s body from her top of her bold buttocks upwards, as closely as a jealous lover, but below her bum, belling out the minimum necessary to allow her to use her legs and feet, now free from ankle-hobbling replete. Her lovely bare, her lovely milk white bare shoulders were on show; but from the rear could be seen the upper tracks of the brutal welts from the eleven savage whip-lashes she had received across her soft skin, as yet less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Cross your thighs!”

Her gorgeous slim arms were free and bare, her milk-white bare arms were free, and the golden down on her slender forearms reminded those that had cruelly shaved her head, of her flaming red hair, the stunningly glorious curls of which were now in the City Hall’s dumpster-skip, mixed with the dust from carpet cleaning, and matted with the food, vegetable, meat and greasy fat, that had been swept off the plates as waste from the dinner just consumed.

“Cross your thighs!”

Down to and including her waist, Kebroo’s dream of a ball gown, clung to contours that can only be found in a girl. Her bosom duly announced its dual presence. Her waist curved in to defy hourglasses to compete and lose. Then her hips and her bottom filled the flow of this garment, a garment in which her bum looked divine as it defined the shape of the lower dress at its rear, before its skirt clung close her calves and delineated the shapeliness of her thighs and legs as she stood in a pair of white kid-leather ballets with squared-off toecaps, on tip-top-tiptoe on the ballroom floor.

“Cross your thighs!”

And this magically majestic creation was semi-see-through. Not only was Kebroo’s lovely figure more than merely figuratively outlined by the closeness of its cling, but teasing hints of her almost complete nakedness beneath it were revealed. For the dress’ material formed a candy-stripe type swirl, starting under her armpits, then winding round her body, enveloping her chest, embracing her egg-timer waist, caressing her firm bottom, and then making up the bell of its skirt no more than one inch above the floor the floorless angel kissed with her tiptoed feet to make it into heaven.

“Cross your thighs!”

Through the elemental transparency of her gown, Kebroo's partners could see maximally outlined where not temptingly exposed, the body of the ghost-white complexion of a redhead. For this creation, the creation that Kebroo wore, as well as the creation that was Kebroo herself, was like Kebroo too, made to tease and please as it played peek and boo with her shapely body and wonderful legs.

“Cross your thighs!”

In this sensational creation, a garment such as Paris itself would bow down in worship before, for the way Kebroo wore it, as she wore it as only a beautiful girl could fill it: this sensational creation sparkled diamante in the spotlights’ reflections; reflections deflected from the mirrored ball that slowly rotated above the ballroom’s floor.

“Cross your thighs!”

It is the right of a beautiful girl to keep all lesser creatures waiting.

“Cross your thighs!”

Equally, it is the right of a beautiful girl not to be kept waiting.

“Cross your thighs!”

The applause and catcalls and wolf-whistles, and a shout of “You lucky bitch!” from a friend of the judge, a friend a little the worse for wear, after too much sparkling French girl-pee, accompanied the judge as she walked over to the divine vision that was Kebroo in her dress, and asked her for the honour of the first dance.

“Cross your thighs!”

How could Kebroo refuse such a request?

“Cross your thighs!”

The judge took Kebroo’s pretty right hand, and led the tip-top-top-tip tiptoeing angel onto the dance floor, and watched with pleasure, the tears in Kebroo’s eyes, as Kebroo, her ankles now being free, wiggled full woman. Then she was twirled pirouette and the hem of her dress constrained her contained legs, as she span tiptoed on the floor. And Kebroo cried out with pain when she was led in a circle to parade her beauty to the jealous onlookers, while the orchestra’s violins, sawed with freshly rosined bows, soared to new heights in a forlorn attempt to reach the high-C key of Kebroo’s squeaks.

“Cross your thighs!”

From her left wrist, lovely Kebroo dangled a booklet, her dance card, and guests rushed to sign for their turn to dance with this girl divine.

“Cross your thighs!”

And so it went, the evening so fast for the guests and so slow for Kebroo, till midnight’s chimes and the next day’s come, as Kebroo was waltzed at the ends of her pretty fingers, held turn and turn about, as she was bid to turn and turn and spin and swirl about, the better to display her gorgeous body. And no notice was taken of her evident pain, or the blood that her steps were dripping in droplets onto the dance floor, as she was whisked in a whirl yet again.

“Cross your thighs!”

A girl as lovely as she, well versed in ballet as she was, would never be left alone while there was a chance to have her dance.

“Cross your thighs!”

The early hours arrived with her still enthroned, never having left the dance floor for even one second, as new partner after new partner to her beckoned, eager to grasp her dainty fingers, and whirl her around the floor to the dances soft and slow, and loud and go, from the band and its singers.

“Cross your thighs!”

The visiting judge knew she had to face another day all too soon, but had marked the angel’s card, and was determined to wait till dawn if need be, to trip the darling doll around the floor yet once more and see those tiptoed feet at work and applaud without ceasing, even though the blood Kebroo was leaving in her steps was increasing.

“Cross your thighs!”

Sweet Kebroo would never refuse, she was so charming and so wise, knowing that the guests would leave her no choice but to dance, and that the obscene O her mouth was opened permanently into gave her no voice, other than that with which she articulated her pain, as she was swirled around the floor and on her toes’ tips again and again.

“Cross your thighs!”

Kebroo was not allowed to be tired, but the guests one by one, were with alcohol and conscience overcome, if not conscience about the girl who still around the floor was danced and spun.

“Cross your thighs!”

Then at last the judge proffered Kebroo a chair, and the latest of her dance partners walked her over there where. But Kebroo looked frightened and declined to sit, although by now still to stand, let alone dance more, she appeared to be hardly fit.

“Cross your thighs!”

But the judge’s hand indicated determination that Kebroo should take her insistent invitation. And the other guests gathered around with glee to enjoy its implications.

“Cross your thighs!”

Kebroo pleaded with her darkest deep dark brown eyes, her lovely eyes begged, but she moved to obey and turn made, to essay to sit in the upright straight-backed chair the judge held there, and continued her to sit to persuade.

“Cross your thighs!”

The scream of agony when Kebroo sat down must surely have awoken the whole of the town. Tears coursed down her lovely freckled cheeks as she uttered endless agonised squeaks.