Disconnections

Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer

Finishing-School
Synopsis: - Simone’s homecoming was sad and glad in equal measure. Barnmouthshire in the verdant spring welcomed her.

Finishing-School
by Eve Adorer

The Horsen-Vandrake family had owned a goodly portion of northern Barnmouthshire, England, since one of their number, the notorious beauty, Beatrice, ‘Beebo’, Vandrake, had been a favourite mistress of Queen Charlotte II.

Preferment in bed had been swiftly followed by titular award. Indeed, given Beebo’s considerable attributes in regard to the first syllable of ‘titular’, Charlotte had seen the wit of awarding her twin titles. ‘Lady Maiden-Fawcett’ was the senior of her two ennoblements. It dated from 1662. With it went land and inheritance in perpetuity under the law of female-primogeniture.

The villagers of Maiden-Fawcett, Barnmouthshire, had had no say in the appointment of the new owner of their homes and farms; nor had their previous landlady.

But since the latter had somewhat annoyed Charlotte II, by being a regicide and notorious court co-prosecutor of Charlotte’s late, latterly beheaded, mother, Queen Charlotte I; Mary Lady McBride was as unlikely to have been consulted about the loss of her wealth and lands, as she was sure to endure the death in incarceration, that had been her fate, after the fall of the interregnum dictatorship.

Beatrice Lady Maiden-Fawcett, long since replaced in the eye and bed of the living Charlotte, by the even more celebrated Nell Quim, had ‘bought’ respectability by marrying.

Beebo’s much celebrated 1670 combining with, Venisa, the eldest daughter of the Horsen family, had removed the element of disrespectability that radiated from the origins of Beebo Vandrake’s titles.

The Horsens claimed a pedigree more assured of its foundations and subsequent interlinkages than the royal family itself. Nonetheless, their comparative and increasing poverty saw the two surnames conveniently combining, with the longer pedigree subservient to the nouveau-riche Vandrakes. By being first in the ‘Horsen-Vandrake’ combination, ‘Horsen’ took second place to money. Or, as a contemporary wit put it: ‘Horse sense stabled with whore’s trading’.
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Despite the uniform, the figure was unmistakeable. The feminists and the bible were right. God had created the human male first. But that initial product had been but the initial sketch for the perfection that here filled the focus.

The crisp white shirt with black bowtie, the tailored swallow-tailed black jacket and matching jodhpurs, six-inch-heeled black leather knee-boots polished till they out-reflected a mirror, and the black top-hat brushed to match the boots, but with sheen vice shine, were all accoutrements accompanied and accomplished, by the moon-mirroring black curls that tumbled to the wearer’s shoulder-blades as she removed her hat on entering the hallway. This was ‘Jones’. Emelda Jones was Arnessa Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw’s chauffeuse.

A moment or two later: ‘Muth one Joanths?’ Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw sweetly lisped in her bewitching short-tongued pronunciation.

‘My lady, the day grows ever closer, and your fiancee has ordered that I...’

Arnessa Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw was ‘in a mood’. The head-turningly-pretty and correspondingly shapely negress was tense. She was normally sweet and genuinely gentle and kind. But her fiancée, the leggy ice-cool Russian blonde tennis temptress, Lovelova Kissmisskey, had made it to the quarter-finals in Paris for the first time this year, and her absence, plus the agreement the two girls had entered to stay celibate till their wedding night, meant Arnessa being tight-wound and irritable to the equal degree that the twenty-year-old’s lithe fit body had not been serviced for a while; but a small while, but still a long while to her.

‘One’s camming of age, end one’s webbing, ith thome sevewel weekths away, wet, Joanths’, lovely Arnessa added, unavoidably erotically, before sighing, ‘I’m sowwy Joanths; one widn’t wean weny unkindneth.’

Emelda obediently followed her mistress to the ground-floor study, where the laptop had been set up to project on a wall of a shaded room.

Despite that her mistress wore mules, the whiteness of Arnessa’s underfoot, the contrast of which with her heavenly midnight complexion, Jones found unsurpassably erotic, was hidden. The undulations of her mistress’ mischievous rear in her blue denim micro-mini-skirt would therefore have to suffice, and was indeed sufficient to excite and entice.

Knowing she entranced her servant, Arnessa turned and smiled and then turned again to continue her walk. Arnessa knew Emelda Jones had the hots for her, and she was pleased to be in Jones’ dreams. She also, of course, knew that Emelda Jones would never ever dare to show her love. And the contemplation of the frustrated desire she inspired and stood pedestal upon in the eye of, turned Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw on even more.
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This day; this late-mid-21st century day, Simone Horsen-Vandrake shyly eyed the scenery, this to distract herself from the gorgeous brunette who was smiling so attractively confidently at her from the seat opposite.

A moment later, a little braver, shy Simone raised a pretty hand and swept a stray curl of her radiantly red hair from in front of her delightfully dark brown eyes. Then with a quick turn of those eyes away from the train’s window, and the nervous movement of her pretty lips, she smiled at the brunette.

The smile was brief, because the brunette had already given up on admiring her, and was now glancing through a magazine. So Simone returned her wistful gaze to the rolling green of the English countryside. This, of course, not before she had subliminally checked that the hemline of her mini-dress was displaying a seductive expanse of shapely leg, up to and including the tops of her sheer nylon stockings.

‘Which of you has neglected to consume her pills?’

Reminiscence remained for Simone. This, when presently the trees of Summer Wood, were its safe exit not lined in outgoing outlines before it, would take the train she was on prisoner.

Unless they too have endured the isolation with which the torment begins, those who send their children away to private schools can have little idea of the misery endured by them.

‘Miss McDonald, when purchasing station upon a chair we do not cross our legs!’

Simone was twenty and pre-teen. The twenty-year-old admired the past-sweeping scenery; the pre-teen was replaying a reprise on the cine screen of the twenty-year-old’s memory.

The misery had not lasted. Simone had been good at sports. That had been a passport to admiration among her peers. And her lively personality had quickly won her friends. It was now weird to recall how she had longed for home in those first days at boarding school, only, but a few months later, to find herself longing for school’s return, and an end to the seemingly interminable inter-term vacations at home.

‘Simone, my only child, is the only acceptable – acceptable to me that is – the only acceptable heir to the Maiden-Fawcett title. I do not wish to see my only child disinherited by an accident of birth. Simone is my child not that of my former wife. I have DNA evidence to prove that. So any dispute from that quarter, in regard to the existence of my wife’s daughter, will be killed-off in court, even if it reaches that far.’

‘The title goes down the female line. If Simone doesn’t inherit, the title would go to a rather unfortunate relative, my immediately-younger sister, presently employed in a corrective institution, where the twice-daily whipping she is receiving, is unlikely to cure her light fingered ways I fear. The idea of that being the fate of the honoured family name sends shudders down my spine.’

‘Momma’, Simone whispered to calm the present-day Lady Maiden-Fawcett.

The headmistress of Nordon Academy looked at Simone, over some many-years-of-age-adding half-moon spectacles. Her smile at Simone was gentle and reassuring. The headmistress liked what she saw of Simone. The long red curly hair was decidedly attractive, as was the inviting sparkle in the eyes, and as were the petulantly pouty lips.

‘The oldest...the first-born child inherits?’ she queried in a tone that confirmed she already knew the answer, but needed to enquire and have an answer upon it, purely for the record, so to speak.

‘The first-born female’, Lady Maiden-Fawcett reaffirmed.

‘Of course, of course, we understand’, the headmistress answered, as if she were a corporate body rather than a corporeal individual.

‘My honoured Lady Maiden-Fawcett, we exist to raise the children of the aristocracy to the heights, that inheritance requires them, sadly but inevitably eventually to meet. That which brings you to use us, the law of female-primogeniture, has obviously, unfortunately frequently, thrown up the concern you have in regard to Simone, with like-born children before. Please be assured this school will develop the girl. Simone will leave here the lady that you, indeed we, would wish her to become.’

‘My only recommendation would be that upon graduation from our portals, Simone attend an appropriate finishing-school. I can highly recommend the Institut Pour Finition Jeune Dames Vertmont’, in Vertmont, Switzerland, with which Nordon Academy has a symbiotic relationship. Securing a place there raises the fee needing to be agreed just now. We need to put her name down today, so to speak, to be certain of a place there. Presumably one would discuss fee with your honoured bankers – Clits and Co? We assume though, that you will need to instruct them beforehand.’

‘We admit at an early age. That’s ideal we find. We are, of course, a single-sex institution. I understand you play soccer jolly well Simone’, she added to reassure the nervous prospective pupil.’
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‘The gold leaf is become tatty, and will have to go...to be replaced I mean.’

‘All of it?’

‘If you want it to look like new Ms Jones’

‘Like new is the requirement; so strip and replace the gold leaf.’

‘You got the chassis suspension and wheels organised for it, or is they being refurbished elsewhere? I can recommend a specialist. Suspension is particular complicated. We used to fix it up in-house, but we contract it out ourselves nowadays.’

‘We’re working on that...on those. Just refurbish the main body. Have you the estimate?’

‘We’ll need to integrate chassis suspension and all that stuff eventually, Ms Jones.’

‘We’ll coordinate all that for sure. If I don’t get this right, it’s my job gone. Have you got the estimate?’

‘Two; one with, and one without the gold leaf replacement. But I’d ignore the ‘without’ one if you want a proper job done for her ladyship.’
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A pocket fingered, found spectacles atop the left twain of her spectacular bosom. Arnessa was resting her eyes from the contact lenses she wore when she wanted to look fully at her best. The half-moons she next perched on her nose made her look an exceedingly young grandmother. They were the wrong choice of design for a girl her still tender age. But Arnessa had not appreciated that. All Arnessa had needed was to have heeded advice. But she’d assumed all glasses made a girl look frumpy. Hence the contact lenses. Hence also that even her betrothed had not yet seen this spectacles spectacle.

‘What will one we wooking art?’

‘Accoutrement my lady; possibles for accoutrement that is.’

The projector primed by the laptop, played on the wall a view of a public park’s greenery and grassery; first fuzzily then focusedly, before it once again briefly fell out of the latter, as it strained to train at greater distance, and the curls and curves of the concrete of a public skateboard ramp rink.

‘Not a wewy wood pwicure’, Arnessa mused only just audibly and entirely negatively.

Then came the vision. She was sixteen; if that. But she was a woman; a girl-woman. Her firm fit body was shaped as timelessly as an hourglass. Her red and white gingham shirt, hanging loose from her smackably filled shorts, showed mid-top buttons under severe double strain, and when the breeze lifted it therefrom, a flat belly and hollowed bellybutton.

She filled her blue denim shorts exceptionally fully and just short of cheekily. She was as spectacularly pretty as she was spark-blue eyed, ghost-white, lightly sprightly freckled, and with radiant red curls careering cascadingly to caress her shoulder-blades. And, as she shaped to urge her board abroad and practiced and practised her skills on the challenging concrete tsunamis of the rink, the shapely strength of her legs was disported and displayed to transfix and amaze.

‘Wewy pwiwy girl; wewy pwiwy indeed’, Arnessa approved, though she still had no idea why this footage was being shown her.

Assuming her mistress was fully briefed, Emelda Jones enquired, ‘Shall we have her, my lady? She has the right proportions and structure. Time is tight now, there’s little left for the fitting.’

And because she didn’t wish to display her ignorance in a matter the tone of her chauffeuse’s voice seemed to convey mattered in some small way, Arnessa queried no more and merely whispered; ‘Wess. Wewy pwiwy girl; wewy pwiwy indeed. Wess’, thereby giving an affirmative with the unspoken escape clause that, should anything go wrong, she could claim she never precisely said ‘yes’ to that which was asked.

‘Thank you my lady. An excellent choice my lady, if I may make so bold as to say so my lady...’ Emelda Jones assured, relieved the decision had a seal of approval uttered with such enthusiasm as her mistress ever usually conveyed.
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In the live original of the scene just seen in projected form on the wall hours later; hours earlier, Kalara Amado, the stunningly pretty redhead caught on camera, had an admirer hidden in camera.

Amy Chansis, the school frump, had been just off camera peeking through a crack in the old wooden barn nearby, with her left hand in her panties and in another crack, and a consequently conspicuously copiously wet middle finger, enjoying employing Kalara, and worshipping her face and body as she pressed and impressed the image of her lovely school classmate, from her eyes though her mind, to the part leading fastest to her, Amy’s, heart.

Kalara’s slip and tumble to her pretty bottom were momentary, but Amy’s rush to aid her love was 7th cavalry to Calvary. This caused Kalara to linger sat amid the dust longer than must, only from astonishment at discovering there had been anyone else close, and so soon there, that they must have been watching her.

Amy held the dainty hand as she’d so longed so to do. Her aid was clumsy. But the lovely arm Kalara’s lovely arm, the arm by which she pulled Kalara upright was as strong as it was swan. Kalara was speedily stood, her frolic of freckles momentarily masked by the tumbled tumult of golden tresses; her ghost-white delicate hands busy tidying this exquisitely erotic mesmerising mass, when a mouth was discovered near her coral-pink moist lips, and stole an unexpected, and thus one-sided and un-responded-to, unwelcomingly-sloppy kiss.

‘Can I take you to the movies Kalara: please Kalara?’ Amy pleaded, adding: ‘Everyone says you’re the juiciest girl in the school’, Amy blurt-whispered eagerly, tumbling out her words, her nerves speaking what she had for so long, longed to say.

Kalara was astonished and blushed breath-taken as it wetted her panties; breath-taken not at her tumble, but at this proposition, so new and so out of the blue; the other coincidentally simply proving how juicy she indeed was.

‘No’ Kalara giggled from her ever-moist mouth, and then felt her heart yield as she saw Amy’s face fall, as the girl the class treated, not deliberately unkindly, but by default, by ignoring, showed her hurt once more, this time to the girl, to Kalara, the girl Amy’d always thought would match kindness with her loveliness, and had just discovered was just like all the others.

‘Yes’, Kalara then responded, ‘I’d love you to take me Amy, yes’.

And then Kalara boarded her board and sailed away. And Amy thought her dream had bubbled and burst as instantaneously, and Kalara had only yielded a ‘yes’ to get away from her, till she heard Kalara call: ‘382137’ and knew it was the mobile number of the nubile wonder. She, Amy, already knew the phone number for Kalara, for she had stolen it to her heart and more practically to her own cell phone, long before.
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At first Simone had felt a little displaced. The children at Nordon Academy included one royal – ‘the spare for the heir’ - one offspring of a former prime minister of England, and two of the contemporaneous premier of Scotland.

Although her mother was by no means penurious, indeed far from it, Simone had also seen the quality designer-labelled clothes, her fellow pupils were adorned with on their return from their homes for the ‘quarter’, as terms were styled at Nordon, and felt self-conscious and ashamed at her own comparatively frumpy pret-a-porter frocks.

The change into uniform altered this balance, in more ways than one.

Standing on constant tiptoe in the ballet-booties, with their squared-off steel-capped toes was a considerable challenge. But Simone took heart from the ease with which the older pupils complied with this compulsory requirement, and was soon used to counterbalancing with the front ‘heels’, the regulation ankle-booties were fitted with, as she had been with the heels on the rear of the platform shoes her momma had lately allowed her to wear at friends’ birthday parties and such.

Simone was..... As of the time she was presently casting her mind back to..... Simone was still of an age when she was too straight up and down to give the sleeveless red-gingham dress, that was the main part of the uniform, particular shape. Such was also the case with Simone’s immediate-age contemporaries. That was so even though the waist belt invited indication of growing womanhood, an invitation the older pupils had long since fulfilled.

Simone was envious of the right the oldest scholars had to wear attractive dresses and brassieres, suspenders, and stockings. For now Simone must be content with the elasticated knee-socks, that covered the otherwise bare legs up to just below the knee, and therefore to the height at which the hem of the dress fell.

The school-standard knickers were comfortable enough for Simone, till she discovered that the others in her year were wearing rather naughty thongs.

Simone’s earliest text back home to her momma pressed for the purchase of a shoal of these. And the comparative discomfort of wearing them was soon overcome by the femininity-enhancement factor Simone subliminally sought.

The straw boater was the headgear common to all ages of Nordon pupil. The ingenuity of the older incumbents to incline its angle, and deploy a hatpin to ensure its stability was not overwhelmed by the challenge of gravity, made it decidedly coquettish and saucy.

In Simone’s early year, any imitation of that fashion would have found the sinner before the headmistress for a dressing down about not dressing up. So Simone wore the hat on a level with the horizon, and deployed the chinstrap in its regulation manner; she didn’t hide it under the crown of the hat as some of her more daring contemporaries did.

The ribbon on the hat – its hatband - told the tale of the ages of pupils. Each gradation wore a new colour beginning with white, and turning through shades of grey till the final year’s black. The only exception was the school’s prefecture, headed by the head-pupil, who all wore scarlet ribbons.

Simone’s contemporaries and the teaching staff referred to her, by the junior of the two titles her ancestry had awarded her multiple-great-grandmother. Simone was the intended heir to the Maiden-Fawcett title and inheritance, in immediate, and as a sole child, only direct line for when her mother died. In the meantime, as her mother’s intended heir, she was styled ‘Lady Somer’.

‘Which of you has neglected to consume her pills?’

‘Miss McDonald, when purchasing station upon a chair we do not cross our legs! Take due cognisance of Lady Somer. That, young lady, is the right proper and only fit way for to sit.’
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‘Tea or coffee?’ Jemice Amado enquired for the third time in quick succession.

The two young women sat, as Jemice had invited, on chairs in the kitchen, while Jemice busied herself preparing the fresh fruit her younger daughter would consume for her evening meal, once she, Kalara, came from school, or that skate park she was so fond of.

‘No thank you Ms Amado’, the raven-haired girl in the black suit-jacket and matching jodhpurs responded gently, as if she had not already declined the offer several times before.

Emelda Jones, for it was she, recognised a mother’s nerves. But these were serfs. This was the mid-21st-century, but these were serfs living in a grace-and-favour home on Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw’s estate.

The Amado family had already surrendered a wife and an elder daughter for the dairy. The remaining wife must have known that more dues would be due in time, and her spouse and the older daughter sufficient payment only for the short run, especially since the harvest had again failed.

So it had failed because the farm had become short-handed. That was no concern of the land owner. If these peasants couldn’t organise their labour.... For instance, why was the younger daughter still at school when she should have been harvesting?

Despite that the couple, when still a couple, had put their older daughter to the plough and then the harvester and the thresher – to hauling them that is of course – their land was barren this past two years.

Global warming had been the warning. But even warned, these serfs could do nothing. Their rent was due in tithes. Their crop so miserable they had hardly produced enough to feed themselves, let alone render unto Caesar; so they had been forced to incur seizure. Were it not that she was needed because her younger child fulfilled a specific, it would have been Jemice rather than her growing daughter, Kalara, who was next forcibly requisitioned.
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Which the golden sunshine, and which the glorious girl? In high summer, the breeze blew in spring beauty, and the two visitors found themselves standing in respect as by reflex.

‘Hi mummy! Is tea ready? I’m totally starving and Amy Chansis has asked me for a date and did I leave my mobile here cos I can’t find it and guess what Miss Smith, the head told me, she said I’m guaranteed uni and I’m sure to get a first if I don’t giggle at the interview, she’s so nice .... Miss Smith and well fit, I’d love to be a teacher like her, and has Amy phoned, I gave her my number but I’ll have to put her off because I’ve promised Chantelle she can take me out tonight and Barbara tomorrow? If I could find my phone I’ve made a list only Mary said she’d see me at the park with her skateboard, but you know how ditzy she is. Did you say I could wear lipstick at breakfast? I don’t mean ‘lipstick at breakfast’ do I, I mean when I go out? Some of the girls do at school and I’m sure they get more dates than I do. And lots of girls want to date me, but I do wish some of the older girls would ask me out. Miss Smith asked if I liked older girls and I said yes and she’s asked me round to her place for tea next week. And Barbara was caught smoking and Miss Smith spanked her in front of the whole school this morning and it must have really hurt, cos she was so shouting out really loud at the end. But Miss Smith had stopped spanking her before then and so Miss Smith told her she was very wicked to do that and would punish her next time so she wouldn’t like it. I don’t know what she meant? I don’t know how she could have liked it; Barbara I mean. I mean it was so hard with a cane on her bare bum too, and I saw her smoking again as I left school near Miss Smith’s office she was, so she’ll be for it again I’m sure. I so need a shower. Can you call me my tea ready to eat? Have you left a change of clothes out for me mummy?.....’
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Nurse looked after the new pupils at Nordon. She was on call to the whole school of course. But she gave early instruction to the blossoming new arrivals. Now they were to mature to womanhood at the school, with, therefore, no mother or nanny immediately on hand to advise them, many even had to be shown such as how to shave their legs.

Depilatory discipline at Nordon also extended to: ‘Hygienic hair removal in the genital area’. Once its arrival made for necessity, this too had to be taught in the communal bathrooms. There were plentiful disposable razors to hand, and too, lotions to prevent soreness from razor burn.

To the uninitiated, the pills all pupils were required to consume twice daily seemed a strange imposition. This was especially so considering the youthfulness of many of their customer consumers; or so it seemed to outsiders who didn’t understand their purpose.

The story had it that, long upon a past time, one pupil – an imposter the tale embellished sometimes – had had an intimate liaison with a local factory-slave male, with the result becoming abundantly clear, after tests had proved that gluttony had not caused considerable apparent weight gain.

Nordon School was a comparatively new institution – only one century in existence. Academies with so short a history may welcome reputation that makes them exciting and memorable among potential customers. In private school advertising, reputation is all.

Younger institutions can be wanting of mystery to add glamour. And this story, although unfortunate, concluded most often in its telling, with the balm of the redress the school had apparently made, following an unfortunate slip with a pupil that, as the story also concluded, was expelled for having been unqualified to attend in the first case; though the reasons for the absence of the required requisites was invariably confused and obscured, particularly for the unaware.

Nordon always denied the story of course. But the romance of it pleased its shareholders. It gave the institution ‘colour’. And the fact it did not drive away applicants made half-denials beneficial, in that the romance of it made Nordon stand out from rivals.

Perhaps a more likely explanation was that the pills were antithetical to an aphrodisiac; an anaphrodisiac.

In the twenty-four-seven fire-fevered womb that is a closed-in living-in dormitory-domiciliary school, passions can blaze beyond becoming balm. Abundant access to fresh air, cold showers, and even epic encouragement to extensive exercise, do not absent risk that growing pupils arriving at puberty’s perturbations, will not light upon the lyre of love amid the lustrous hair, passionate lips, glowing eyes, and golden giggles of their equally nubile, and consequently conspiratorially concupiscent, companions, or even some among the slave-males sent by contractors to see to the plumbing and not the plunging necklines of the dresses of the older pupils.

In either and both instances, birth-control versus tranquiliser, the common theme of the theory-stories was the avoidance of scandal.

Not so many years ago, a real scandal had seen one, one among the oldest established and hitherto well reputed competitors of Nordon; match the biblical exodus for exiting pupils, upon rumour alone. So, just as the pupils individually were constantly lectured about ‘being careful’, so did Nordon Academy match its advice with its own practise in its role as loco parentis for those same pupils.
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Everyone had ignored Kalara’s squeals of pain. She’d been terrified she’d been damaged irreparably. She was bleeding for chrisakes and yet no-one was taking any notice. They’d been looking at her legs. All their eyes had been on her legs; Kalara’s lovely legs.

The pain had gone now. That had been twice, and, not that long later, after it, they’d ended up ogling her pretty legs.

‘The legs are longer that I thought. Take the stirrups back four or five inches.’ Emelda Jones instructed.

Before this the piecing scream as they’d holed her nipple! She knew Kalara knew she had no choice. But what were they doing to her?! The ring was gold. Oh pray god they only mean to! Oh no they are going to! Blindfolded but looking down could see with terrified electric-blue eyes wide. The more piecing still scream as they’d holed her other nipple! Oh pray god they don’t mean to! Please she couldn’t take that. The little blue flame. They’d tied her wrists. Her girl-soft skin was chafed by her fight to escape. Ms Jones had kissed her cheek and told her to be brave. That was a nice kiss. Not a mummy-like kiss. Ms Jones’ lips on her sweet face. Could Kalara have turned and offered her mouth? She wished she had. ‘Ointment for the wrists!’ How she’d blushed as it went all wet. The shaving was completed before they’d tethered her. Kalara liked it shaved, though it had been strange and cold at first here in the open air with the breeze. It was so sensitive. After when they’d tried her in the frame and then taken her out to make adjustments, Kalara had wondered if it would ever again be as sensitive as it was just after they’d shaved it nude. She had blushed deep crimson when they’d, when Ms Jones had oiled where it had been shaved so it wouldn’t be sore after the razor. It had been sopping wet. Ms Jones’ lovely hands had held hers. Kalara wondered if Ms Jones had a girlfriend. But she’d cursed her when she’d tied her wrists to the fence post. The punch had bit right through just before where her nipple’s coral pink melded into the spectral white of her breast. The ring; the rings were gold weren’t they? Open-ends inserted then they were circled within the holes. Kalara couldn’t help it if she cried. It hurt! To be pierced through each nipple hurt like hell. Despite the sky was summer blue, soft spring rain anointed her freckles, trickling under the black blindfold. And she sobbed. But the tears dried instantly when she saw the flame near her tits. She hollered ‘No!!’ and fought, and then cried with joy and relief and giggled when the flame was only and evidently only for..... Wonder if this girl was a jeweller. As the since cooled rings had been circled within her, Kalara could feel no joint despite the soldering.
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The distractions, the budding twin buds and the shaping waist, Simone Lady Somer knew these as she matured so speedily to teen temptress amid fellow Nordon pupils.

Willpower was weak. This the teacherage knew. Occupation was distraction. Simone’s prowess at soccer though, was as fascinating to her games’ tutor as to her fellow pupils, whose eyes – the eyes of neither and all of which – were bewitched by the way Simone filled the school-issue knickers obligatory for ‘games’, though Simone seemed undisturbed by the way they looked at the mid-crutch bulge delineated by their tight cling, and by the bobbles of her pretty little titties within her tee-shirt.

Simone’s progress in prowess included in skill on the dance floor, where the pupils took turn to be the lead in the waltzes, and polkas, and the other accomplishments of Terpsichore that were accompaniment components of their qualifications to enter society’s top tier.

Despite that it was an offense that guaranteed expulsion; Simone knew what went on in the dormitory after ‘lights out’.

Ardent among its participants was her best friend, Freda. Freda’s popularity seemed to know bounds as wide as the beds Freda boarded were narrow but numerable. Yet Freda never reproached Simone for not participating in what, for Freda, had become indispensible.

Even in the fifteen minute morning and afternoon breaks in the sports grounds, Freda was to be found in a secret corner indiscreetly under the kiss of yet another pupil who longed to find if Freda’s endless appetite could ever be satisfied.

Freda’s ‘graduation’ seemed as inevitable as it was rapid. Although no-one would have spoken openly about her willingness to offer her favours and flavours without limitation of favourites. The ‘unspoken word’ soon reached the older pupils, and Freda’s own bed no longer needed to be made in the mornings.

‘Dirty talk’ about Freda was frequent. But it probably also occurred as often about other pupils; the pressure-cooker confinement of the live-in establishment that was Nordon Academy, made pupil and pupil passion inevitable.

The head student’s year included a scion of one of the top-level political families, who was particularly ravenous. This individual knew of Simone’s friendship with Freda, and that Simone herself was determinedly pure. So she found great enjoyment in discussing her liaisons with Freda in Simone’s hearing.

‘Fescinating little minx thet Freda bitch; don’t yer kner. One jest mest kiss theose perfectly delishers little titties. Bedded the rendy little sleg again larst naters. Ged what enthusers eh. Stroked it all nate, dask till dawrn. Demned little nympho came four tames don’t yer kner. Squirted all over one’s silk sheets, and was still up fer it; all beggers fer more don’t yer kner, what!’

But even this well-connected student lost out after Freda’s final ‘graduation’. About this, Freda was discretion itself. The smile on the face of the gym mistress whenever she spoke to Freda gave their game away though.
........................

‘There now; what was all that fuss about?’ Ms Jones asked in a voice that was as strict in words as it was sympathetically gentle in tone. And Kalara, so far from home had cried and wanted Ms Jones’ comfort, she missed her mummy so. But Ms Jones had averted her face and snapped: ‘Stop that!’

‘Healed. They circle the rings several times daily. Wonder if Amy, how she dared. Wet. Pain gone now. It’s so red and makes me kook a tart. Silly they don’t learn. She’d want to take me. Crackled when my hair was brushed. How long will this last? Miriam has great legs. Wonder what shampoo she uses. ‘Clip clop’ all the time. No school prom for me. Must be steel shoes shod; no; iron. That ointment on the bruise on my bummy, it hardly shows now, after they waxed me all over too: that stung: ouch. They’re gorgeous. Must ring Tanya. But that will be alright Mary doesn’t go to the same school. Why these rings? ‘Clip clop’ reins? It was sloppy but a nice kiss. Silly how. Tugging rein ring on their tits. That kiss was nice. Gold though. Reins work their tits up and down. It looks so silly! Real gold. That one knows when to turn right. Left and right lifting tit. Oh god they’re whipping her! Hope Amy isn’t hurt. Gold too just like mine. Miriam wants to take me. Must wash my hair myself. So tired all that running. No steel shoes for me. Tugs on tits tells which way to turn. But they’re all gorgeous black girls. Wonder if they’re nailed straight onto their feet. Wonder what mummy is doing now? Miriam will look so stunning in her tuxedo. Prom night. What shampoo do they use here? ‘Clip clop’. These rings. Why? Bruise on my bummy where I fell on the skate park. My tits are ruined! Let Amy down I’ll say ‘sorry’ when I’m. I hate these rings. Turn same direction as the tit pulled by rein. Rings perfect circles. All the other girls will be jealous of me with Miriam. Lifting their tits left and right. Prefer my own shampoo. I’d stand out. My face in the mirror. I don’t want these rings! They are so tall and so beautifully black! It held my head so I nearly broke my neck. Reins fixed to her tit rings; but not mine. My hair’s so soft. Wonder why they won’t let me shave it myself? I’m so white; total contrast. Why did they show me this lipstick in the mirror? Miriam will hate these rings! That bracket is so painful. The bleeding has stopped. That really hurt. It really did! I hate these rings! Slapped my face and said not to talk till told I could. I’ll miss the prom. Miriam will take Salana, she’s so pretty. This lipstick is so red! I look a complete tart!’
........................

The sisters of the local convent trained in the confessional at Nordon. Novitiates they were still, but they had to learn somewhere, and what better symbiotic relationship than with the school that had furnished their present abbess from its rank and file?

As Simone’s innocence was challenged by the symphony of moans and sighs and giggles in harmony in the dormitory, over the walls of the head pupil’s cubicle, especially when Freda was in enthusiastic residence therein, with Freda’s sighs and little cries of the agony of ecstasy when the kissing was over and it was being slowly, teasingly slowly, very, very slowly stroked, she – Simone – tossed and turned in her bed, aflame with desire to touch where it burned like a red hot poker in her heart and mind, and between her lovely legs.

If she had requested, she could have been chained to her bed. But she had seen one of the prefects take advantage of Freda, when Freda had been so restrained at her – Freda’s - request. The prefect had merely swept back the bedding from the cage that held it over and off Freda’s nakedness while Freda slept tied on her back, and bent and licked and kissed it, and Freda had instantly fountained. And now Freda was so free with her charms.

Simone was convinced she would go to hell if she stroked hers, let alone if she kissed or stroked another pupil’s. And so she tossed and turned and glowed with perspiration from frustration, till nurse spotted her in such a state on her late rounds of the dormitories one night, and gently instructed:

‘You need a cold shower Lady Somer. Hop out of bed my angel, and we’ll soon have you feeling fine again; there’s a good deary! Extra pills for you today too, my lovely. Here you go....’

‘Forgive me sister for I have sinned.’

‘My daughter, what is it you wish to confess?’

‘I have experienced wickedness in thought sister.’

‘How so my daughter? In what guise?’

‘I keep having wicked thoughts about my best friend, sister.’

‘Do go on; we cannot forgive that which has not been heard by the walls of this confessional and our lady, in full, my daughter.’

‘Freda is so pretty. I so want her to kiss me, sister. And last night...I dreamt of her kissing me, sister, and I woke up to find I had squirted by bed sheets.’

‘Did you ‘squirt’, as you put it, because you had touched yourself, down there, my daughter.’

‘No sister. No. I know that that is irredeemably wicked. I would never ever do that, sister.’

‘That is all good and as it should be. But you have still sinned, my daughter. For you to experience an erotic dream is a sin. Even if it was a completely uninvited dream, it is still an all but unforgivable sin. Your friendship with Freda must be discontinued, instantly, my daughter. You must keep away from Freda and break off all communication, for your sake, and for Freda’s too, or else temptation will damn you both to eternal purgatory. If you will promise this, I will pray for your sin to be forgiven over the fullness of time, if you live sin free henceforth for our lady.’

‘I do promise, sister. Please pray for me sister. Please pray to our lady for me.’

‘I will my daughter. Now go and sin no more.’
........................

‘Will woo welp one with oneth’s sthockings pwease Joanths?’

Emelda stepped forward. Arnessa Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw’s sweet deep dark brown eyes smiled.

The white lace of her wedding dress awaited to caress Arnessa’s wholly contrasting holy complexion. She had just now chosen Emelda as her dresser, in lieu of her usual retinue of dress-chamber maids. Arnessa needed the comfort of the calmness of her chauffeuse and odd-job girl, for Arnessa was very nervous.

In the privacy of her dressing room, Arnessa had dismissed her fussing dressing-maids. Their excitement at the honour of preparing their mistress on the morning of her wedding day, had caused too many smiles, and lowered eyes, and sweet giggles. So Arnessa had required the last of them on departing, to ring for Emelda, who had just arrived and just arisen from her curtsey before her stunning mistress, and just adjusted her eyes from their focus on where it nestled snuggled in Arnessa’s pure white pure lace panties. Arnessa’s tanga panties had a pure white pure satin gusset. And Emelda subconsciously focused on where it nestled hidden, kissing this padded crutch; the crutch which emboldened that which would have emboldened Arnessa’s panties in nature anyway.

The foolish girls had clothed Arnessa’s slender arms in the armpit-high pure white pure lace gloves she was to wear, until she had one removed at the altar to take a ring on her finger. And the consequence was that Arnessa could not have successfully clasped her stockings to her pure white pure lace suspenders, even had she, never having had so to do before, had any notion of how to do it.

To give Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw credit, after dismissing her giggling gaggle of dressing room maids, she had tried. But with the degree of success that Emelda must politely respond negatively to, when her mistress sweetly lisped:-

‘Are oneth’s stheemes stwthait?’
........................

As Simone wiggled in on tiptoe on the squared-off toe-ends of the completely heelless ballet shoes beneath her figure-caressing blood-red-wine velvet floor-draping evening gown: ‘The honourable Simone Lady Somer!’, the usher called out to the evening wedding reception assemblage, to announce her arrival.

The anonymously poker-faced maid who, at arrival, helped Simone off with the fox-fur stole gracing her shoulders and covering her dress’ low-swooping neckline, and also took Simone’s white satin arm-length gloves, did the world the honour of revealing Simone’s slender arms, and the insistent outline of her pert petit bosom.

‘Simone! You look wonderful!’ - this from the English ambassador to the USA, currently on holiday in London and in Barnmouthshire by invitation, along with her wife.

Shy Simone smiled shyly stunningly, thereby confirming that she was indeed wonderful. She then curtsied and blushed so prettily, that the ambassador didn’t want to let go the slender hand Simone offered in greeting, and lingered with her hold of Simone’s long slim fingers.

‘I was just talking to your dear momma earlier today. Do come and talk to my wife and I later, and I will inform you of the conversation.’

At one time, that news would have seen Simone stay and insist upon hearing immediately. But the time away from home she had spent firstly at Nordon Academy and, since, at her Swiss finishing-school, had made for more than just a geographical distance from her mother. It was not that Simone no longer loved her momma. It was just that Simone was now an independent entity: a girl with her own life.

Self-assurance was assured. The Institut Pour Finition Jeune Dames Vertmont, instilled this in its pupils.

This was the twenty-year-old Simone Lady Somer’s first formal cocktail gathering. As with all graduates of Nordon Academy, she was as self-confident as she was pretty, and as pretty as she had become shapely.

The scene was not unfamiliar to Simone. From her very first week in Switzerland she had been instructed in the correctness of deportment, how to listen attentively, how to converse, how to use her wit and deploy her seductive natural giggles, and even the order in which to use cutlery at dinner, the correct way to hold a wine glass, and innumerable other refinements on the theme of proper conduct in high society.

How to apply makeup, tastefulness in dress, care and attention to jewellery, even how to smoke a cigarette correctly, were as much components of daily instruction, as were attention to exercise and bodily preparation, such as leg shaving, and ensuring immaculately complete and smooth nudity between the legs.

While she had been at finishing-school, practice tours of afternoon cocktail parties at the various embassies had taken place. Any girl who through these won an invitation to dinner, would be rewarded with an honour mark from her school, and allowed to attend, provided, of course, she was chaperoned.

‘Keep taking the daily tarblets, isn’t that what they insist orn et good eld Norders, eh what? I must say, the eld tebbers hev dan thet one over thar no hearm. What a figure! Weow! Hewd you lake to faind eart what she’s gort in her penties, eh what, eh, eh?!!’

Vonita, the monocled daughter of the English ambassador to the American Republic made this remark within Simone’s hearing, to a girl who quickly broke away from her – from Vonita that is. It was said on purpose and thus with volume. She, the ambassador’s daughter, wanted to embarrass the pretty redhead, Simone. It was almost as if it were a test of Simone’s skill in a social gathering. When their daughter was drunk, she was an embarrassment to both her mothers; the ambassador and ambassador’s new wife.

Simone had no problem in recalling what her tutor at her finishing-school had drilled into the pupils there, from day one, and she made no acknowledgment of what she had overheard; in particular, not honouring it with the blush it was meant to cause.

‘No more girl-pee-wine for you for now, please darling. You know you’ve had enough, Vonita.’

The ambassador’s wife knew she had made a mistake with her stepdaughter as soon as she said this, and therefore even before the inevitable.....

‘Who do you think you are to tell one to storp drinking, you jemped ap little gettersnape?!’

Amid the instant silence, and the masking-over, over-eager return to conversation that followed this widely clearly fully audible outcry, Simone quickly quietly wiggled over to the misbehaving eighteen-year-old, and held out a pretty hand.

‘Hello. I’m Simone Lady Somer? I know absolutely nobody here. Would you be so kind as to escort me for the evening? I would be so deeply honoured, Miss Vonita.’

‘But you’re a Nordon Academy sleg, you’re nort a real gel; nort a real lady I mean... you... you know what one means’, Vonita slurred.

Simone stepped back in her ballets, and curtsied; carefully ensuring Vonita would see glimpse her proudly pert little breasts, her cleavage, and perhaps even the coral pink of a nipple, and then rose and challenged, as she stared confidently into Vonita’s eyes:

‘Don’t you think so?’

‘You’re a demned fain looker! I’ll say thet! You’re a demned fain little filly! Demned fain!’

‘Thank you, Vonita’, Simone blushed, as she smiled her gratitude for the compliment.

And Simone knew she had Vonita smitten; which was just as well in one way, for, although neither Simone nor Vonita knew it as of yet, both families’ parents had Simone lined-up to become Vonita’s wife.
........................

Going back some five or seven hours......

‘Hi’ magazine had recruited some strong-arm girls to keep the competition away. Some of these were plain-clothes. A detective agency had already sussed out likely locations for competitors with telescopic lenses. The uniformed security girls made patrol of these. The girls from the Intelligent Eye Agency and the plain-clothes security women continued to keep their eyes wide open for any would-be sneak photographers.

Arnessa Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw’s husband to be, Lovelova Kissmisskey, had driven a hard bargain with ‘Hi’ magazine. It had cost ‘Hi’ ten million dollars for the exclusive rights to all pictures and film of the wedding. And ‘Hi’ was not about to have its rights breached.

The timing of the wedding was, of course coincident with the Women’s tennis championship in London. Kissmisskey was the number-two seed this year. She needed to be at preliminary contests to ensure match practice on grass, which was not her best surface. But this year, she was determined to get beyond the quarter finals where, last year, she had been knocked out in straight sets by her arch rival, fellow Russian Lyudmila Semenova, the youngest of that family of great blonde beauties and equally great tennis players.

‘The wedding of the year’ had captivated the gossip columns in the blogosphere as well as the old-fashioned paper paparazzi publications.

Simone was not a full guest. She was not ‘family’. Her momma had been close friends of the bride’s mother – of the mother of Arnessa Lady Hambeth-Netenshaw that is to say.

Simone had only intended to attend the evening reception, and perhaps an afternoon side-gathering, to both of which she did have invitations. But she could not resist a wedding ceremony. And her momma soon got her a permit for the church.

There and outside afterwards, she stood to the rear, where, despite that she sought shelter in anonymity, she was bewitchingly eye-catching in her ‘little black number’.

Her lovely legs were enhanced by her heelless ballets standing her on the very tip top of their squared-off toe ends. And her hem was so short, a ‘spot-so or got-no panties’ contest was subliminally in the minds of all the girls who glanced her way, those that were not intrigued with the question of whether her evidently erect bosom, the topsides of which were so prettily posed and exposed by her dress’ neckline, were uplifted by a suitable brassiere, or prominent by un-nurtured nature.

Simone’s lovely smile bewitched all who looked her way, and she tried to hide her shyness at their admiring glances by playing her pretty fingers on the rim of her hat, a sin-black galero. This exercise was appropriate outside, given the occasional gust of warm summer breeze that caused other guests also to clutch onto their millenary.

While the party were outside, an admirer, the girl who had been sat opposite Simone, a month since on Simone’s return home, stood not far away; as yet unable to find a way to reintroduce herself to the mesmerising redhead.

The service over, Simone and the other lesser guests watched the approach of the family coach that would take the newlywed bride and bride to their reception and wedding breakfast, and found herself transfixed by its lovely figurehead.

The coach seated two behind Emelda Jones, its honoured and trusted driver. Before it streamed a team of coloured-leather-harness trimmed gorgeous near-naked negress ponygirls, so drilled as to be unmatchable in their skills, of trotting in unison, to the degree that each clip or clop of the iron hooves on their pretty feet, sounded almost a single note.

The ‘love boat’, as the upper part of the carriage had been called since its first manufacture and service, in the mid eighteenth century, had all the appearance of a wood-plank-walled small rowing boat.

Its pointed bow was topped by a seat with a back support for the top-hatted Emelda as driver. She sat with her feet in gold painted iron stirrups on the ends of curved wings out from under her seat and forward of the bow, such that they raised her knees toward her chest. In her right and left hands, the reins that could be tugged in uniform unison of left or right to instruct the beautiful ponygirls on how they must behave in their haulage role.

The carriage, an immaculate shining lacquered black, had a gold leaf coach line along both its flanks. This line was broken briefly only by the two doors, one each side, which, tiny-seeming as they were, were adequate for entry and alighting the two brides. The doors were hand painted with the intricacies of the combined Hambeth-Netenshaw family heraldic shield.

The wheels, were four. Strangely, the two larger ones, large enough to be twice the height of the ‘boat’ of the carriage proper, were to the fore. The trailing wheels were smaller at under a quarter of the front size.

All wheels were iron tyre shod, wood-spoked and wood rimmed slim profile cart wheels. Their sides and spokes were of the same splendid varnished black gloss as the carriage’s body. And the outside sides too had been immaculately trimmed with a gold leaf line.

A blushing honoured footgirl, one of two girls obliged to trot in their black uniforms and tiptoe ballet shoes behind the carriage for to supply this very service, opened the nearest door for the bride and bride, after first setting up a stool for the new wife and her wife to step up to the seat at the stern of the inside.
.......................

The red lipstick distressed pretty Kalara, but not as much as the pain in her back. Her head was held aloft by the bracket discretely hidden under her chin. Her glorious red curls had been burnished to fresh-washed crisp crackles under the brush, and now draped autumnal cascade each side her forward-forced upright head.

Her freckle-kissed pretty face was through the stainless-steel collar that held her neck so that her head was proud, just forward of and just below the carriage’s bow: a lovely figurehead. She hid her pain behind her electric-blue eyes; eyes that sparkled with her sweet and tender youth, and her nature, and in the formation of her ever-moist mouth into a closed-lipped shy smile.

But Kalara hated the red lipstick they had obliged her to wear. Kalara could not see herself, nor therefore that it was entirely other than, and to the contrary contrast from and to her thinking.

The livid poppy lipstick on her spectrally white redhead’s face was astonishingly and astoundingly outstandingly erotic. Kalara was convinced that it made her look a slut. She was wrong of course; but, she was also, of course, right. With her very pretty and equally innocent youthful face, she was right and it was right, it was indeed slutty, for to eroticise her role was requisite, and she was incredibly erotic, being so sweet and so innocent and so young, yet with her lips painted so enticingly.

Kalara’s pretty hands gripped the handlebar to which each of her slender wrists was in any case, chained by golden cuffs. From where she crouched she could watch the lovely long legs of the team of twelve negress ponygirls, so magically militaristically drilled into a synchronisation almost beyond human, in their walk and trot; a unity and symmetry that could only have been instilled in these girls, as it had of course been, by the whip.

Kalara reached forward with her slim arms bent L in the horizontal plain, to grip the handlebar her dainty hands grasped so gently. Above her at the proud prow seat sat Emelda Jones holding the reins.

Now Kalara’s body pressed forward. Her arms in combination momentarily formed a W. The compression this time, brought the shock-absorbers Kalara provided into play. But the compression was soon over and her normal position resumed, if only for a moment.

All the while she could feel the vibration through her big toes. These were bolted into the stirrups behind and below her upper body. Her folded legs fought the unevenness too. And the vibration from the rod forced up inside it was excitingly painful. With her slender arms and superbly shapely legs, Kalara dutifully beautifully fought to provide smoothness.

The tall ponygirls, totalling twelve, none less than six feet before they had been shod with hoofs, stood in six pairs, each pair side by side.

Each and every ponygirl had their own tits linked by slack, shining coloured-leather reins between them, from one ring to the other ring through each nipple. This was to keep their tits, when they were in motion, paying attention to the front and not swinging too wide from side to side. And, for each file of six ponygirls, a single leather rein ran along the row of right tits, with a second rein along the row of left tits. Via a short chain, these reins linked the tits of each girl to the rings through their nipples.

Each file of ponygirls was linked one to another, and therefore to the leading girl, by a chain running from it-bit to it-bit. Each girl had a one-foot-long pliable-rubber dildo – an ‘it-bit’ - forced up it, and held there by shining black-leather harness-thong-panties. The final chain tethered the twelve high-stepping negresses to the handlebar Kalara held; the handlebar of that which they hauled. Each side-by-side pairing was coupled by a short tether between the inside hip-straps of their harness-thong-panties.

To silence the sweet chatter and lovely giggles by which ponygirls at graze constantly communicate, each ponygirl wore a head harness, with a gold bit between their teeth and pressing over their tongues. These harnesses were buckled at the back of their close-cropped natural negress’ curls. Each harness included blinkers at the side of these creatures’ astoundingly dark brown eyes. And each was topped by a plume of white peacock feathers, drawn back to mark the speed of their progress when occasion and the instructions passed them through the reins demanded.

The height afforded them by nature was enhanced by the way they were shod. They were on the seven-inch steel stiletto heels of murderously arched steel-soled platform-toed shoes. Black leather straps across just up from their toes, two more over their arched foot, and one around their ankles held them in these shoes.

Their toes were buried in the toecaps. The arching of their feet was so forced, that they walked on the ends of their toes within the toecaps, and of course, the heels, which were two-inches close, behind where the toecaps had them on tiptoe, primarily on their big toes. The squared-off toecaps on which they stood, pirouette in manner, were fitted with replaceable iron pony shoes.

These, and the needle sharp tungsten tips of their stiletto heels, were all these lovely creatures had to keep them aloft. If it was said that their shoeing gave preference to the erotic shapeliness it gave their superb long legs, and the dimples formed in the sides of their strong buttocks, over the practicality of affording these girls the ground purchase that they ideally needed to perform their duties, then no untruth would have been uttered.

Other than for their head and tit harnesses, their thong it-bit-harnesses, and their stiletto shoes, the ponygirls were naked as nature intended such gorgeous creatures should be.

The right-hand tits of both rows of ponygirls were linked by a red rein; the left by a blue one. Each individual rein was one long leather strip-strap forming a ‘U’, with the mid-point of the U held by the driver, Emelda, who could thus use both or just the right or just the left rein, by choice, to signal all of the ponygirls in both rows their orders.

These reins, Emelda Jones controlled, and she would whisk and tug them to tell the ponygirls, through their tits, what to do, since an oral message, even if emphasised with the whip, can be misheard or otherwise misunderstood amid the motion of so many pretty legs and the concomitant clatter of hoofs. Of course, two of the messages communicated by the arrangement of reins thus, make use of nature having conveniently provided ponygirls with both a left and a right tit.

A good driver lets these reins slack when the girls are in motion. A ponygirl takes natural guidance from her tits. They need to be free to jiggle when she walks trots or runs; the degree of reverberation these differing paces set up in a ponygirl’s tits, being the only means by which she can be sure she is fully compliant with commands.

Through breaking and training, a ponygirl learns to ‘read’ her tits. She must become attuned to the distinction between the natural motion and commotion in and among her tits, common to her before she was captured and trained; and the distinctive twitch on one or both tits, from the tit-reins.

Emelda Jones was an experienced ponygirl driver. Accordingly she was as sparing with the reins as with the whip, using the latter only to crack over the heads of the lead girls, with its sound alone as a reminder that, if they fell short of the performance demanded, it would unhesitatingly be used on their bodies.

The resounding cracks above their gorgeous negress curls and head-gear-plumage, being a non-painful reminder of the very painful incidents that are the inevitable experience of all girls being broken to completely dedicate their future lives to unquestioning obedience of their tits.
........................

Behind and beneath was pretty little Kalara. The angel was figurehead and deployed employed. She squatted beneath the ‘boat’ of the carriage body. The body of the carriage was fixed to the axles of the carriage’s front and rear wheels; these being non-rotating axles, by four straight struts – two front and two rear, with forward-and-aft-movement-limited hinges in their midpoints, so as to facilitate flexibility, without total collapse of the support theses struts provided. The other means of their fixing was Kalara.

The heavy boat, replete with its driver and the bride and the bride sitting on its inside, was strapped by a strong leather corset, nailed to the underside of the ‘boat’, and now a corset caressing very tightly, pretty little Kalara’s wisp of a waist.

Kalara was, as with the four struts she was between, also attached to the axles; the non-rotating axles of the carriage.

To the front, she had her bare breasts cupped within conical coiled springs. The larger end of these spring cones pressed on her chest, and were strapped to her body, by a leather joint in her cleavage and straps that were fasted tightly at her back, so as to form a brassiere. The narrower ends of the springs were affixed to the front axle. To the centre of these Kalara was tethered lightly, but inescapably tightly, by the rings through her nipples.

To Kalara’s fore, her slender wrists were chained to the handlebar she gripped. The further ends of this handlebar beyond her pretty hands, being that to which the ponygirls were tethered by the final rein linking their it-bits; their leather it-bit harnesses turning to chains to anchor their powerful beauty to their duty.

This handlebar was pivoted. It was attached to a forward projection rising from the mid-front of the front axle. It had no role in steering. Such steering as was ordered through the ponygirls’ tits by Emelda Jones tugging the ponygirls’ tit-reins, was supplied by the ponygirls’ united obedience of the turn required, as signalled by the number of whisks the reins gave their relevant tit.

Arching back from the handlebar’s centre was the bracket that was clasped closed and padlocked around Kalara’s slender neck, and which held her head up at an extremely painful angle; not too far short of a right-angle, so as to provide the carriage’s decorative masthead.

The rear axle for the smaller wheels of the carriage was lower than the front axle. To tether her there, Kalara had her big toes clamped into two circular stirrups, and squatted with her lovely legs bent slightly.

Thus fixed, lovely little Kalara provided the carriages suspension. Her lovely legs, and not least her powerful thighs, flexed their lovely very feminine muscularity as they bent from squat to semi-squat, when taking the bumps in the road away from disturbance of the passengers, by distributing their constant impact within her gorgeous lower limbs.

At the front, the coil springs did like duty. But Kalara was not neglectful of any part in this, for two parts of her shapely youthful anatomy made themselves indispensably useful; for her tits were in intermittent but constant employment as shock absorbers, both in forward lurches, where there compression took away the ultimate part of the impact of the major bumps, and in stretching, where her tits stopped the loosened springs from letting the carriage sway.

To keep Kalara in line front and content in her duty, a broad rod ran up between her legs, and its cold steel entered a foot her, into it, and was thus scented by the sweet lubrication that is so swift to flow, indeed to flood, in a such a succulent girl in her youth.
..........................

Early on the afternoon of the same day, at a wedding meal aside from the main wedding breakfast gathering; a luncheon for wedding ‘side-guests’ so to speak.....

Simone lingered a little dreamily. She had been both sad and glad to return home. She was adult now, a debutant with her momma looking around for a wife for her.

Simone was content with that. It was how high society operated, and therefore that with which she must and would, willingly, comply. Her sadness was only at the separation from all her fellow pupils at her finishing-school. Her blues would not last; but, for now, she was a little lonely.

Simone in her quiet corner found surprising comfort in the vision she had of the little redhead providing the suspension of the Hambeth-Netenshaw’s special carriage. Yet she knew she mustn’t linger on the thought, because she could feel the tingle it gave it; the tingle in her tiny panties. Then she heard......

‘Si? I just know it’s you! It’s been so long....!’

The gorgeous brunette from the train journey wiggled over, with a bright smile on her lovely face. Incongruously, she wore a shirt and jeans. She’d been riding just before the wedding ceremony itself and had attended outside the church thus clad. Now, with the confidence of her class, she saw no mismatch in being chequer-cotton and blue-denim clad, amid all the other women wearing their wedding day finery and millinery here at this sub-gathering.

She couldn’t be hassled to go home and change. She’d simply swept in though the flung-wide doors in her six-inch-heeled riding boots, and swept up her usual choice of cocktail from one of the Henderson Hotel’s serving wenches; one she had enthusiastically thoroughly spanked with a riding crop just last night as it happened.

Wearing and airing a certain certainty of approach, despite slight uncertainty in her visage, she breezed immediately over to Simone, as if to solve and resolve a mystery.

‘It must be you! I kept wondering when we were on the train, if it was you Si.’

‘You were...we were sat opposite? Alina Fortesque-Tomyson? You must remember me. We are...we were neighbours. I was the skinny kid you teased when we were in early school, what, maybe fourteen, fifteen or sixteen years ago I suppose it must be; well-before we were sent away for our final educations.

Si? It is you. You are Si aren’t you?’

Simone blushed. ‘Yes of course Alina. Yes of course I am. I remember you well Alina.....’, Simone whispered in answer.

Then Alina alighted on the solution to her momentary mystery: ‘Of course! Of course!! You were off to Nordon and then finishing-school! Of course! Oh my god! How damnably stupid of me! And now you’re so very beautiful!!’

Simone blushed even more deeply, and looked up with shyly appealing dark brown eyes.

Then Simone’s lovely face turned adorably crimson and she lowered her head coquettishly, with pretty tears of embarrassment cornering her lovely eyes; only too aware and equally thankful that the extreme tightness of the thong dividing her testicles, was preventing the cock with which Simon had been born, and which was now suddenly very firmly and very heavily engorged and engaged in expressing arousal at thinking of the girl being tortured as the wedding carriage’s suspension, and by her attraction to Alina, bursting out and affirmatively thrusting up the hem of the little black number Simone so absolutely deliciously sexily filled....