Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Disconnections - Overall Synopsis:
‘Disconnections’ comprises independent, and not
interdependent, stories. Though not interconnected, the stories have a common
theme: the ‘disconnections’ of the overall title. I hope you’ll enjoy them ….
Sulina Toledo
Synopsis: A becoming mission beckons ambition.
Sulina Toledo – Part ONE
Sulina Toledo sat checking her
clipboard. The all-female studio audience murmured, conversing. Sopranos and
contraltos sounded in spoken song. There were fifteen minutes to ‘action’, and Sulina was making final checks during ‘a five out’ from
last second micro-rehearsal.
Sulina was a stunningly attractive
girl, and she was, rightly, proud of it. ‘The blonde bombshell’ was the
description she was pleased to hear was most often used behind her back. ‘The
devil’s own bitch’, was one she shrugged off as jealously.
Her combination of harvest-corn-blonde hair tumbling in an
incredibility of intertwining curls to below her delicious rear, dark soft
brown eyes, a honey smooth and natural almond complexion, a mouth with strongly
delineated seductive Cupid’s bow upper lip and provocatively pouted lower, was
married with obvious intelligence in her gaze.
Her cheekbones were prominently high, making her calf’s eyes
the compelling first focus of the onlooker’s attention, before the same poor
onlooker would see and long for the mouth.
Although her nose was slightly longer than perfection would
ideally have demanded, her face, in total composition, was decidedly more to
the ‘beautiful’ end of the spectrum than the merely ‘pretty’.
Nature had made Sulina looked
haughty. Her self nurture had apparently done nothing to dispel nature’s mould.
To those who knew the real Sulina though, there was
nothing but sweet gentleness behind the case-hardened business shell.
If she had been sculpted as an hourglass, decidedly more
‘sand’ would have been needed in the top end. She was a fulsome 38D. But Sulina always dressed to cover her bosom fully. It was a
concession to shyness.
Sulina was not for cleavage. She
had two other weapons. Okay she had an ass that begged ‘slap me because I taunt
and haunt you’, but that was just the dream topping for the treasures that ran
to ground from it.
Strong long and eloquently elegant, she had assiduously
practiced ballet since she had worn her first diaper, and it showed in the way
she flowed as she walked. If a girl could really have ‘legs to die for’, Sulina’s legs would have turned the world’s nations into
leaping lemmings.
Sulina dressed not to thrill, but
to kill. She’d gotten a damned good income from the application of her
intelligence to a PhD at Camford, after a Masters
from Vale, and her subsequent rise to career star columnist. She could afford
to buy
At least in her own mind, Sulina
had an established reputation as an acerbic journalist. However, this was the
first TV programme on which she had been an
interviewer.
It was a one-off. She was only a guest presenter. But who
knew where it might lead if she hit the cathode rays hard enough? ‘Taking the
Lid Off’ was a crappy show, but hey, that’s daytime TV right? And this was just
for starters: okay?
Make it in Ntobi the dump capital
of Senabre, down here in deepest darkest
Back home in the USA there were plenty of pretty girls doing
regularly what she was about to do for the first time, but maybe one day soon
it would be: ‘move over Onara Winfee,
and let Sulina have Cam 1’ – good G she couldn’t be
more cruddy than old ‘Windbag’, that was crap wrapped! Or so Sulina had long since concluded, in her crueller
moments.
She was going to be a sure fire hit on this show. Sulina was hell bent on that. Controversy was what TV fed
on, that and soap operas of course. But Sulina had no
time for soaps, and was certainly not going to give their shite
actors airtime when she got her very own full-time show.
Nor did she intend her show – yes this,
or something better, was going to be ‘her show’ one day, and no go for anything
she did not want in it – nor did she intend her show to hit the celebs trail. ‘Oh so you got a ghosted book out, made a
film, recorded an album, camped out on
The jump from printed journalism, at a mere twenty-three,
had been a risk. She’d wanted risk though. She’d gotten bored at ‘The Ntobi Courier’; it was so staid. Flashing her panties at Kerrerer Prachet had been the
best two-seconds work she had ever done there.
Prachet owned forty-percent of the
world’s media outlets. Sulina had always assumed Prachet had only seen the Courier in its recycled format;
when she’d wiped her ass. But when Prachet had
descended on ‘The Ntobi Courier’ for a very surprise
inspection, Sulina had ensured Prachet
had taken a good look – a good long look – at, and all the endless way up, her
shapely legs. And it had worked. Prachet had ordered
that Sulina join her day-tour entourage; and walk in
front of course.
Lunch with Prachet had gotten
tête-à-tête, and Prachet’s hands had tried to get
everywhere other than where they should have been. But Sulina
was used to that, and had used it to get her own way.
A night in Prachet’s hotel bed,
and – holy shit! Had she really?! - lying , over a champagne breakfast, about
being really in love for the first time in her life - was surely not too high a
price to pay for her own TV show eventually – even if, for starters, she was
just a one-off guest presenter on this one.
………………..
The time flew. The lights went up like twenty white suns,
but hotter. Camera 2 was ogling Sulina’s expensively stockinged legs, expansively, as ‘come-on candy’ for the
girls and women watching at home.
A sweet girl in her earphone, the director, whispered a
high-tension: “Twenty seconds and counting down from now Sulina!”
Then Sulina next heard in her ear,
and tried not to be distracted by, the ever-same voiceover introduction from
another sexy girl up in the director’s box: the cameras eying up Sulina’s delicately muscled thighs with the hint of
stocking-top meanwhile:
“Ladies! Here in the heartbeat of
studio 10, and for you lucky girls at home, Ntobi
National 5, ‘the channel with a smile’, presents: ‘Taking the Lid Off’!!”
A banner held up away from the camera’s eye, read ‘rapturous
applause’. And, whilst straining to catch sight of themselves on one of the
several monitors hanging above the stage on which Sulina
sat, next to a presently vacant chair, the audience dutifully obliged, with
accompanying cheers, mixed with occasional over-the-top, ‘woops’.
The girl on the stage edge who had
held up the banner, then put a finger to her pretty lips, to direct the
audience to a lull shush…..
“And taking the lid off today, is the very lovely Sulina Toledo!!” the voiceover sneaked in, with perfect
timing.
More applause was beckoned by the girl in the wings. Then
she signalled another quieter spell, with an
overdramatic finger on lips once more.
“….And Sulina’s subject is: ‘The
Sisters of Sisters’!!!!!” the voiceover finally called out, as if announcing
the second coming, rather than yet more TV dross.
As the cameras continued to pan the audience for pretty
faces, and those same faces turned to each other and pointed excitedly at the
monitor on which they had just flashed for two seconds, and had gone by the
time their prompted companion looked up, more polite studio applause followed,
and the introductory theme music struggled to be heard under it.
Again out of camera shot, a hand held up as if stopping
traffic, ordered the applause to cease. It did: instantly.
“And now!” said the director’s voice in Sulina’s
ear.
“We have all seen them on the high streets and bye-streets
of our cities towns and villages…” Sulina began ….. “They
call themselves the Sisters of Sisters. I call them a fraud. They officially
call themselves: ‘the Order of the Wholly Virgin’ not ‘holy’ as in ‘holy cow’
note you; though ‘cow’ might be appropriate for other reasons – And yes they
really do spell it ‘wholly’ with a ‘w’. and an ‘h’.
But I say they are wholly a sham as well as wholly a fraud…… Today, we take the
lid off ‘the Sisters of Sisters’…..”
Sulina was just warming to a
roasting on her subject…. Polite applause caused her to pause, till it settled
to silence.
“….I call them frauds; but I cannot
call them cowardly, because they have been brave enough to send one of their
number to face me here in the studio this morning. So let’s give a polite
‘National 5’ greeting for ‘Sister Harmony’!….”
Woops cheers and applause came enthusiastically from an
audience dreaming of being ‘on TV, with all its supposed glamour, themselves,
and worshipping in its church meanwhile.
At this, a little look of concern flashed across Sulina’s lovely face. She had intended her introduction to
turn the audience against her guest. The possibility that, if she did not
choose her follow-up words carefully, she was at risk of being the St Joan in a
human barbecue, had just flashed over her highly intelligent mind.
The creature that walked in from the wings, heading for the
interviewee’s chair, looked like a babushka doll. It had the shape of a ten-pin
from a bowling alley.
‘She’, if ‘she’ it was - it was hard to tell - wore the
vestments of the Sisters of Sisters. They were of white rubber. The head
garment was a completely enveloping hood, which consequently masked the face
and hair totally. The ends of this mask disappeared within the neck of the ‘dress’.
The ‘dress’ had been draped over
the mask, and its circular neckline clearly held the mask on the face and,
presumably made a double-layer of rubber cover on the wearer’s shoulders.
In detail, the dress had no detail. It was formed like a
drab bell. It fell from the neck to the ground all around the wearer, and had
no visible joint, such as might have been provided for buttons or zip. There
was in fact no other way in. The dress had a central hole for the head. It was
obviously just pulled over the head till its central hole ringed the neck.
There was not even a belt to give this dress womanly shape.
The size of the hands gave away that the wearer was a girl.
They were small and pretty. At least, one could guess the hands were pretty.
The all-enveloping dress had long sleeves, wider at the wrist, like those of a
magician’s cape. But there was no chance of the hands’ escape, as the wearer’s
arms were clad in white rubber gloves that must, to best guess, have run up to
her armpits within the dress.
The front of the mask over the face had four holes. Each of
these was exactly circular and less than an inch across. There was one for each
eye, one for the nostrils, and one for the mouth. But each and all of them were
covered over by multi-layers of gauze, so the wearer could see out, speak out,
and breath in and out, but the viewer was totally
denied a look in. Either side were like holes with
gauze covers for the ears to hear.
As Sister Harmony walked her five-foot-three to the vacant
chair for the interview, it looked, for all the world,
as if she were a swan on water: for there was no sign of feet let alone legs.
She sat decorously slowly, putting her lower legs at a
slope, as if she were riding the chair sidesaddle, and then clasped her hands,
thumb-within-thumb, on her lap. The consequent slight raising of her dress’
hem, revealed only that she wore, what must be white rubber boots, flat with no
heels.
Sulina had already decided her
strategy. She wanted to get to her theme that all this dressing up was hooey,
and that the women under such garments were just like you and I; but more
crooked. She needed an armour-piercing salvo. She
decided on light humour, rather than acidic derision.
“Sister Harmony, good morning and welcome”
“Good morning to you Sulina!” a
sweet young voice with a touching hint of giggle responded, a little masked by
the mask Sister Harmony wore.
“Bet you’re wearing rubber knickers under that lot: right?” Sulina queried with a look to camera that said: ‘there,
I’ve put the wicked question you were thinking of yourselves back home, but
would never dare ask’.
“Ah, but wouldn’t that be telling!” Sister Harmony answered,
in a lovely Irish accent, with laughing joyfulness in every word. The salvo had
glanced off the armour, even before the studio
audience laughed and applauded the charming nun.
“How do you manage to eat in that garb, for goodness sake?” Sulina tried, with a lighter tone, less suggestive of
taking sides against the nun, more an attempt at ridicule by stealth: a first
step that way at least.
“But this is just our outside robes: the familiar and
comforting face we show to the loving world, Sulina.
Sure, it would be a challenge to eat in this little lot wouldn’t it now?”
Sister Harmony giggled, “But if you were after drinking, you’d find that god
had made straws in her wisdom”, the lovely voice of the sweet nun soothed.
“And back at the mission, we gets a
good healthy tuck-in, with fruits and vegetables grown in our own gardens: ‘the
gardens of
“But don’t you go letting on now that I overheard her, or
poor Sister Harmony here will be in for a telling off about the size of her
ears!” the charming voice all but sang with happiness.
The audience laughed and applause rippled.
This wasn’t working. The nun had the audience. If Sulina wasn’t careful, she’d be in for a metaphorical
lynching by the minor multitude out just beyond the footlights.
She tried the light touch again.
“You can cross you legs if you want to”, was her next try,
whilst using her own supreme dream strong long curvaceous exemplars of the
finest of female lower limbs to demonstrate.
“Sure, but we’re not aloud” Sister Harmony answered, with a
completely disarming sincerity that blew Sulina off
track, “But don’t let it stop you!” the lovely nun joked, and the audience
applauded: they had fallen in love with her.
That tack was not going to work. Time was running out. Sulina now bid herself: ‘Load the torpedoes and fire’.
“Sister Harmony, have they sent you here today to explain
the moneys that have gone astray: the well document disappearance of charitable
donations from the hard-working well-meaning public,
and the less well-documented and therefore alleged but as yet unproven
reappearance of those same dollars in a Swiss bank account?” Sulina barked, her lovely eyes shark, her perfect teeth
threatening razors behind her soft moist lips.
“They have indeed”, came Sister
Harmony’s surprise answer. Sulina had no answer to
that answer. As sailing ships went, her sails were sagging in the doldrums:
there was no wind in her spinnaker anymore.
“The world renowned auditors, Arnett and Yang, have agreed
to inspect and audit our accounts. And, praise be, for
free at that. The accusations are very grave and hurtful. We wanted the best.
We’ve got the best, and they have got a completely free hand… Goodness, I do
hope that wasn’t advertising Sulina…. Sure they’ll be wanting me to sell cola next if it was!” Sister Harmony
laughed with love in every sweet note, as the audience cheered her on, and
applauded her rather weak joke.
Sulina was becoming discomforted.
She began to see flames nibbling away at the thus curling edges of the contract
she had hoped to get for her own show. She had to find a bale out and use what
she baled to save her contract too.
She was also becoming discomforted in another way. What was
it about the contrast of her own freedom to display her manifest manifold
charms in a micro-dress; and the claustrophobic imprisoning cling of the nun’s
vestments, that was causing such a disturbance in Sulina’s
tiny silk panties?
Sulina’s crossed legs tightened.
An urge to squeeze her minx flexed the pronouncedly curved calves, and
momentarily displayed the sweet muscles in the forefront of her long strong
thighs: calf curvature and thigh muscles sculpted and cultivated by her ballet
training.
“Your mission: the mission of the Sisters of Sisters is, as
we are always given to understand, the saving of what our Victorian mothers
would have called ‘fallen women’”, Sulina began this
time, using a tone of voice inferring superior education and consequent
condescension. It was yet another mistake. Without being in the least rude,
Sister Harmony leaped in:
“Sure, a little corrective there Sulina:
‘tis the poor girls reduced to prostitution that we Sisters of Sisters are here
for, for to help them find a life outside the gutter to which misfortune has
confined them. No heart could not break to see those poor girls, many of them
also victims of the drug-taking culture rife throughout society, but not within
a poor girl’s affording, unless she sell her own god-given body to other women
seven nights a week three-sixty-five days a year……”
…. The audience was spell bound. They were eating out of
Sister Harmony’s gloved hand. A dozen pins could have dropped,
they were so quiet and so wrapped by the lovely voice with the charming
champagne bubble intonation. Sulina tried to hide her
defeat behind the ‘go on I’m listening’ nods of her gorgeous blonde curls.
“……And believe me, Sulina, I know
how wonderful the Sisters of Sisters are, for I was once one of those poor
girls: one of those ‘fallen women’ as you so rightly describe them….”.
As Sister Harmony stopped her intensely sincere summation of
the role of her mission, there was, for a long moment, absolute silence. And
then the studio audience broke into sustained applause, accompanied by some
out-of-place woops and whistles, as, to a girl, they stood to applaud the sweet
nun.
The cameras now turned from Sulina,
to show the audience reaction. The depth of the sincerity that reaction demonstrated, showed, in that not one woman or girl there
looked at the monitors to see if their faces were being broadcast.
Sulina knew she had lost. She had
to wind this up. She must make the best of a bad job. It was time for the soft
soap once more.
“Sister Harmony, you have just wowed our studio audience,
and, if they are anything like me, the millions of girls and women watching at
home will, too, have a tear in their eye. Thank you!”
The applause that came next, was
the punctilious punctuation for the thanks Sulina had
expressed.
“Sister Harmony, it has been just such a wonderful
experience to have you on ‘Taking the Lid Off’, and I would like personally, to
contribute my fee for this programme for your cause”.
The audience did not even seem to hear, let alone cheer
this, as Sulina intended they should. It was a
cynical manoeuvre she was now regretting. She covered
quickly, several thousand dollars the lighter though she instantly was. To wind
the show up, she returned to the light touch:
“How can you bear to be dressed, draped so anonymously head
to toe like that? Doesn’t the girl in you long to lounge beach in a bikini?” Sulina tried.
“Would you believe me if I told you that to take the veil
and wear the rubber is the, but the most liberating experience it is possible
for any girl to ever encounter, this side of heaven itself!” Sister Harmony
answered, in an intense whisper conveying such sincerity, that the audience
would have signed-up for the nunnery there and then, if she had asked them.
“If you don’t believe me, you should try it yourself!”
Sister Harmony finished, with sweet golden giggles galore as she touched Sulina gently on her hand, with her gloved fingers, to
convey that she, Sulina, was not being laughed at.
Sulina smiled, without her eyes
joining in. She had to make the best of this bad job.
But then ‘Pulitzer Prize’ and ‘Nobel for literature’ flashed
across her mind. It would be a hell of a subject to get the inside out on. She
hadn’t been planning a sabbatical, but…. Well, there might be an option here
for a report or factually based novel. There were a few seconds left…..
“Sure. Could I get a short-term contract?”
she half-joked in response.
“Join the novitiate. Wear the red. After a year you have the
free choice. Convert to the white like little me, or go back into the outside
world with our continued blessing!” Sister Harmony answered.
“You’ve got me won over”, Sulina
found herself saying, for the sake of the audience reaction, the viewing
figures, and her continued desire for a contract; and to her own almost
complete surprise.
“Lady’s: this was Sister Harmony right here on ‘Taking the
Lid Off’”, Sulina announced as the cameras now panned
back, and the audience read and obeyed the order on the held-up placard
reading: ‘long strong applause’.
As the studio lights dimmed and the fade-out credits rolled
up the home TV screens, too quickly to be read, the two people on stage, the
beautiful interviewer and the white-rubber robed nun, were clearly still
talking.
And lip-readers would not be able to see Sister Harmony say:
“If you meant that Sulina, Abbess Mercy’s door is
always open, and we will welcome you with the widest of open loving arms my
sweet sister.”
But they would have seen, Sulina
Toledo answer: “I need to get my head together on that one Sister Harmony, but
I really feel as if I heard a call just now. And, whatever I decide, the
blessing is on you for bringing me to the choice”.
…………………..
Two hours later: “Forgive me Revered Mother, for I have
sinned”, a sweet Irish voice confessed in the cubicle reserved for that
assignment and named from it: the nunnery’s confessional.
“Sweet Sister Harmony! I cannot
believe for one moment that you have just robbed the Bank of Senabre!”, a kindly ‘voice of
reason’ responded from the neighbouring box.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Tell me my child. What worries you so?” the same ‘voice of
reason’ enquired.
“I did my duty at the television studio today Revered
Mother. And I found I could not take my eyes off the interviewer’s; off Sulina Toledo’s legs. Even now, as I think of her, it excites
me in an unforgivable way Revered Mother”, Sister Harmony whispered with a hint
of tears breaking.
“Dear dear. You poor child”, the
Abbess answered in contemplation.
“What should I do Revered Mother? I keep seeing her whenever
I close my eyes. It makes me want to be very naughty with myself, and I fear I
may have a wicked dream.”
“The cure for dreaming is to stay awake all night Sister
Harmony”, the Abbess observed.
“Must it be that?” Sister Harmony asked, with an edge of
resignation accompanied by anxiety in her voice.
“It is within my powers to order you, sweet daughter”, the
Revered Mother observed, gently.
“I will obey without order”, Revered Mother.
“Then your forgiveness will be all the greater and stronger
for that my child”, the Abbess concluded quietly.
…………………..
Post
Another girl waking in a wet dream, cried out for her god to
save her, but audibly came nonetheless. Her subsequent whispered prayers for
forgiveness hissed sibilant across the noisy silence of a steamy African night.
A television camera touring the sleeping quarters, as if in
a secretly filmed documentary, would first of all have set scene with the humid
African night, and the full moon’s wan face. The accompanying microphones would
meanwhile capture the cacophony of the nocturnal wildlife.
Moving in, indeed apparently flying through one of all the
nunnery’s windows left open for ventilation, it would have panned or scanned
over the rigid rows of individual beds. On each bed it would show an individual
girl naked lying atop.
Focus on any one girl would show the wooden block she had
for her pillow, and her wrists and ankles held out in an ‘X’. She is shackled
to the corners of her bed, lying on her back. Her only covering is the mosquito
net. The net is for covering the bed. It covers the girl coincidentally.
All the girls are lying on their backs. All the beds are
under mosquito net tents.
Several beds are completely empty. One bed, though made up
for sleeping, with wooden pillow and sacking mattress, is empty.
Now the imaginary camera in the fictitious documentary looks
for the source of the quiet sobbing: the girl missing: the cause of the one
empty bed with a pillow readied.
It sees an open window. Nothing unusual
there. It is a hot night and all the windows are open, as has already
been established. But there is a light at this window and it is not that of the
moon alone.
A shadowy figure stands obediently there. She wears her
nun’s cowl covering her head, but is otherwise in her underwear. In essence,
she has removed the rubber ‘bell’ that makes up her dress. Even so, she is
still clad head to toe in rubber vestments.
She is clad head to toe but for two all too beautiful parts
of her anatomy. Her vest is purposely designed to let her bare breasts poke
through. The light the camera has seen, the light adding to moonglow,
comprises two lights in fact.
The two soft spotlights are beamed on soft breasts. The
camera finally moves close in. It has discovered whose sobs of distress are
being heard. The sobs of distress other than those from the girl who has just
had a wet-dream in her bed that is.
It moves in on the standing girl. She has her hands clasped
behind her back. Her feet are slightly apart. She is there to be punished for
having lascivious thoughts about the lovely reporter Sulina
Toledo’s elegant legs. We can see, in the camera’s eye we can see, the girl who
owns the lovely bare breasts.
We wonder why she sobs so. Is to be made to stand all night
so great a punishment? Then we see her nipples and how hugely distended and
erect they are.
Now we realise she is sobbing in
the greater part, not because she cannot take her punishment like a girl, but
because her nipples have become heavily engorged by their being engaged in the
process that has caused her to spurt in her rubber knickers. Something has made
her cum.
Has she been dreaming on her feet? Sleeping
whilst standing. Has he been seeing Sulina
Toledo’s inspirationally erotic legs before her minds eye? All that strength in
such smooth curves: the caressing cling of those fabulously lucky stockings:
the hint of stocking top at the hem of Sulina’s
dress: the hem atop those powerful perfectly smooth thighs?
Yes and yes. Yes and also. The ‘also’ that has made the girl
cum we now see. The girl’s bare breasts are a sea awash with crawling insects.
She bears the horror of their repeated and constant bites.
She sobs as they suck blood from her bare breasts and
nipples.
She is voluntarily saving her companions from these insects.
These insects are her punishment for admiring Sulina Toledo’s beautiful legs.
Sister Harmony’s bare breasts and nipples are being, all but
eaten alive, by hundreds upon thousands of mosquitoes.
<>
Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Sulina Toledo – Part TWO
Next day the sensuously scented Sulina Toledo swayed her
just-below-knee-length black-tweed-pencil-skirt-clung buttocks and thighs, into
the offices of ‘The Ntobi Courier’.
Her lovely bosom was testing out a cool cotton cerise shirt
for its tensile strength. The shirt’s very life was being saved by the
retaining strength of the same cantilevered bra that was torpedoing-out
Sulina’s heavy breasts. The sleeves of her shirt were short. It could thus be
seen that her lovely arms were tanned, with their uppers sweetly sculpted. She
had used gym weights judiciously, and deliciously effectively.
The contrasting weight of materials, the wintry below waist
and summer style top-out was a style choice. It was current fashion. So was the
scarlet pillbox hat, with the black net drawn down from it casting shade on her
hauntingly attractive face.
From the skirt and hat at least, one could almost see her in
a late 1940s movie. Indeed, she was surely only missing the yappy toy poodle
under her arm. The long strong legs too were in black and white. The seams of
her black stockings were on tanned white legs. The ‘clumpy’ red leather high
heels were old fashioned looking also, to say that they were brand new too.
Sulina’s torrent of tormenting wavy blonde curls tumbled
over each other as they outraced each other to roll down to just below her
saucy buttocks.
“Good morning to you Miss Sulina! My oh
my, but do you look a million-dollars?!” the cheeky cheerful desk clerk
greeted, with her cherubic smile.
“Why: I thenk you Missy Jane there”, Sulina gently teased,
in a bad cod Southern States drawl, prompted by the clerk’s insistent use of
Sulina’s given name as if it were her surname.
“Any messages Abubaka?” she then smiled, with the genuine
sweetness that was the real Sulina.
“Just the one Miss Sulina. Old
Firenza herself said to be sure to go right up and straight in, next time you
dropped by. She’ll have finished the editor’s conference by now. Hope you
haven’t been a naughty girl. Last I saw our dearly beloved editor,
she was in one foul mood!”
“You mean you can tell when she’s not?!” Sulina quipped over
her slender shoulder as her erotically clicking stilettos headed her graceful
body to the elevator.
………………………
“Good to see you Sulina. You’re looking just great!” Firenza
Peoria greeted, as she chewed on a huge
“Cheesus! Look at me will you. I’m
scrabbling round for a frigging lighter, and I gave up smoking new year gone
for chrisakes!” she then added, after she had recovered herself from her
unthinking reflex, and sat square facing out over her cluttered oak desk.
She now threw the cigar from her mouth onto the desk. It
rolled off the piled papers and dropped on the floor. She moved to pick it up,
could not see where it had gone, and waved a hand as if to say ‘oh fuck it
then’, before she again drew her attention to the lovely Sulina’, leaving the
cigar to its fate.
Firenza Peoria, a thirty-year old afro-American of
considerable loveliness, had been expressly appointed by the Courier’s owner,
Kerrerer Prachet.
Kerrerer did not usually give second chances, but she knew
It was intended as a punishment.
“Whatdya want Sulina, I got me a plate full, and some, just
now? You gonna give my photographer some intelligent ass on page five, you
bewitching witch, or you gonna pain my butt some more? Which is it?”
“I understood you wanted to see me Firenza”, Sulina answered, cool as her cotton summer top.
“Oh cripes yes. Your column Sulina: ‘Yesterday’s Tomorrow’? It’s out”,
“Sorry kid. That was a bit blunt I know. I got ‘gossip’
lined up for those inches. You can do gossip ifin you wanna. It’s
crud, but I gotta keep up circulation. You’ll find another job before I
relocate that friggin cigar just now. You’re shite-bright kiddo. Your column is
your own copyright. Take ‘Yesterday’s Tomorrow’ to the
intelligent papers. Try the weeklies. Honey, I hope it makes out for you
some….”
As she left the editor’s office, Sulina turned, and saw that
Firenza Peoria had found her cigar and was lighting it.
And, as she walked to the elevator, she heard a growl of:
“Oh for chrisakes, what the fuck am I doing?”
………………………
“A whole year?”, Cindana repeated,
stunned.
Sulina’s long-time live-in lover, a stunning mulatto native
Senabran, with wonderful dark brown eyes, a profuse confusion of brunette
curls, and negress’ lips that said prayers even when they were closed, was used
to her companion wondering off on assignments, but never before for such a
lengthy time.
“How the hell am I going to manage without you?” Cindana
expressed in her express distress.
“You’ll manage without me very well. You always did. You
always will. I love you. You do know that don’t you? I do love you Cindana,
never ever doubt it”, Sulina confirmed with genuine soul.
Cindana knew that to be true, but it did not stop the lovely
twenty-year-old from testing its limits: “You love me, and yet you can
disappear for a year, just like that. What kind of love is that?” she snapped.
Then she realised the hurtfulness of what she had just said,
and ran to Sulina, wrapped her arms around the older girl, and sobbed: “I’m
sorry Sulina. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so sorry”.
The gentle kisses that followed spoke more of true love than
any mere words could convey.
Cindana was comforted. Her tears had almost dried, but she
wiped away a last vestige with a lovely forefinger crooked.
“A complete ban on communication will be the hardest bit”,
she then croaked, before clearing her throat, to make her voice sound braver
when she next spoke.
“I think its best to assume that. But, if I’m allowed
visitors, you’ll be the first to know, that’s for absolutely sure, you darling
girl”, Sulina reassured.
“They can’t make you stay in can they? Oh god I just
couldn’t bear losing you forever. I’d die Sulina: truly I would!” Cindana
answered, with her anxieties rising to the fore once more.
“You’re not going to die, you silly. You’re going to start
on our book. Your part will tell what it was like to lose a lover to the
Sisters of Sisters. Mine will have to wait till I’ve done the year as a novice,
and found out what its all about from the inside. What
we both have to keep under wraps, is that this is all a put up job. You mustn’t
let on that I went in for what I could get out of it. That’s all”, Sulina
repeated, she being anxious about word getting out, and her scoop being
scuppered.
………………………
The interview had already lasted an hour and a half. The
Abbess, Sister Mercy, seemed to be singularly unconvinced by Sulina’s plea of a
‘road to
She had not asked one telling question; she’d fired off over
two-dozen.
Sulina was assuming that she was about to go back to Cindana
and apologise that the whole escapade had fallen through, when Sister Mercy
suddenly announced:
“Sulina, I hope you’re as sincere as you are beautiful, for
you need to be sincere to enter god’s service, and you must know that your
beauty will be buried alive forever: forever if you convert after the initiate
year that is. The price a truly lovely girl like you pays above all, is to surrender her beauty to the veil and robes.”
“That means celibacy my child. Complete and absolute
abstinence: a renewal of your virginity. You will say goodbye to physical and
mental love in the form that manifests itself in sexual intercourse, and above
all, sexual monocourse. Masturbation will be your strongest temptation. It is
as forbidden as it is abhorrent. Have no doubts
whatsoever, masturbation is not and will not be tolerated!” This was the first
time that Sulina had heard the sweet Abbess raise her voice.
“I have no doubt that you are a passionate girl, with all
the physical and emotional needs of a young woman with god’s full equipage for
sexual love. It is this that you will find the hardest to bear. It is this that
you will leave behind in the nunnery”.
Sulina looked at the masked face that was talking to her:
the completely anonymously rubber-clad clone before which she sat, and real
doubts began to tumble in, falling over each other in their rush to dismantle
her previous certainty and determination.
“As you’ll see, I have the honour of wearing the black.
Sister Harmony, whom I feel certain will be my successor, wears the white. I
have the honour of the black as the Abbess. Sister Harmony wears the white as a
fully-fledged nun.”
“You, my dear daughter, may wear the red. The red marks you
as a novitiate, ‘an apprentice nun’. Since you will be an apprentice for
twelve-months, it is for me to appoint a supervisor. Sister Harmony will take
on that role. I will tell her to do so right away”
“Welcome to the sisteren Sulina”, the Abbess confirmed as
she held out her left hand, gloved in black rubber, for Sulina to kiss the huge
ruby on the ring finger.
“Thank you Abbess”, Sulina whispered after she had kissed
the priceless ruby with lips more beautiful than its mere cold carbon could
ever be.
“Just call me ‘Sister Mercy’ the Abbess laughed.
Then she paused: “But what are we to call you Sulina?
‘Sulina Toledo’ came into our loving home, but ‘Sulina Toledo’ cannot dwell
here. I sense that we are going to have a challenge with you my sweet child. I
also sense that your true self will win through, and that Sister Harmony may
not be the only contender for my place when I finally shuffle off the coil.”
“I feel that you are testing us. We must therefore test you
in turn Sulina. I am going to give you a name that it will be your challenge to
live up to, and to grow into. At one and the same time, it will tell you what I
know you are presently short from, and also therefore what you need to aspire
to and attain. From now onwards, and forever I pray, you my sweet daughter,
will be known as ‘Sister Truelove’”.
………………………
“Did you see what she had in that suitcase? Leg wax and a
razor! I ask you, leg wax and a razor!”
The two white-rubber clad figures caught midst chitchat,
curtsied dutifully surprised by the Abbess’ approach.
“Be about your business please Sister Charity and Sister
Hope. And think yourselves lucky if it isn’t the nipple-clamps for the pair of
you tonight”, the Abbess gently scolded.
Turning to Sulina, she then confirmed: “We will keep your
personal belongings for your novitiate year, Sister Truelove,
they will then be disposed off as useless trappings. You will not need anything
you brought with you. That you presently wear, will be
added to the temporary store of your belongings”.
“Ah! At last! Sister Harmony. I might have known you’d be
hiding!” the breathless Abbess joked, as she and Sulina had reached the top of
the flight of steps that led to the nun’s dormitory.
“This is Sister Truelove. She needs to experience the veil
and the robe without further delay. Her present clothes can join her suitcase
in the storeroom behind my office. Once you’ve dressed her, or, rather, shown
her how to dress herself in the required manner, show her around and introduce
her please, Sister. I’m relying upon you to look after her. She is your novice,
Sister Harmony. I know I can rely upon you, even if I can no longer on these
poor lungs of mine…”
Sister Harmony curtsied and kissed the Abbess’ ruby ring.
The new Sister Truelove, Sulina, felt obliged to do the same, realising she had
gone further than expectation only when it was too late.
“I’m so sorry Sister Mercy!” Sulina gasped,
her lovely lips moist cherry love beacons as she spoke.
“Worry not my darling daughter. It’s almost entirely
forgivable. It will count as one contra-point for the week. Sister Harmony will
explain. They help with your training: contra-points”, the Abbess
half-explained to the puzzled Sulina.
Inside her white garb, Sister Harmony prayed against the
temptations of the flesh, as she watched Sulina undress.
Sulina was making no attempt to be seductive. With her stockinged
feet on the worn out old cold slabs of the dormitory floor, she could not feel
any less Mata Hari than she did.
But Sulina was a natural siren. The startling contrast of
her warm brown eyes with her sun-ripened-corn-gold hair; the intricacies of her
endless curls capering a glowing robe down her
femininely-arched back, her slim neck and tiny pretty ears, as her dainty hands
removed her white plastic-pearl earrings: Sister Harmony increased her prayers.
Now the cerise shirt was being unbuttoned, and oh god how
lovely the breasts as they gently heaved with Sulina’s
steady breathing, and how slender the arms, and how fine the golden down on the
forearms, and how sweetly delineated the biceps and triceps, though still so
softly feminine: Sister Harmony doubled her prayers.
Sulina unhooked her bra and took its shoulder straps down
her arms, and poor Sister Harmony’s eyes filled with tears as she saw the full
majesty of the gentle breasts with the two-inch diameter areola centred by the
half-inch high Mount Fuji nipples themselves, as the bosom swung into its
natural freedom, and hung soft-firmly down, sweetly flattened on Sulina’s chest
by the gentle reminder of gravity.
‘Oh please god, don’t let her be wearing suspenders: if you
love me god, don’t let her be wearing suspenders’ Sister Harmony begged in her
head.
It was all that Sister Harmony could do not to gasp aloud,
as Sulina ran the zip at the side top of her skirt down, unhooked its
waistband, and let it drop.
Sulina did not need to undo the last few buttons that had
held her shirt hitherto dangling within and above her skirt’s hem, for Sister
Harmony to see that she did indeed wear translucent white-lace-panelled
suspenders, the belt part of which was on her soft gently curved belly, and
that what must surely be god’s finest ever pair of legs were being shaped,
unavoidably supremely erotically, as Sulina stepped out of her skirt and
dropped her shirt aside.
The panties came next, still warm with Sulina’s body: still
hot from her lovemouth: still strong with her natural full-female aroma. They
were so tiny once off, that Sister Harmony thought it a miracle they had ever
covered anything.
The firm tightly inturned lips smiled vertically between her
dream thighs, as Sulina continued to undress. She was
completely shaven. She was as nude and bare between her legs as a holy
innocent: Sister Harmony’s prayers became almost manic.
Sister Harmony knew she was creaming as she watched the
golden curls of Sulina’s glorious hair swing round to cover her left eye, when
she bent to unclasp her left suspender. Her leg was so supremely smooth, that
the let-loose stocking slid slowly, but immediately, to Sulina’s ankle.
All this while, Sulina was unaware she was being sexually
ogled. She could see nothing of Sister Harmony’s eyes under the hood, behind
the gauze that prevented the gaze in, but not the ravishing of her lovely
dancer’s legs by the deeply frustrated Sister Harmony.
You will find it easiest to put the knickers on first,
Sister Harmony pointed, causing the beautiful Sulina to turn to the bed, where
her new garments were neatly laid out.
Sulina picked up the red-rubber knickers, and was shocked to
find that they were lined with rough sacking. She looked up at the
characterless mask of the white-robed companion.
“All we wear, Sister Truelove, is lined for sacrifice. The
hairshirt has its descendents”, Sister Harmony explained obliquely, to try and
ease the trouble lines she longed to see off the lovely, soon to be hidden,
face.
How could she make this girl smile? For the world to be lit
for one last time by the glorious light that such a face was beacon too, was
more that the world deserved; but for the flame to be snuffed without one last
glow of its astonishing beauty, seemed so cruel to Sister Harmony.
Sulina drew the rubber knickers up her legs and giggled,
putting her pretty fingers to her moist cherry lips, and her face glowed golden
girl and her eyes shone lovelight, and the stars hid for shame they could not
compete with such glory; but the universe found reason for its continued
existence, and poor Sister Harmony had tears trickling from her eyes for the
sacrifice so shortly to come.
Sulina giggled because she recalled school-issue knickers,
and these, though in red rubber, were they. The waistband was tight just above
her hipbones. The legs, some three-inches down her thighs, took firm grip,
compressing the tops of her thighs starting from just below the cheeks of her
firm ample bottom, fit to all but cut off her circulation. If these were not
passion killers then the dictionary needed immediate review!
It was only when she pulled the knickers right high up, that
Sulina discovered that their crotch was lined, not with the irritating itching
rough jute sacking, but with the opened out skin of a hedgehog, and that its
spines were biting into her tender sensitive love-lips, and invading her pink
where and when her lips parted. To say that this was decidedly unpleasant, would be to understate the literally painfully
obvious.
“The vest next”, Sister Harmony gently prompted, with a
catch of sadness in her voice that caused Sulina to pause and look briefly at
the hooded figure.
The vest – red rubber of course – had short sleeves. It was
akin to a long-bodied tee-shirt. Sulina slid it on, only to find that it too
was lined with the jute sacking material that made her soft smooth complexion
itch furiously.
That her breasts poked out of two holes at the front of the
vest surprised Sulina. Then she thought to herself that they were hardly likely
to poke out of holes at the back, and giggled nervously at the silly thought,
despite the pain from her crutch still.
The vest covered her delicately boned shoulders. Its hem
draped half down the rubber knickers. A quick glance showed Sulina that the
side edges of the vest’s hem had hanging suspender clasps. And that there were
buckle arrangements on the vests sleeves: these sleeves
half-down her upper arms.
“One more sign of amusement, Sister Truelove, and I am
afraid you will score another contra-point”, Sister Harmony informed, with
quiet sadness. “You already have two.”
Sulina looked at Sister Harmony with astonishment. Then she
lowered her lovely calf’s eyes, still mystified, but not daring to ask what
these ‘contra-points’ signified.
“The stockings”, Sister Harmony prompted.
At least the rubber stockings did not contain the irritant
that was making Sulina itch inside her knickers and her vest, as if a contest
were being held to see which could aggravate the more.
The rubber stockings were clasped to the suspenders on the
vests hem. They were quite flattering to the legs. Sulina’s legs therefore made
them devastatingly shapely, and thus devastatingly sexy.
The stockings were thicker at the heel than the sole. Sulina
had already deduced that they combined the only shoes she would wear as a nun.
“You had best put on the gag before the gloves, you will
find it so much easier”, Sister Harmony suggested, matter-of-factly.
“Gag?” Sulina asked.
“You are not allowed to question. That is another
contra-point. However, I would have told you anyway, that a novitiate wears a
gag to stop her mouth for the first month. It is to instil discipline. Don’t
worry sweet sister. We will not let you starve, as long as
you do not talk when we are dining”, Sister Harmony assured.
The gag worked like a branks. Sulina examined it, working
out how it fitted. She then put it over her head and around her neck, before
slipping its straps together with the buckle in the very end eye.
Now lifting her lovely arms so that her pectorals raised and
swung her divinely heavy breasts beckoningly seductively, she buckled the gag
under her golden curls at the back of her neck, thus filling her mouth with a
four-inch-long rubber penis, with a narrow central hole through it, so she
could breath and drink via a straw.
The armpit long gloves, like the stockings, hugged the shape
of the limb, and thus took the sweet shape of Sulina’s very pretty arms and
hands. To buckle these to the short sleeves of the rubber tee-shirt, took
Sulina a while. It was clearly something she was going to have to practice; her
gloved hands were so clumsy.
It was in Sister Harmony’s gentle mind to whisper: ‘say
goodbye to the world sweet beautiful angel’ as Sulina picked up the hood. That
the same thought had crossed Sulina’s own mind, only marginally less
emotionally, showed in her momentary hesitation.
Then she lifted the red rubber hood and slid it over her
golden curls, twisting it till she could see out of the two gauze windows for
her eyes, and then a margin more for her mouth and nose.
Thank goodness this hood, unlike the knickers and vest,
contained no irritant sacking lining. Its lower edges rested on Sulina’s
shoulders. The hood would hug her head when the bell dress was in place.
Sister Harmony watched to ensure Sulina put the dress over
her head the right way around. As Sulina’s gloved arms slipped up its sleeves,
the central round hole rested on the top of her hood for the while. Now she
pulled the hole down over her face, and let the dress’ hem fall to the ground
all around her.
Tears came to her eyes at the finality of this. Sulina had
said goodbye to the world. Sister Truelove had arrived in the nunnery.
It came as no real surprise to Sulina to find that the
inside of the dress was lined at chest height with two more hedgehog skins, and
that her nipples were rubbing on the sharp spines even as she merely breathed.
The holes in the vest thus showed their purpose.
It crossed her mind to ask if such torture was the preserve
of the initiate nuns: the nuns in the red rubber she wore, but her gag would
have prevented her asking even if she had dared.
To wear the rubber veil and vestment was not going to be the
‘lark’ Sulina had dismissed it as in her planning. It was going to be an
experience of constant slow torture. Her sex was already sore, and her nipples
were not far behind. She wanted to get this garb off and damned quick. She had
already had enough of it.
“We dress thus nineteen hours a day”, Sister Harmony
informed Sulina. “You will get used to its idiosyncrasies sweet Sister
Truelove. The best answer is not to fight it. Let your body be taken to the
higher sphere.”
“Our blessed clothing is designed to make us ‘other’. It is
designed to take us away from the merely human and transport us nearer to
heaven. That is why our suffering is focused on those parts for which we have
now no further need where sex is concerned.”
“Our constant suffering finds its relief in holy thoughts.
You must learn to pray constantly Sister Truelove, and you will find you are
delivered from all earthly discomfort”, Sister Harmony enthused in her lovely
Irish lilt, clearly believing all she said.
“Of the remaining hours of the twenty four, four are granted
for sleep, the other one for a daily full body bathe, and for prayer. The one
meal we are allowed, which comprises fresh bread, water, vegetables and fruit,
when the fruit is in our orchards and hot houses, is also taken during the morning.
We have had no cases of scurvy yet!”, She continued,
adding an attempt at light heartedness.
Sulina’s sprits fell like a pre-storm barometer as she
listened, and further still as she was shown the bleak beds with the
rag-stuffed sacks that served as mattresses, the wooden block for a pillow, and
the chains to fasten the sleeper in an ‘X’ on her back, so as to avoid any
chance she might try to masturbate.
The individual tiled shower stalls in which there was a hole
centrally in the floor for daily defecation, horrified her. “You will learn to
discipline your bowels if you are wise”, Sister Harmony observed as she pointed
this out.
“No makeup is allowed. You may comb your hair for five
minutes and no more. Depilation is out of the question. Your body must return
to its natural state. You will find your vestments the more comfortable for
it”, Sister Harmony continued.
“During the first months, you will work inside the nunnery’s
walls, learning the duties in the laundry, cleaning the shower latrines, and
performing gardening and greenhouse duties, or the like. We multitask in the
convent. We all work for each other Sister Truelove. No slacking is allowed. It
is simply unacceptable”.
If Sulina had wanted to escape before, the unfolding of
these horrors before her ears, if not all had yet been witnessed by her eyes,
horrified her. The mind she had set on making mental notes for the novel or
extended articles she planned, was now being cleared
for planning her escape.
This had been a mistake. A wholly hideous
mistake. Sulina’s heart was pumping fit to burst. Inside her terrible
clinging claustrophobic hood and cloying clothes, she was on the verge of a
panic attack.
………………………
Three hours had passed with the hot hell of the clinging
rubber, and the slow drone of sweet Sister Harmony’s instructions on the
history of the Sisters of Sisters, and how the robes had evolved, and the
necessity for the robes and the hood-veil, along with the assumed name, to
reduce the wearer to anonymity and make her a tool for god’s service, and not a
mere girl among girls without god fully in the life heart and soul.
Three hours in which Sulina’s rising terror at her
imprisonment within her rubber clothes, and then within a nunnery that in
itself was surely worse than a prison, was being driven home with increasing
horror, accompanied by the in-built causes for discomfort the clothes were
lined with, and another discomfort causing Sulina to dance a little, in order
to restrain a rising need.
The heavy breathing of the aging Abbess could now be heard
as she entered to dormitory.
“There is a Miss Cindana Angelslove to see… well she used
the old name, but she means Sister Truelove”, the Abbess informed.
“Welcome to the Sisters of Sisters my child”, the Abbess
then confirmed as she stopped and looked, or at least directed her hooded head,
to the now all red rubber clad initiate, Sulina.
“First days, even first hours in the vestments can be
extremely traumatic and emotional my child” Sister Mercy continued.
“My advice to you would be to send me back with the message,
I can assure you I will convey with all the gentleness at my command, that that
sweet young girl, Miss Angelslove, must forget you, and that you do not want to
see her ever again”, the Abbess advised.
But to Sulina, the news just given was so wonderful. Cindana
was here. Cindana could explain. Cindana would take these dreadful robes off
her, and set her free again….
“The choice is yours Sister Truelove. Just nod if you insist
upon seeing Miss Angelslove; or shake your head if you accept my advised
course”, the Abbess prompted.
Sulina tried not to make the nod enthusiastic in any degree.
“Be it on your own head then my
sweet daughter”, the Abbess observed quietly.
………………………
As Sister Harmony led her into the audience room, and sat
her down, the discovery that there would be a solid stone partition wall, and
an iron grid between herself and Cindana, knocked Sulina metaphorically sideways.
Cindana’s pretty fingers clutched at the grid, trying, with
all her pretty girls sweet mite of might, to pull the grille away, as she
sobbed and repeated over and over, shaking her lovely brunette curls with her
disbelieving head as she did so, staring in horror at the red rubber doll that
was being made to stay seated in the neighbouring room:
“My god Sulina, what have they done to you? What have they
done to you? Oh god, what have they done to you?”
“You must address the holy child as ‘Sister Truelove’ my daughter, or you must, I’m afraid, leave” the Abbess, who
had just entered the room where Cindana sobbed inconsolably, insisted.
“I won’t! How can you do this to yourselves you damned
witches?! And how can you do this to a sweet loving girl like my Sulina?!”
Cindana screamed.
At a nod from the Abbess four nuns accompanying her, grabbed
the lovely Cindana preparatory to ejecting her forcibly.
“Say something my love! Oh please god Sulina, I love you!!
Tell me you love me still Sulina!! Oh please please tell me you love me!!!”
Cindana begged as tears rolled down her lovely face.
Under her mask, Sulina fought her gag to try and respond.
Sister Harmony held her in her chair to prevent her getting to the bars.
At Cindana’s final dreadful distressful cries, within her
mask, tears coursed down Sulina’s face.
Tears from seeing the love of her life in
such total misery for her.
And tears because Sulina’s muscles had lost the long fight,
and she was slowly peeing into her rubber knickers: peeing and orgasming that
is.
<>
Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Anastasia
Synopsis: the true story
of the escape and subsequent disappearance of the Grand Duchess Anastasia: the
youngest daughter of the Romanovs, and the only
female royal not found among the dead bodies found to have been buried after
the 1917 Bolshevik revolution and subsequent regicide.
Anastasia
1917 and, for poor
“Highness!” the peasant girl almost sobbed, as she knelt in
the mud before the Grand Duchess: the princess, and
lowered her head to touch her forehead on the ground Anastasia made sacred.
Princess Anastasia, in white furs, no more than five-two
without heels, presently stood en-pointe atop the
squared-off toes of her balletic-booties, sweet red
curls, sweeping from under her bearskin hat, fluttering in the chill
north-east-wind, mauve eyes smiling with genuine tenderness, as she bid the
poor girl rise.
This was the only ‘front’ on which the Russian army had seen
any success.
Before the Russian military had collapsed and threatened
implosion, one regiment’s success had shone amidst the sorry series of defeats
retreats and capture suffered in the face of the onslaught from
But one regiment could not carry the war alone.
Anastasia, the Czarina Alexandra’s lovely seventeen-year-old
and youngest daughter, was honorary Colonel-in-Chief of the Clitorian
Guard: ‘the long legged witches’ as the Kaiser’s army had dubbed them.
The Clitorians had been recruited
for palace guard duties, in peacetime. The individual soldierettes
in the regiment had been chosen solely for their height - none was less than
six-foot tall - and for their facial and physical beauty.
Each company of the regiment was defined by hair colour. The symbol of the blonde company was a ripe ear of
corn; that for the brunettes was an Egyptian hieroglyph brown eye; the auburn
company had a badge showing flaming fire. Those girls with less readily defined
hair colour, were assigned to a company with a
roaring lioness’ head as its symbol.
The girl kneeling in the near-frozen mud at Anastasia’s feet
had a ripe corn ear on the badge fronting her red bearskin kepi. But she was so
filthy and dishevelled, her lovely eyes looking up
now from a mud-caked face, with their beautiful
Revolution was in the air. Royalty needed loyalty. The Clitorian Guard had been singled out to defend the
The dedication and fidelity to fealty of the Clitorian Guard was undoubted. But, even after only an hour
in their company, Princess Anastasia knew she would have to report back to her
dear momma, that this hope too was lost.
The all-girl regiment had been sextuply-decimated.
The pretty peasant down on her lovely knees before her,
showed the best of the state this, loyal to royal unit, was in. And she was
filthy, with her coat torn, her knee-boots evidently stolen from a dead German soldierette, her lovely long strong thighs bare in the
bitter wind.
Her only armament was a pitchfork, her rifle having been
abandoned long since, as it had been longer since that ammunition had ceased to
be supplied. And her broken bayonet was still buried in some unfortunate
enemy’s left breast.
Anastasia was feeling the Siberian breeze’s freeze. In honour of the uniform traditions: the dress code of the Clitorian Guard Regiment: the unit she was visiting this
day to boost the little that remained of their morale: under her furs she was
sans panties.
But, the tears that cornered Anastasia’s eyes as she looked
down on what had happened to the motherland, as epitomised
by the near-starving angel at her feet, were from more than the cold alone. She
was crying in pity for the poor soldierette at her
feet, for her country, and for the future of the Russian royal family.
……………….
Anastasia stepped naked as nature into the hipbath: a petite
angel, her confusion of flame-red curls gambolling
giddily down from her crown, to caper the mere five-feet two of her
unsullied-virgin’s ghost white body, till it tangled with her dainty ankles.
Her figure and limbs were firm and gently strong beyond the
superficial appearance from her China-doll delicacy.
Even as Anastasia had first begun to walk, she had also
begun to dance. And Anastasia had danced ever since, twice daily, to trim her
figure and shape her legs to the immaculate feminine muscularity, with which
the highest of high pure artistic beauty, was combined with the mundane duty,
her lower limbs presently lowered themselves to performing.
If only it had been allowed the blood royal, this daughter
of
As she stepped into her bath, her legs now displayed beauty
beyond magic. Even the everyday step of a level walk can be made emotionally
potent by the erotic romance of the means of the performance of that mere
motion: the means of making mere motion passionate potion to sear the seer: a
girl’s legs.
Anastasia’s face said ‘love’ without speech. She spoke love
too when she used the soft lips that clashed their cherry-red with the
gasp-making breathtaking glory of her abundant bundle-tumble of intermingling
interminable autumn auburn curls.
The cherry red of her mouth poised moist pert pout on the
phantom white of her freckle frolicked heart-shaped heart-breakingly
lovely face.
Anastasia’s mauve eyes flashed lightening green when she sparkled champagne in her giggles of excitement. Girl’s
giggles: an enticement to turn and look at heaven on earth in the only creation
god ever made of any true worth. A girl in all her glory: a girl pure and
simple: purely a girl: just a girl: as if the phrase ‘just a girl’ could ever
be justified for its implicit dismissal of the wonder of all wonders that is
girl: all girls or one girl: all wonders or one wonder: all just wonderfully
wonderful.
Anastasia’s breasts were touchingly tiny. She: at seventeen
just: she was a fully developed woman just; but still more a girl-woman than a
woman-girl.
Her breasts were no less lovely for their being small.
Visible only as smooth undulations that questioned if she had breasts at all
when she lay on her back; or at least would have raised such a deliciously
capricious question higher than her breasts did in themselves, were it not that
the rest of her body was so unquestionably feminine, and were it not also, that
her nipples comprised one-inch high teat peaks, peeking prominent cherry-pink
circular tepee pyramid, from the soft smooth gentle hillocks on her chest.
Princess Anastasia stared fixedly in a daydream. Anastasia
sat upright in the hipbath before the roaring fire: the fire striving to
out-glow the florid flames of the glorious curls torrenting
teasingly to the luxurious carpet. She a wet wet-dream of
pure unadulterated girl, with her silken soft complexion shimmering with the
flame’s flickering on the mirror wetness of the soothing smoothness of her
thighs.
Though they were perfectly proportionate
to her sweet petit size, her lovely legs bent at knee made her thighs look
enormous to the worshipping eye.
As she worked to bathe her immaculately shaven nude naked,
naked nude immaculate love lips, her nipples now caressed her shining wet
thighs.
As Anastasia bathed, her patient maids looked on and longed
to find champagne glasses to fill with the sheer intoxication of the water in
which this nymph of nature slowly washed, so that they might drink her, and
take her into their bodies to the same degree to which she was already in their
hearts and souls.
……………….
Anastasia’s tiny ears heard the howls. The winter had been
particularly early and cruel this year: almost as cruel as
Word had been that the ravenous packs had entered the
outskirts of the city. Word was too, that the packs were huge from the
combination of smaller gatherings into armies, united by the single desire to
satisfy hunger, and thus to unite as allies in their plight, where they would
otherwise have done nought but fight.
Even in her warm bath Anastasia shuddered. She was on the
verge of tears. Her lovely momma had ordered her to leave for
“Do please hurry Anastasia” the Czarina begged as she
nervously scurried about the room handling and then setting down priceless
treasures, as if assessing the shear impossibility of taking her palatial
belongings away from their proper setting.
There was, as the Czarina full well knew, no greater
treasure in that room than the girl in the hipbath.
“You must, but must memorise the
message from your papa. It is to be addressed directly before his cousin in
We have readied a troika from the streets. We cannot use the
royal vehicles. They are too readily identified. There is no fuel for the motor
cars anyway. Discretion is the order of this day, as it has been of every day
of late. You will drive yourself south to Gatchina,
where we are assured the railway is free, and you may entrain for
“Yes momma”, Anastasia reassured.
It was the tenth or twentieth time that her mother had
rehearsed these details with her, but the dutiful daughter’s beautiful voice
was loyal and true and sounded no sign of impatience.
“Colonel-General Natasha Lodst,
once of the Redstreak Hussars, will meet you at Gatchina Station. She is to be trusted. She and her
pre-descendents have been loyal servants of our family for ages past.
Colonel-General Lodst is as wise as she is beautiful,
and that makes her very wise indeed”, the Czarina thus tried to make light.
“I have known Natasha since she would sit me on her knee and
tell me of the delights of the Japanese girls she fought against in the war of
1905”, Anastasia reminisced, trying to divert the subject away from the mission
of high trust that she knew awaited her, in order to find some relaxation from
the stress both she and her mother were sharing.
“She would tell me of how the naughty bit between their legs
was horizontal, and not straight up and down like we Europeans. And I believed
her too!” Anastasia tried to make humour.
As Anastasia rose from her bath, just after the tears of the
water’s sadness at her departure had trickled their pearls from the imperial
jewel, the warmth from the crackling logs piled high in the hearth, replaced a
receding curtain of shining wetness on her delicate shoulders, with an
advancing line of dry soft complexion.
Two pretty negress
servant girls now surrounded Anastasia with a huge soft white towel, which they
skilfully worked under the wonder of her hair.
When Anastasia took the fluffy flannel edges in her own
dainty hands they curtsied. She then smiled her thanks to them by turn. They
were thereby awarding with gratitude more valuable than mere gold: gratitude
that had long since enslaved their very soul’s souls with love for their
mistress.
……………….
The stockings were first. White silk with seam, the negress beauties rolled them up
the swerving curvature of Anastasia’s pretty legs, as she sat, to the stocks
cease at half-mast on her thighs.
The same two servants now waited patiently with the garters
opened ‘O’ ready, as their mistress checked that they had, as indeed they had,
got her seams straight.
White Chantilly lace garters, rose
floral, next arose, and were slid up the legs of the rose, to the tops of her
silk stockings, and tied in place by the interwoven imperial purple ribbons,
tied in delicate bows at the sides of her delicious thighs.
The knee-boots were hand-stitched in mirror-mirage tawny
calf leather, of suppleness that enabled them to be eased over the stockings,
and take on a poor rendition, redolent of the shape of Anastasia’s curvaceous
calves.
Both her maids blushed as they held Anastasia’s wolf-fur
bloomers at the ready. Fur-lined inside, stitched fur on the outside, the blushes
were from the passing thought about the sweet lips this nether garment would
shortly contain.
After the waistband of the bloomers had halved the distance
up Anastasia’s handsome thighs, she stood up from her seat, and had them
gentled the rest of the distance, so that they covered her innocent intimacy,
the apparition of her apparently pre-pubic pod, as well as the exciting
elliptic enticements of her sumptuous rump.
Her boots being sans heels, Anastasia stood on the boots’
squared-off toes on big-toe tiptoe, her legs thus taking on the maximality of erotic shapeliness, her locked-back knees
delightful dimples, and her buttocks scooped scallops, as her muscles were
intentionally tensioned, and thus her bottom’s cheeks’ sides, were helloed to
hallowed heavenly deep concave hollows.
As she performed the dutiful beautiful honour
of drawing tight the imperial purple ribbon in the top of the bloomers, in the
waistband now just above Anastasia’s hipbones, into a neat decorative bow at
her lower belly, Anastasia’s senior maid blushed anew.
The pure white silk under-slip, was rolled up before the
slim arms aloft, went through its shoulder straps, and it could and would slide
down the equally silken smoothness of the soon-to-be wearer, till its hem flowed
to and fro momentarily, before settling its rose-weave
leaves-thorns-and-flowers trimming, just below Anastasia’s knees.
The pure white thick cotton dress had been chosen for its
plainness, and corresponding contribution to half-hearted disguise.
As the maids worked its waistband up over the underskirt,
its bodice hung forward loose. The waist in place and the skirt, which belled
out down with its hem at the heels of Anastasia’s boots, had any tucks or
creases straightened.
The dress’ bodice came next.
Anastasia’s pretty arms, with their minimal muscularity,
were introduced to the long sleeves, which were buttoned at cuffed wrists. This
after the peasant style dress, had had its bodice
drawn over her breast and breasts, so that it could be buttoned up its
mid-back, from where her curved spine swerved up from her bottom’s top, to the
high collar at her slender neck.
All this under the splendour
sensational of her ankle-length furious-fire-flame cascaded cavalcaded cape of
confusing circinate circumcentred
circumducting cupric copper circumfusing red curls.
Even as a girl, Anastasia had loved to touch her sweet cheek
on the white wolf-fur of coats such as the garment being brought to her now.
And the maids, who had known her since she was a child, let
her perform that delight and delighting little duty, before one lifted her
golden tresses, and the other helped her into the double-fur-lined inner, and
enfolded her wonder in the fur lined outer. So that Anastasia
cuddled and snuggled safe and warm in the three layers of wolf-fur the coat
comprised, as its double-breasted wings were overlapped and slowly buttoned,
from her ankles to the wing collar at her delicately dimpled chin.
The porcelain pretty face, with its delight of dancing
freckles, now smiled out with the confidence of its youth at her dear momma,
the Czarina, who could not help a tear of concern cornering her eyes, as she
looked on her favourite daughter.
Fine white tooled-kid-leather fur mittens the maids now
pulled onto her pretty handsover the cuffs of her
dress.
A wolf-fur muff was anchored to her left wrist with a slim
slip-chord, ready.
A white wolf-fur hat, a fur fez: a large soft fez festooned
with a peacock’s tail-feather for delight, and with ear flaps that, when tied
down, linked by a ribbon bow under the chin, was placed saucily on the
inspirationally sensational coiffure curls.
Anastasia was ready for her mission.
Anastasia’s pretty face flushed blushed.
“Are you alright my sweet treasure?” the Czarina coaxed.
After all the bathing and dressing, Anastasia did not like
to say that ‘she needed to go’ – that she ‘needed to spend a kopeck’. Perhaps
nervousness had prompted the need to liberate a libation. Anastasia told
herself to control her bladder, and smiled at her momma.
“I’m fine momma. Truly I’m fine”, Anastasia smiled with the
love in her heart shining from her sparkling mauve eyes, and her moist pursed
confident cheery cherry lips.
The Czarina kissed her lovely daughter’s sweet soft cheek,
and took her gloved right hand, to lead her to the stables.
……………….
A ‘jinkle’ ‘jingle’ from tossed
harnessed heads, seeming to nod in signal of greeting to the lovely princess as
she wiggled into the stables with the Czarina, told the two women that the ponygirls had been tacked out and were ready for the
shafts.
The ponies, all ex-Clitorian Guard
who had decided to extend the honour of serving the
royal household beyond military service, now broken to nervous skittish ponygirl, were all-three consequently over six-feet tall,
with legs of an incredulity of length strength and completely compelling
curvature: fresh, and correspondingly friskily frolicsome.
‘Iskra’, the astounding, simply
stunning negress, would lead the trinity as it pulled
the troika, and would be accompanied by ‘Pravda’ and ‘Siberia’, two very
attractive Caucasian blondes.
Anastasia had always marvelled at
the near nakedness of ponygirls in winter. The only
duty paid to the bitter cold of the October snows, was the fur garter the three
ponygirls wore on their left thighs. It could only be
assumed that the heavy load at high speed as they hauled the sleds, worked to
heat their muscles such that they did not feel the sub-zero cold.
Anastasia’s lifelong love of all things pony showed, when
she broke away from her momma, and wiggle-ran in her tiptoe topping boots, over
to Iskra, and stroked the negress’
face with the pure innocent love of the pure virgin girl she, Anastasia, had
been, and still was.
“We must act quickly now, Anastasia. The hostler will
harness the ponygirls to the troika landau. The three
chosen, are intelligent creatures and will take you to Gatchina
with all speed”, the Czarina reminded, rehearsing, yet again, the vital details
of the plan to get Anastasia to a port, and a ship sailing
for
Even as the Czarina fussed over these final details, she
stole an arctic fox stole around her daughters neck, and bade her enter the
troika, thereafter pulling a white wolf-fur rug over the sweet child-woman’s
knees.
The hideous haunting howls hollered as if in the same
building. But such was it the normalcy of expectation that such dissonant
discourse would be heard in the crisp air of the deepening Russian winter, that
only the high-strung ponygirls seemed to register it:
the Czarina and the Grand Duchess showed no sign they had even heard it.
Iskra, Pravda, and
Sweet Anastasia sat at the rear centre of the open-topped
sled, with the three reins in her lap, knowing she would not need them, but
could snuggle her hands in her wolf-fur muff against the clinging cold, and
trust the proud ponygirls to deliver her to her
destination.
Time was moving on so fast. The wish that she had spent the
metaphorical kopeck had increased, but Anastasia could not disappoint her momma
by delaying her departure for the leisure to fountain her golden treasure. She
must be at Gatchina before dusk. She would have to
stop off on the way. Some faithful peasants would surely let her use their
cesspit.
Even with the snow compacted to blue-sky-white sheet-ice at
the exit of the stable yards, such was the power from the six stupendous legs
which the tremendous strength the pony girls pumped to ground with the pounding
of their iron-shoe-shod wooden hooves: hooves that held their feet on tiptoe
within them, that Anastasia was thrown back in recoil, as the troika was
whisked away on its skis in the bitter biting cold freeze.
She was on her way. The loveliest daughter of the Czar and Czarina, was on her journey to make a personal plea to the
king of
With tears coursing down her proud face, the Czarina ran to
the gated palace entrance her daughter had just left through, and called
piteously after her youngest daughter: “Anastasia!!”
But a glorious golden-red curl surround crowned head had
already turned her way, and the Czarina could see the cherry-red lips on the
angel’s face whispering a pleading sad: “Momma!!!!” as Anastasia’s sled, sped
her into and beyond the horizon of history.
……………….
Anastasia could not help but cry. She was alone being
whisked toward uncertainty. She was so young, so vulnerable, and so laden with
the trust her parents had put in her, to get the
Yet, after five miles Anastasia’s lovely optimists’ smile
returned, and her face glowed brighter than the winter sun that was wanly
making the blue-white field of endless snow through which her sled was being
hauled, blinding to the sensitive eye.
A pack of wolves was spotted on the horizon. Anastasia
shuddered, and nestled her pretty hands deeper into her fur muff, after
arranging the rug higher up her lap.
Anastasia smiled; despite that she felt soreness in her
nipples from the arrival of a would-be familiar over-sensitivity: a prelude to
an interlude that she, though now seventeen, had never yet experienced.
Even had she known what was happening, she had nothing with
her to deal with ‘the curse’. Had she been aware, she must have hoped that her
flow would not begin yet awhile, and that she could make Gatchina,
where Colonel-General Lodst would help her provide
for her woman’s heavenly cycle.
Though Anastasia could not recognise
the signs telling her she was about to enter her period, she knew a more
immediately pressing need. And pressing her pretty knees together was no longer
getting the better of the burning in her bladder. Anastasia was getting
desperate to relieve herself.
……………….
Seven miles out of
The distant woods, despite the wandering wolves seen just
now before, seemed ever more attractive to a shy girl.
At the thought of dropping her knickers and peeing in the
open air, as she had once been told off for doing when she had been a little
girl, Anastasia’s musical giggles lit the lovely lantern of her face, and her
eyes glowed with her irrepressible zest for zoë.
The ‘shush’ of the skis on which her sled sped with the thud
of the hooves of her ponygirls, disposed Anastasia to
sleep. But she must, but must, answer the pressing call of nature, before
slumber’s sweet nurture would, or indeed could, approach further.
The edge of the woods had arrived. Anastasia took her gloved
hands out of her muff, and gentled the ponygirls’
reins to guide them into slowing and then turning onto a path that would take
them, she hoped, to a suitable place for a shy Grand Duchess of the Russian
peoples, to have a sly pee.
“Slow now Iskra, you darling
creature!” she coaxed, “slow now, slow Pravda and
The hoped for proximity to a place of relief, only increased
the need for Anastasia to ‘go’, and she would have danced her lovely legs to
increase her will not to pee herself, if it had not been so undignified.
As it was, in microseconds after her gentle call of “Whoa!”,
she whisked the rug off her knees, and jumped from the troika, careless of the
reins, as she trotted in her tiptoe boots, sliding twice on ice patches, but
recovering her hurry to find a hide where she might drop her bloomers, and make
true the saying that ‘a girl has to do what a girl has to do’.
The sound of Iskra’s pee
thundering steaming to the ground on the spot, where the ponygirls
stood and shook their bitted heads and leather reins, seemed to echo in the
eerie silence, and its hiss increased Anastasia’s panic for her own chance to
piss.
In the clearing there was a slope behind her. Anastasia
thought she heard a noise, but was too distracted by her need, to pay it heed.
Her muff was cast off, hanging by the ribbon around her
wrist. Her mittens came next, else she would never
undo her wolf-fur coat’s buttons and hooks.
Indeed, there was insufficient time to undo more than those
up to her knees and half her thighs.
She must lift the skirt of her dress, and her under-slip,
and get to the ribbon tie holding up her knickers.
The panic with which she fought to undress, and thus
increase a clumsiness not natural to her, would have
made her giggle helplessly if she had been a witness of herself, rather than
her actual self on the very verge of urinating in her panties.
Thank god her skirt was up, but oh the pretty bow tying her
bloomers’ waistband! If she had known of
Her bloomers were undone at last.
Anastasia danced on her divine legs to stop herself from
peeing before she could squat.
She lowered her bloomers to her ankles and squatted and,
holding her coat and dress and underskirt up, parted wide her perfect thighs,
and pissed a long glistering glistening sibilantly ‘sissing’
silently mellow yellow stream, made mildly rosé by her being on the cusp of her
moon month’s cyclic intervention.
Anastasia sighed and giggled galore with relief, as she
jetted a spinning spiralling parabola of her golden
wine, till it slowed to the last spurts she squirted; then a trickle, then
drips.
Yet there was so little! Had all that panic been for so
small a drop of her pure gold?
The proud product of Anastasia’s sulphur-yellow
stream, steamed in the bitter bite of the wind. Yellow in and on the compacted
snow, before the cold could freeze it solid, it trickled back between her
tiptoe-bootied toes, down the slope the stunning
princess was making throne.
Realising she risked wetting her
dangling bloomers if she did not stand and pull them up quickly, Anastasia rose
and, as she rose, heard a noise which made the fine red hairs at the back of
her swan slim neck hackle.
In her fear, her fur-lined fur panties hitherto braced by
her delicious booted calves, slid to her knee-boots’ ankles once more, and she
stopped her efforts to pull up her knickers and close and button-up her coat.
Anastasia had heard a noise of stealthy movement, and the
lovely flaming-fire-fringed curl-caressed crowned head of this escaped favourite daughter of the soon to be slaughtered crowned
heads of
The lead wolf sniffed the snow she had anointed, and its
cock crowed as it grew, bared red, throbbed, pulsed,
and then grew more erect anew, because the intimate scent of her piss as he
sniffed it, indicated Anastasia’s immediately imminent intimate heat.
As lovely Anastasia bent to slide up her bloomers, her
gloved pretty hand, held up, begged for delay and time and pity.
But she had not dropped the hem of her coat entirely, and so
flashed the innocent slit mid her thrilling thighs. Her hairless lips: the
labia of her silk-smooth intact-virgin-tight closed slit, flashed hot in the
clinging cold.
As the one wolf became ten, and seventeen, and twenty, with
those hitherto hidden in the forest pines bidden to come into the open by the
sweet scent sent by the silent breeze blowing over her pee as it slowly froze,
Anastasia was too terrified to scream.
As in the worst of her dreams, she could not move. Even as
the yellow-eyed evil-eyed grey-hide-flanked leader of the wolf packs, raised his greying muzzle
to howl ear-splittingly spine-chillingly hideously, Anastasia’s eyes just
stared in horror and terror too great for her even to tremble.
Time was accelerated and yet slowed down. As her fear fed
her mind with the need for self-survival, Anastasia was seeing the world at
whirlpool whirl; but with every detail of what was and was not happening as if
in a slow motion film.
Now she heard the thunder of the hooves, as her terrified
screaming ponygirls fled, and with them to the
inaccessible distant horizon and beyond, dragged the rescue refuge shelter of
the troika sled.
More wolves gathered. Count lost, countless, they slavered
from their ivory-toothed maws as their cocks throbbed red and raw between their
grey-flanked legs.
Called by the leader’s howl, they were hungry and starving
in binary ways, with a flame-red-haired honey-harvest standing on wonderful
shapely legs before them.
Anastasia adrenalin now kicked in, and she kicked her pretty
legs and fought to run and run and run. And hide she would if she but could;
but her fur-lined fur bloomers furnished her with a trip to end the kicks of
her race back to the snow track traces of the fleeing sled, and a longed-for
slide ride back to some form of amnesty and freedom.
And Anastasia fell.
Felled by her underwear, she slithered in the snow. And as
she slid, her fur-lined fur bloomers unbid, slipped
off her boots’ ankles: ankles below calves curved so thrillingly by the strong
beauty of her lower legs, and lay discarded by default in the snows, just beyond
a finger’s end reach by the lovely girl.
Anastasia scrambled to her knees too late to rise further,
as the wolf packs’ leader of leaders had her by the throat and kept her knelt,
and the leads among his followers forced their cold wet noses up the hem of her
coat and dress and under-slip, and smelled the smouldering
scent of essential desire central to the uncontrollable furious fires that burn
between the legs of young girls.
The wolf packs were hungry. The wolf packs were starving.
The wolf packs must have meat to survive alive.
But to eat could wait. There was another feast to be had
before the rending and tearing into a bloody screaming mass, and the ravenous
devouring of the fragrant feminine flesh knelt before them.
A hideous heart rending spine-freezing scream of: “No!!!!”
was followed by the sound of growls snarls doggish howls, and the rending of
nether garments to, never to be reassembled resemblance of shattered tattered
shards, as the wolves fought to get clear access to the source of the exquisite
fragrance that was driving them’ already wild, still wider wilder.
Anastasia cried in her helplessness. On her knees unable to
move, the savage wolves were stripping her to get at her cunt,
and she knew it.
Eager tongues slobbered as the wolves fought to lick between
her wonderful thighs.
Anastasia murmured mumbled jumbled prayers as the wolves
lapped her lips till her slit betrayed her, and displayed its minxish independence of her mind, by oozing the very scent
that the wolves were seeking, and that drove them wilder still with unsated insatiable desire.
Anastasia’s cries of “No!” and “No!” and “No!” and “No!”, were sobs of a soul in a totality of tortured torment
now.
The unspeakable horror of what was happening,
was only made the more horrendous by the way her very feminine body was
reacting to it.
To the ravenous wolves there was another hunger to be
satisfied to satiation before food was met by hot fresh flesh.
There was another imperative of survival to satisfy.
The anomaly of satiation before destruction would prevent
gestation and parturition, even had the genes been willing to match after the
mating, knew no dismissal in the dismal dark of the
animal heart.
There was hunger of another kind. And here was an intact
virgin bitch on heat for the forty and more wolves to make themselves
repeatedly replete, before Anastasia was torn apart by their terrible teeth,
and voraciously devoured as red raw tender meat.
The scream as Anastasia was mounted and taken by the wolf
pack leader, and surrendered her virginity with an excruciating snap in her
vagina, and a spurt of scarlet blood, was more horrible than the one she had
emitted when she first realised the wolves were out
to rape her.
But the screams that followed the screams that followed the
screams that followed the screams that followed, before a wolf’s huge filthy
cock stopped Anastasia's mouth, were hollow of horror, and told of a girl being
repeatedly endlessly reamed, as she fulfilled her function; and her wildest and
wettest of wet wet-dreams…
<>
Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Connubial Bliss
Synopsis: ‘A woman is
only a woman; but a cigar is also a smoke’.
Connubial Bliss
David Johnson thrashed the
miles. Highway ribboned fore and aft of his auto. He’d got promotion not long
since. It had meant a move up to the 2,000cc plus league, and a car with an
automatic shift. But that didn’t make the motorways shorter. Besides, they’d
married promotion with the more distant locations, and that had increased the
pressure. Employment was no enjoyment. Either he delivered new sales or he was
out. It was just like in that film: ‘Dearth of a Salesman’, or whatever it was
called.
“Fucking SUVs should be
banned!” David cursed under his breath as he belatedly booted the brake pedal
to avoid a collision with the four-by-four jeep and its wavering horsebox
trailer: a crash that was, thankfully, now historic possibility, rather than
present tense, or premonition.
God it was racing!
Overtaking in a wholly miscalculated manoeuvre, it had swerved in, in front of
David, and its trailer had ducked in latterly, nearly hitting his front wing,
as if the driver had forgotten she was towing a horsebox.
If he had been honest with
himself, David would have admitted he’d seen the truck and trailer long before
since in his mirror, and paid it inadequate heed.
He had seen it veering
erratically. At this time of evening in the
Blame therefore was not
leavened by equity. So far, only David’s case for the prosecution had coloured
the air blue. But the double-take didn’t help. Even if it caused him to forget
the near accident.
The double-take didn’t help.
My god! There she was in the trailer. Was she five-three? She was such a pretty
little thing. A Chinese doll with raven hair racing to her ankles. And, oh god
her legs!
She was stark naked! For
cripes sake, she was stark naked!! There was a white leather bridle on her
head. She wore blinkers, had a headband, and had a bit between her teeth. And,
oh god her pretty legs!
Her arms, her slim arms,
were grasped by a single white leather glove laced tight up to her lower
triceps, clamping them behind her back, under her glowing hair, with her fisted
hands on her pert little bum, and her slender shoulders hunched forward. And,
oh god her legs!
She was up on the very
highest tip-top of tiptoe with her feet forced into round wooden clogs shod
with iron horseshoes. And, oh god her pretty legs!
She had reins on her tits.
The reins hung down to tether her to a bar at the inside side of the horsebox
where she swayed with its lurching progress, and her titties danced incitingly
independently and in delightful duet. And, oh god her legs!
The reins though, came over
her shoulder after they had passed back through rings at the two ends of the
steel bit between her teeth. The reins were one long loop of white leather. The
open ends of the loops went through the bit-rings, down her chest, and were
clipped to her nipples.
And, oh god her legs! They
were so pretty! She was only a doll-sized girl but she comprised as many curves
as swerves and as many swerves as curves, and her legs were strong with
pronounced calves, flat-backed thighs, and knees locked back as if she were
double jointed. Oh god her pretty legs!
Mee Yonge! It was Mee Yonge,
David and Janette’s neighbours’ daughter!
“Hi Mr Johnson”, her sweet
voice called as the jeep and trailer whisked distant its lovely load, away from
David Johnson’s place on the lonely road.
……………….
‘Tiredness can kill’, said
the sign all too truthfully it seemed from the scene he had just daydreamed
he’d seen. ‘Services 11 and 42 miles’ read the next, and the dubious pleasures
of a Service Station lay-by were beckoning David, before a reckoning with a
wreck if he was wracked from his track, or he spurted from the hard-on he’d got
from seeing the imagined imaginatively tortured girl.
Eleven miles later,
parked-up, engine off, David stretched his arms and worked his shoulders and
winced and grunted as he eased his locked muscles from where they had slumbered
whilst his auto had lumbered the five-hundred miles till now.
Even if he stopped
half-an-hour for a coffee, he could still make the town of
As David yawned he pondered.
Were the midsummer nights longer in the north of
He was used to driving
immense distances, but, this time, he should have got to bed earlier the night
before. He had got to bed early; but it had been early morning not the good
intention early evening he had sworn to.
He’d fallen asleep in front
of TV. Stupid that. He was so much on the road, and so little home with wife
Janette, that you’d think he’d have taken her hand and dragged her to bed for
passion to be fed. But instead, it had been cosy and warm and so lovely just to
sit beside her, watching the succession of soaps with which she seemed
obsessed.
The early fires, and the
fury of the flurry of arms and legs in the all-in wrestle to fill a vessel with
his root and plant his seed in her, had, for David and Janette become long
since a part of their past. Their only intercourse now was conversation. A head
on the shoulder, and the meaningful meaningless routine kiss in the doorway,
before he left to hit the interminable road, had long since become the outward
signs of an inwardly contented couple, who no longer indulged coitus, and had
not for years.
Being so long on the road,
and avoiding TV in favour of the bar when he was out and about away from home,
David always lost track with the latest happening in ‘Neighbourhood’ and
‘Accident Ward’ and ‘Queen’s Road’.
For Janette, they replaced
the world she loved to be in: the world with David there.
He had to work. And work
took him away. They had a lovely home in Barnmouth, not far from the River Barn
itself. And it was just down the road to the harboured town with its fishing
boats and nets spread for mending in the summer sun. But when David was not
there, and, these days, even when he was, she would keep up, ‘Neighbourhood’
and ‘Accident Ward’ and ‘Queen’s Road’ as her daily evening diet.
Last evening, as Janette had
told him, as if they were really real, as they seemed to her to be, David had
followed, only so far, that in ‘Queen’s Road’ Tom had come back after time
serving in Afghanistan with the army, only to discover that his wife, Mary, was
having an affair with the local ‘love rat’, Jason, who was really ‘gay’ and in
love with Don, who ran the local public house. And that Don, who was ‘straight’
and had rejected Jason’s approaches, but seemed to be thinking twice about the
rejection, had once been married to Mary. And that their teenage son, Mark, who
appeared to have been killed by a tram when he was over in Prague under
Professor Eisentein’s tutelage for the virtuoso violin, had reappeared alive,
having temporarily lost his mind with the stress of being such a talented
musician, and worked his passage to Australia, where he had married an
aborigine girl and they had had twins. This after he had got out of hospital
with his right foot having had to be amputated because of gangrene of course.
But Don, newly discovered to be a grandfather, had fallen head-over-heels in
love with his son’s wife and was plotting to murder his own son, so he could
run away with her. In the meantime, the lovely aborigine girl had just met Mary
too, and there seemed to be a strong attraction between them. And Tom had
forgiven Mary for her dalliance with Jason, and they had reaffirmed their
marriage vows before the vicar. But then, as Mary and Tom, wreathed with happy
smiles, had walked down the aisle of the church after the reaffirmation, Mary’s
sister, Regan, had had what was feared to be a heart attack, and been rushed to
hospital, where the ‘dishy’ Indian doctor, played by well-known Bollywood
heartthrob, Attiah Farad, had found himself suspended from duty for examining
Regan allegedly all too intimately, without the presence of a female nurse as
chaperone, because the hospital was too busy for a nurse to be spared. But that
had only happened because Regan had complained, and that was because she was
hopelessly in love with the younger man: Farad. But the character played by
Farad, had discovered that Regan had the first signs of Alzheimer’s even though
she was still only forty, and would have had to break the news to her had it
not been that she had levelled the complaint about him to the hospital
management. And Farad’s wife, a gorgeous dusky dish, whose natural beauty made
even Janette appreciate what men saw in girls, was a little schemer and social
climber, and had threatened him with divorce if he did not get to be a top
notch brain surgeon in the next year. But she had also just met Mark, and
seemed to be just the woman to help him realise his talents to the full. And
with him, by contrast, she would not even mind being penniless and destitute
until he could reach the top of his calling, or even if he failed. And she had
already told him that changing nappies was no role for a boy of his genius. And
he had been bowled over by her stunning beauty, and they had woken in bed
together at the end of last night’s episode…..
“What was that for?”,
Janette had whispered after David had kissed her cheek following after the
intense flow of her conveying of this resume of ‘the story so far’.
“Because I love you”, he had
answered.
Later, she had gone to bed,
and he fallen asleep in the chair, in front of the highlights from an
indifferent soccer game, he had originally been looking forward to the
excitement of watching.
……………………
As he slammed the door of
his car, and the ‘beeps’ and amber indicator flashes confirmed he had secured
it, David was smiling at his recollection of his evening at home alone with
Janette, his wife of twenty: oh jeese, was it twenty or twenty-one years?!
From relaxation and
anticipation of hot black coffee, David had sudden guilt descend. Had he
forgotten an anniversary? Janette was so understanding she would still have
forgiven him.
He knew they had married in
June. But was it the nineteenth or twenty-ninth? Hell, if it had been the
nineteenth, which was just gone, she must have wanted to murder him last night.
But, if it was the twenty-ninth, there was still time for flowers and, oh damn:
year one was paper, it surely couldn’t be pearl or gold, or diamond. What was a
twentieth, or was it a twenty-first, anniversary marked by? He’d have to phone
his mother. She’d be discrete. She’d remind him.
After reaching into his
suit’s left inside pocket, he flipped out and opened on his palm, his mobile,
only to hear a loud ‘crack’ and a shout of: “Giddup you idle little whore!”
before Mee Yonge trotted ‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’, briskly by, with her
long black mane fluttering in the breeze of her speed, and her legs pumping
heaven high, whilst the girl in the chariot Mee Yonge hauled, whisked a whip
and worked Mee Yonge’s tits to tell the darling little doll which way to turn,
while she obediently trotted along. And, oh god her legs! The cruel driver,
looking curiously like Janette, was using Mee Yonge’s tits to tell her to turn
left or right by pulls on the reins. “Giddup you idle little whore!” ‘clipclop’
‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’ ‘clipclop’. And, oh god her legs!
“Hi Mr Johnson”, Mee Yonge
sang musically breathlessly, deliciously dissonanently, as she was trotted high
stepping by. And, oh god how high she was pumping her pretty legs!
………………
“Hi Mr Johnson”, David heard
again as he woke on the train to see the lovely face he faced, and the look of
tender concern on its youthful beauty, as Mee Yonge gently woke him from his
dream.
“I so sorry Mr Johnson. I
not mean wake you. But you look have bad dream”, Mee Yonge said, as she looked
tenderly concerned.
Half awake, David watched
Mee Yonge sit back from where she had tapped his knee to wake him, lift a
lovely hand to rearrange the light refracting jet tress that had curtained one
kaleidoscopically mesmerising deep brown eye, and then reach the same pretty
hand to self-consciously pull her miniskirt’s hem down her thighs, as she
unconsciously, but not dismayedly or surprisedly, instantly calculated the
trajectory of his awakening gaze.
“Mee Yonge! How lovely. What
are you doing here?” David half-yawned.
“Mmm, excuse me, I was dead
to the world just then. I’ve just got to streeeeeech. Ahhh! God, that’s better!”
David clutter-uttered, as he watched Mee Yonge watch him, and begin to smile at
his antics, as he raised his arms aloft and then bent his neck rapidly
side-to-side, so he could feel a crack from the top of his backbone, that he
passingly wondered if she could hear too.
“That’s better. What are you
doing here sweetheart?” David then asked again.
It was the wrong refrain.
Mee Yonge was: must be: surely by now, at least eighteen? To address her as ‘sweetheart’
when he had helped change her nappies, was one thing; but there was a
difference between a girl and a girl. And seventeen years added on, what sat
before David now was a fully functioning young woman, of exceptional and
alarming physical and facial charms.
“I home college. Summer
vacation. I no go back college now. I soon work in stables at Barnmouth House,
for Lady Barnmouth. I be ponygirl”, Mee Yonge smiled sadly.
“Stable girl”, David
ventured in correction.
“Yes”, said Mee Yonge, with a
mildly quizzical look.
“Stable girl”, David
repeated, “You said ‘ponygirl’”, he gently informed, whilst subconsciously
hoping she would still say she had got it right, and he wrong.
“Yes, stable girl”, Mee
Yonge blushed, seeming to see the gleam in David’s eyes as he had corrected her
English, but not knowing why it embarrassed her.
For David to wake was not
good news. He had no good news to tell. To the contrary, he had lost his job
and had yet to face Janette with the announcement.
The first offence for being
found out driving after drinking too much alcohol at a business lunch, had lost
him his driving licence for twelve months. He had only been lucky in that the
offence and subsequent trial and conviction had been way up in Kandren.
That good news was not going
to last. The event had not made the news at home in Barnmouth. But David was
about to be both the messenger and the message on that score.
Nobody wanted a travelling salesman
who could not drive to travel and pedal the wares – in David’s case, speciality
gift schemes for the rewarding of business efficiency. His boss had been
generous. She had given him his train fare home just before she fired him.
“How’s college?”, he asked
the glowing lovely before him, having instantly forgotten she had just told him
she had been ejected, his mind confused by the knotty problem: the problem of
his lost job.
“My English no good!” Mee
Yonge sighed, and her brow showed signs of distress David longed to kiss away.
“Mummy and Daddy only talk
Chinese. I not learn speak English till I sixteen at school after we come back
from
“Your dad went out there as
a translator didn’t he?” David reconfirmed.
“Sure, when I two. But he
not talk English at home out there”.
“Your English is adorable”,
David ventured, unintentionally, wishing he could bite the words back after.
After all, this lovely girl was a daughter-distance in the age scales.
“How you mean?” Mee Yonge
asked, with a querulous smile, and a slightly nervous look, whilst tugging her
intriguing teasing hem down her firm thighs once again with both pretty hands
this time.
“I mean you speak English
much better than you think you do”, David ventured lamely.
Meanwhile, he had been
working the buttons on his mobile, and raised a hand to signal he’d got a ring
tone: “Janette? Me. I’m on the train. Had to abandon the car up at Kandren….
No. Not an accident: a recall”, he lied “There’s a safety concern with the
power steering on that model…… No, they’d no courtesy cars, so many recalls and
me late to get mine in…” he elaborated.
“Guess whose on the train
with me?”, he prompted, to steer the subject away from cars and driving:
“Little Mee Yonge. Can you pick me up at the station about…. if we’re on time,
should be about seventeen-hundred… that’s five o’ clock, silly clot….”
“Do you need a lift?” he
mouthed elaborately to Mee Yonge, who nodded with the prettiest of her many
pretty smiles….
“And Mee Yonge too…. Okay?
Okay love. Love you! Bye now!”
David clicked his mobile
shut, and fell again to pondering what he had tried to avoid thinking about:
what on earth he was going to tell Janette about his job being now ‘former’.
………………
Journey ended, at the
station: “Hi” Janette smiled to husband David. “Hi Mee Yonge”, Janette then
added, surprisingly coldly, David thought. Was there a tad touch of jealousy
there? Did his wife resent the youth and beauty of the delicate doll Mee Yonge?
Forty now, Janette had the
fulsome curves of the full-grown woman she had been this last twenty and more
years. She was in great trim, and filled her jeans with a bum that swung as
firmly and as far as it had ever when she was younger.
The red-and-green tartan,
thick cotton shirt she wore, was buttoned to her neck bar at the collar itself.
Her handsome chest’s boldness told it was controlled restrained and contained
by the cups of a pretty practical rather than a pretty per se bra.
Her face, Janette’s face,
showed love and laughter in her constantly sparkling hazel eyes. Her mouth’s
generous lips showed the quarter-negress blood that impassioned her veins.
Her curls too were from the
same quarter. These days she had begun to hide the hints of grey by the day.
Therefore she coloured it once in a while, and anyway kept it trimmed boyishly
short, but that only added to her eminently evident femininity.
Her boots were dirty. They
had something fresh on them that David wagered would not smell too pleasant in
close proximity.
“I lost…” David blurted at
one and the same time as Janette said: “Sorry about the boots, I got…..”
“No. You go first”, David
smiled, after the loving voices of man and wife had just accidentally clashed.
“I was going to say, that
I’ve got a job”, Janette smiled. Lady Barnmouth wanted helps up at the big
house, and your brilliant wifey got herself a plumb job!” Janette announced
with a tone of voice that clearly conveyed she had found a new feeling of
fulfilment.
David hugged her, and would
have kissed her were it not for pretty Mee Yonge looking on.
“What was your news?”
Janette enquired
As Mee Yonge pulled down the
hem of her miniskirt yet once more, Janette having just pressed the key, the
car door-lock buttons clacked up in an orchestrated erection.
“Nothing that can’t wait
sweetheart”, David answered, as if the secret he withheld was going to be a
pleasant surprise: one he had perhaps recollected he should not reveal before
Mee Yonge for some reason.
They were in the car by soon
after now, and an unpleasant stink came from the foot-well on Janette’s side as
she sat behind the wheel reaching for her safety belt.
“Just what is it you’ve got
on your boots?” David joked, holding his nose as he powered down his window to
let in fresh air.
“Some fine healthy stable
manure, my lad”, Janette answered in a poor imitation of a bad actor’s country
yokel’s accent.
“Mee Yonge was just saying
she’d got a job at the same stables”, John informed.
“Oh yea”, Janette responded
dismissively, in a manner that conveyed that no expansion of that particular
conversation point was sought, or welcome, or worthwhile, though perhaps that
was because she was concentrating on her driving.
………………
David’s invitation to Mee
Yonge to come round to dinner that evening was one Janette had seemed reluctant
to confirm.
They had dropped the angel
off at their own home, and she was already walking to her parents’ place next
door, after a sincere and shy thank you for the lift, when David had thrown out
the invitation as if by reflex, just after he had admired her very pretty legs
once more, and her hair billowing in the breeze.
Home at last, David insisted
Janette shed her boots in the garage, and he readied the garden hose to wash
them off, whilst considering what best to do with the car’s soiled carpet on
her side of the foot-wells.
As he turned on the tap for
the hose, David noticed Janette’s
He lifted one Wellington
boot to examine it, and saw a wedge of straw impregnated faeces lodged where
the back of the sole met the cliff face of the front of the heel, as well as
the same mix in every grove of the treads on the sole.
He raised it to his nose and
smelt the sharp tang of excreta and the accompanying breathtaking smell of
urine-impregnated rotting straw, screwed up his nose, and held the boot away
from him at arms length pulling a face expressing little less than the disgust
he felt. What was going on up at the Barnmouth mansion?
“Hope you’re not going to
bring this stink back every day!” David called to his wife, who was in their
kitchen, unloading some of the groceries she had bought earlier, and
distributing them between the pantry, freezer, and refrigerator.
“What?” Janette called back,
“Oh that. Goes with the job darling. They’ve got me mucking out the stables for
starters. We won’t ever be rich on what they are paying me though!” she added.
“Not stinking rich but
certainly stinking”, David muttered, as he played the hose on the brown dung
and pressed-in straw lodged on the boots.
“You’ll have to speak up
darling!” Janette responded.
“I’m thinking of preparing a
salad later. I believe Mee Yonge is vegetarian!” Janette shouted above the
sounds of running water, from outside hose and the sink in the kitchen.
The four boots cleaned, but forgetting
the car mat, David chased the filth down the concrete drive with play of the
hose, so that it was washed into the rain drain at the edge of the road.
When David entered the
house: “I’ll think I’ll get a quick shower”, he called as he passed the kitchen
door, thereby adopting the approach Janette was used to from him when he was
home: the approach that minimised the prospect he would be anywhere useful to
the procedures for preparing and serving a meal, or any other domestic duty.
“Okay. But what was it you
were going to say about your job?” Janette enquired as he passed by.
“Oh that”, David answered,
trying to think of something to say that would not see the visit of Mee Yonge
cancelled, “Nothing important to us really. Andy McJackson has got the shove.
Drinking and driving, would you believe?” he lied.
“No!?” said Janette, as he
stopped what she was doing and came to the half-open kitchen door. “The bloody
fool! And he and Sheila with little Roddy just born too!” she speculated, as
she weighed up the horror of the lie told, which to her tolled yet with the
ring of truth.
………………
At seven-thirty sharp, even
her ring on the electric doorbell seemed somehow shy.
“That’ll be Mee Yonge now.
I’ll let her in!” David called to Janette, who was still busy in the kitchen:
this time with preparing the upcoming meal.
As David opened the front
door, a face of such exquisite loveliness smiled up at him from five-feet-three
of one-hundred-percent pure girl.
Mee Yonge wore a
Prussian-blue silk dress that served to swerve her curves so faithfully, it
must have been poured on like paint to dry.
The shimmering dress was
embroidered with the outlines of two fearsome red dragons, whose scaly tails
curled on Mee Yonge’s slap wanton bottom, and whose bodies then wrapped around
her waist and up till their gaped mouths spat furious flames on her alertly
pertly proud non-pendulous breasts.
The long sleeves of the
dress hugged Mee Yonge’s slim arms. Its collar stood upright round and
uniformly high, and repeated the fiery dragon theme, with the two flames being
disgorged from both and either sides, toward Mee Yonge’s Adam’s-apple, were it
visible.
The dress buttoned at her
left side with loops over gold studs, that the seamstress seemed to have run
out of when it got to her mid-hip. Because, from there down to the hem brushing
her feet, it was open, and showed the length of her leg, the double-jointed
knee bent back, and the gold clasp of an azure suspender, holding up a seamed
baby-blue nylon stocking, with a snake curving around the ample thigh as
pattern in the stocking itself
Her three-inch-heeled white
sandals, with double ankle-straps, shaped her shapely leg aptly additionally
appetisingly appealingly.
Mee Yonge’s makeup looked
‘young-girl-immature-amateur’ in its quality and application; but was all the
more stunningly seductive for that.
The eyeliner should not have
been green, or at least not that shade of green. The colour of the lipstick
too, was a little far toward the ‘slut’ end of the spectrum for such a sweet
girl to be choosing.
But all that was as entirely
forgivable, as her hair was entirely unforgettable, for she wore her midnight’s
midnight tresses fore and aft of her, and its glow flowed to her heels back of
her left shoulder, where it caressed over her bottom, and fore of her right
chest, where it gentled over her breast.
As Mee Yonge stood
demonstrably devastating, she added to her disarming charm, by gently shaking
her head to aside her hair from the love-shine in her demon-dark-brown eyes.
It was only then that
David’s appreciative eye, noticed that her lovely hands cradled a bottle of
wine.
“Hi Mr Johnson!” Mee Yonge
sang, unavoidably sexily, standing in the porch outside over the front doorway.
“It’s ‘David’”, David
insisted gently.
“Hello David”, Mee Yonge
giggled and then blushed, as she shyly poleaxed him with her innocent eyes.
“Do come in Mee Yonge: It is
Mee Yonge!” David invited the girl, and then called to confirm to Janette out
in the kitchen, as if, indeed, anybody else had been expected.
As she entered the hallway,
David took the wine bottle present, and bade Mee Yonge walk in front of him to
the home’s lounge-diner.
It was a mistake. Mee Yonge
knew she deserved a compliment, and turned her head to smile, so as to say that
anything David might say right then would be okay.
“You look lovely just now”,
David blurted inadequately, knowing what was needed, but not being able to come
up with it, because not having complimented his wife Janette in the last five
years and more, and thus rusty of practice.
In answer, Mee Yonge,
speared his heart with a cupidic shaft down to its fletchings, as she merely
intoned: “Thank you David”, with a follow-up lowering of the lovely lids over
her irresistible brown lanterns, as if to momentarily turn off her traction
beam’s devastating distraction.
“Hello Miss Janette”, Mee
Yonge whispered respectfully, as David followed her feline flow into the
kitchen.
“It’s all ready, if someone:
David: would like to lay the table for us”, Janette subtly hinted, “I just want
to dash and get a quick change, then I’ll join you in the lounge”.
As Janette made her way to
the main bedroom moments later, she popped her head around the lounge door to
ask: “Will you check I’ve set the video right for ‘Queen’s Road’ please David?
It’s on in five minutes, and there’s to be a revelation about ‘Beth’ I don’t
want to miss!”
………………
Alone with Mee Yonge, David
found himself completely tongue-tied. He showed her to the sofa, where she
settled her dainty delicate frame and, David noted, showed no
self-consciousness about letting the full length of her left leg all the way up
beyond stocking top to firm smooth bare flesh and gold suspender clasp, go on
display.
The contrast with this and
the way she incessantly insistently pulled at the hem of her miniskirt when
they had been on the train earlier, registered with David as another fascinating
instance of the adorable mysteries of the feminine psyche.
David poured the wine Mee
Yonge had brought, and she took the tiniest sip with lips as red as its Oporto
ruby rouge, and then smiled.
“I no drink. But I drink
tonight”, Mee Yonge observed with lips David longed to kiss to remove their
tantalising sweet innocence.
“When are you back at
university?” David blundered, forgetting that Mee Yonge had already said she
had left because her English was not good enough.
“I become stable girl tomorrow”,
Mee Yonge reminded him.
“Janette has started work at
Lady Barnmouth’s stables too, already”, David responded, trying to cover his
faux pas.
“I know”, Mee Yonge
answered.
David was making a fool of
himself. Of course she knew. Janette had told him in her presence. He struggled
to find some way of communicating with this adorable erotic creature aside from
the approach he longed for, which was to get her down on the couch and find out
with his bare hands, if she was wearing any panties: which he suspected she was
not, and if she wore and really needed to wear a bra, which he could see she
did and did not.
He just could not take his
eyes off her, and she was shyly adoring his admiration: “You are really
beautiful Mee Yonge” he then found himself blurting out, as he felt his cock
twitch and then ascend to assent to that sentiment: giving him a sensation he
had not recorded with full measure from that meter of a girl’s attraction in a
long while.
Now he felt the experienced
man who could show this slip of a thing the way the world really worked.
Janette had never complained of his prowess in bed; at least not back when he
had last managed anything remotely akin. And not that she had ever been bedded
by anyone else of course. But, still, he was a real man and had the means of
inoculating this treasure with the vaccine that would take her to the highest
of pleasure; if all was still in working order that is.
Janette saved the day.
To David’s surprise, Mee
Yonge stood when Janette came in, and did not sit again till Janette abruptly
invited her to.
What a contrast Janette was
in her inevitable blue jeans, and a white cable-knit sweater, to the younger
girl’s mysterious eastern promise.
“Any wine left for me?”
Janette enquired as she began to prepare the table David had inevitably
forgotten.
………………
Wine poured, wine flowed:
David had produced more bottles.
A light meal was consumed
whilst David was inflamed not only by the alcohol, but with desire for the
utterly unattainable.
After the seeming coolness
between the two women, a remark from Mee Yonge about the love-life of another
‘David’ in ‘Accident Ward’ set the two girls on a swapping of twists and turns
and characters in the soap operas that they both now discovered they followed
equally avidly, and in which conversation and on which points, David had no
part to play, and nothing useful to add.
So he fell to the quiet
enjoyment of watching two all too beautiful women talking, Mee Yonge revealing
her longing to go to bed with ‘Cord’ from ‘Queen’s Road’, and Janette, her
admiration for the fiercely independent ‘Jane Rothermere’, the vicar of the
fictional village of St Aldran, in the twice weekly ‘Heaven Bound’.
David smiled contentedly as
he drank wine and poured more in Mee Yonge’s glass, and she more than matched
him for conspicuous consumption, as if she were unaware that its lovely taste
was bringing an equally gorgeous colour to her normally naturally pallid face,
and that she was succumbing to the wicked side of its amorphous charms.
As time and talk advanced,
Mee Yonge eventually became one helpless giggle.
Too polite to tell Mee
Yonge, her guest, to her face that she, Mee Yonge had drunk too much, and much
too quickly at that, as he reached to recharge the helplessly giggling angel’s
glass once more, Janette gave David one of her blackest looks, with a shake of
the head, and silently mouthed: ‘No!’ and he desisted.
Mee Yonge’s always prettily
spoken limited English was, as she tried to stand now, pretty well limited to
the word: “Sorry” as she, unused to drink, became aware she had abused drink,
as it had amused David to encourage her to do.
Janette was gentle and yet
firm with her, as she called upon David to: “Just leave it to me. We can’t have
you taking her home in this state. What were you doing pouring wine down her
like that, you silly idiot?!”
As she had stood up too
abruptly in her intended overcoming of her mindset that her legs were too
rubbery to let her, Mee Yonge’s lovely face left it’s bacchanalian flush
behind, and now reminded David and Janette of the existence of the cliché about
the whiteness of sheets, before it was replaced by a slightly jaundice to green
tinge.
“I so sorry. I think I be
sick”, Mee Yonge exclaimed as she cupped her hand on her mouth, and Janette
rushed to get Mee Yonge’s lovely legs to walk her out into the outside fresh
air, in a bid to save her from vomiting at all, and most especially on the
lounge or hall carpets.
“I so sorry David”, were the
last sweet words David heard as the front door slammed to, and the sound of
poor Mee Yonge retching as she repeatedly repeated a plaintive sad, “Sorry”,
next followed, and made David regret his lust: the incentive for his inventive
insistence on assisting the ingénue to imbibe so much.
………………
It was a while before
Janette came into the house.
Her eventual turning of the
key in the front door, was preceded by the sound of the garage door being
hinged up, the garden hose being unrolled, the hiss of the jet as she hosed Mee
Yonge’s vomit away, and the return lowering of the garage door, after the hose
had been rolled up to storage position.
After she had washed the
puke off the drive, Janette felt a dirty as if by proxy. So it was a further
while still before she settled her lovely rear in the seat alongside David in
front of the television, to enjoy the last of the evening.
David, feeling guilt, and
sensing, completely wrongly, that Janette had been disgusted by his conduct,
was quiet for a time.
Then: “You can’t blame her
for getting a bit tiddly. She’s only a young girl”, he ventured in clichéd
half-hearted defence of Mee Yonge, and thus, as he intended, a transfer of any
residual blame from himself.
“You didn’t need to
encourage her though, you dirty old man”, Janette teased.
David’s head shot round to
see if Janette was serious, and would have been hurt if she was; but, despite
her attempt to playact disgust, Janette’s eyes gave away she was just being
playful.
“Did you see the way she was
looking at you? If I’d have left you two together for a second, she’d have had
her knickers off and your pants down before any lightening could even be
greased”, Janette speculated, to boost David’s wavering masculine morale.
As the cosy couple sat
side-by-side on their sofa, she reached for the remote and turned on the TV and
the DVD player, so they could both watch the ‘Queen’s Road’ episode replay
together.
“Bet she’s a virgin you
know. Never even kissed would be my guess. Such a shy girl, but so very
attractive, you’d think some lucky boy or girl….” Janette speculated, as they
both watched the flickering screen, and the opening credits scrolled down.
As Janette watched the
unfolding story from earlier that evening repeated to her first sighting,
silence from spouse and spouse ensued, and she was completely absorbed in the
unfolding story.
David watched too, seeing
but unseeing with his outside eyes, whilst he slowly undressed Mee Yonge in his
mind’s eye, and the one-eyed snake in his trousers twitched as, for some
unaccountable reason, he thought of rolling stockings up onto, or down off, Mee
Yonge’s legs. Oh god her pretty legs!
The advertising interval
broke ‘Queen’s Road’s’ credibility-challenging narrative thread, and, whilst
the screen flickered and a voice-over from the set, extolled the virtues of a
car breakdown rescue service, the happy married couple turned to each other.
“She said she had a summer
job up at the House. A stable girl, she told me”, David half-yawned as he tried
to unravel who on earth ‘Cord’ was, and what other TV soap he had seen the same
actor in at one time.
“Who?” Janette momentarily
asked, and then drawled: “Oh god, Mee Yonge again…. You’re still thinking about
her are you?…….. She really got to you didn’t she? ………Well, I can’t say I blame
you. She’s a pretty little thing…”
Then, Janette continued,
after a while, as if it had only just registered: “Stable girl? Is that what
she told you?”
“Yes. We got talking on the
train. She said ‘ponygirl’, but I knew what she meant: her English sounds so
sweet, but it does let her down so, such a lot of the time….”, David ventured.
“Mee Yonge is no stable
girl”, Janette responded in a dismissive distant indifferent tone, hinting at
contempt, and yet certainty of knowledge.
“She failed college. Lady
Barnmouth has taken her off her parents’ hands. She is to go into service at
Barnmouth House, but not as a stable girl. She’ll be a long way down the pecking
order from that”.
As ‘Queen’s Road’ came back
and dragged on, ‘Cord’ seemed to have something he needed to tell ‘Beth’, and
was taking no end of time about it, as if he was about to inform her that he or
she had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
“But I suppose, in a way,
she was right though. Mee Yonge was right in what she said: what she told you
on the train that is”, Janette reprised, absent mindedly, a few moments later
still: before adding: “Mee Yonge is no stable girl, but ‘Ying-Yang’ will be a
ponygirl, and tomorrow Mee Yonge will become ‘Ying-Yang’, under my tuition”.
As it began to be revealed
on ‘Queen’s Road’, that ‘Todd’ and ‘Martina’ over in Canada, were really Beth’s
long lost mother and father, and that therefore, in marrying ‘Cord’, ‘Beth’ had
inadvertently married her own brother; amid the connubial bliss of the Johnson
household, David sat silently amazed, while something shot up in his trousers
like a surfacing submarine, but was trapped by his underwear, so that, risen pleasure-painfully
iron-hard as far as it could, when his testicles cramped, he spurt-jerked his
lust load profusely sticky-hotly impotently on his left thigh …
<>
Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Jade Munroe
Synopsis: All must fall?
Jade Munroe
In the beginning it had always been the same. She never used
Emily’s name.
At first Emily had assumed she was a student; then a
postgraduate; then she had realised that, whatever her background, she was
there every Saturday. She looked maybe twenty-two to twenty-five.
‘The Bookworm’ was a shady cool hide off the humid hot High
Street. It was one of the latter day miracles that it had survived into the
world of ‘Books R Us’, ‘shopping experiences’, and the newly found taste for
‘literature’ among the organic potatoes and feta cheese on the counters at
every MaxMart Superstore.
The stock at ‘The Bookworm’ was cleverly selected, and
covered from the sublime and wrongfully neglected, to the downright eclectic: a
dark corner specialism being ‘top-shelf’ classics.
The survival of ‘The Bookworm’ was no doubt aided by the
fact that Barnmouth, ‘an undiscovered jewel on the south coast of
Emily McVane, forty-year-old shy spinster and brilliant
design engineer, had a particular taste in reading.
That first time with a mezzo-soprano: “Sorry madam?” the
counter-girl had sweetly requested a repetition of the too sotto voce order,
and, as Emily’s eyes had shied from the surprisingly firmly sculptured
cleavage, she had smelt the sweetness of her breathtaking breath, and seen her
heaven high cheekbones, as this girl had asked her to repeat her embarrassed
mumble.
Here and now today, on her tenth consecutive Saturday visit,
all of them timed to ensure being served by the same girl,
Emma was only a little less diffident about her latest quest and request.
She should have thought of asking for it before. It was the
long shot of long shots, but one never knew. ‘If you don’t ask you don’t get’,
as they say.
“‘Bella Donna’s Deflowering’, by Penny Traitor, the 1957
soft cover original?”, Emily asked again, feeling the lobes of her ears burn
with her embarrassment, to the degree that caused her to remove her glasses and
rub their lenses vigorously with her handkerchief.
That action was always a cover for Emily’s shyer moments, in
consequence of the many of which, the lenses of her glasses were always
spotlessly gleaming.
As she seemed to constantly, the
girl smiled with her lips, and her lovely eyes, her emerald eyes, glowed. Her
soft coral lips parted. And her scrupulously white, perfectly arraigned teeth,
told that sweet laughter was no labour for her. By contrast with Emily, she
showed no sign of embarrassment whatsoever.
Emily replaced her bottle-bottom-thick lenses on her nose,
making her cold light-blue eyes go owl, and looked at the face, pale as a lily,
and either without any, or with makeup superbly disguised to look non-existent.
Exceptionally pretty, the sweet face was framed by her
blonde hair: hair that was cut boyishly short, even to the degree of her having
a side parting; but making her look all the more feminine for it.
As the girl smiled, her lower eyelids puckered to emphasise
her eyes’ glow and the love that she comprised in and of herself.
Before Emily’s eyes lowered from the bookshop girl’s
confident unwavering challengingly attractive gaze, she noticed again the
single central dimple in the jaw-line of her delicate chin, and concluded that
god must have held her head up with a thumb there, whilst she put the finishing
touches to the face of this exceptional exemplar of the loveliest of her
creations.
‘Jade Munroe’ was the name in black print on a white ground
on the rectangular plastic badge pinned above her left breast, by the clasp
through her woollen sweater.
She wore a white veeneck that her ample chest was making
fulsomely handsomely fascinating. She had its long sleeves pulled up to just
below the elbows, baring her slender arms. Emily gazed at the profuse soft
golden down on the girl’s forearms, and noted the trivia that she had tucked
her handkerchief up her right sleeve, giving her a ‘Popeye’ style muscle,
misplaced immediately above the crook of her elbow.
As Jade stepped from behind the counter to the corner where
the symbols and cymbals of the orchestrated porn clashed clarion clear: in
seeming descant, over the creaking oak floorboards sounding dissonant below her
five-foot-seven one-hundred-pounds without ounce of superfluity, her
clit-twitch creating onomatopoeic clitter-clatter of four-inch stiletto heels,
beat erotic time: ‘tip-tap floor-rap, tip-tap contact, tip-tap compact, tip-tap
impact, tip-tap floor-rap, tip-tap contact, tip-tap compact, tip-tap impact’,
as she wiggled her delight of light steps to the corner, to trace where the
little boys blue came for scores with which to play slide trombone on their
horns.
Jade’s tautly tensioned legs were long fit and sensuously
seductive: not least for the ecstatically electrical silent shush swish shush
of her clinging black miniskirt on black stockings’ darker tops, as she briskly
whisked along, almost all but rubbing her nylon stockinged thighs together, for
her steps forth were toe before heel before toe before heel ‘tip-tap floor-rap,
tip-tap contact, tip-tap compact, tip-tap impact’. And from rear the seer was
speared by sure shaft of arrow through heart shot, as her gazelle gait rocked
and rolled her rebellious rear.
Jade’s walk was nature nurtured by deportment, and as
important to her intimate potency as the wonderful wandering wobble bobble of
her thirty-eight-D-cup bosom, diving and rising divinely: divided undecided, as
to which bonny breast should absorb the inspiration of the spring from the
recoil of her seductive steps, and so taking to bobbing and nodding, united
like loving twin sisters, together, challenging the dazed onlooker to assess if
her breasts were cupped in a bra, as they surely could not be, and still float
and rebound so far.
The contemplation of the arousing rub of Jade’s naked
nipples on the woollen sweater as she walked, and the scent centred slit
sliding slickly slipperally within her anticipatedly attenuated tiny panties,
would give a hard-on to a hell-bound hermit, such was her evident litheness,
and the lure and lust for her physical love, Jade’s mere being created:
‘tip-tap floor-rap, tip-tap contact, tip-tap compact, tip-tap impact’.
……………….
Emily’s expectation of a find was not high. ‘Bella Donna’s
Deflowering’, by Penny Traitor, the exceptionally rare 1957 soft cover original
print, published in limited numbers by Phallus Press, was a collector’s holy
grail. One had sold at a book auction for three-hundred dollars, and that had
been five years back. Such a price marked its rarity.
But, for the moment, Emily had something completely
priceless on her mind: the stunning seductiveness of the lovely Jade.
Impossible to follow suit with the conspicuously unconscious
fact, that Jade’s body made her walk like that, the dumpy overweight
short-sighted seed-gone-to-weed forty-year-old tousled-untidy-mousy-to-grey
Was Jade relaxed, because she was assuming that, it being
girl with girl, there was no concern about the wonder her wiggle wander yonder
to ponder the pornography preponderant on the shelves in the nether corner of
the shop, could stoke to provocation?
They passed the shop’s one kick-stool, and Jade turned and
smiled with sunshading glory, before returning to it, to play soccer ball
‘dribble’ with it, showing her shapely legs’ lovely muscles, as she propelled
it to the station she knew she needed it to be at.
“There was a whole stack of novels put temporarily on the
top shelves earlier this week, by my colleague. I’ll have a riffle through for
you madam, and we’ll see what we can come up with”, Jade’s lips pronounced,
pronouncedly performing perfection, as they pouted the air with their silently
shouted prey kiss me prayers.
That corner of the shelving reached, Jade smoothed down her
miniskirt to keep its hem from risk of rising, before stepping on the stool.
But, as Emily watched open-mouthed, the younger woman
reached higher aloft, and her hem disobeyed, and rose above her wickedly sinful
black stocking tops, to flash the superlatively soft smooth completely
unblemished complexion of the tops of her hugely strong thighs, and the bottoms
of the cheeks of her rotund rock-firm bottom.
Then, as Jade reached yet higher still, her left leg’s
curvaceous calf was turned to tantalisingly taut muscle, by her tiptoe rise to
a height on the stool, higher than her mere high heels giving of leg-appeal,
she also raised her right leg out of her shoe altogether, so she could reach to
see the spines on the topmost shelf.
And her pretty fingers played piano along the lucky spines
of the books high on the highest shelf. And, for counterbalance, her right leg
was kicked into a curve where her toes flicked back as her calf touched her
thigh. And the shape her leg formed knew no comparison with anything that could
be anything but less beautiful than her right leg’s majestically magical
agonisingly magnificent curves.
And Emily’s gasp as Jade flashed the gusset of her
criminally crimson thong, when she reached her slender arm for her fingers to
just grasp a volume, receding nearly beyond her touch, were masked by the loud
‘ping’ and echoing ‘dings’ of the shop’s doorbell, sounding, as if in surprise
signal of first prize being scored, as Jade showed where first prize was
stored, whilst also being bidden to obey the need to attend to a new customer
that had arisen.
As Jade’s toes sought to return to the refuge of her
high-heeled shoes, Emily watched the entrancing dancing flexes of the smooth
muscles in her right calf.
As she rearranged her misbehaving skirt too, to Emily’s
discerning eye, she thought she espied Jade blush, as if she had not realised
the extent of her seductive exposure of whole legs, stocking tops, strained
suspenders, bare thigh, bold bare bottom, and her tiny tautly tight
thong-panties.
As Emily willing followed the wander of the willow-wand
wonder of Jade’s wonderful figure back to the shop counter, Jade announced,
apparently innocent of the duality of the implications of her siren statement:
“I think I may have got something that will please you very much indeed,
madam”.
At and from behind the counter, there was another ‘ping’ and
echoing ‘ding’ of the doorbell as the other customer, mind changed and empty
handed, left Emily and Jade alone once more.
At and behind the counter, Jade’s lovely little hands with
their perfectly manicured curved-corner-square-ended long fingernails, held the
book she had seized from the shelf, up at a thirty degree angle from the
counter top, to display to Emily, the gaudily coloured illustration of a girl,
that could have been Jade herself, undergoing sexual torture on its front
cover.
“It’s slightly foxed I’m afraid. And, as we haven’t
catalogued that corner yet madam: should we say: twenty dollars?” Jade’s
inspiring lips enquired, kissing every lucky word.
From the internet, where she had seen that cover depicted,
and read and re-read the contents of the novel itself: countless times, Emily
knew she was looking at a first prize apprising her of first prize.
In microseconds she saw the 48 point heading over the
illustration, trumpeting the book’s contents as the work of authoress ‘Penny
Traitor’ and, below the illustration, in smaller print, scarlet red gothic and
distorted to appear as if it were blood flowing, the title of this, the very
first and therefore rarest of Ms Traitor’s oeuvre: ‘Bella Donna’s Deflowering’.
And her heart jumped as its pumping raced. The erect logo of the Phallus Press
in an oval on the bottom right-hand corner confirmed the McCoy of joy was real
and ready to be reeled in, and for only twenty dollars!
This was a miracle
discovery. To mere mortals it was crass trash, but to a selective elect few, it
was El Dorado’s gold.
Emily prided herself that
she was among the select elect of connoisseurs of one-handed literature. This
was the Everest of sadomasochistic novels. This was a palpable hit. Her pulse
raced as she fought not to show in her face, that she had scored a bulls-eye,
and for only twenty dollars!
“I’ll take it”, Emily
whisper-croaked, and then cleared her throat, acting indifference to the best
of her limited ability, as she handed over her Amex to answer the ringing up of
the antiquated till, as its drawer shot open at Jade’s button press request,
and its bell’s ‘ting’ echoed still.
Was Jade more shy than even
Emily?
A slide of a delectable
forefinger, that should have been teasing a penis, over the embossed green
rectangle, preceded: “I’ve always loved the name ‘Emily’”, and an enquiring
look at Emily that said that she, Jade, had noticed how she, Emily, came into
the shop every Saturday without fail, and always ensured that she, Jade, served
her.
Jade knew she was spice. She
knew she was sugar for lust. She knew she enticed. She knew where men and women
wanted their fingers thrust. She knew she had longed-for lips twice twice:
indeed, her lower pair enfolded her guiding light.
Jade knew too true too that
she bewitched Emily. The leg display had been no accident. Jade loved to please
with tease. She loved to be desired and to inspire want for her. Emily was
obviously hooked.
To Jade
this older woman was intriguing. Jade had no girlfriend at the moment. The
notion of a little adventure with Emily had been a seed sown, when Jade had
first registered Emily’s eyes compelled to ogle her legs: that is, from the
very first time, ten weekends since, that Jade had stepped from behind the
shop’s counter, and been made to blush deep scarlet by Emily’s evident desire.
Now Jade’s pretty fingers pulled lengths of transparent
adhesive tape from the machine on the counter, leaving her fingerprints, even
these erotic, on it, to aid her wrapping the bought book, skilfully neatly in
plain brown paper.
And, as she pushed the parcelled book, and disguised prize,
over the counter, her sweet face looked Emily eye-to-eye. And the absolute of
absolute miracles for the reticent shy reclusive Emily was heard, unbelieved by
her for seconds that seemed like hours as they flashed by, when she heard Jade
say coaxingly brightly: “I’m free on Sundays Emily. Why don’t you ask me for a
date?”
……………….
At two the following afternoon, the next day, and therefore
a Sunday, Emily paced by the lions’ cage of the Fordbridge Zoological Gardens,
her heart pulsing madly as she waited and prayed for Jade to turn up.
The jeans were a disappointment. Not the way they hugged
Jade’s swinging rear, but for the fact that her legs, the two highways to the
seat and heart of her fire, were hidden.
But the smile was genuine gold, and the promise of a kiss
from lips so lovely and lively and divine, if she was truly lucky, sent
rapturous shivers down Emily’s spine.
What could two girls so contrasting have in common? The one
a frump past her ‘sell-by date’ in her teens, and now a middle-aged lonely
loner; the other an angelic heavenly deeply beautiful vivacious walking talking
giggling smiling laughing loving girl, sitting now sipping tea, with her pretty
wonderful pretty legs in jeans: sitting her delicate whole, on the wholly holy
hole of her irresistible deep down devilishly desirable florally-fragrant cunt?
Well: just as some girls love father figures, so this lovely
loved older women. Shy too, Jade looked at Emily and saw the maturity and
imagined accompanying accomplishments and bedroom confidence she initially
looked for in her would-be lovers.
League and legion were Emily’s predecessors, but none was
legendary. Jade was young, just twenty-three in fact, and needed not to worry
or hurry about finding her dreamed of lifelong partner yet.
To the adorable Jade, all of Emily’s shortcomings were
plusses. A splendid illustration of the mysteries of a young woman’s psyche,
was that the more Jade found disappointment in the real, over her initially
imagined Emily, the more she liked her, and the more that liking grew to love.
Jade’s foremind never acknowledged it, but there was much of
the bridesmaid compared to the bride in her personality.
To be the really pretty one when they were out together, a
role Jade could hardly help but fulfil, made her heart
soften for Emily’s lost looks and youth. To be taken for a daughter, appealed
to Jade’s secret desire for a mother she had, as an orphan, never known. And
what more compact combination could there be than ‘mother’ and lover in the
same person?
Although too, Jade told herself constantly that she sought
competence and confidence in bed. Truth said, she
loved to be fumbled and felt clumsily. And to be left
frustrated at every turn, turned her on tremendously.
To be left in bed awake and tossing and turning and burning
for a cum, whilst her sated lover snored contentedly, having left Jade as
frustrated as if she had been frigid, was the truth of the state of Jade’s
desires that she had not yet had the damascene awaking to realise.
True too, was that Jade wanted the humiliation of being
taken by unattractive women. She wanted to be despoiled and soiled by clumsy
tumblings that would leave her in a furious fire of unfulfilled desire, by a
woman whose very fact of being her lover, to be brutal to the likes of Emily,
degraded her.
Yet all this masqueraded as sweet charity on the surface. And so too it was. Jade was loving
and wanting to please, and to give pleasure by being the treasure of women such
as Emily. And she would never hurt them by admitting that they did not complete
her physical needs.
The surface was real and so too the subterranean psychology.
Jade was a brightly intelligent girl. She had long known the meaning of the
word ‘masochist’, and was certain sure that she was not one of those. She therefore
did not know that she was one of those, and that it made her fling her beauty,
to cling out of duty, to those whose fruit she could plainly see, was
weathered, withered, and sometimes even wizened on the vine.
……………….
“Hold your head right back my darling!”
The friendship grew from dream to reality, and almost made
Emily forget her scheme. The meetings grew from weekly to nightly and all-day
on Sundays. The two fizzed the email and text waves too: Emily from the
hand-built sports car factory, at which she was the chief design engineer, and
Jade, when she could spare the time, from the bookshop, which she in fact
owned, as Emily had subsequently discovered.
Jade was skilled at taking the lead from the rear. She was
giving Emily the confidence that the older woman had only ever had in
fragmented amount, hitherto disaggregated if not disintegrated.
The meal at ‘Minx’s’ had been where it had truly begun.
Emily could not take her eyes of Jade in her cerise evening
gown. The flash of the stocking-clad lovely’s lovely left leg as the angel
approached the table, caused her to rise as if in applause, till Jade had
approached her would-be chair. And for Emily to hold Jade’s seat till the
gorgeous creation sat centrally, snuggling down on her fragrant cunt, was
reflexed and natural.
Jade blushed with the honour performed her, and at the
compliment it paid her.
The meal progressed, with the billion-dollar Jade, making
the two-cent Emily feel a trillionaire, as she watched the younger girl’s mouth
and longed for the kiss she had, even yet, not known.
Jade was happy to steer from the rear in all things; but
was, naturally as she saw it, leaving it to Emily to make the approaches to
kisses and bed.
Yet too, Jade had been thinking about that choice of
approach and come to the conclusion that it needed a little urging on.
“When are you going to show me your place? I’m longing to
see ‘Nelly Farm’ again. I used to play there when I was a little girl. The
orphanage had a summer residence next door. It must have been demolished five
years ago, just as I left for university”, Jade enquired and informed.
“I’m always free on Sunday”, she added with her dazzling
green eyes cast down, as if there could be any doubt that her invitation to
herself would not be refused by the woman she was seeking to put it into the
mouth of.
Jade did not object to the wine Emily poured, to near
overspill, in her, Jade’s, glass now. But its rosé was
no match for her seductively succulent lips, as she sipped and made even the
wine ‘mere’ by sheer comparison with the incomparable: the wonder of all
wonders: of all wonders the most wonderful of wonderful: a girl.
…………….
“Hold your head right back my darling!”
The invitation made, Jade needed to be a little tipsy to be
brave. She had been bedded before and, though she flawless, it had all but
always been flawed. She had been both hurt and hurt by her first time, and
still was hurt in her heart and nervous to part her legs; though as longing for
the deed as they were long: and so very long, and so very longing indeed.
Her deflowering had been exceedingly painful. God had made
her unbreachably tight. She had been taken without foreplay. She, unlubricated,
the boy’s cock had ripped her asunder, and she had screamed with the pain as he
took her nonetheless, carried away on lust’s crest, and animal with his rapine
thrusts. She had bled for days and, in her innocence, thought the
twenty-seconds it had taken for the boy to shoot his seed, had ruined her for
sex forever, and that she was bound to bleed, not just with her miracle
monthly, but clock round indeed.
By sweet contrast, her first experience with a girl in the
showers at school, had been a revelation. She had been
the sixty in the sixty-nine; but scored none out of ten for her inattention to
anything other than the immeasurably unbearably beautiful sensations from the
tongue circling her clit. And she had cum for the first and many immediately
following times in her sweet young life, as she laughed and cried with joy and
loss at one and the same time.
Ever after it had been disappointment. Jade did not know it,
but she looked to be let down.
Her de facto rape had sown strange seed indeed: not from the
spunk that had been shot hot on her naked thigh, as her shy boy spurted his
load from his blood-coated cock, whilst feeling guilty for rocketing-up
immensely erect immediately again, from enjoying her pain; but from the furious
fire from her sundered and plundered innocence, and the excruciating agony of
her jaggedly raggedly ripped, raging raggy raw raped bleeding heaven hole’s
hymen.
In Emily’s car, as the sweetly tipsily drunken angel rested
her high cheekbones on her shoulder, the scent of Jade’s hair flared lucky Emily’s
nostrils, and the ‘go’ glow in the glorious eyes and the lips offered to the
kiss longed for, turned to sweet smile of understanding and patient wait, as
Emily resisted and refrained, only to gain Jade cuddling closer to her still,
once more again.
“Hold your head right back my darling!”
As Emily began to drive, Jade at her side let the slit in
the side of her long dress do its best to show off her exceptionally shapely
left leg: a leg of such wonderful curvature, as to serve up such erotic dreams
as could only be matched, if one had the chance to stare, at its equally
sublime twin, equally bared.
The white lace garter on the stocking tops shaded-circle,
clasping the thigh with its frills, thrilled. The interwoven crimson ribbon
that was tied around to fix it to the thunderous strength of the hugely strong
and yet sweetly beautiful upper limb, spilled its tails trail on the seat
replete with Jade sitting centrally on her sensationally sedulously sensuous
cunt.
As she noticed that Jade seemed to have dared to be bare,
and that there was no evidence of panties consequently there: Emily’s clitoris
danced at the glance from the glory of Jade’s innocent emerald eyes.
And Jade’s eyes, lighthouse beacons beckoning siren for a
reckoning wreck on the flawlessly complexioned slopes, by their looking down
that way, showed Emily the valley where the melonic hills, with their ruby-pink
diamond hard peaks, would sunder her love boat: the soft rise and fall of
Jade’s breasts, with their magnificent cleavage, aheave from her sweet zephyrs,
and seemingly throbbing and bobbing with the beat of her gentle heart.
The hand offered for Emily to touch as she drove was
touchingly pretty. Jade sighed to let Emily know she was longing for her
fingers inside her, and let her dress’ skirt flirt for her, as it swept off her
knees and let show both her wondrous thunderous thighs, so very massive, but
still somehow of proportionate size, with the source of her sauce in the
crucible mid their soft muscular and incredibly carressible insides.
………………..
“Hold your head right back my darling!”
The wheels of Emily’s auto scrunch-crunched on the gravel
that covered the drive sweeping round before the old farmhouse in which she
lived alone: the throne in which she had thrown the investment of her handsome
pay for her working day, and all she owned.
As Emily made exit, Jade still sat in the car, rightly
expecting and expectant of Emily opening and holding open the passenger door
for her.
“Thank you”, Jade breathed and smiled with divine lips: nips
hidden throbbing and clit secretly bobbing, as she displayed the amazing glory
of surely the most beautiful legs ever made.
Car exited, Jade stood upright, and her dress swept its
skirt around to hide the profound wonder of her lower limbs, as she found
herself under polite escort from Emily, who would always hold the door for the
girl she now adored, and let her sweep in sensationally rapturous slow motion
penis-grind before her.
Of course it was good manners, but so too was it to follow
Jade’s walk, pure joy: for her walk conspicuously clearly confirmed that she
was no boy.
As they rose up the stairs with the rose without compare
before under Emily’s stares, Jade’s apprehensiveness of physical love came to
the fore once more, as she was reminded of the agonising pain of her
deflowering: an event that had inhibited her ever since, bar the one once
instance of love with her best friend at school in the shower, to number one of
the 69 rules, after they had both got sweaty from playing squash.
As they entered Emily’s upstairs living room: “Wine?” Emily
enquired, but Jade’s answer was only golden girl’s glittering giggles, and
pretty hands on sweet lips, as Jade’s eyes swept the upstairs main room in
which Emily dwelt, and saw the knickknacks that Emily had built.
The wall lights that flickered on,
were sculpted like pairs of pear-shaped breasts. A toaster dormant on a corner
table, ready for breakfasts to come, was an open cunt, inviting a slice of
bread to be fed. The light switches were nipples, the sofa a huge pair of
seductively-red mouth lips, with a long rude red tongue licking out.
And there, in the centre of the room, was the
pièce-de-résistance, a huge hugely-erect ‘penis’, made from stainless steel,
and either calved or cast such that its very throbbing veins were very real.
Its prepuce was rolled back ready for purpose, and its head, complete with
deep-crease septum, seemed to know Jade was there and long for her with an
imagined throb.
It stood, one-and-a-half-inches diameter at its widest,
forty-inches up, straight upright from the floor, and had two massive
‘testicles’, which were so wide-spaced in the modelled scrotum, it was as if
they were being dragged divided in divine torture.
As Emily busied herself in her kitchenette, seeking the
bottles of rosé she had been chilling in her refrigerator, Jade, a dance of
deliciously embarrassed giggles galore, daintied around the creaking uneven,
seemingly sagging floor surrounding the phallus, and her giggles reached a
helpless screech, when she saw that the model penis had with pubic hair been
made replete, by some bulrushes Emily had slanted in a holder placed for where
there, fore at the floor.
As Emily came back into the room, she found Jade almost wetting
herself with her giggles: giggles the lovely girl only curbed when she realised
that she was making her titties dance divine spice for wicked vice, and that
Emily could see, as the vibrations of her lovely merriment rocked her, that her
chest was unencumbered by a brassiere, and her stupendous pendulous bosom was
aswing, reverberating saucily seductive ‘come hither’ with her helpless,
helplessly lovely, girly laughter.
“I’m so sorry” Jade tried to say, but she blushed rosé
herself, as she fell hopeless prey, as her glistering giggles again held sway.
“No apology needed or sought darling. What do you think of
my little toys?” Emily enquired, with the first look of true deep love for her,
that Jade had yet seen.
“You made them yourself?!” Jade answer asked amazed, in a
momentary pause in her giggles, while she wiped a lovely laughter tear
precipiced in one sparkling emerald eye.
Emily’s first confident smile was Jade’s only answer. And so
the young beauty danced her divine loveliness over, and kissed Emily’s cheek,
as she repeated: “You’re a genius!!”, before the music that god has as her
muzak in heaven all day, played here on worthless earth: a girl’s mirth: and
Jade’s giggles once more made her unrestrained breasts beckoningly sway swing
and dance at play.
“Are there any more?! Take me on a tour of your palatial
residence madam!” Jade teased sweetly, as her eyes shone with gleaming beams of
astoundingly seductive flashing dangerous green, and her mouth wreathed a smile
so lovely that the words to describe it have, as yet, no dictionary seen.
“Emily. Sorry. Please. Must be all this silly giggling…”
Jade began, as she demonstrated with a reprise: “May I use your loo?”
Jade was surprised now. That Emily should follow her to show
her where the lavatory was to be found, was nothing profound. But Emily’s
reluctance, her showing no wish to depart as Jade sought to leak her gold, soon
signalled that to be present during this intimate act would, to the older
woman, be seductive fact.
Jade was not giggling now. Before she sat gently on the
lavatory seat, centrally sentry to make her lovely water, all Jade had to do
was to sweep the skirt of her dress aside. And so Emily knew true that Jade had
worn no panties the whole evening through.
Then Emily’s engineering showed ingenuity anew, as a light
in the bowl threw its spot on the centrality of Jade’s full feminine animality,
and a camera, projected on the wall, the site and sight of the pod opened to
spill the sweet wine mulled by her body: the site and sight of her exciting
cunt, readied for the exiting of her bacchanalian fountain stream.
Shocked at first, Jade was soon flattered as she realised
that, even down to this about to be event, to Emily she mattered. And in the
microphones too, two, all too attuned to pick up the hiss of her pissing, Jade
could almost hear her heavenly heart’s heartbeat, and she blushed to know that
there would be a recoding of this intimate show, with nought missing.
The swept around skirt of her dress covered Jade’s superb
thighs, as she pissed, with her eyes sweetly lowered, because she knew she was
lure, because the hiss of her pissing a parabolic golden rainbow of her
ochre-tinctured treasure, which tinkled and troubled the waters in the toilet
bowl at their leisure, was replayed on a projector on the wall, which showed it
all, from the first enquiring squirt, to the long flow of the finest wine in
the world, with the whirl as her piss curled hot in the cold waters below,
troubled thus to bubble, till her finishing squirts as she flirted with her
peeing to please her enraptured lover.
“That’s better”, Jade whispered shyly, as she rose, blushing
deep red rose for knowing that she was creaming from having her pissing
recorded and projected as an act of wall screening: only to see Emily in
apparent distress.
“I’m sorry my love. Did you hope to drink my piss? Jade
found herself surprised to be asking, somehow knowing it was how she had
disappointed.
Then, to the silence in eloquent answer: “Later Emily. I promise
for later”, she blush-whispered as she kissed Emily’s cheek, with her
butterfly-wing-soft lips.
As Jade moved to leave the bathroom, Emily caught gentle
hold of her oh so sweet fingers, and whispered: “Will you let me watch, as you
go down naked on ‘Johnny’ for me?”
“Johnny?” Jade queried, her lovely eyes shining her natural
loving nature.
Emily made no answer, and that was the most voluble answer
she could have made. Her eyes were lowered such as to indicate she knew she was
asking too much and, as such, without need of speaking she told Jade exactly
what she was seeking.
Jade blushed at the very thought of what she instantly
realised was what Emily sought. And her renewed giggles verged, as she
calculated if she could please, and that tempted her to tease.
“Oh! You mean that? It’s huge!” Jade began to giggle with
love; yet, as she thought of it, she knew she was creaming her myrrh, and it
came as no surprise to her, as her voice voiced with nervous meaning: “Okay”,
as she hung her head to pose a poised posy bouquet, suffuse with a rush of the
rosiest of roseate full flush dark red blush.
Emily knew that Jade wanted to undress alone, and so left
her in the bathroom, and sat herself on the ‘mouth’ sofa with its long ‘tongue’
foam cushion, and bright rouge ‘lips’. But not before she had removed the
‘pubic hair’ bulrushes, and raised the lights, and set the recording cameras.
At first, Jade shyly put her head around the bathroom door,
as if she need be ashamed or even, heaven forefend, as if her beautiful body
might disappoint, or somehow offend.
Then, her eyes lowered, and she came out, and walked supreme
dream to the phallus, confident in the overwhelming beauty of her supreme
femininity after all it seemed: though even in this her
shy eyes looked for reassuring approval.
But, on the onlooker’s side, as Jade, totally naked, came
into the room, tears came to Emily’s eyes, for neither she nor the universe had
ever seen such wonderful wonder as the beauty of Jade’s naked body.
Sufficient unto desire is the girl in the here and now. And
here and now the seductive power of Jade’s sheer magical majesty was evidently
elementary in the merest flick of her fingernail’s tip’s tip, let alone in her
face, her arms, her breasts, her belly, her belly button, her back, her bottom,
her thighs and her legs. And above and beyond all in her legs, and in her legs,
and in the shapely curves of her legs, the careering curves of her lovely legs,
and in the blonde nest between them, now seen openly scene, since hitherto only
flashed in camera, on camera, been.
And Jade lowered her eyes as she wiggled to the upthrust to
which she was about to entrust her envelope’s pink tunnel, blushing as pink as
it, to know she was going to masturbate in front of the girl she loved, for the
lust of the girl she loved, and for knowing that she was already wetted for the
task for which she was whet and to which wedded.
And Emily wondered how Jade had prepared and where her
pretty lucky pretty fingers might just before now have been.
But Jade was wet already from the display she had, without
dismay, made of the spraying of the perfect parabola of her pussy-perfumed
piss.
As she raised herself to the highest peak of tip of tip of
her toes to seek to get the phallus inside her rosette sheath beneath, and thus
parting her neatly cropped blonde bejewelled quim lips, Jade let Emily hold her
dainty left hand.
And as the phallus slowly filled her, Jade’s eyes glowed
with its boldness and its coldness and its unresponsive rigidity. And it
biblically knew her, new in her. And she lowered her lovely legs, so that its
unrelenting thrust, pushed her lips wide, as the
rolled-back mock-foreskin went inside her salivating cunt. And she sighed with
pleasure pain, recalling her virginity being ripped by rape again.
Hidden behind where Jade squatted, with the luckiest phallus
in the world, filling her full to her brim within her myrrh musk lubricated
gripping-inside pink sided quim: Emily worked a remote control she had grasped,
and Jade gasped as she felt a needle-sharp something rise up slowly out of the
septum, but knew not what it was, or what it was for.
To please her love and pleasure herself, which was one and
the same, Jade prepared to gain a lift onto top tiptoe
again, so as to shag herself on the stainless steel mock penis: Emily’s
favourite baby, filling Jade to her womb so hugely ably.
But now Emily had come round to the front, and was working
with the remote no longer remote, but shown so Jade now saw, to operate a
guiding blade Jade felt stealthily rise inside her: her super-sensitivity
telling her that something extremely sharp, and thus supremely able to pierce
her soft innards, was rising from the crease crack septum in ‘Johnny’, and was
already pressing prescient.
“What are you doing sweetheart?” Jade asked, curious at the
feeling inside her, as if she were being injected by the longest of long
hypodermic needles, yet still trusting the older woman only to be seeking to
enhance the shared pleasure of watching a beautiful girl masturbate, and being
the beautiful girl masturbating.
In her only answer, Emily pressed another button on the
remote, and the room echoed with Jade’s scream of astounded absolute terror, as
the floor she made wholly holy with the tips of her toes, suddenly showed
itself as trapdoor: and the holy rose was impaled on the penis, as the one and
only means for her to find redress from gravity’s haul of her, down into its
loving arms’ caress: for the phallus on which she rode thrust up her rose pink
road, ran down all the way to the ground floor fifteen feet below.
Jade knew now the look of cruelty incarnate, as she saw
Emily’s eyes, huge owl-wise wise behind her glasses, focused only on causing
her terror and pain, as she screamed and gasped with horror, and fought to keep
the tentative tip grip of her big toes on the phallus’ mock testicles.
“Hold your head right back my darling, if you don’t want it
to go through your brain!”, Emily advised.
Jade’s eyes flooded with tears as she begged understanding
of what Emily was meaning: and then she cried “Oh god no!” as it dawned in her
mind and it was as clear as a picture she had recently seen, obscene, how it
was to go; where she was to go; and what she was to know, and how it would soon
have been.
“Oh god. What have I done to
deserve this? Why? Have pity on me please?” Jade begged in total tears. But
Emily still pressed the next button and the ‘testicles’ fell to the floor
below, leaving Jade to grip the phallus, already far up her, with the loving
strength of her league long and very strong lovely legs; but which were not so
gripping of the stainless steel as to stop its slow and certain seeming rise;
which was in fact Jade’s slow and certain fall, in the guise of disguise.
And yet. And yet.
With all her screaming, Jade was creaming. Her utterly beautiful beautiful legs
fought to stop her slide ride, but inside she was slick with her myrrh, and her
cunt was no use in stopping the phallus’ inexorable rise within the pink palace
of her princess’ insides, as it followed the path that the preceding knife had
mapped.
As her legs displayed to the maximality of their stunning
wonder, the incredible power of their grip, and Jade waved her lovely arms to
find even a straw to save her from her descent into hell, amid obscene screams
as the phallus, lubricated profusely by her betraying musk, ripped slowly but
surely through her guts, Jade somehow heard Emily again call: “Hold your head
right back my darling”, as Emily now dashed down the stairs to witness the
culmination of the wonderful Jade’s arrival at her lowly terminal station
destination.
“Hold your head right back my darling! Don’t let it go
through your brain!” Emily now called from below again, either for love of the show, or for the girl on the slide with the penis ripping
through her insides completely inside.
Jade only knew the agonising pain as the knife guided her
skewer’s trip. And she had realised the only way to survive, was to hold her
head back and pray would happen what now happened as the knife arrived and she
roared with raw agony’s agony’s agony’s agony, as the tip of the phallus rushed
out of her mouth, and Jade knew she was impaled from her north to her south,
and she knew she was skewered right through her beautiful body in the maximum
of fallopian fucks.
And Emily clicked a button on the remote, and the knife, its
duty done, retracted within the penis’ septum again, and left Jade to slide
down the pole that had ripped right through her from hole to hole.
And the phallus rose above where Jade’s tongue performed
long fellatio on the mix of blood and myrrh that had lubricated her enduring of
the ultimate rape, from which there was no escape, as her escapade made her
slide, with the head of the thrusting penis obscenely seen, thrusting out of
her innocent trusting mouth right through her insides clean.
Jade’s pitiful cries gurgled bloody as she continued to
slide impaled on the obscene pole up through the holiest of her three holy
holes, till it thrust out of her mouth so she must fellate, without pleasure at
the unromantic penis’ unrelenting measure, with a mix of shocked pain and
terrible fear that surely her death was near. But also of gain, for the pole
poured with her pussy juice, and her pretty hands could now gently grip, the
phallus she was caressing like a lover, as it through her still slowly and
certain-surely ripped.
Landing on her tiptoes, her legs displayed splayed by the
force of the rod up her still salivating cunt, Jade’s lovely green eyes looked
up at the heaven from which she undoubtedly came, and knew she was sent for her
myrrh, and her frankincense, and the dark gold of her pubic hair, as her tongue
licked the blood off the pole running up her hole and out of her mouth in the
fulfilment of the fullest of foul fucks north through her mouth to the cunt in
her south.
After the slow scream and silent glide of the descent, Jade
stood, her parted legs either side the fallen testicle balls: her long lithe
languorous luscious delectable delightfully deliciously decidedly femininely
formed delicately muscular legs, forced on the tip top of the big toes cruelly
square on the ground in the lost fight to hold herself higher: legs the slope
of an unequivocally unparalleled provocatively erotic equilateral triangle.
Her glistening gold down decorated
delicate forearms aiding her pretty hands caressing of the spike on which she
was impaled, as if it were the tenderest of tender lovers. The erogenous
roundness of her simply stunning firm bare buttocks, with their sides dimpled
deep concave by her seductive stance. Her breasts adance with
her gurgling breathing. Her nipples throbbing with the
evident evidence of her conspicuous arousal also causing her tits’ slow
bobbing. Her head bent back at right angles, her glowing green eyes open
wide and wider, and blinking seemingly unseeing with shock as they stared, if
they would or could but see, at the roof of the room above the room she was now
in. Her ever-shining ever smiling eyes showing, not only that she was
miraculously still alive, but that her mind was her body, and her body her
mind, and both blind to all but the intimacy of the interminable spasms from
her eternally infinite eternity of orgasm’s orgasm’s orgasms, as, even yet, she
danced her dainty feet, to shag herself on the penis pole completely replete.
Jade flexed her lovely legs, flashing her fine feminine
muscles in calf and thigh, as she sought thereby, to lift herself off the
horrible pole, an impossible goal. Or was that indeed her quest? She was in
continuous rapturous orgasm nonetheless.
Her body now gleamed with sparkling diamonds reflecting and
refracting blue-white lightening-bright light, as her every gorgeous pore,
poured her pure sweet sweat, and it trickled down her god-given curves, till
she was sheened and shone with a halo glow, from her blonde head to her
tiptop-tiptoed-big toes.
And yet even her sweat could not resist her legs yet. And
two tributaries of her divine saline, paid tribute to her legs divine, as if
cried tears, as they trickled over the exceptional curves and swerves of her
thighs and calves, in dutiful full worship of their overwhelming beauty.
And Jade worked herself on the pole, gurgling
her joy, as her tongue fellated the lover that fully filled filleted and
fulfilled her. And her mind screamed that she knew she was enduring enjoying
and enjoying enduring the ultimate orgasm, but that she did not know if she was
in antepenultimate ultimate, penultimate ultimate, or the ultimate ultimate
orgasm; or of where when what and which orgasm she would surely die.
And yet still and more Jade shagged herself pinioned on the
pole, working her glorious legs to shag on the peg up her holy hole, knowing
heaven before heaven, was here on earth, as she orgasmed and orgasmed for all
her ebbing life was worth.
Smiling shyly, Emily looked at the wonder of Jade in her
torture, and at what she, Emily, held in her hands. The picture on it was
identical. Save that one was live and the other was over-florid art: the
picture on the book and the girl gurgling blood before her were identical.
Emily admired the cover of the copy of ‘Bella Donna’s
Deflowering’, by Penny Traitor, the exceptionally rare 1957 soft cover original
edition published in limited numbers by Phallus Press. The
collector’s long longed-for find.
Both in the picture and here and now, they were impaled on a
spike that ran up through their cunts and came out of their mouths.
But one had a marginal difference.
By the pin driven through the dancing nipple of her left
breast: the nipple of the live girl: the living organism slowly dying from the
exceptionally extremely excruciating agony of her ever mounting orgasms, was
appended a name on a rectangular plastic badge in black letters on a white
ground: an exact replica of the badge she wore in her bookshop, save for a few
lines of addition: the badge now reading simply: ‘Jade Munroe – the absolute
personification of beauty -1983 to 2006’…
<>
Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Cherubima McNeil
Synopsis: ‘All’s well that ends well’? In her own words,
fourteen-year-old Cherubima tells it like it was one day....
Cherubima McNeil
I was so jealous of me new best friend Lisa, what I’d just
met two weeks ago.
She ses I ‘ave very pretty legs, but ‘ers are so much longer
than mine! She’s got lovely curly brown ‘air, when mine is borin’ blonde and
borin’ straight. I’ve always loved blue eyes. And Lisa’s are so dark and
bootiful. Mine are dark too, but borin’ brown! And I so wanna be tall. Mummy
ses I’ll always be cuddly. And ‘ow lots of boys like dat. But Lisa is already
five-five; and me only five-one: dat’s not fair!
At least I’ve got boobies. Poor Lisa is so flat! Mummy ses
we’re both still growin’, and lots of changes ‘appen at different times to
different girls.
We was on der train to Fordbridge one mornin’, me friend
Lisa and me. And dis man kept lookin’ at me. And I knew ‘e was tryin’ to see me
knickers. And I nudged Lisa. And she saw der man puttin’ ‘is ‘and on dis really
big bulge in ‘is jeans? And she pointed and giggled. But I fought it was nice.
Cos ‘e must ‘ave fought I was pretty. So, I sort of slid down der seat so me skirt
went right up! And so ‘e could see all me legs.
And I knew ‘e liked me legs cos ‘e could not take ‘is eyes
of dem. And I looked straight at ‘im. And ‘e smiled at me. But I don’t know if
‘e could see me knickers. And I smiled at ‘im too. And dat was really nice. And
I know I went all red cos Lisa nudged me. And teased me. And we both giggled
all der way to der ‘Caprice Shoppin’ Experience’ where we went to ‘Slugs’. And
I got some well wicked eyeshade.
I’m fourteen now. Mummy ses I’m becomin’ a woman so fast she
can’t keep pace wiv it all. And she ses I ought to wear a bra. But bras are for
‘oldin’ titties up. And mine stand up all by demselves, fank you very much! So
I don’t want no bra. And mummy ses I ain’t very feminine. And I didn’t ought to
wear combats and tee-shirts and trainers all der time.
Burra said Lisa does. And mummy den ses I’m a bit of a
tomboy, whatever one of dem is. But me Aunty Beatrice ‘eard mummy say dat. And
she said dat nobody could possibly mistake me for a boy. And ‘ow very pretty I
am: “quite der prettiest girl in der whole of Barnmouth” she said. And dat made
me get a tingle down dare in me fingy. And I went all ‘ot and red!
And we both dress der same Lisa and me. But dough mummy ses
I’m too much like a boy, she wouldn’t let me wear a fong. And Aunty Beatrice
told me I ‘ave a wicked bum and she pats me on me bum when I walk by ‘er when
mummy isn’t dare.
And Mummy told me once why she fought Aunty Beatrice ‘adn’t
got married. And I can’t remember what she said. But mummy seemed very
embarrassed. And I said dat I fought Aunty Beatrice’s friend, Natalie, was very
nice. But mummy said it was not right for two women to live togever like dat.
And I said like what? And mummy didn’t say no more.
And I said to mummy, dat all der girls at der school is
wearin’ dem, and dat Lisa wears ‘em; which ain’t quite true. But den mummy
bought me some panties for me burfday? And dare was an ace black fong. And I
wore it and I told Lisa I was wearin’ it.
And Lisa and me ‘ang around at der park. And some older
girls like to talk to us. And Lisa is jealous dat dey always wanna talk to me
and not ‘er.
And Aunty Beatrice pinched me bum once. And it really ‘urt
and it made me squeak and leap and rub where she pinched me, wiv me ‘and. And
Aunty Beatrice smiled and laughed and winked at me when I did all dat. And she
did it under me skirt too!
When I say “all der girls at
school” I only know, cos Lisa told me.
I don’t go to school. Mummy
teaches me at ‘ome. But she ses it’s good for me to ‘ave friends of me own age.
And she knows Lisa’s mummy. So Lisa is alright wiv mummy for me to be friends
wiv see.
But mummy ‘ad to go to
Senabre in southern
But she works at ‘ome
mostly. She translates Greek into English too. And we travel around a lot, cos
she gets sent places by der agency. But she can teach me at ‘ome cos she was a
teacher. And daddy ‘as to pay lots of money from der divorce. So mummy usually
only works part time.
And it wasn’t so as if mummy
was desertin’ me to go to Senabre at der end of der summer vacation or nuffink:
the vacation what I ‘ad like der uvver girls – der ones dat did go to school
for real dat is.
She said it was an
international peace conference about Eyeram. I’d ‘eard of Eyeram and I so
wanted mummy to go, even dough I would miss ‘er really terrible for der weeks
she was gone!
And anyway, mummy said I
could stay wiv Aunty Beatrice and ‘er friend Natalie. But I said dat I didn’t
wanna. And mummy said dat if it was cos of what she, mummy, ‘ad said about der
way Aunty Beatrice lived, dat ‘ad not been very kind and she was sorry she ‘ad
said it. And dat I should take no notice of what she ‘ad said.
And I couldn’t tell mummy
dat I didn’t wanna stay wiv Aunty Beatrice cos she ‘ad pinched me bum. So I
said dat Aunty Beatrice was way too old and ‘ow dat was gross. And mummy said
dat daddy’s sister was only twenty-five. “So I don’t ever wanna be
twenty-five?!”, I said. And mummy smiled and kissed me face like she loved me
for sayin’ dat.
And she said: “You must fink
I’m very old indeed den”. And I said: “You mummy? You’re not old at all!” And
mummy just laughed and said: “I’m ten years older than Beatrice!” And I said:
“But dat don’t matter!” And mummy kissed me again. I fink she was just bein’
silly really.
And mummy said it would only
be while she was away. And den she said: “’ow would you like to go to school
wiv Lisa?” And den she told me dat she knew der ‘eadmistress at Lisa’s school
cos der ‘eadmistress and mummy ‘ad been at university and teacher trainin’
college togever. And dat me teacher at school would be der ‘eadmistress’
daughter, Camille Angelslove.
And I’d met Miss Angelslove
and she was really really bootiful wiv red ‘air in curls all der way down ‘er
back. So I said I’d love to go to school if I would be in Lisa’s class. And
mummy said I would be. So it was me what kissed mummy dis time.
The older girls in der park
kept callin’ me ‘unny’. And I asked dem why. And said: “My name is Cherubima if
you don’t mind!” all uppity like. Den der younger of der two girls said dey
called me ‘unny’ cos I was so sweet. And I went red and said I was sorry for
bein’ so rude. And she said ‘Cherubima’ was a very pretty name, and so it must
be der right name for me, cos I was very sweet too. And I said “fank you”. And
I felt really nice. And ‘er name is Mandy and she’s well fit.
Then dat girl, Mandy, she’s
seventeen I fink, said: “How about a kiss Cherubima?” And I said: “Girl’s don’t
kiss girls” but I so wanted to.
Mandy is really ace. She
goes to Lisa’s school and is der best affleete. And dances ballet too! She’s
got black ‘air and ‘er face is really really knockout, like she could be a
model? And she’s got really really terrif’ legs.
Then Mandy said a kiss from
anuvver girl was like, so well wicked, der best kisses in der world. And dat
dey wanted to see if me kisses tasted of ‘unny: like me name. And I said:
“Cherubima you mean?” and she said: “Yes ‘unny”. And I felt me fingy goin’ all
excited. And when Mandy took ‘old of me ‘and, I saw Lisa look like she could
kill me. But I didn’t care none. I wanted so to know what it was like to be
kissed. I’d seen it on der telly of course. And mummy kisses me. I ‘oped it
would be like in der telly dough; and not like mummy!
And when I went to stay wiv
Aunty Beatrice, she said I looked a ‘frump’ I fink it was: whatever one of doze
is, or a ‘tramp’ or somefin’ mingin’. And she got out ‘er sewin’ machine and
shortened all me dresses and skirts and locked me jeans and combat togs away
somewhere.
And I got emails from mummy
and sent ‘er piccies of me in me mini-skirt wiv me ‘emline just below me bum.
And she wrote back dat I looked really really lovely; and ‘ow I was ‘er little
angel and to be careful wiv der boys, or I would break dare poor ‘earts, I was
so lovely. And dat made me feel so special!?
But not der same special as
when Mandy said I was pretty. And I could see ‘er friend Kelley lookin’ at me
too like she wanted to ‘old me in ‘er arms like on der movies. And Kelley rides
a motorbike and ‘as left school to go to college at Fordbridge. And I wanna go
to college too.
And Kelley said I was der
sexiest little fing she’d ever seen. And we’d been talkin’ about ‘orses cos I
do ridin’ and dat. And some practice show jumpin’.
And I didn’t do nuffink to
make dem talk like dat. But Kelley just ses what a pretty girl I am, right out
and no messin’. And she ses: “How old are you?” And I said: “Sixteen” and she
said: “No you ain’t”. And I said: “Alright den fourteen”. And I went all red
for lyin’. And she said I looked so pretty when I went red like dat. And I’m
always goin’ red like dat. And I fought it was really gross. But now I know it
ain’t; it’s nice.
And den Mandy said to
Kelley: “Bet she’s a virgin”. And I said: “No I ain’t!”, but I went all red
again. And hung me ‘ead. And Mandy ‘eld me ‘ead up wiv ‘er ‘and under me chin,
and told me I was an angel. And I really liked dat.
And I knew mummy wouldn’t
like to know dat Mandy and Kelley was talkin’ to me like dat. And I knew lots
of boys fancied me too, cos dey would wolf whistle when me and Lisa were at der
shoppin’ centre. And they’d be down below der movin’ staircase to try and see
up our skirts, when we was wearin’ one. And Lisa and me never ever use der
elevator lifts never.
And so I went to der park in
a miniskirt and wiv me friend Lisa, feelin’ really sexy in me fong? And der two
older girls whistled and den came up and said I ‘ad really great legs. And was
a real dream. And ‘ow about dat kiss, cos I wouldn’t let dem der first time
see. And I ‘adn’t gone to der school wiv Lisa yet. And der summer vacation was
nearly over too now.
And dey told me dey ‘ad seen
me on me pony over der jumps in a paddock at Lady Barnmouth’s place. And I
said: “So?!” cos dey were embarrassin’ me, even dough I liked dem to tell me
‘ow pretty I am.
But I couldn’t say it as
nasty as I wanted to do. And dey, well Kelley anyway, said dey was watchin’ me
tits bouncin’, as I rode on ‘Ying-Yang’ a Chinese ponygirl what Lady Barnmouth
lent me to ride, cos she knows me mummy. And I went all red again. And giggled.
And Lisa giggled too.
And when Mindi took ‘old of
me ‘and, I could see Lisa lookin’ like she could kill me? And I said to Mindi:
“Can me friend come too?” And Mindi laughed and said “No fank you!” all unkind.
And I felt sorry for Lisa. And den Mindi said “You’re mate’s alright I suppose,
but you’re der crack ‘ot one”. And me face went all red. And I felt really
really special?
And dey took me to der
tool-shed where dey keep der lawnmowers and dat? And it was locked, but dare
was a ‘ole in der back wiv a plank fing loose.
And it was all dark and cool
in der shed. And it smelt of grass cuttings. And Mindy and Kelley seemed shy of
me. And I so wanted dem to kiss me. And I was wiv me back to der shed’s wall
wiv one foot up on der wall. And I could see dat Mindy so wanted to touch me
figh. And den Kelley kissed me on me mouth. And it was all quick and over like
nuffink, and wet and gross too. And I fought maybe she’d not kissed a girl before.
And I wanted a real kiss. But Mindy said would I show dem me tits.
And I said: “No”. But I so
wanted to. And Kelley started to undo me shirt buttons and I didn’t try to stop
‘er. But it was really weird. It was like dey was older than me, but like dey
were frightened of ‘urtin’ me?
And it was me what opened
out me shirt. And dey just looked at me tits and kept sayin’ dey were just
bootiful, really bootiful. And I felt a tingle in me fingy. And I let dem look
at me tits for as long as dey liked. I didn’t mind.
Den Lisa came in. And I
showed Lisa me tits too. And I looked real proud cos I was. And Lisa wouldn’t
talk to me all der way ‘ome.
And den Lisa said: “Did dey
kiss you?”. And I said: “Yea. It was really really wicked” and Lisa began to
cry. And I said: “Why are you cryin’?”. And she said: “Cos I love you”. But I
didn’t want Lisa to kiss me or nuffink, cos we’re just friends Lisa and me. But
I let ‘er kiss me. And it was really really nice. And she stopped cryin’ when
she’d kissed me. And she wanted to ‘olds ‘ands till I got to Aunty Beatrice’s
‘ouse. But I said no cos mummy would get told.
And next day I was to go to
school for der first time, cos der new term ‘ad started and der summer vacation
was over?
And Aunty Beatrice said to
wear me shortest skirt and a fong, so I would really wow dem? And she said I
would make lots of friends among der girls dare, if I dressed to show ‘ow
pretty I am? And I said: “It’s all girls dare, cos it’s an all-girls school”.
And I fought dat was a funny joke; but Aunty Beatrice didn’t laugh. And showed
me der shoes she’d bought me. And dey were really really like ‘wow!’?
And dey was like ballerina’s shoes wiv squared-off toes and
steel toecaps? And Aunty Beatrice said they’d show me pretty legs at dare very
best!
And I couldn’t wait to put dem on. And dey were all soft
leather wiv a velvet linin’. And at der toe end, me big toes went into an ‘ole
inside dem.
And dey ‘ad laces what were wrapped around me calves. And I
wasn’t wearin’ no stockings nor nuffink. And der laces were like criss-crossed
around me legs and tied in bows just under me knees.
And Aunty Beatrice said to stand up while she ‘elped me.
And I nearly fell over when I tried. But she ‘eld me ‘and,
and I stood up. And I was on tiptoe like a ballerina? But I was only stood on
me big toes? And I felt me fingy go all tingly, cos it felt really really sexy
standin’ on me big toes all der time like dat!
And I said: “I’ll get into bovver for only wearin’ a fong!”
And Aunty Beatrice said no I wouldn’t, and what a great little bum I ‘ad when I
was stood on tiptoe like I was.
And she made me look at me in front of der mirror in der
‘allway. And I went all red cos I could see ‘ow really really sexy I looked and
it made me fingy twitch. And Aunty Beatrice said I was “devastating” or
whatever. And I went really really red cos dat sounded really really nice.
And Lisa and me walked to school. And Lisa said ‘ow nice I
looked. And I said: “fank you Lisa”. And Lisa went all red like she was really
in love wiv me and I ‘ad pleased ‘er and dat, just cos I’d said “fank you” and
dat.
And all der uvver girls ‘eadin’ for der school, well nearly
all of dem, was lookin’ at me legs. And sayin’ fings like “wow!” and some of
dem wolf whistled at me. And it was ‘ot, so I was wearin’ a school blouse as
well as a skirt. And I know me boobies was jigglin’ cos I wasn’t wearin’ no
bra.
And Lisa looked like she wanted to ‘old me ‘and, but was too
scared to touch me cos I was too bootiful or summat? Like when der older girls wanted
to kiss me in der shed at der park? And dat felt really really special? And I
felt really really nice, like I was a princess or summat.
And when I walked into class on me big-toes in me ballet
shoes, it was like wow from all der uvver girls. And dey was all lookin’ at me
legs. And I could ‘ear dem sayin’ ‘ow pretty I was. And sayin’ I must be der
new girl, which I was.
And der teacher was Miss Angelslove. And she was really
really bootiful wiv red ‘air in curls all der way down ‘er back? And ‘er face
was all pale and white like she was a knockdead gorgeous ghost. And she ‘ad
green eyes wiv ‘er red ‘air. And ‘er curls were all glowin’ like. And ‘er body
was well fit! She’d got big tits. And dey was well fillin’ ‘er shirt like dey
was giant melons. But dey was not gross nor nuffink. And ‘er bum was sexy. Like
it swung when she walked? And she’d got really really ace legs!
And I could feel ‘er eyes on me when I came into der class
wiv Lisa. And I turned and smiled. And she went a bit red, like she fought I
was pretty too. And I so ‘oped so, cos Camille – Miss Angelslove - is really
really knockout.
And she said: “Good mornin’ Lisa” to me friend, “And you
must be Cherubima McNeil” to me, like.
And I said: “Yes miss”
And she said: “Welcome Cherubima. You do look so lovely,
just like your mother. I’m sure you’ll soon settle in wiv us while she’s away
sweetheart…”
And I’m like: “So lovely?!” and “Sweetheart?!” and like
“Wow!!” And I’m goin’ all red. And Camille is goin’ red too. And all der class is
lookin’ at us. And I ‘eard a girl say “bitch” cos she was jealous cos Miss
Angelslove found me really really pretty and dat?
And I walk to der desk next to Lisa. And I know all der
girls wanna watch me sit down so me skirt goes up and dey can see all me fighs
and dat? And maybe dey ‘ope to see some bare bum too?
And I sit down real slow. And all der uvver girls are
watchin’ and Camille too. And I feel really really special. And when I’m
sittin’ I look up at Miss Angelslove. And she can’t look me in der eye. And I
feel me fingy really really really tingle when I look at ‘er, cos she is really
really ace.
And den der lessons begin and I know as ‘ow Lisa wants to
stroke me figh. And I smile at ‘er. And she goes all red.
And when we is bein’ taught English and dat, Lisa passes me
a note and I read it under me desk. And I don’t fink it was from ‘er cos I’ve
seen ‘er writin’ and dis writin’ is all messy. And it ses on der note: “Can I
sniff your knickers?” And der someone what ‘as written it ‘as added “Camille”
so it is like it was from Miss Angelslove ‘erself? And I feel me ‘eart thumpin’
cos I can’t believe it’s true.
Then Miss Angelslove ses: “Camille. Will you read us der
openin’ passage from ‘All’s Well Dat Ends Well’. And dis really bootiful black
girl stands up. And she’s readin’ out loud: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s
day…” And ‘er lips are so ace.
And me fingy throbs cos I realise der note is from ‘er. And
Miss Angelslove is smiling: “No Camille. Lovely dough dat is, I fink we are not
lookin’ at der right page?” And I can see dat der Camille dat wants to smell me
knicks is in love wiv Camille Angelslove, der teacher. And I guess dat she ‘as
read der wrong page on purpose so Miss Angelslove might tell ‘er off and come
over and show ‘er der right page, or sommat like dat.
And when class is takin’ a break. I go to der bathroom. And
der black girl is ‘angin’ about. And I smile at ‘er. And she looks so ‘appy.
And I go into a cubicle and I take off me fong and I ‘and it to ‘er round der door
of der cubicle? And I watch ‘er smell der crutch. And maybe me smell is not
strong enough for ‘er. But she still smiles.
And I ‘ave a pee sittin’ on der pan. And I look up. And some
of these girls from me class are lookin’ over der top of der cubicle and
gigglin’ when I spot dem. And dey watch me pee. And dey listen to me peein’.
And den some of dem are pointin’. And some of dem are
gigglin’ like dey were goin’ to die gigglin’. And I realise dey can see I
wasn’t wearin’ no knickers.
But dare giggles seemed strange. Dey was a bit like dey ‘ad
spotted I ‘ad got chalk on me bum or sommat. And so I look around at me bum.
And dey point and giggle all der more. And like I’m so pullin’ der ‘emline of
me skirt down real ‘ard?
And I dunno what der gigglin’ at, cos it ain’t as if I ain’t
a blonde between me legs as well as wiv der ‘air on me ‘ead.
And when we get back to der class. Teacher isn’t dare yet.
And all der uvver girls, includin’ me best friend Lisa, is all quite when I
wiggle in like. And den one of dem lets a snort like giggle go. And I don’t
know why dey are so quiet.
And I sit on me chair. And dey ‘ave put drawin’ pin tacks on
me chair. And I don’t see dem cos I don’t expect dem to be dare do I? And I sit
down. And dey prick me in me bum! And I shoot up squealin’? And cos I don’t
‘ave time to pull me skirt down, all der girls can see me fingy.
And dey start to giggle and point. And me best friend Lisa
starts a chant of: “We can see your fingy!” “We can see your fingy!” “We can
see your fingy!” And all der uvver girls join in?
And I’m like in tears cos dey are bein’ so cruel. But I’ve
got like a really big tingle in me fingy?
And der black beauty, der uvver Camille, ‘as let der uvver
girls ‘ave me knickers. And der uvver girls are frowin’ dem round der room,
between each uvver, shouting: “Catch!” And dat is ‘ow dey know dey can see me
fingy, wot wiv me skirt bein’ so short and dat, and dem ‘avin’ me panties to
frow abart.
And der more dey giggle and point and chant: “We can see
your fingy!” “We can see your fingy!” der more excited me fingy gets. And it’s
really gettin’ me so red and so ashamed at lettin’ me fingy show.
And I’m ‘angin’ me ‘ead as I stand dare. And yet me fingy is
gettin’ really really excited now. And I sit down wiv me legs under der desk?
And all der girls are gigglin’ and laughin’. And den dey
starts to chant: “We wanna see your fingy!” “We wanna see your fingy!” “We
wanna see your fingy!” “We wanna see your fingy!”.
And der more cruel dey are der more me fingy likes it. And
der more excited it gets. And I’m like ‘angin’ me ‘ead on me desk wiv shame?
And teacher, Miss Angelslove, ‘asn’t come into class yet.
And all der uvver girls get up from dare desks, and fight over each uvver to
get around mine?
And dey point and giggle and some of dem are cryin’ wiv
laughter. And me best friend Lisa starts shoutin’: “We can see your fingy!” “We
can see your fingy!” “We can see your fingy!”
And teacher, Miss Angelslove, comes into der class. And I’m
like surrounded by all der uvver girls scept Camille, der lovely black girl,
who is cryin’ cos der uvver girls are bein’ so cruel to me?
And Miss Angelslove sees all der girls around me desk. And
she can ‘ear dem chantin’ and sniggering?
And she finks I’m bein’ naughty. And she calls out: “What’s
goin’ on at der back dare?”
And all der girls in ‘er class love ‘er, cos she is well
fit; and so nice, and really really ace. And all der girls dat ‘ad gavvered
round me, to try and see me fingy, began to giggle again. And to scrabble back
to dare desks.
And Miss Angelslove asks me: “What are you ‘idin’ under der
desk Cherubima?”
And I say: “Nuffink miss!”
And der uvver girls snigger and giggle like?
And Miss Angelslove ses: “Cherubima McNeil, I don’t believe
you. Stand up and stand up right now: and let der whole class see what a wicked
girl you are!”
And I stand up.
And der girls in der class giggle and point. And der more
dey giggle and point, der more I go red wiv shame. And der more I go red wiv
shame, der more excited me fingy gets.
And I begin to cry wiv der embarrassment.
And it was really really really gross?
Der uvver girls, includin’ me best friend Lisa, pointed and
screamed in tears wiv ‘elpless giggles and laughter, and der truly bootiful
Miss Angelslove was blushin’ dead deep red, like a really really gorgeous rose?
And…… And…… And….., it was really really mingin’, cos der
whole class and me best friend Lisa could see me cock standin’ right up ‘ard,
all stiff and really really throbbin’ and bobbing, all nine-inches?
<>
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
She
Synopsis: Poetic licentiousness?
Spring 1 – Her big toes projecting on the
wafer slim leather sole of the soft kid sandals, are
right-angles-bent tortured penis parallels, bowing to her legs’ inexorable rise
of her nine-inch heels’ sky rocket size.
She is bare legged this day. Other days She
dazes and dazzles in stockings’ ways.
Stocking days She electrifies with her thighs’ rub of static
spark risking nylon, frisking a whisper from her skirt’s church bell, as She
stands, and her legs She switches to advance and retreat in the cause of
comfort: strain in the commuter train withstanding, her heels heeding passion
for fashion notwithstanding.
This day is hot. She is hot to trot.
On hot stocking days, a triangular spot in the darkness of
her tolling skirt amid, is filled with her immaculate lips humid. Her panties
are virgin white and pulled so tight that, unbid, they show the divide in her
pouch inside hid.
Inside, unbidden, the lips show her tightness from never
having been ridden. She is as tight closed as a silenced clam. Her immaculate
smoothness is as if pre-puberty, for She is shaven and smoothed to a state of
such nudity, as to show her vertical Mona Lisa smile with its outer lips
turning in, to hide the sensationally sensitive sensual pinkness that dwells
within.
Today in this heat She is sans
panties replete. And She can feel a curious fly on her
glorious thigh with his tickling feet.
His visit seems assured to be fleeting, but her visitor
leaves an itch behind its retreating.
And then her mouth parts, and her perfect white teeth are
licked by her tasty tongue long, to restrain the strange below feeling, and
stop a cry of keening, as She nearly flips, feeling the fly wander, the tight
crease betweening her virgin lips.
And there is nought She can do on the busy train, than let
the fly crawl away, without refrain from feeling her thoroughly, where touched
has no man nor maid nor She either, for wickedness makes her afraid, for She
knows her duty is to maintain her godly perfection of beauty as maid.
But the fly is not shy and continues to tease as he crawls
on her bare lips. And he itches and pleases as he zigzags along the line were
her cunt lip’s crease is. And then stops as if a kiss to proffer on the spot
where her dingle dangles on offer, now twitching and dancing in its little red
hidey hood, hidden inside her.
And She can nought do to stop the naughty tease as the fly’s
six legs and buzzing wings do as they please, and the tickle of torment finally
causes her honey to flow. And She can no longer bear
to have the fly crawl so, so She eases her legs apart to force its withdrawal.
But the fly, flies up into her salivating snatch, and her
legs, now back together him in her tight Venus flytrap catch: ‘SNAP!’
And She crushes him to instant doom
with her cunt as his tomb. And he drowns in her delicious myrrh, no longer able
to drone or even stir.
And in her imaginative daydream distraction She has not till now noticed the attention, of an older girl
her sexy motions have aroused to attraction.
And She blushes as her legs are
longingly surveyed, and lip service to love paid by lips licked to the moisture
that She herself has just produced in her oyster’s cloister.
And She wakes from her wet-daydream
of something obscene, of which She is incapable in truth for good cause: her
dream of the incessantly insistent fly meeting his fate in her crack, as it
eats him with a voracious snap.
And in the blush and the train’s crowded crush, the older
wiser girl presumes and intends to rush, to advise the young maid of an
ointment made for what She has assumed to be the itch
of thrush.
Spring 2 – How many years now has She been without? Her body shouts of its needs. She fights
with her prayers indeed. She sits with her thighs on display. Monuments to beauty and monumental in their way.
The commuter train takes strain and her crossed leg’s
thighs, rub stocking top on stopping top, blacker than the black of the stocks
that covers the rest of the dreams her legs inspire: the spires of her
incarnation as cathedral and higher.
Oh why do the nuns She would join
number with, send her out this way, her sexy mission, to seduce and persuade
into the Church of the Holy Girl, her fellow maids by improper proposition?
Stockinged thigh on stockinged thigh rubs, and She knows She
must not squeeze them together hard, for She fears the fire in the purse on
which sits at rest, on the rest of her miniscule miniskirt drawn up high at
hem, and which flashed the reflected light white from her tiny tight panties,
before She just now crossed her thighs in holy genuflexion, before another
lovely girl of her own generation.
As if on purpose the train’s rocks and rolls serve only to
serve up her breasts, as porpoises at play and free to have their way, as the
nuns had insisted indeed that today, She tease without brassiere to impede
their way.
Within her blouse and thus to further arouse the girl
opposite with her eye on the wonder of her thighs, and her playfully porpoising
breasts, her nipples are hard and scribble and scribe ‘L’ ‘O’ ‘V’ ‘E’ ‘M’ ‘E’
in the blouse covering her generous chest.
Wanting to know, despite her wanton’s heat, if She could make her day replete, by recruiting the opposite
girl to the Church with her charms, She raises her hand and slender arm, and
bends her fingers back to comb her curls aside, from the deep rich green of her
glowing eyes.
She waits the seeming eons needed for the opposite apposite
girl to travel her legs, to the spicy hot black bands of the taut tight tops of
stockings and the snow white flesh, fresh, above them bare, till the two by two
eyes stare with love, in knowingness of what and which they are both aware.
Then the train brakes of sudden and shakes two chains from
cleaved four forefronts, as bosoms swing in recoil before recall of their
nestling in natural nurture, and two crucifixes out flicked momentarily
transfix.
And two would be Church of the Holy Girl nuns, realise they
have commissioned mission of their fellow, and fall to pretty giggles, knowing
that neither will this day, win a new recruit their way, with their sexy
wiggles.
Spring 3 – Medusa’s curls were never this red,
nor did such sweet scented snakes cover her head. But the powers of seduction
are a common thread.
Natural as nature are these coils, coils no nurture has
spoiled. Twisting and turning in mesmerising whirls, they mark the essence of
this exquisite girl, and set your mind in total turmoil.
Yet She wears this halo, casually at ease cascading to
ground without cease, in torrential twists teasing‘ mercy please’ pleas, as her
angelic face smiles from within their halo, to shatter your heart and your
peace, forever without cease.
As the sunset’s halo tries to match the glow of her glorious
hair, She turns her sweet face from your admiring
stare, and your heart and your cock are all the more forced to stir. Every
millimetre of her total perfection would alone give a male a beyond massive
erection.
And the bridle path ribbons behind your ride, as your ponies
walk from the beach side-by-side, and you watch her breasts’ seismic echo of
her pony’s bounding strides.
As She rides bareback the track,
her reins are her pony’s mane in her pretty hands held slack, and her bare legs
dangle long and wide, astride. Her legs are divided either side her crutch, to
straddle with their stride as such, and you assume that in her bikini thong,
decided, must be that her lips are invitingly divided.
In only a sloppy white tee-shirt and the virgin white bikini
thong, her gold crucifix cross glints in the sun, as you ride from the beach
after hours of watching her reach, and her breasts and her long legs leap, as the
volleyball beach She keeps in play, for you to win some other day, when this
winsome girl will let you hold sway.
And on the rare occasions when She has to retrieve the ball,
and the breeze blows her hair to let you see it all, the sight of the site of
her bare bottom holds you in thrall. Bare foot, She
walks on the sand Egyptian queen, her bikini thong letting her buttocks be full
seen, and you are mesmerised by its seduction, and its wiggle production is
thus made obscene.
And She bends, with her two bare beach ball buns begging to
be slapped till they are as red as the setting sun, and her bend shows the
crutch of her white bikini where, her pouch is vouchsafed from the predatory
penis bare, that longs for to place the full length of its shaft, in the pink
sheath there: there in that place, or the equally pink lips on her lovely face.
As She rises again with the
volleyball retraced, her visage is covered with curls that She must replace,
from hiding the wonder of her freckled face. And you see in her eyes her
vivacious beauty, and you long that her care was not
your bounden duty.
And She giggles as She drops the
ball when using her fingers as her comb. And over her body your eyes freely
roam. But now She is in place to once more serve the
ball. And her fitness and litheness are all that will ensure that you again
lose the tussle despite your supposed superiority of muscle.
And as the ball to ground gives her the next point, She giggles divinely. But then her hand appoints to cover
her pretty lips as She sees you tumble, and the look of her care for you makes
you humble, as She rushes to help you up from the sand, frightened you have
been hurt by the way you land, and her lips you long to kiss as She bends to
lend aid, and her eyes show the gentle care of which She is made.
But you are not hurt, and She turns
once more to golden laughter, for She does not know what your mind is after.
And around her side of the net She once more wiggles,
a girl in her body and her mind and her giggles.
And the wind catches her curls and flies them piratical
flag, and just for the moment her bare feet sand drag, as if in her mind She is suddenly aware, that you are wishing her naked with
your constant stare.
And She turns and attunes her
intelligent gaze upon you in trust. And you look back over your filthy lust,
and your answering smile says She can trust you are
just.
And now her face lights with the delight of your
reassurance, and She wiggles and giggles to return to
the play, and thoroughly defeats you in every way.
And now as her pony trots, She bounces, legs divided, on her
crutch, and you wonder how much her wonderful cunt, with its pink on display,
is being pummelled to lust in that way.
And her feet point to ground giving her bare calves, a
supremacy of shape that a sculptor could only carve, if Michelangelo’s David
was dragged to her yard, and that inadequately endowed manhood put to the
chisel, and replaced with a cunt in its legs’ middle, and the rest of the body
given new shape, in the form of a girl to make earthquake, such as the girl
whose thighs now rise as She strives to make more comfortable her intimacy’s
ride, between her parted thighs, with her heaven’s doors surely open wide.
And for the moment your vision alters this picture, to a
totally different mixture, where She is naked and in terrible pain, as your
crop beats her buttocks again and again, and you pull on the bit in her pretty
mouth, hard on the reins that control her wildness, as you whip her to the
horizon’s witness of her tits frantic frolicking wild swinging wideness. And
the wheels of your spurs run down her bare thighs, and though her long legs are
coping to stride the loping you demand as you savagely ride, you whip her the
more in your fury, for the desire She invokes, as the dildo you have forced up
her cunt her provokes, and her body runs with sweat strain and blood, as you
increase the agony of her pain, by whipping and spurring her again and again,
amid her obedient’s tears’ gentle flood.
And now you think of her convent education ongoing, and you
know of her decision, and that She is going to give up
her place in the sun, to become a
And you know you have thought thoughts about her that you
did not ought to; for this beautiful girl is your loving daughter.
Summer 1 – Just left church: Sunday. Pavement sun shimmer. Her legs wander wonder wand in the distant rise
heat haze glimmer. Her hell-high heels hello erogenous click
clack clatter. Sweet sixteen. Marble white to
marvel at, in black: dress; tailored jacket; veil with hat.
Cool despite her thick woollen dress, jacket, and veiled
cloche hat. The dress hem high. Stockings,
Closer, behind her behind as She walks seductive sway, the
domes of her derriere rise and fall bewitchingly, alternately, as She heavens
her way.
From under her hat conflagrational curls of peerless
priceless assay, essay to tumble to the humbled ground. Her face is of
sweetness profound.
Portray the proverbial picture She
is as pretty as, and trash it, for only a mirror can show what beauty She has.
The eyes devastate: the lips a kiss await, already
proffering their own irresistible offering. Add freckles speckled delicately on
her soft spectral complexion, and a pretty little nose,
and you have the confection that is a girl in all her perfection.
As a man comes her way her eyes avert. She can divert; but She is no flirt. As he turns She
feels his astonishment. While She graces on, his open mouthed stare causes her,
aware of her powers, to lower her head in maidenly blush. And just that is
just, for She is wholly holy whole, with all its
magical power, and her maiden’s ring yet to become a former flower.
Summer 2 – Seventeen. Once more on the crowded
train, the sensual scent of her hair fragrances and flavours the flagrant
admiration of the older man, whose tired eyes follow the flow of her league
legs, longing, knowing now that heaven has earth in thrall, where the one
square millimetre each of her heelless stiletto-toed ballet shoes en-pointe her
tall.
And She turns to squeeze a shy
smile that says: ‘please admire me as a daughter’. A gold neck-chain glistens.
A seat is vacant, he signals with his hand that She should it favour. And her
shy ‘thank you’ with her emerald diamond eyes and pouted lips burn his memory
forever.
She glides over, and slips, with underwear whispering its
minimality. Replete with the suspender clasps that grasp her nylons at sighs’
sides, her cool cotton dress no longer hides the bare flesh of her upper
thighs, as the seat She bides with her hem bell’s rise. And one leg over the
other She slides and nylon on nylon rides, and the sound of the sizzling static
of stocking sliding on stocking’s glide, sensationally sounds crackles, as She
lowers the sweet head that should show her pride instead.
Summer 3 – She is enjoying her eighteenth
birthday treat. Humidity diamonds her humility in a delight of trickling
perspiration as She plays you, her uncle, to defeat.
Beneath her white tennis skirt, her bare thighs shine with
sweet sweat, and flash their shapely strength as She
wins the first set.
For her to play in white tiptoe ballet shoes is almost a
cheat, for the beauty of her legs must lead her opponent to defeat: a defeat
from attraction to the inevitably distraction, of following the flow of her
strong legs in folly, as She flashes their fit shapeliness in the fast fought
rallies.
She giggles in her joy at cutting the baseline with final
ball. And you could spank her for holding you in such thrall. And her sweet
voice joys at her musical call of: “Six love I think
you’ll find!” as She dances on her tiptoes making her leg shape divine. And
love is indeed all that is on your mind, as She is
shied by you looking at her with the lust of all mankind.
And She waits for your serve at the
next set’s start. And you hit the ball long in deliberate dart. And it hits her
full on her breast as you intend, put pretend not, as She
gasps with the blow that will bruise her nipple; and yet crouches again, her
sweet face so trusting and simple.
Your next serve is harder still, and hits her other breast,
so that She twists and falls. And She
has scored neither of these balls, for She knows in her heart that the birthday
treat that was to be
Bravely She rises, her bruised nipples
making her cry, and your next served ball hits hard her bare thigh.
And your next hits her full in her belly, so She doubles
over with lost breath and hurt, and her breathtaking breasts dangle in her
shirt, so you long over the net to dash at the double, and use your racket her
bum spheres to thrash and pummel.
Despite that your intent has become elementary, She rises
and holds her racket at sentry, and your serve is full with the hardest yet
whack, and the ball, as you intend, hits her full in the lap, and hard on her
sweat-made-transparent panties, with a resounding slap!
And She cries with the pain of her
cunt being hit. And She flashes her white thong as her
hem up-flips. And the ball is still lodged in her thighs again, as She appears to roll it with her shapely muscles, and enjoy
it’s feeding her pain.
And you cry out as if it were in the rules of the game:
“JUICE!!” not ‘deuce’ as is the usual name. And She
knows full well what you mean by that refrain. And you want to hit her again
and again.
And you want round the net next to take your chase, and
strip her to her tiny waist, and tie her arms back with her sweaty shirt, so
her tits leap up taunt and flirt, and you whack them hard with your tennis racket,
so her nipples are squeezed through the squares of the of the catgut trellis,
with slaps you impart with increasing relish, as you beat her to perdition with
voluminous bashes, till her tits are meshed with bloody squares from your full
volley slashes.
But instead you hold your racket up to apologise, and glow
with sweet sincerity, as you know in your mind She is
suffering in verity.
And from thence on you whip her in the game She once led love-six: topping it with six-love, six-love
instead. And her giggles are gone and her play has vanished, as from the tennis
court She is vanquished.
All this is over in less than an hour, and you sneak your
avuncular hand on her shining sweaty bare bum, as you prompt her to her shower,
longing that her rape was within your power.
Autumn 1 – She knows. Her eyelashes lowered,
alluring fans fuelling the flames of desire for her. Her alabaster face bedewed
and bejewelled with bewildering freckles, and crowned and around with
surrounding conflagration from incandescent furls of her incendiary curls.
Commuter still. She is in vest
invested twice boldly by her beautiful chest. Her hair cascades carat claret
curls galore to caress the floor flawless in red, to form carpet for her regal
tread.
The emerald lasers of her startling sparkling eyes, tell the intellect of this dove. She is to be engineer
or scientist or professor or doctor: and She is love.
Cavernous cleavage centre of epic domes, with domes on the
domes from the domesticity of mothering teats. Teetering on
tiptoe taut in leg and buttock, fronted with this sweet softness affirmably
firm: a gold chain dandles a crucifix amid the abyss of the essentially sensual
rise, either side the deep valley in which it resides.
Eyes cleave the cleavage. A girl, stood alongside where She
now sits, looks down into the shadowed darkness as her eyes cannot help, at two
wonders that do everything puppying, bar yelp.
The train is too crowded for her to move. The blush on her
face could speak of a prude, or of some stirring in the shaven honeypot on
which She sits nude. Her tits sway heaven’s way,
affirming their firmness and freedom to roam, without the confines of a
brassiere to kennel them in homes.
Disobedient of all bar their own will, their slow swing and
rise and fall as her breaths thrill, and a brief glimpse of her nipples is more
exciting still.
Her nipples could themselves be breasts on a less
well-endowed girl. Thus She is double blessed on her
chest, with a quarter of each breast, given to her nipples’ knurls.
Constantly dancing never at rest, her tits declare their
independence from the rest of her chest, and her nipples press so hard in her vest, that its fabric contorts, as her chest cavorts.
She looks up at the girl looking down to assay,
the wonder of her chest at rest and play. But the sweet look from her innocent
eyes in plea, for the other girl not to mentally undress her, is met by a shock
means for that girl to assess her.
For the train hits a kink in the rail, and the consequent
jerk, causes two other girls’ drinks to unavoidably squirt, and her vest is
soaked in the lemonade cola.
And the wetness helloes full sight of her nipples, huge in
dimension and hard with the wet cold. So She is left
blush incarnate, amid the stares bold, of the whole of the compartment’s
multitude, craning her nipples to behold.
And even her frolicking freckles blush, as She hangs her red
curls shamed by the her slit’s sudden gush, that confirms her a girl, as the
cruelty of the stares She is exposed to, score a palpable hit that her heavenly
face glows to.
Autumn 2 – Leafs’ turn, leaves leafs longing
for comparison less unfavourable to her flaming curls. The tumble of their
majesty befalls the Fall to fall behind in the league
of nature’s wonders. For her hair thunders that this is girl,
and all nine wonders of the world are thus thereby humbled, let alone the mere
deciduous shed, as the leaves parachute pendulum down to carpet in red, where
they long her sweet feet may deign to tread.
Kicky-toed She tiptoes her dainty way, flicking the leaves
that lizard lounge in lay on the floor, to look up her skirt and espy the
mound, flawless, punctuating her panties with pronounced pouch, as She saints
by in dance, with the curves of her calves conspicuous from her being tiptoed
straight lance, in shoes in which a ballerina would dance: shoes giving supreme
sensuality to her stance.
Schoolboys passing glance. They stop. They turn. They stare
astounded and astonished at her. Is She a vixen lost
from her lair? Foxy with fiery curls of red hair, they see her as wolves would
bunny rabbit instead. And their whistles whistle loud and sincere, as She
wonders her wander past the seers She sears, her face aflush with maiden’s
blush, as She is shied by their decided cries of adoration, as they are
transfixed by her buttocks’ ruling role in her sumptuously seducing slow
stroll.
And now She must walk past a window
where the daily event, is a man with his cock in his hand leant, to paying her
honour with his rampant pole, in the only way open to him without access to her
holy holes.
And She is shamed by his blatant masturbation in worship of
her wholly holy beauty, and his adoration, of her face and her body and her beautiful
legs, long lithe and fit in her ballet shoe shod feet, as the wonderful girl,
sexuality replete, lowers her head aside, to try not to see him his foreskin
slide, with savage rapidity, to capture the moment of her passing on her way
home from work, with his daily squirt of semen from his massive orgasmic jerks,
as he stares at her passing, and the wiggles snaking her skirt.
Autumn 3 – The convent school seems so relaxed
these days, unlike when her mummy suffered their ways. And mummy is here again
to witness her daughter on stage.
This is remembrance of a not so distant past, by the ‘She’
of this story when She was just a fourteen-year-old lass:
in educational duty, and even more so in beauty, top of her class.
Solo singing with guitars strumming is the choice She has
made, and the stage is filled with this wonderful maid, as She stands with the
microphone thrusting at lips, that god could only have made to experience the
kiss.
And the microphone’s dildoic shape suggests another
pleasure, in using her mouth at slow leisure, by filling it with a huge display
of manhood at play, and exploring her throat with a vicious display, of how a
girl can be choked to till She swallows his spray.
This is her first song on public display. Going on stage fills
her with dismay. And her arrival there only gives cause, for stunned stares and
rapturous applause.
She wears this night the gift of the girl with holy ring
still tight: a silk mini-dress of pristine white, that shows She
is attending the convent, to lead the innocent life, leading to becoming
another girl’s wife.
On her slender shoulders with their bones delicate, the
straps of the dress are simple not intricate. The garb in itself gives cover
short shrift, consisting essentially of the lightest of shifts,
with a hem so high it displays both thighs. And, as if in a dream, between them
her intimacy can be seen. It is naked as nature before the arrival of puberty,
with the soft down removed to demonstrate her purity.
In white ballet shoes She on top
tiptoe walks, her legs shaped divinely with her young muscles taut. And now She blushes shyly, as the audience’s applause show they
treasure her so highly.
To the front of the stage She
parades a little angel, and sweetly curtsies to a leggy angle, that causes her
lovely breasts to dangle, in a portent of what is to come. And to those longing
to see her innocent cunny and the whole of her pretty bummy, the hem of her
dress, grants complete success.
The microphone on its stand thrusts erect, before this
plus-perfect member of god’s sweet elect. She is to sing a song to please an
audience gathered, to be willingly relieved, of $1,000 dollars, perceived for
the convents reprieve, from the last of a long lasting financial disaster, so
that girls such as She, can continue their education thereafter, and their
beauty’s incarnation can light the joy of all the nations.
Sweetly shy She stands with her
hair tumbling down, a halo of auburn, a curly coiled crown, that flows from her
head to kiss the thus humbled ground.
Her never kissed lips form the sweetest of pouts as She
sings a love song; from her voice sweetly out, singing words of connubial
bliss, despite that She is completely innocent of
this.
The audience is silenced by her lovely voice, as She strums her guitar to accompany her choice, till the
sudden advent of a discordant noise.
The poor angel’s guitar string breaks and whips up to near
miss her pretty face, whipping her shoulders in its place, and cutting both
straps of her white slip of grace.
Continuing to strum like a true troubadour, her lovely voice
trills and thrills as her dress, down her supreme soft smoothness, slides to
the floor. Hesitating and stopping momentarily on her pink nipples’ ripples,
before sliding inexorably, as her young nipples flicker flexibly, and let it
go, so that where once was her dress, are her unbearably beautiful bare breasts
are now on show.
She sings on of love’s longings in the state of undress all
girls should be in when they sing of their need for caress. And a second guitar
strings tight as a whip, decides it will escape and take a vicious trip that
hits her left tit and splits its proud pink nip.
Crying out with the pain as her blood pours, She just cannot sing any more, and lowers her guitar to the
stage floor. Out of the dress surrounding her feet, her pretty legs in their
ballet shoes leap, and the audience watches her cry and weep.
And then kicky-leggy She runs in a
flood of tears and pain’s rage, to the comfort of her mummy at the side of the
stage. And into mummy’s arms the honeybun runs naked, so her mummy can comfort
the daughter She holds sacred.
And mummy kisses her face and strokes her hair’s grace, and
wipes the sweet tears off her lovely face, and then kisses the place whipped by
the string lace, putting her lips on the cruelly split nipple of the miss, to
give its pure beauty a soothing healing kiss.
But the kiss lingers longer than even justified by the
nipple’s painful harm, and She registers her mummy’s attentions
as cause for alarm. And her voice sounds plaintive of a plea that is key: “Oh
please mummy, that is not the right way to kiss me!”
And her mummy lets go her ravishing charms, releasing the
angel from out of her arms.
But still She longs to kiss her
again and show her sweet daughter loves gentle game. But now her head hangs
with bitter shame, for feeling arousal, for the offspring of her espousal, to
the daddy whose joint thrusts, left her in trust, after divorce had taken its
bitter course.
And She sees her mummy’s pain, and
runs naked into her loving arms again. And bathes mummy’s face with the grace
of her kisses, to remind her poor mummy of what heaven and bliss is, as mummy
holds her naked pubescent miss, and their kisses turn to the rapture of proper
love’s capture, and the love that is not remiss in the comforting face kiss.
Winter 1 – Her furs infer that She does not
care; but they are false and thus unlike her.
Were She naked She would be
wonderfully warmed alone by the surround of her floor-trailing hair; but nature
gives way to society’s affairs, and so She wears numerous lairs.
The soft zephyrs of her sweet breath silently vapour from
the gently flaring nostrils of her pretty nose, with many of its summer freckles
in hibernation’s repose, and the vapour that streams, from the sweet moist lips
of the rosebud’s rich strawberry mouth, seems steam.
Now her long tongue lizard flicks, as her upper lip it licks
to explore if She need restore its natural softness from
becoming sore, in the cold winds bitter raw roar.
But She need have no concern, for
the allure of her lips is not remiss in signalling that She is a walking kiss.
The face is pale the body hot, for beneath her furs She
drips her drops. The scarlet tears She is crying are
caught in a once virgin white pad held to her other mouth. Her face shows her
period hurts her. She is paler than her pale pallor in usual nature, as her
sacrificial blood falls from her altar, to alter the white line of the lining
in her pristine white panties, with the red leak of her losing streak, dripping
a Rorschach picture depiction, of a shapely girl being bad, on the white
canvass of her period pad.
Winter 2 – Within her furs this different
time, between the pouring of her monthly red wine, She wiggles street as She
cannot but help, for She is built so her body makes for such appealing stance,
and advance of stealing stealth in dance.
Is her ‘monthly’ her punishment for this way of hers, to be
sheer She, as She cannot avoid?
She is sincere in her beliefs and has uttered her prayers in
the church of the Holy Girl, for She is of the Girlist
faith, Girlianity’s cross bearing witness, as it traces a pendulum swing,
between the frontal domes of this walking cathedral of the wonders of woman
eternally ethereal.
She wants so to be good, and, to show her faith, has given
her troth to the lap of her god. And yet She knows as She traipses in her hot
furs, that She glows with her natural wonder, and stuns with the sun of her
smile, and captivates with her gentle ways, and arouses … but this, She prays,
will not have its way, till god says She may.
And never come that day, for in her dismay, She is minded for the nunnery, and already made, a sacrifice
of her love of mammon that way.
She is made to devastate as a sign of her sacrifice. She
must entice but never ever let be spilled in her, spice, for her pleasure, or
that of any other man or girl’s vice.
She accords with the beliefs of the church to which She accedes, and seeks to succeed to in time. She is dressed
to thrill in order to ‘kill’, in her own ardour’s prime.
The time must be three years in the wilderness of the outer
world, using all that makes her girl, to recruit for her church those who would
take her to their beds, and find She will say only ‘no’, to their wish to be
fed and to feast in her holy holes, with their penetrating poles their spitting
seed to ease their fiery ache, and their thirst to slake with her pregnancy in
wake, real or in appeal to their manly desires, for such husbanding of her
fallow fallopian furrow, with Eros’ plough, and her furrows answering feminine
fires.
Though in fact, her mission is not to recruit those who
would her ride, but to seduce the distaff side.
Winter 3 – In
shower She now shimmers in riven rivers, holy water tributaries attributable
only to tears’ tribute and duty, to the contribution of her uncontrovertibly
overwhelming beauty.
Her cross gold on its gilt chain dangles and dandles, and
dances as it dares to touch her awares, where no boy or girl is allowed within,
and ne’er She either to caress for guilt of sin.
Her moist mouth pout poised shows her mind sears as she now
soothes the soap over her smooth rear. Her graceful hands smooth soap to sooth
her thigh. She is naked as sigh.
Her holy chain swings out as She
bends, and it captures nipple as She rises again.
And nipple balloons monumentally momentarily, sensitive to
the gentle flicks from the blessed cast gold Mary Magdalene crucifix. Mary
naked on her cross, being dragged across nipple’s fore, till the holy cross is
freed and centres the vale, twixt her pink crowned minarets once more.
She gasps.
Her myrrh secretes sacrifice at the altar in her cathedral.
She is in recall but not recoil. The men, the schoolboys,
the girl who was her fellow nun to be: the knowing by her and them of her
sensuality’s essentiality and essence. She knows She
is girl. But She is in denial; or is She?
She has vowed. She is but child in life’s league length and
never to know. She is given wife to her holy faith, her whole future to go.
Yet, as She feels her body flood
from the touch of the holy cross, even though She decides that later, She must
pray. For now today, She cannot help but wonder, if
She could have shown her complete devotion to mother church in some other way.
Was this the devil at play?
Mirrored in the slowly obscuring steam trickles down the
black tiles of her shower’s walls, She looks and is
fleetingly appalled.
She can see the signs well. She had been told that day, the
day of her decision, three years ago tomorrow, that if She
chose the cross, there was a painful thread to follow.
Now She was wondering if the whole
thing was sham.
And also this day, her thoughts did say:-
‘After these three years of my trial, is tomorrow the only
way life to play?
Must my virgin’s cunt, forever and a day, stay so tightly
sewn-up in this sacrificial way?’
<>
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Woolmart Girl
Synopsis: Sometimes beauty has bounden duty.
Woolmart Girl – Part 1
Poppy Heavenslove had ambition.
Her work as a Woolmart counter girl was just a
recovery stepping-stone. In the pocket of the smart red and white
vertical-candy-stripe blouse, her youthfully full, fully firm bosom, gave
plentiful double, undivided divided interest to, she had an invitation to an
interview up at ‘the big place’, as everyone in the English coastal town of Barnmouth, styled Barnmouth
House.
Well, okay, it was not exactly an invitation. It was just an
advertisement from the ‘Jobs on Offer’ column in the ‘Barnmouth
Bugle’; but Poppy was sure she could get an interview, and why should she not
get the job?
Why the other girls at school, university, and now here at
the Woolmart store, didn’t hate Poppy, was one of
life’s mysteries.
She was an outstandingly attractive girl.
Other girls had pretty faces, but the eighteen-year-old
Poppy’s face was simply lovely. Her eyes were sulphur-gold.
Her hair a myriad of miraculous blonde curls caressing down
to the nape of her slender neck. Her lips showed the negress influence of her grandmother: sensuously full
and pouting passion-provocative. She smiled when she wasn’t giggling, and
giggled when she wasn’t smiling, and the sparkle of her lividly luminous eyes,
amid the spectral white of her freckle kissed face, showed she was genuinely
that genuine.
Other girls had shapely figures, but Poppy’s curves demanded
their own theory of geometry to define the unparalleled parabolas they
described.
In summation, full bosomed two, she had a waist that would
make a waif look obese, and a rear that, though not winning the race to fully
match the two she fored above, was superbly full and
firm, and confirmatory from its signals as she walked, with it’s competing
hemispheres waging war in waving semaphore, that this was undoubtedly a girl.
Other girls had pretty legs, but Poppy’s outran them all for
long lithe lissomness, smooth muscularity, and a proportionality of shapeliness
in swerves and curves, that were so lovely, that they caused most of the
wolf-whistles she deserved and was duly served. And nobody wolf-whistled Poppy
once; not when she went to such great lengths as to give them two such long
strong curvy causes.
She was also, oh so gentle and caring, that, were it not so
wonderfully natural, it would have seemed as false as a politician.
All the other girls loved Poppy. She was outstandingly
outstanding among them; but they were never jealous of the attention she always
got, to their shaded second and third place, because they accepted it was what
she deserved. And true too was it, that Poppy never pushed herself forward, or
forced them aside. It was just that in the bouquet, she was the most delightful
of the delicious flowers.
The Woolmart chain insisted on
uniformity of uniform. And that uniform took on new form with Poppy to fill it.
Whilst the other counter girls took on anonymity in the donning, Poppy’s smile
and charm shone so, that she spun the heads her way. She stood out from the
herd, because she was outstanding, and not only titularly.
Woolmart, the ‘dime store’ of long
ago history, had been staid in outlook since its 19th century
founding in the
The counter girls’ hemlines had risen, with a resulting
corresponding rise in sales and, one dare speculate, an equal rise in the blood
pressure, and the heart-attack count, among its customers.
With Poppy’s blouse in the Woolmart
colours, went a black poplin skirt, and seamed black
nylon stockings, supported only by ribbon-tied frilly garters, in the red and
white candy-stripe of Woolmart, to be worn at the
stocking tops.
Hemlines at no more than one inch below the buttocks, and a
directive that (1) this was compulsory, (2) that only Woolmart
issue red and white candy-stripe thong panties were to be worn, (3) that all Woolmart girls must be hygienically shaved, (4) that the
best selling goods must be located on the very bottom, or the very highest
shelves, (5) that no girl needing to bend was ever to bend at the knees, and
(6) that all stepladders and kick-stools be withdrawn from stores, had come
from the grand dame, Fredericka Wilhelmina Woolmart,
herself. The massively increased custom it generated, had saved the long
historic family firm she ran from her wheelchair, from bankruptcy.
The final threat to those with concern about heart-shock or
a stroke, had been the adoption of heelless ballet
shoes as the uniform footwear.
Poppy’s long legs were incredibly beautiful even when she
merely slouched and slummed in trainers. To extend her calves and tension her
thighs and buttocks, by making her stand and walk, permanently on top–tiptoe on
the squared-off toes, of red and white candy-stripe calf-leather balletic shoes, was to exhaust the descriptive powers of
poetry prose and music, for the compelling wonder of the wonderfully
artistically exceptionally erotic result: a result that would make the finest
portraitists throw their brushes aside, resigned to their inadequacy to portray
such shapely curves.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
2052 was just another among the recent tough years for
girls. The supposed threat of overpopulation had been as exaggerated in the
2030s, as the danger of global warming had been in the first decade of the 21st
century.
But the inevitable outcry that government must ‘do something
about it’, had led to the choice-pill, and the financial incentives for taking
the pink pill before and during pregnancy, rather than the blue. Thus science
had made the world more beautiful, by increasing the female portion of the
population, to ninety-nine percent, and correspondingly reducing the overall
population, as women were consequently without enough sires to breed from.
Unfortunately for women, the accompanying technological
revolution had worked the opposite way. There were plenty of girls available
for the employment market, but so little work now that a machine could not do,
as, or more efficiently, and more cheaply, that there were few jobs for humans
around.
Meanwhile, oil had dripped its last drop, and only girls
were available in any number, to hew coal in the mines to provide basic energy
needs.
Poppy had been lucky. Academically she had been brilliant
with a starred double-first spinster’s degree from Fordbridge
at age thirteen, and doctorates in mathematics, and
chemistry by the age of fifteen.
But the world had no need for even such wonderfully
intelligent gifted and educated girls. The few jobs of substance were rationed.
Wealth bought and brought a position in life. Poppy’s mummy was poor. Poppy had
been lucky not to have been sent for breaking as a ponygirl,
or to pedal drive one of the huge dynamos that, these days, provided power for
the town’s homes, street lights, factories, and offices.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
Her luck had been in the draw held at her post-doctorate
gathering. She had drawn a red and white candy-stripe straw. She rejoiced,
kissing all her fellow pupils. She knew she had won the prize her friends,
ordered into the mines, or to lactate on a milk-farm, longed for: she knew she
was going to be a Woolmart girl.
But Poppy Heavenslove had
ambition. She knew too that she must forget that she had academic attainments
of such glowing brilliance that they almost outshone her physical and facial
beauty. Her mind, with the sharpness of a razor’s razor’s
razor’s edge took her way beyond the merely beautiful
to the outstandingly stellar stunning. She was a girl in a billion.
She knew also, that she must subdue and subliminate
her sublime brilliance, to her physical sexual charms. It saddened her that her
mind must be wasted on makeup, and ensuring that her mouth was moist and
kissable, and that the seams of her stockings were straight. But these were the
main demands on a Woolmart girl.
At school and university, she had been the chair of the
National Institution for Promoting Proper Legal Equality, and, on the slope
given her twice-boldly-bulged blouse, by her fulsome firm and gentle left
breast, had worn its badge with the proud initials: “N.I.P.P.L.E.”.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
Poppy had been, and still was, a soldierette
for the equality of all girls with each other, and the few lucky men that
society continued to allow among its sweet scented sisteren.
Poppy’s ambition had, over time since her graduation, become
as limited as the length of her skirts. Her new ambition, the arrival of which
begins her story, had begun with a customer. Customers are customary in Woolmart of course, but this day, this customer, was
clearly completely special.
She was a negress,
perhaps thirty-years-old, at least five-twelve tall, with the demeanour and the figure of a catwalk model. Feline similes
and metaphors would be to the fore in any description of the lithe glide of her
walk, and her purposeful poised, perfect peace possessed movements.
“May I be of assistance madam?” Poppy’s lovely face smiled,
without the smile being of any remark, for though it was truly remarkably
lovely, it was of no remark that she should be smiling, for Poppy was always
smiling.
The face that looked up, the face of the
tight-coil-curl-crop-topped negress,
the queenly face of a princess among women, showed a visage breathtaking in
vision.
The eyes, were deep down soulful
brown. There was a delicate flare to the nostrils. The proud lips of the small mouth,
were prayers from rather than to heaven in their poised pout, and seemed to be
shouting without speaking their kisses out. The lightly furrowed brow, as she
turned, formed part of a smile of recognition of the matching and opposite
pole, in the loveliness of Poppy, so ghostly white in contrast with the supreme
dream of the negress’ own
creamy smooth dark coffee black.
Poppy blushed. Her face flushed. This customer was not
merely exceptionally lovely; she was agonisingly
beautiful. Poppy knew right there and then that her heart and mind had fallen,
and head was over heels in the cliché metaphor that defines love.
The negress looked kindly and
gently at the Woolmart badge blazoned on Poppy’s
chest, and smiled at what she read, before she looked lightening-shafts
straight into Poppy’s pretty eyes, and thunderbolt devastation thus derived,
arrived.
“’Poppy’. What a lovely name!” the negress gently whispered, with a
hint of kindly amusement, suggestive of personal charm to match her visible
physical charms.
“Thank you madam”, Poppy gasped, as she fought and lost the
battle not to lose countenance in front of this wonderful woman: and her
blushing head hung with her chin on her chest as if in shame: the shame she had
no need for, and which it would be a shame if she truly felt the same.
“Can you be of assistance? Well yes my dear… Well yes
Poppy”, the lovely negress
teased, with her confident voice conspicuously clear contralto concerto, “I am
looking for some toys for a pet dog. Silly really. I haven’t
chosen one yet. I was thinking maybe pedigree… I’ve engaged a kennel keeper….”
Recovering her composure, despite the dampness in the crotch
of her panties, a wetness that Poppy hoped her fellow shop-girls would not see,
Poppy’s sweet arms and pretty hands signalled for the
lovely lithe negress to sway her wonder ahead, as she
led her, from behind, to a corner of the store, stocking balls, leather bones,
even pretend slippers, for dogs to chase and chew, or chew and chase.
“May I guide you this way madam? We have, as you’ll soon
see, a splendid selection of pets’ toys, including especially, and not least,
those suitable for our canine companions”, Poppy delighted, surprised at her
sudden salesgirl spiel.
A sale made, Poppy sighed aside as she watched the stunning negress waltz-walk her wiggle
outside.
“’Ere you was doin’ alright dare
Poppy me gel! I seen der way she looked at yer!!” Sarah, Poppy’s best friend at Woolmart
teased.
“You do know ‘oo dat iz don’tcha?”
she added, as she saw Poppy’s gorgeous freckle kissed face look deliciously
perplexed.
The look on Poppy’s sweet face, and the tiny crease in her
brow it was impossible not to wish to kiss away, told Sarah that Poppy was
innocent of that fact.
“Well, my darlin’ gel….It’s only
Lady Barnmouth ‘erself!”
Sarah concluded, before then smiling at the resulting look of total
astonishment on Poppy’s acutely cute countenance.
………………
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
Poppy placed the newspaper advertisement down on the corner
shelf. With the receiver at her left ear, the payphone enjoyed her right hand’s
longest finger inserted in the coil of the cable of the handset, and flexing
and twisting within it, as if enquiring exploratively
inside a cunt.
On that same hand, Poppy’s delectable little finger curved
up and flexibly back. And, whilst with her middle finger in the cable coil as
if it were a vagina, she also played the cable’s spring coil properties into
stretch and return, stretch and return, akin to as if she were playing with a
foreskin in its turn.
Unbeknown to her, Poppy’s Woolmart
uniform skirt had ridden high up her smooth thighs, and showed the base
crescents of her rear moons. Thus from the rear, in her Woolmart
issue red and white candy-stripe thong panties, her impertinently potent pubic
pouch, was patently pert purse: hidden but unmissably
unmistakably delineated, complete with the in-tuck close-closed tightness of
her labia-majora, outlined by an exciting crease in
her panties’ crotch.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
As she waited for her call to be answered, her pudenda
petals a posy on open display bulging out her thong’s crotch, unrealised by her sweet innocence, standing sex-on-legs on
the squared-off toes of her heelless ballet shoes, she nervously played a
lovely leg back and forth, thereby describing indescribably emotion-inspiring
motions with her curvy calf muscle.
The ‘burrrp-burrrp; ‘burrrp-burrrp’’ continued continuously on the line, and
Poppy had almost decided on abandoning her quest; when a clatter told her the
handset at the receiving end was being lifted.
Poppy’s pretty mouth went dry as she heard: “Barnmouth House, Lady Barnmouth’s
residence. Miss Geeves, Lady Barnmouth’s
personal aide speaking. How may one be of assistance? One assumes one is not
talking to trade?!”
“It’s about your advertisement in the ‘Barnmouth
Bugle’…” Poppy began, before being abruptly instructed: “Will you kindly
enunciate with more vocal presence and preciseness girl!”
“It’s about your advertisement in the ‘Barnmouth
Bugle’…” Poppy repeated more boldly, yet more nervously still.
“And which adverteasemon would
that be precisely?” Miss Emelda Geeves
cold voice enquired.
“The one for a ‘maid-of-all-work’”, Poppy braved, despite
the chill of the voice from the void.
“Oh really. That
one. Oh well. One believes, one can fit you in next Tuesday at 10.00”,
Miss Geeves responded.
“You mean I have the job?!” sweet Poppy innocented,
in overreaction to her highly nervous anticipation of rejection.
“Young lady! Whomsoever you are,
one would hardly imagine you could be so dull of
intellect as not to comprehend that one was merely indicating the possibility
of an interview!” the cold Miss Geeves froze through.
“I’m so sorry”, Poppy sweetened with her pretty lips kissing
out every sincerely sincere word.
“One should hope so!” Miss Geeves
commented tartly, sharply.
“Do you know the whereabouts of Barnmouth
House?” Miss Geeves continued.
“Yes Miss Geeves”, Poppy answered,
butterflies in a dogfight in her soft flat belly.
“The servants’ quarters are clearly labelled.
Report there at 09.50 for a ten o’ clock interview. Don’t be late. What name
should one record?”
“Poppy: Poppy Heavenslove”, Poppy
answered, and, without her being able to add more than the opening of her
lovely lips to say a sweet polite delight of a ‘thank you’, the call was
abruptly cut to an end.
As she moved her hand to place the receiver at rest, Poppy’s
lucky forearm, brushed the pert right breast that was lurking alluringly, and
thus made to flirt under her blouse.
Poppy smiled. Now, too late for all she had been putting on
display to cause others dismay, she realised how high
her hem had ridden. But she did not care. The erotic mound in her panties was
in command of her. Ever since she had met Lady Barnmouth
in Woolmart that day, now two weeks since, Poppy had
schemed to find a way to get to see and talk to the stupendous negress.
Though she might only be a Woolmart
girl now, Poppy Heavenslove had ambition. She was going
to marry Lady Barnmouth. She did not even know if
Lady Barnmouth was already married. In her ingénue’s
imagination, nothing was going to get in her way. A job as a maid-of-all-work
at Barnmouth House was but an entrée.
………………
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
“Some of lady Barnmouth’s guests, may want to take you to bed. You’ll have no
objection to that, one trusts Heavenslove?”
“No Miss Geeves”, Poppy answered
blushing like a dew-dappled rose.
Poppy was an intact virgin. She was saving herself for the
right girl. Despite her brilliance and her wonderful academic attainments, her
dream, since her earlier teens, had been to meet an irresistible force, such
indeed as Lady Barnmouth, and be swept off her feet
to church, a carrying of her one-hundred-and-ten pounds of one-hundred-percent
girl over the threshold of the shared new home, and a sweet saintly sacrifice
in a first night wrestle and painful surrender in the marital bed.
Now she was being asked if she would be some complete
stranger’s whore at that stranger’s whim. And, if she wanted the job she had
schemed for as the first stepping stone on the ladder to get herself into Lady Barnmouth’s life and love and bed, she just had to say the
‘yes’ she had just said by saying ‘no’.
Miss Geeves had not, at this stage
at least, turned out to be the frozen frump she had sounded on the telephone.
Perhaps, like many people, she had a ‘telephone voice’ that misrepresented her
real self.
Poppy, wearing her Woolmart
uniform, the smartest outfit she, a poor girl poorly paid, had; had been aware,
throughout the interview, of Miss Geeves appreciative
eyes on her legs, and of those eyes clearly seeking to see if they could see
that which would undoubtedly pouch out Poppy’s no doubt tight panties.
“You are an exceptionally attractive girl Heavenslove”, Miss Geeves sincered, as Poppy’s blush rushed to the colour that surely gave her her
name. “One is certain that Lady Barnmouth will be
more than happy to have you deployed in her household”.
“Thank you Miss Geeves. Do I have
the job?” Poppy responded, with a freckle blessed face that the light of
delight made even more dreamily delicious.
“Yes. Yes of course Heavenslove”,
Miss Geeves responded, and then watched amazed as the
lovely Poppy leaped to her feet on legs longer than life, but running far more
smoothly, lissomed lithely over, and showered her in
sweet scented kisses of shear innocent joy: Poppy hugging the would be frump,
into a crumpled hump.
“Well really!!!” Miss Geeves
responded, but her tone said that her voice was expressing disgust she, in
heart, did not feel in any part.
A moments pause, allowed Miss Geeves
to recover her poise.
“We had better get you ready for service right now Heavenslove, Miss Geeves opined
in a return to her dedicated desiccated tone.
The vibrant vivacious Poppy stood ready with another sweet
embrace that Miss Geeves longed to experience; but
knew she must forego if this angel was ever to be of any use to Lady Barnmouth’s household.
Miss Geeves fought not to look at
the sparkle in the shining golden eyes of the seductive Poppy, whose lovely
face showed her overwhelming joy at having been accepted to work at Barnmouth House. Poppy’s look also showed her determination
to learn the role of a ‘maid-of-all-work’ in every single detail. She would not
disappoint. On that much Poppy was absolutely determined.
“Thank you! Oh thank you so much Miss Geeves!
You won’t regret this. I promise you won’t ever regret taking me on. I absolutely
never will let you down!” Poppy enthused with the softest sweetest sincerity,
whilst recognising that her natural urge to embrace
and kiss Miss Geeves in punctuation, was to be
restrained and refrained from.
………………
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
As she stood completely naked before Miss Geeves, in readiness for her uniform, Poppy’s lovely eyes
whispered: ‘love me’.
“My goodness girl, did god not know when or where to stop
when she made your legs? I’ve never seen longer or more luscious legs in all my
life”.
“Thank you” Poppy flushed and blushed, a girl in complete
negation of her fight for her sisters when she had organised
and led the N.I.P.P.L.E. at her school and university.
In the presence of this potently pretty pulchritudinous
posy, with her freckle deckled angel’s visage, Miss Geeves
had once again forgotten herself.
She liked her underlings to be vulnerable when she
introduced them to their place in the household. Complete nakedness was
perfect, even when the naked girl’s wonderful breasts, with their huge cone
nipples, were swaying mesmerisingly seductively.
“I brook no indiscipline among the maidery,
Heavenslove. I have dispensation from Lady Barnmouth to administer corporal punishment. At all times
when Lady Barnmouth is with us, I keep a tally of the
performance of the girls in her service. Each and every act of indiscipline
scores a black mark. And, when Lady Barnmouth has
departed, each girl receives as many lashes from the bullwhip, as she has bad
marks against her name.”
In sum, have no doubt whatsoever,
that if you are a naughty girl, you will be severely whipped!”
The sweet flush of healthy colour
drained from poor Poppy’s face as she heard this.
“Do you understand?!” Miss Geeves
demanded.
“Yes Miss Geeves”, came Poppy’s dry-mouthed whisper.
Miss Geeves then signalled Poppy to perch her pert bottom on a cool wooden
chair, and brought Poppy the stockings and shoes she was to wear.
“I see that you are hygienically shaved”, Miss Geeves observed, making Poppy blush the colour
of her pretty name once again, as she, Poppy, realised
where Miss Geeves’ eyes had just been feasting.
“Yes Miss Geeves. It has always
been Woolmart company policy….” Poppy began to
answer.
“I am not interested in ‘Woolmart
company policy’, Heavenslove!” Miss Geeves interrupted abruptly.
“I believe in the necessity for strict and complete hygiene.
But I do not believe in shaving or the use of unguents. We will impose hygiene
in the proper manner! You will let your pubic hair re-grow for the coming
fortnight, and you will then have it plucked.”
And, even as her brilliant mind imagined the excruciating
pain of having her pubic hairs individually pulled out with tweezers: “Yes Miss
Geeves”, came Poppy’s
terrified acquiescence.
The rolling on of the white sheer-nylon stockings, with
their inlaid pure gold seams leading up to the pure gold rings around the very
top of their saucy deep tops, was a seductive delight that the uncontrolled and
uncontrollable sighs, of both girl and woman, as the stocks covered the thighs,
told of the pure heaven of the shapeliness of Poppy’s strong unfathomably-long
legs.
For now, the stockings kissed the lovely legs, relying only
on their tops to grip Poppy’s thighs to hold them up, and thus failing and
falling to her knees once more, as they inevitably slid down Poppy’s
immaculately smooth soft complexion.
Now Poppy was made to sit again, and Miss Geeves took hold of Poppy’s delicate delight of a left
foot. With Poppy’s pure-girl 110 pounds converting a chair to a throne once
more, even Miss Geeves blushed at handling something
so lovely. And to watch Poppy’s left leg as her calf-muscle curved her
wonderfully, when Miss Geeves checked the flexibility
of the foot, was no betrayal of shear eroticism.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
The shoe was amazing. It was of stainless-steel with a core
of gold through its heel and toe. And heel and toe were all but all it
consisted of.
The toe looked like a golf tee. It was six inches long,
tapering to a sewing-needle’s point. Miss Geeves put
its cup-end over Poppy’s big toe, so that it contained her stockinged
big toe, including her toenail and up to the first joint in that toe.
She then pressed the almost semicircular stainless-steel
arch of the sole of the shoe, insofar as she could, to the warm sole of Poppy’s
delightful foot within her stocking. But, not succeeding in bending Poppy’s
foot sufficiently, resorted to the fastening of a buckled black leather strap
over the mid-top of Poppy’s foot, and another broader black leather strap that
would hold the shoe to Poppy’s dainty ankle.
Alternating straps to make them tight by turn, Miss Geeves ignored Poppy’s moans of pain when her foot was
being finally murderously arched, and admired instead, the tapering stainless
steel gold-cored heel, that ran parallel with the sole of the shoe, fourteen
inches, till, just half-an-inch behind the six-inch stainless-steel and gold
toe of the shoe, where it too became as sharply sewing-needle-pointed as the
toe itself.
Repeat treatment on the right foot made Poppy’s feet replete
with the minimalist shoes, and Miss Geeves ordered
the angel to stand.
As Miss Geeves held her pretty
hands, Poppy dared to stand, and cried out with the agonising
pain, as she, wavering on her billion-mile-long legs, strong fit and athletic
though they were, teetered on the brink of toppling in tumble, as the whole
110-pounds of her pure-girlness was pressed down on
her big toes.
She stood on their six-inch tapers with an infinity of minimality of contact with the ground she made heaven
wherever she stood, and which she still blessed with her angelic wonder, as she
wobbled in her shoes and cried the gentle tears of a girl in extreme pain, with
all her weight crushing her big toes, and only the minimal of minimal relief
supplied by her fourteen-inch needle-pointed heels, so close as only to be
half-an-inch behind her toes, she was so steeply steepled
in stance.
Miss Geeves reluctantly let go of
the dainty hands and watched the remaining four each of Poppy’s sweet toes,
visibly curl up within the foot of her stockings, those toes being free of any
engagement with Poppy’s shoes, and then at the girl teetering ever on the brink
of falling as she swayed, her lovely body raised on zillion-mile-long legs,
made longer by the six-inch toes and fourteen inch heels of her stainless-steel
gold-cored tiptoe shoes.
“Stop crying girl!!” Miss Geeves
snapped commandingly, as she walked around behind
Poppy, to remove the chair, and thus ensure the angel could not sit down to
relieve her pain.
It was thus that Miss Geeves
glimpsed the pure perfection of the shape her sky-high heeled stance had given
Poppy’s incredible calves, with their strong muscles risen heaven high toward
the back of the knees, and then the double-deep-deep hollow dimples in the
sides of Poppy’s beautiful bum: dimples caused by her stance, enforced by her
fourteen-inch heels, which were causing Poppy to clench her buttocks extremely
tightly.
“My heavens girl, if ever a bottom was made by god herself…”
Miss Geeves muttered just loud enough for Poppy to
hear.
Poppy fought her tears of pain and shame, and simple
whispered in deep cruel embarrassment and the agony from her tortured big toes:
“Oh please!…”
“’Please’ what you little whore?! I expect you’re turned on
by wearing those super-high heels aren’t you, you little tart? Are you begging:
‘please slap my bum?!’ Filth like you would be into such execrable perversions
no doubt! I won’t ask, because I don’t need to ask if you always invite your
girlfriends to spank you! You’re just a fucking Woolmart
girl. You’re all the fucking same. Can’t keep your hands off
each other. Kisses, tit-sucking, and cunt-groping in the stock room at every chance no doubt.
Sluts! All of you Woolmart girls are just fucking
sluts!!”, Miss Geeves sneered with heartfelt
conviction, letting her usually excessively affected English, descend into the utterings of a woman from the same gutters from which she
was convinced girls such as Poppy came, and could never leave.
The suspender belt came next. Its white lace-like waistband
bore two side suspenders to slide down the sides of Poppy’s immensely strong
and equally beautiful thighs. As a core within it, there ran a steel hawser
with hoops at either and both of its ends.
The suspender belt rested at Poppy’s soft firm smooth belly,
with the hawser hoops temporarily tied to each other above the small of her
femininely arched back with a strong nylon rope.
In order to fasten the belt at the deepest curve of Poppy’s
shapely waist, it would be necessary to draw the two ‘eyes’ in the hawser core
together. To do that would need immense strength, or else the use of a steel
bar through the temporary tie of the nylon rope, to turn the bar, and thus
tighten the rope like a tourniquet.
Thus did Miss Geeves apply herself
as poor Poppy, tottered teetered and close-near toppled on her big toe tips,
sure she would fall, as her waist was slowly but absolutely assuredly, squeezed
down from its perfectly delightful natural twenty-two inches, to a shear mere
exact and not merely near, twelve gaspingly erotic inches.
<>
Woolmart Girl – Part 2
A strong padlock now clasped the hawser hidden in the belt
grasping Poppy’s gasp-making wasped waist, and held
the hawser in place even as the temporary nylon rope was cut and discarded.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
Miss Geeves now retrieved Poppy’s
slipped down stockings, and fixed them to the suspenders at the sides of
Poppy’s wonderful thighs. Gold clasps thus gripped the gold rings in the
stocking tops around the golden girl’s golden thighs. A gold band ran within
the wasp-waist enforcing suspender belt. A gold thread ran up from the stocking
clasps to the belt. In the mid-front of the belt was a secreted microchip.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
Curiously designed panties came next. If they were not to be
put on such a feminine creature as Poppy, the panty’s crotch might have been
thought to be a codpiece. It was transparent plastic, with two holes at its
top, with a nipple thrusting up between the holes. Between Poppy’s heavenly
thighs the bottom end of the ‘codpiece’ seemed to form a slightly forward
thrusting cup, and down from the cup’s bottom most
corner at its base, there protruded another nipple.
So, all in all, the article that was being placed over
Poppy’s nude smooth cunt lips,
was a transparent plastic banana-shaped hollowed-out panty crotch, with a
container-bottle at its base.
But that was not all of its present mysteries. For within
the ‘codpiece’ was a gold wire that, when the ‘codpiece’ was in place, ran
between Poppy’s sensitive outer lips, and pressed gently on her inner pink,
next her hooded clitoris.
The panty crotch was tied to Poppy with tight ribbons. One
ribbon ran up her belly to clip, with a gold clip to the gold strip within her
garter belt at front. And at rear, the ribbon divided her tight-clenched deep
side-dimpled bum moons, before going through a hoop at the rear of her
suspender belt, and then being pulled tight, so that soft rubber edges to the
codpiece pressed onto Poppy’s love-lips, and both sealed the fit to her body,
and slightly opened her, toward her giving a beautiful pink love-smile.
Plastic reinforced the cups of the white uplift brassiere
that Miss Geeves fitted under Poppy’s naturally
splendid pendulous breasts to lift them up and point them straight boldly out,
grossly embarrassingly for the sweet girl.
Straps over her shoulders, and tight round her chest to her
back, held this girls forty-inch-E-cup bosom presented as if meat on a
butcher’s counter, with the cups of the bra curving up only to contain her
ampleness from below, whilst leaving her thus presented breasts, bare on their
soft firm uppers, and with a resultant massively provocative cleavage.
Two independent gold wires ran within the brassier, to
emerge bare at Poppy’s pert pouting rosebud pink proud conical nipples, and,
with manipulation from Miss Geeves, to gently enter
Poppy’s nipple’s milk-ducts. More such gold cores ran within her bra straps.
Nestling neatly in her cleavage was a hidden microchip.
Miss Geeves now brought two
transparent plastic tubes, and fastened the first to the nipple at the top of
Poppy’s panty-piece. She then fastened the second, and
longer one, to the nipple at the base of the cup at the bottom of the
panty-piece. Both tubes were then run up Poppy’s front, side by side, through
hoops made for the purpose of holding them at the front of Poppy’s suspender
belt, and then the alike hoops in the brassiere, up the middle of Poppy’s
immense cleavage where they were left, for the moment to hang loose.
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
A transparent plastic open bell skirt was now clipped at
Poppy’s hips just above her firmly dimple-clenched hard-slapping-wanton bum.
The short sleeved, puff-sleeved, black dress of close
clinging velvet, was rolled up, and slipped over Poppy’s lovely slim gold-down
glistening forearms, and then over her head.
Her lovely curls were next whisked out, and the dress took
on the magnificence of the boldness of her bountiful bosom, and then the
incredible slimness of her wasped waist, and finally
stretched over to cover the bell, that thus held it flared out, so that her
bare bottom was barely covered, and her cunt, in its
transparent codpiece, was transfixingly apparent for
all to see.
And Miss Geeves checked the white
puff sleeves on the maid’s dress, at Poppy’s upper arms, and that the bell held
Poppy’s sin-black dress’ skirt wide out, and that its hem hid the means by
which that was achieved: the plastic bell itself.
And then she tied a tiny frilly edged white apron, fixing it
with a huge bow at Poppy’s super-slimmed waist at the back, and ensured that
this maid’s apron was straight, and that the low swoop of the neckline of the
hugging black velvet maid’s dress, showed the full majesty of Poppy’s
magnificent bosom, evenly uncovered down to, but short of revealing Poppy’s
proud nipples, save for the clear obviousness with which they shaped the dress’
taut fabric.
Suffering all these strange indignities for her love of Lady
Barnmouth, and her longing to be near her, Poppy’s
wonderful mind had strained at the strangeness of what was happening. And in
the distraction of the pain from her tortured big toes, she let her mind grind
on the indignities of what was being done to her. And her thoughts echoed back
to her time at college, and the protests she had organised
and led against the inequalities of, and the mistreatment of girls in the
modern world.
And a sweet voice, Poppy’s, dared to say: “You’re turning me
into a sex object! You’re turning me into a masturbatory fantasy! You’re making
me akin to a blow-up doll! Please don’t do this to me: I’m a real girl with
degrees and doctorates!! You’re turning me into a shop-bought fuck toy!!!”
“Yes?! So?!!!!”
Miss Geeves sarcasmed
in total derision.
At this dismal summary dismissal, Poppy’s head sunk lower
than her poor heart.
The transparent mask Miss Geeves
strapped over Poppy’s nose and mouth was fed with the two pipes: the one from
the top, and the one from the bottom of the transparent plastic codpiece
covering Poppy’s cunt.
At pretty Poppy’s quizzical look, Miss Geeves
informed: “The first hose is to give you the feminising
pleasure of being, at all times, able to smell your own intimate aroma, with
every sweet breath you take. The second, is for when
you get thirsty”.
Poppy blushed at the first, for, as she drew her delightful
breath in the mask and thus took her air in from the codpiece over her cunt, with its two breathe-holes either side of the tube
now running to her nostrils, she could indeed smell her own seductive
between-legs scent.
The second of Miss Geeves remarks:
the reference to the tube now between the lips of Poppy’s sweet mouth, and atop
her tongue: the reference to a means of drinking when thirsty, even Poppy’s
brilliant mind could not work out.
“We are now going to teach you how you will be instructed
and made to obey”, Miss Geeves commented mildly. “You
surely don’t imagine we would ever let a mere Woolmart
girl think she can think for herself do you?” Miss Geeves challenged mysteriously.
Miss Geeves now put on Poppy’s
wrap-around mirror glasses. They both hooked over her little ears hidden within
her golden curls, and also plugged her ears so as to reduce her hearing to the
minimum: a minimum maximised when Miss Geeves clicked a switch, and the built-in battery-powered
radio in the glasses began to fill poor Poppy’s head with white noise: a steady
hum, so that she was effectively completely deaf.
Poppy’s beautiful eyes showed her terror. Her
eyes. Her lovely eyes could be seen through her wrap-around glasses; but
could not see. All Poppy could see in the one-way glass of her glasses, was the
image of her own golden eyes looking back at her. She looked into mirrors and
could not see out. Her lucky captor could see her eyes, but Poppy could not
see: she was blinded by her glasses.
In her terror Poppy dared to lift a pretty little hand to
take off her glasses.
“Don’t you damned well dare!” spat Miss Geeves
voice suddenly and splittingly loudly through Poppy’s earplug headphones.
Poppy’s mind flashed back to recall the promise that she
would be bullwhipped on her bare body if she were a naughty girl, and instantly
refrained.
“I am going to lead you into the metal floored rooms in
which you will perform your services, for as long a day as required”, Miss Geeves instructed.
“You can be pleased to know that the metal of the floor is
kept flawlessly polished to mirror-perfection, so that Lady Barnmouth
and her guests may see, whenever it pleases them so to do, all
the wonderful equipage you normally have hidden up your dress’ skirt.”
“The floor also carries an electrical flow. It provides the
means by which, you will learn to obey, and through which you will given
instruction. And it won’t be through this present means. Lady Barnmouth will not stand for me radioing you like this”.
“Your gold-cored steel shoes’ toes and heels,
will provide more than adequate contact with the metal flooring to power you up
and communicate with you.”
“If you are wondering: the power will come in through your
steel shoes and heels. After that, gold is a wonderful conductor of
electricity. From your shoes, the power will run up the seams of the stockings
on your incredibly long and equally incredibly beautiful legs.
Your stockings’ seams, connect to
the gold rings at your stockings’ tops. From your stockings’ tops, the power
will flow through your gold suspender clasps, up the gold thread in your
suspenders to your wasping suspender belt. From there
it can run up your back to your brassiere by means of a gold inlay within the
back of your maid’s dress that makes contact between your suspender belt and
your tit-cantilevering bra.
The straps of your brassier form aerials: antenna as back-up
for operating you by remote control. Microchips in your brassiere and suspender
belt are both receivers and instructors. There is more too. That
‘more’ I will inform you of shortly.”
“One last thing before we move to the slave flooring. You
looked querulous when I mentioned the purpose of the tube in your lovely mouth.
I said that it was there for when you became thirsty. You obviously didn’t
understand. But then why should a stupid slut of a Woolmart
girl understand anything so elegant as that particular
arrangement?”
“Let me put it in simple words, so that even a slag tart
like you can understand. You will, when on duty, be dressed, all day, as you
are now: and by that I mean from before dawn until dawn nearly dawns again most
likely.”
“During that time it is, of course, inevitable that you will
have to pee. You will never ever be allowed to go to the bathroom. So, you will
piss your pee into your panties.”
“By now the elegance of the solution to the inevitable
problems of the thirst you will also undoubtedly experience during your
endlessly long days of obedient duty, will even have occurred to you: you
filthy whore.”
“But in case you are so stupid as not even now to
understand. I am saying that you will pee your piss into the pot at the bottom
of your plastic panties, and walk around with that piss slopping pure-goldenly
to and fro no doubt, but always there for when you are thirsty. For when you
are thirsty enough, you will suck on the tube in your pretty mouth, and thus
draw up your piss from the reservoir in your panties.”
“In sum: you will, and you may think you can resist, but in
the end you will, you unquestionably will, drink your own piss!”
There followed a heart-rending muffled sob, and Poppy’s
gentle tears ran rainbow-refracting trails caressing the soft down on the
lovely complexion of her freckled peach soft cheeks, thus telling the true tale
of her utter misery.
…………..
Miss Geeves took gentle hold of
Poppy’s sweet right hand, with it long impractical fingernails, and noted, with
some sensitivity, that poor Poppy, though a fit girl, was perspiring from her
fear, and from the pain from her brutally tortured big toes.
As she walked, for thus she was bid so to do, Poppy felt her
increased femininity.
The heady aroma that she constantly scented from between her
own legs was surprising aphrodisiacal. Even though, through the tube she used
to breathe, she was smelling her own cunt, and not that of a girlfriend she was bedding, Poppy
found the aroma arousing.
And to her brilliant mind, the thought that she was being
compelled to constantly scent her own cunt, turned
her on. Her own musky fragrance, and the compulsion she was under to breathe it
constantly, aroused Poppy in a strange new way. It was also as if her own
intimate fragrance was aromatherapy for her. It calmed her.
Also when she walked, she found she had a new extreme of
femininity in her steps. She could feel the highly erotic maximality
of muscularity and the curvaceous comeliness given her god-made legs, by her
fourteen-inch high heels.
She had, quite literally, only pinpoint contact with the
ground from the toes and heels of her stainless-steel shoes. Her stance and her
walk were therefore at all times immensely precarious. She knew that, at all
times, even as she merely stood on the top ends of her big toes as she must,
with her feet pointing straight down to the ground, she risked wrenching one of
her slim trim ankles, or breaking one of her big toes.
When she walked, to lift one foot was to put all her lovely
110 pounds on the big toe of her grounded foot alone, and thus to be more at
risk of falling than the constant risk she was under anyway.
If she could not get such tiny grip on the ground as her
sewing-needle-pointed toes and heels would provide, she knew she would fall
and, in doing so, almost certainly break one of her beautiful legs.
The fear of falling was constant. Poppy’s brain thus
instructed her leg muscles to use their full strength. And thus, unwittingly,
Poppy’s brain made her legs even more compellingly shapely and orgasmically beautiful.
And there was more femininity to Poppy’s walk in another
way. She had only a twelve-inch waist. Her middle was more wasped
than a wasps, and so she wiggled wider.
Her clenched dimpled bum swung enticingly invitingly
excitingly, and that excitement was not least for Poppy herself, as her bottom
beat side to side in the open bell of her dress’ skirt, for all the world as if
the skirt were really a bell, and her bum trying to beat the bell to make it
sound out in celebration of her being a girl.
At first, the excessive swing to her bum when she walked
shocked Poppy, and only increased her fear she would fall. But when she knew
she had been wasped to make her snake her hips like a
whore, she resigned herself to her fate, and she let her deep side dimpled
firmly clenched bum, beat alluring pendulum, as it swung when she walked, as it
and she could not, in reality, prevent.
Miss Geeves was talking through
Poppy’s earpieces once more. “All of you maid sluts are on a different
wavelength. The master computer is programmed to control you all. You will obey
its commands without question. It will know if you are being dilatory or a
naughty girl in some other unforgivable way, and it will correct you, choosing
its own degree of severity.”
“Throughout the house there are walkways, doorways, and
rooms. And in each of the rooms there are duties. Except on occasions like this
when I teach you something new, you will remain blinded by your glasses and
made deaf by your earplugs, thus ensuring your total obedience, and the
computer’s complete control over you.”
“The computer will instruct you where you are to go. And it
will open doors for you, and tell you which room you are in, and what you are
to do in that room.”
“In each of the rooms there are cameras and sensors. The
computer can thus assess when a bed needs making, or crockery washing, or
clothes laundered.
It also knows where all stocks are held, duvet covers or
what you will. All you will provide is the pair of pretty hands that it lacks.
Your lovely hands will make beds or sweep paths, or whatever the computer
orders you to do.”
“Through the steel floor and your constant contact with that
floor via the toes and heels of your stainless-steel and gold shoes, the
computer will give you messages.”
“Those messages will be literally wired from your
stainless-steel shoes, up the seams of your stockings, through your suspender
clasps, up your suspenders to your suspender belt, and through the back of your
dress up to your brassiere, there to be converted by the microchips on you
belly and in your cleavage.”
“As it is the only thing sluts like you can ever understand,
the computer will reward you for being a good girl, by instructing the
microchips in your bra and in your suspender belt to pleasure you.”
“The wires in your nipples can be made to vibrate. So too
can the wire in your cunt’s pink. That wire can also
sense your wetness. It can communicate back to the computer through the clip
that holds your panty-piece to the front of your suspender belt.”
“Thus the computer can calculate to what degree you need to
be excited, by vibration of your nipples and your clitoris, in order to get you
receptively wet. And thus the computer will keep you constantly receptively
wet, but always, I can assure you, always well short of an orgasm.”
“In return for being nice to you, by keeping you sweet and
wet all day long, the computer will expect your total obedience in gratitude.”
“You will soon find that the computer will order you about,
primarily through tiny electrical shocks to your clitoris. When you are to walk
it will command you to do so by giving your clit two little shocks.”
“You have, of course, two tits: a right tit and a left tit.
Through that fortunate arrangement, the computer is enabled to give you
directions on which way to turn.”
“A shock in your right nipple will tell you to turn right. A
shock in your left nipple will order you to turn left,
and equal shocks in both nipples tell you to walk straight forward or, if a
longer pulse, to stop.”
“Ordinarily the shocks will be entirely bearable and, to a
filthy slut like you, no doubt sexually arousing. But, if you are a naughty
girl, the computer will give you a very painful lesson, and record the
instance, so that the lesson can be later reinforced by a whipping”.
I am going to switch you over to the computer now, and, for
the next hour, it will teach you how to be a good robotic slave. It will give
you a single word command, and the electrical shock in your nipples and / or
your cunt, that ordinarily stands in for that
command. You will do well to learn the Morse code akin
pulse patterns quickly.”
“And finally, before I turn this transmitter off, let me
remind you, Heavenslove, that you are just trailer
trash. You are just a fucking Woolmart counter tart.
All your fancy degrees and doctorates are so much shit.”
“Whilst you are in Lady Barnmouth’s
employ, you are just a pretty face with elegant arms, lovely legs, a great bum,
and gorgeous tits. Those are all you are here for. Don’t ever get any fancy
ideas about your importance.”
“You are just decoration. Whilst you work here you are just
walking legs bum and tits. You are only worth your legs your bum and your tits.
When your legs your bum or your tits lose their attraction, you will be thrown
out in the street.”
At this final tirade from Emelda Geeves, Poppy’s dainty nostrils flared, and her breathing
made her aware, that her between-legs aroma had just become heavier than
before.
…………………
At the switch over to the computer, Poppy felt a pleasurable
vibration in her nipples, followed by the peremptory mechanical female voiced
command: ‘walk whore!’, preceded by two lightly
tickling electrical pulses through her clitoris.
Deafened by her earplugs and the white noise filling her
head, and blinded by her wrap around mirror glasses, Poppy obeyed.
“Is that the new slut?” a sweet contralto voice enquired.
“Yes my lady”, Miss Geeves
answered.
“What a beautiful bum she’s got on her, and her legs are
just so fantastic! She’s a more than adequate replacement for Jennifer. Yet
again Geeves, you’ve done well. In fact, looking at
the legs on that little slag, you’ve excelled yourself. Does the whore have a
name?” Lady Barnmouth enquired.
“She’s called ‘Poppy’ my lady”, Miss Geeves
answered, respectfully as always.
Lady Barnmouth gave no indication
of recognition of the name. She had quite forgotten the lovely girl who had
served her so efficiently in Woolmart not yet three
weeks since.
“’Poppy’ is a pretty name”, Lady Barnmouth
speculated momentarily.
“Of course I leave all the computer wizardry in your good
hands Geeves. But don’t we have a delightful little
Japanese doll called ‘Poppette’ as number sixteen?”
“We do indeed my lady”, Miss Geeves
confirmed.
“Well, we can’t have two with a name starting with ‘P’ – two
number sixteens can we? This pretty tart will
obviously be the new number ten, in place of Jennifer, will she
not?”
”Quite so, my lady”, Miss Geeves responded, ably
hiding her mounting resentment at Lady Barnmouth’s
interference, in what Miss Geeves had begun to think
her sole territory: organising the computer and its
indoor slaves.
“Well, if she’s the new number ten, she needs to be a ‘J’.
So we’ll just call her ‘Jennifer’ again shall we?” Lady Barnmouth
concluded.
“Of course my lady”, Miss Geeves
answered, fighting her resentment at not being able to choose her own ‘J’, and
name Poppy ‘Jezebel’, as she had been so minded when she watched Poppy’s
exciting bum swings inside the bell of her skirt just now before.
It was a miracle of acting that saved Emelda
Geeves showing her resentment when, having been
surprised by Lady Barnmouth’s return, with her
mistress having suddenly come back into the room, she turned to the reopened
door, to see Lady Barnmouth’s lovely face.
“Nearly forgot Geeves. I have the
PM coming to dinner tonight. She’s an eye for a pretty girl and is bound to
notice the new tart. Do you think Jennifer can be ready to give her room
service? She’s not having her monthly is she? The prime minister may want to
bed her….”
“I will do my best to have Jennifer ready by tonight my
lady. And, no, she’s not dripping at the moment...” Miss Geeves
responded.
“Thank you Geeves. I knew I could
rely on you”, Lady Barnmouth smiled again.
…………………
Obediently, under the control of the computer, Poppy was
being made to walk and learn the distances from the ground floor and Miss Geeves’ room, where she had begun, to the slave’s quarters,
the lounges, the kitchens, the garbage unit, the stairs and the upper rooms,
including the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the lavatories.
It was as if the computer loved her lovely legs too, for it
seemed to have her walk up and down the stairs, where their full amazing length
could be seen, as well as a full view of her dimpled sexily clenched bottom.
True to Miss Geeves’ words, the
computer had aroused Poppy: a matter of no great difficulty with such a
sensitive girl. A momentary steady vibration of her nipples and Poppy was as
wet as a quadruple-monsoon. The computer soon sensed this, and just gave her
nipples tiny throbs once in a while, and thus easily kept Poppy, as wet as a
schoolgirl anticipating the imminent harbouring of
the seventh fleet.
Unfortunately for Poppy, her eager wetness had a side
effect.
If her waist wasping had given a
wanton’s wiggle to her walk, something else was now giving a wiggle to her
wiggle.
She was hot to trot, and not to bed, but in dire need of the
bathroom.
Though she fought this, she inevitably fought and lost.
Within half-an-hour of her computer guided training, she had
peed abundantly into her panties and the container at the base of her
‘codpiece’, now glowed the gold of a summer sunset, filled to the brim as it
was, with her superlative cognac: her golden treasure: her wine: her pure
girl’s pure girl-pee.
……………..
Getting used to working as if she were a blind girl, had cost Poppy a number of short sharp shocks.
The computer knew no let or hindrance in punishing her. It
had instantly calculated that it could hurt her through her sensitive nipples,
and keep her receptively wet by that means at the same time.
With other girls controlled by its electronic tentacles, a
pulse to the clitoris was the most effective cure for a misdemeanour,
but ‘number 10’, Poppy, must be some kind of masochist, for she was clearly
turned on by her predicament, and wholly compliant with the computer’s demands
and commands with the minimum of correction.
The cameras at the end of the fibre-optic
entrails that wove through the fabric of the walls and ceilings of every room
in the house, guided the computer, and the computer the girls in its command.
Thus Poppy could be made to make up a bed through a series
of pulses to her cunt and her nipples, micromanaging
her movements, combined with her own sensuous sensitivity of feel with her
pretty hands.
It would have been more efficient for the slaves to be
allowed to see, but Lady Barnmouth wanted the full
obedience that blinding and deafening the sluts assured: blind obedience being
literal in her household.
As Poppy wiggled along from where she had carried a tray of
potatoes to the kitchen, under orders from the computer to fetch a tray of
carrots, she sipped some more of her piss to quench her thirst.
The computer had worked her relentlessly for eight hours. In
her blindness and deafness she was unaware of a passing presence, until the
woman passing could resist no more, and pinched Poppy’s beautiful
tight-clenched deep-deep-dimple-sided bottom.
Poppy instantly jerked to long-leggy-legged halt and
squeaked with the pain, and then moaned as the computer punished her nipples
and then her clitoris.
As it sensed that she had become over-aroused from the
pinch, and the pulses to her nipples, the imbalance caused by Poppy’s
passionate nature now seemed to take the computer by surprise.
It sensed that Poppy was approaching a climax. That so
trivial a matter as a girl being surprised by having her bare bum pinched,
could arouse her so, was something the computer could not cope with. And so,
even though Poppy was being totally obedient, Miss Geeves
instantly received a message from the computer on her pager.
A repeated pulse in her right nipple ordered Poppy to turn,
and her sexy legs strode, and her bare bum bell tolled, belying a pendulum for
claiming to swing, as she graced her way to the library, and the infuriated
Miss Geeves, who had two of the gardeners with her.
………………
The slap across her pretty face shocked Poppy so much that
she did not even utter a syllable of sound. Her glasses were tipped and slipped
down her nose on her bruised face, and the inrush of extra light burned her
golden eyes causing her to blink.
As she got used to the light once more, she submitted to
being stripped of her glasses, her dress, the plastic bell that belled her
dress’ skirt out, her brassiere and her panties.
They stopped her pretty mouth by stuffing it with her soiled
Woolmart panties.
Roping her wrists individually, they dragged her to the door
of the library’s broom cupboard: toward the edge of that strong panelled oak door, which was standing open.
They tied her wrists so that her lovely arms were hugging
the front and back of the door like a long lost lover.
They tied her wrists to the upper hinges of the door, so
that her chin was pressed on its open edge and her golden curls dangled down
her back.
“Lady Barnmouth will not tolerate
such slatternly behaviour from whores like you,
Jennifer!”, Miss Geeves
hissed, as she played with Poppy’s right nipple.
‘Who is ‘Jennifer’? Why is Emelda Geeves calling me ‘Jennifer’?’ Poppy’s face and eyes asked,
just before her eyes closed to better experience the pleasure of having her
nipple caressed, with a practiced thumb wiping across it relentlessly
repeatedly.
Poppy had no idea what she was supposed to have done or,
indeed, if the opposite was the case, not done.
Despite the tightness with which her tied wrists pulled her
up to the open edge of the hugely strong door, Poppy managed to turn her head,
and look Miss Geeves in the eye, with a sweet and
pitiful plea, begging for forgiveness, and showing fear that she, Poppy, was
about to experience the bullwhipping promised her if she were a naughty girl.
Instead Poppy simply heard Miss Geeves
order to the strong negress
gardeners: “Ruin her. You know what to do. Give her the previous Jennifer’s
punishment….
………………….
In the latter later half of the following afternoon, the
summer sun still shone dust-dance-revealing beams through the library’s French
windows.
As the agonised Poppy glanced
around, her pain filled eyes seemed unable to see, but still lit with
astonishment when they alighted on the redheaded schoolgirl who had wondered
into the library with a woman, perhaps her momma, who had already passed by,
her face unseen by Poppy, to open the French windows that led onto the patio
and the flowing lawns following on.
The schoolgirl, fifteen at most, wore a pleated grey
micro-mini-skirt, that showed the edge of the gusset of her pristine white,
unsullied white, panties.
Her legs were not long, she being altogether only five-two
at tops, but exceptionally pretty, as she wandered her wonder in her heelless
tiptoe ballet shoes.
Her breasts hardly troubled to disturb her blouse’s
uniformity of line, but were pointed out literally by the school uniform
necktie that she wore, and which showed she had cleavage enough, even though
her bosom would never threaten to burst her blouses’ buttons.
Her glory was her hair. Her face was wreathed in livid
curling flames. Her green eyes showed the shear joy she had in being so young,
so feminine, and so alive.
Desdemona, for this was the angel, put her sweet hand on
Poppy’s cunt. She then noticed, and gently caressed,
a curious bruise on Poppy’s clenched deep side-dimpled bottom, a bruise on her
left bum cheek, as if Poppy had had her bottom pinched very hard.
Poppy, moaned at this act of gentle alms from such a pretty
hand.
Desdemona’s momma admired the way it had been done. The two
batons of wood with the pre-drilled holes in their longest sides, to assist in
holding the girl – someone knew what they were doing: someone knew the Roman
way.
Glancing down, Desdemona’s momma noted that the gagged girl
stood in her extremely high-heels on the very tip-top of her big toes, with the
six-inch-long toe-ends, and the fourteen-inch high heels of her shiny steel
shoes, in a puddle of her own piss. ‘What a waste of a fine wine!’ Desdemona’s
momma mentally decried.
Her appreciative eye now followed up and down the girl’s
wonderfully long and equally wonderfully shapely legs. ‘My goodness, it’s that
maid I met in the corridor last evening. What fantastic legs, and what a
gorgeous bum. What a great reaction when she got what she deserved too! Who
could resist pinching such a backside? Wonder how long she’s been in
punishment?’.
All of these thoughts from and by Desdemona’s momma, took no more than a fleeting microsecond.
At one glance she had taken in what had probably happened.
At a second glance, she looked again at the girl’s
wonderfully big breasts.
They were squeezed brutally flat in their middles: the
batons saw to that. Their ends were like child’s party balloons, and the
nipples were clearly constantly painfully swollen.
The batons saw to that too, the batons and the flat-headed
steel nails driven through the holes in the batons: the huge steel nails with
which the girl’s breasts had been nailed to the front and back of the open oak
door she was tied standing at the edge of, that is, of course.
In ancient
Desdemona’s momma, then turned, and having stood a while to
breath the air in the open doorway, left her darling fifteen-year-old daughter
to assuaging her curiosity, by caressing the helpless body of the tit-crucified
Poppy.
Desdemona’s momma herself continued into the gardens to
greet Lady Barnmouth and apologise
for having had to rush away the previous evening.
“Lady Barnmouth, Faustina, how can I apologise
enough for what must have seemed my extreme rudeness last evening in the middle
of dinner?” Lora Georgette’s musical Welsh intonation intoned.
“No apology is necessary, prime minister. Affairs of state
have always been beyond me. I don’t envy you the burden you bear. I only hope
such time as you have been able to spend at my humble abode, has enabled you to
relax a little”, Lady Barnmouth’s voice soothed.
A muffled squeal of extreme pain came through the open
French windows. Both women turned momentarily toward the sound, and then
relaxed again.
Lady Barnmouth knew that
‘Jennifer’ was in the library, crucified by her tits as a preliminary to her
being thrown into the streets, dismissed from her service.
And Lora Georgette readily realised
that the voice behind the decidedly muffled scream, was not Desdemona’s, but
must have been that of the gagged and crucified girl.
“I hope you don’t mind Faustina,
but I had to bring my youngest daughter, Desdemona with me.”
“She is to go to boarding school here in Barnmouth.
Term starts tomorrow, and tomorrow, I’m afraid, I have to entrain for
“I am only too delighted to oblige. Consider my home yours
Lora”, Faustina, Lady Barnmouth,
assured.
“Desdemona can stay and sleep-over here, and it will be an honour to offer you our hospitality too. Desdemona was with
us for a month last summer. She is pure delight, and a pleasure to have
around”, Faustina added.
As the two lovely women spoke, a beautiful negress, followed by two gorgeous Chinese dolls, outdoors
servants, brought a silver tea service and a trestle table to the lawns, and
began to set out what they had prepared and carried, before their superiors.
Another cry of pain: this one decidedly the pain of joy from
the attainment of what sounded as if it must be a truly massive orgasm,
preceded a long sigh of satiation from the same source: the muffled voice.
At this, Lora Georgette, prime minister of
On arrival in the library, her eyes needing to readjust to
the contrasting shade of the room where Poppy of course still stood, nailed by
her breasts to the door, prime minister Lora Georgette could not quite yet see
why her pretty daughter was holding up and looking with sweet curiosity at the
fingers of her right hand; though she was evidently fine.
The smile on the titian ringlet ringed face of the petite
doll Desdemona was one of pleasure achieved. She had just given herself a sex
lesson at Poppy’s expense, and Poppy, coincidentally and accidentally, a massive
orgasm.
The answer to the item of passing interest, the curiosity
Desdemona had, about the bloodied fingers of her hitherto exploratory hand,
came in the sweet lisp of Desdemona’s voice: “Ooh look mummy: I’ve got blood
all over my fingers!”
“Yes”, Lora Georgette replied, in a voice expressing that
she now understood.
“Yes. Well, I dare say she may have been a virgin darling.
Now do hurry up and wash your hands sweetheart. Tea is being readied for us on
the lawns”…
<>
Disconnections
- a series of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Woolmart Girl – Part 3
Synopsis: Once a Lady always a lady?
Woolmart Girl – Part 3
Black is the colour for mourning, and of the deepest beauty.
She stands before the grave, with the chill of the Barnmouth
winter seeking to pass the praetorian buttons safeguarding the close embrace of
her heavy jacket, with its comforting fur waving and wending in the bluster
blasts of the winter wind’s flurries.
Her queenly dark-brown tight-curl crowned head, is haloed
saint by the faint sun: a sun serving only to contrast the mournful blackness
of her furs: bearskin jacket, wolfskin miniskirt, and muskrat millinery: with
the profile her six-foot statuesque elegance shadows as a shapely grey contrast
on the crisp blue-white snow.
Her face, with its experience-matured lines, in joy as in
sadness, is a devastating siren of soft seductiveness. The eyes and the mouth
dominate. The eyes are so deep of brown that they nearly teach her pupils’ what
black should be. The mouth is closed in the possessed pose of the astonishing
negress she is.
She weeps. Down the sides of her faintly flared nostrils,
her gentle tears trickle tributary: contributory to her agonising beauty.
Her tumbling tears sweet sadness, reaches her glorious
mouth’s closed close-circular shape, with its compelling lips: full blooded,
bold, powerfully passionate: the sensual upper with its teasing rise to cupid
bowed flatness: the full-bodied lower, seductively soft siren for wreaking
lovers’ wrack wreck and ruin.
Her feet with her big toes buried, snuggling in the holes
drilled for them in the six-inch-deep platform soles of her boots, rise
perpendicularly. And her legs in her twelve-inch heels, are consequently
consequential poems in their tensioned wonder: and, in their conspicuous
curvature, beyond mere poetry’s ability to ponder.
As, at its last, the sad saline of her lachrymose longing
moistens her constant kiss, she is trying to show she is composed. She is
seeking not to open her lovely lips in a heartrending sob. In the process, she
puckers her mouth in a pose then repose that could be preliminary too to her
golden laughter; were she not so pitifully pained.
On the grave she reads again, and again, and again:
‘Aemalia Hortense Hendridge-Draegona
Countess of Barnmouth
2021 to 2053
My Love: My Life’
The thorns of the single rose in her ungloved right hand
prick tears of blood from her tender fingers, to match the tears of torment
from her glorious eyes; and the red of the floral tribute she will lay on her
wife’s grave today, as she has every single day for the two months since the
tragedy of the drowning on Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona’s homecoming trajectory.
She bends to place her daily homage-honour on the grave.
Her black wolfskin miniskirt’s hem rises. The tops of her
mourning black stockings above and beyond her knee-high black leather boots,
momentarily challenge; but then enforcedly yield to the inexorable pull of her
suspender clasps, to be hauled in their defeat in longer vees up the smooth
flesh of the backs of her long strong dark-brown thighs.
As she bends further, between her stocking tops and her hem,
her hot bare dark-coffee flesh, flashes its sinful sexualness, and her fit
femininely muscled smoothness.
And, as she bends yet further, her cool cotton panty’s
white, beacons beckoning for a reckoning, powerfully triangularly: fully
pouched with her scorching-hot sin-centre within. With the enticement of its
central divide decidedly delineated, it challenges ones compulsion to resist
the irresistible deep dark devilishly demanding forces inside.
……………….
Micawberene Smith was a pretty girl who, save in the form of
the crisp dry recital of a deed of title, seemingly knew nothing of
presentation.
Though only twenty-five, she was already the epitome of the
staid family lawyer, and thus the perfect representative of Smith Smith and
Smith, Attorneys at Law, whose practise had practiced care over the legal
affairs of the succession of Countess of Barnmouth, almost ever since
Wilhelmina the First’s wife, Matilda Countess of Flanders, had appointed the
first of the Barnmouth line, in 1070.
Historians of written record deny the services that Rachel
Draegona, the first Countess of Barnmouth to be, is said, in the contrasting
oral history, to have rendered to Matilda. But one common modern derivation of
the word ‘oral’ is not an inappropriate focus for attention and subsequent apt
conclusion of her role in their rolls in the bed-folds.
Rachel’s bedroom prowess was clearly matched by her
intellect. She was eventually to be given preference, even though she was a
Saxon at a Norman court. That she had learned French whilst serving on, and
later captaining, the ‘
Rachel had been with Haroldena Godwinson, the future
Haroldena Queen of England, whose ship she had commanded in 1064, when
Haroldena had taken her mother’s promise, of the award of the queendom of
England, to Wilhelmina Duchess of Normandy – as of then known, to her
discomfort, as Wilhelmina the Bitch.
This, the
Instead, Haroldena declared herself queen of
Back in 1064, after Haroldena’s visit to
The facts are vague, but certain sure is that Rachel’s
devastating beauty captivated Wilhelmina the Bitch’s wife, Matilda, who never
regretted ordering that Rachel Draegona be washed and brought to her bedroom.
By 1066, as an experienced sea-captain, Rachel Draegona, now
converted to the Norman cause and the
At
And so, later in the same year, Rachel Draegona had found
herself at the coronation of Wilhelmina the First of England: more often
referred to as: ‘Wilhelmina the Conqueror’: the day in question being Christmas
Day 1066.
Apart from the intervention of, and subsequent merger with
the even older Hendridge line, in 1077, when Rachel’s youngest child, her only
daughter, married Morpeth Hendridge, the beautiful inheritor of the Hendridge
wealth, with the consequent mingling of the family name as ‘Hendridge-Draegona’,
the Draegona line had run through the females of the family up to the present
day.
As has been said before we recited the historical roots of
the title ‘Countesses of Barnmouth’, Micawberene Smith, the latest in a long
line of family lawyers to the Barnmouth estate and its heads, was a pretty girl
who, save in the form of the crisp dry recital of a deed of title, seemingly
knew nothing of presentation.
But Micawberene Smith must surely have inspired the phrase:
‘hidden fires’. Her business suits of dark and darker charcoal-grey pinstripe,
were of the finest cut from the highest quality tailor to be found in
So too, her white silk blouses, with their frilly bibs,
blouses always buttoned at wrist and tight up to her slender neck, were hand
stitched from London’s Germane Street.
Her underwear was Parisian silk in daring shades: today’s
being scarlet-panelled with daemon-black embroider of their borders, hand-sewn
by Hosea Hosiery of London’s Grar Street, from where she also ordered her
lawyer’s standard, black shear nylon stockings.
Micawberene Smith had very pretty legs. She had her hems
high up her thighs. But she was shy: too shy to show the clasps of her
suspenders below her skirt, as was the new fashion. Correspondingly, her
shyness precluded a heel higher than the five-inches that angled her ankles and
curved her calves, in such as the reflective black patent leather Italian
import courts she wore this day.
Whether Micawberene Smith wore panties was a question she,
Micawberene, loved to think the other girls must be asking themselves. Her
skirt showed no visible panty-line. Either she did or she didn’t of course;
but, if she did, they must have been exceptionally tiny.
The contrast with her charcoal grey jackets suited
Micawberene’s straight, light, near-white blonde tresses, which reached down no
further than the collars of her business-girl suits.
Her light brown eyes were a surprise of sparkling humour and
intellect. But she must wear glasses perched high on her pretty little nose.
And poor Micawberene’s weak eyes were thus owl wise in their seeming size. And
that increased her shyness and resigned sadness, because her life so far,
seemed to be proof of the saying that: “girls don’t make passes at girls who wear
glasses”.
As she stood in the library of Barnmouth House, Micawberene
eyed over the panelled oak door, of what she assumed to be a broom cupboard or
the like. The door was closed.
As she awaited arrivals for the reading of a will,
Micawberene had noticed the pristine cleanliness and conspicuously complete
order and trim repair of the stately home of the Countesses of Barnmouth. And
yet, in the door-handle-edge-side of the door she grew strangely curious about,
because of the contrast of the blemish, there were deep holes at breast height,
as if very large nails had been driven into the wood from time to time.
“Good morning my lady”, Micawberene curtsied in courtesy as
the fragrant achingly beautiful negress, Faustina Lady Barnmouth, graced in to
take her seat, and make its humbleness replete with her feminine charms
complete.
This was a woman in despair. Distraught at her sudden
widowhood, her lovely face showed she had been crying only just before she
entered the room. That was despite that, coming to the library to hear the
reading of her late wife’s will from Micawberene, her, and her family’s
solicitor, Faustina had reminded herself of her place in society.
Dressed in widow’s white, the contrast of Faustina’s
beautiful blackness had never seemed so dreamily gorgeous. She was a woman in
her thirties: a mature elegant could-be model, with six feet of supreme dream
stature. Was black beautiful? Oh all ye gods yes! This was a negress. This was
the most beautiful among all the races of women with whom the world is heaven
blessed.
The tall sad negress sat with her supremely long legs
crossed thigh over thigh, with one long leg wrapped behind its sister, such
that the toe of her platform mules touched the Achilles heel of her grounded
foot.
As she unconsciously ran her gaze along the long length of
Faustina’s stockinged legs, and then up at the fabulous face, framed by the
window, contrasting the glorious black of the amazingly beautiful widow, with
the snow still around the grounds outside behind her through the glass,
Faustina’s white stockings, filled with the might of her athletic limbs,
transfixed Micawberene’s appreciative eye.
“My lady I was so sorry to hear of your terrible loss….”,
Micawberene began, before she realised that Faustina was too lost in her
sorrow, to hear her.
Two seats remained. One was for Micawberene. But
Micawberene and Faustina awaited a third party.
Concluding that the expected arrival might be a time yet,
Micawberene planted her pretty derriere on a seat that faced the one Faustina
graced, and the other empty one waiting someone to fill its place.
Moments later, as the library’s door opened, Micawberene
rose, and an English Rose entered.
She was five-four to adore. Her heartbreakingly pretty
high-cheekboned heart-shaped face, a little pixie’s dancing with freckles,
dazzled. Her dainty ears’ tiny lobes dandle dangled white pearl earrings, as if
she had been out on the town. Her flame-red hair was cropped to a boy cut, with
a left side parting.
She was unadulterated walking adorableness. Wrapped in her
winter mink ankle-length cloak from the outside cold, her face, her
translucently white face, was suffused with a natural flush from the bite of the
frosty wind that had just had the honour of kissing her peach complexioned
cheeks.
Micawberene
sat herself again, and drank deep from the cup of this cute girl. Was she
seventeen? Yes she was: just.
As the family’s familiar, Emelda Geeves the faithful
housekeeper, removed the girl’s cloak, it revealed more of her very sexual
charms.
In contrast with the dressy earrings: earrings that perhaps
she had left in overnight, she seemed otherwise to have dressed hurriedly, and
certainly casually.
She wore a shabby white short-sleeved tee-shirt, that she
filled with such twin full firmness, that one would have assumed a bra, but
that her very real, very bold, very conical nipples, clearly bared their all
beneath the tepees they dented in her vest’s thus tent-tautened fabric. And, as
she stared haughtily confidently around, there was overmuch freedom of roam
from her breasts heavy domes, for them to be in any way contained or
constrained within, to cause them to refrain and be reined-in.
She stood in knee-high black leather boots, the soft supple
leather of which her compelling calves had curved to the conspicuously luscious
strength of the length of her shapely legs. She was raised on tiptoe on the
squared-off toe-tips of her heelless boots, with the light leather of their
soles showing the neat stitching from the hand sculpting of their individually
tailored crafting.
Her skirt, a pelmet, met her thighs just below where her
robust rear’s deep-sigh deep-side-dimpled half-globes, began their thrilling
foothill rise above the comparatively flat plain of the backs of her stunning
thighs.
And, from the tops of her boots clasping to her gasp-worthy
legs, up to where her hem tried to hide all the loveliness that she must have
up its inside, her legs, her supremely white extremely beautiful legs, were
bare. She wore neither tights nor stockings. Her thighs, her gorgeously
dancer-muscled thighs, were naked.
As Kendra Hendridge-Draegona walked thus into the room,
Micawberene unconsciously crossed her own legs, and rubbed her stockinged
thighs together in a sibilant hiss of the kiss of nylon on nylon: the rub of
thigh on thigh bye and bye to fire the static sparks that marked Micawbarene’s
arrival at arousal at first sight of this pulchritudinous arrival.
As Kendra sat, and her hem slipped inexorably swiftly up her
bare supreme smoothness, and Micawberene tried to see up her thighs’
in-betweens, Micawberene licked her lips to wet them in imitation of the
intimate initiation that was imminent within her intimacy, as an open
invitation to the sexy teen queen.
A confident smile played over the pert pout of the pretty
teenager, and she crossed her bare thighs. And as the pathway of the shadowed
triangle that was focus of the trajectory of Micawberene’s fascination, closed
with the thighs being crossed, so Micawberene knew that this apparition was
nude. This teen tease was dressed and undressed to please. Her shirt and her
skirt and her boots and her earrings were all. Apart from these she wore
absolutely nothing at all.
Kendra kicked her overlapped booted leg back and forth, and
pull played her left ear’s pearl with her pretty fingers in petulant boredom.
There was nothing in this room to interest her: just the old
tramp her mother had married, and this dirty minded frump of a solicitor, who
obviously could not keep her eyes off her thighs.
“Can we get on with it, for god’s sake!” Kendra commanded,
her youthful body, now fresh from the chill of the bitter cold she had rushed
through from last night’s party at the palace, causing her to yawn as she
warmed.
Micawberene’s proficient professionalism now took over, and
she reached her leather briefcase onto her lap, letting Kendra see the size of
her thighs as she uncrossed and re-crossed her pretty legs once more.
Poor sad Faustina paid no apparent attention to proceedings.
And Geeves, the ever-discrete Emelda Geeves, now slipped out of the library’s
doors, closing them silently behind her.
“My good ladies”, Micawberene began, these are the words from
the last will and testament of your late momma Miss Kendra, and your late dear
wife, Lady Barnmouth.
Kendra only just withheld her temper at this dawdling. But
the will reading began in Micawberene’s most proficiently efficient measured
clear contralto tones:
‘This is the last will and testament of Aemalia Hortense
Hendridge-Draegona, Lady Barnmouth of Barnmouth in the
I, Aemalia Hortense Hendridge-Draegona, Lady Barnmouth of
Barnmouth in the county of Barnmouthshire, being of sound mind, to hereby
bequest and bequeath as follows:-
To my darling love-child Kendra Duetta-Nippleona
Singala-Clitoria Virgina-Cuntalis Intacta-Hymenia Hendridge-Draegona, my only
child, whose love in life I was never honoured to receive, and whose
forgiveness, after my death, for the orphanage and lonely life I, as a
fifteen-year-old schoolgirl-mother so long ago condemned her to, I can only pray
for, I leave all my worldly possessions, including my goods and chattels, both
chattels-real and chattels-personal, for her to possess or dispose of as she
may please.’
The silence that followed was palpable and pregnant.
Then: “Is there nothing else?” Faustina, Aemalia’s
broken-hearted widow pleaded.
Micawberene’s loving heart sank. “I’m so sorry Lady
Barnmouth. The times we pressed your good lady wife to update her will after
she married you, were sadly lost on the same number of promised tomorrows that
have come to today. I’m afraid the only will the dear departed ever made, is
the will I have just read: the will that has been fully proven in probate, and
thus stands in law.”
“Kendra gets everything?” Faustina enquired again.
“Yes my lady”, Micawberene gentled. “Kendra
Hendridge-Draegona is a child of the blood, and the only child of the blood.
Miss Kendra is now Kendra Lady Barnmouth, having assumed her momma’s title by
right of female-primogeniture at the moment of her momma’s sad death, regardless
of any will. The will merely confirms the transfer of the estate. The estate,
of course, includes you.”
Faustina looked at Micawberene in suddenness of shocked
disbelief at what she thought she had just heard.
Having rehearsed and revised her law for this very arising,
Micawberene slowly explained to Faustina.
“Your title, the title of ‘Lady Barnmouth’ was, of course,
purely granted to you as the wife of Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona, the late Lady
Barmouth by inheritance and peerage heritage. That title fell from you when the
dear lady, your wife, died. The title bestowed no rights in law upon you.
Whether you may continue to use the title, or some adaptation of it, to
distinguish you from Lady Barnmouth of the bloodline, is a matter for grace and
favour from the new Lady Barnmouth of the bloodline, Kendra Lady Barnmouth,
your stepdaughter, not the law.”
“Under the law, by your marriage to Aemalia
Hendridge-Draegona, the deceased Lady Barnmouth, you became, of course, legally
a ‘chattel-personal’. And therefore, even though you were yet to marry the late
Lady Barnmouth at the time she made her will, from the moment of her marriage
to you, she acquired you, and you therefore became as much an article of goods
as the late Lady Barnmouth’s ponygirls and kennel bitches.”
“Under the law you became a chattel-personal. Had the late
Lady Barnmouth taken our advice and made a new will: a will that recognised
you, matters would be different. But as matters stand, you have been inherited
by the new Lady Barnmouth.”
“Kendra Lady Barnmouth now owns you, and you must be
obedient to her will with you. I am afraid that that is the law”, Micawberene
tailed off, trying to hide the emotion that welled in her chest for the
stunningly beautiful negress.
As she left the library, Micawberene the lawyer took one
last lingering owl-eyed look over her shoulder at the two lovely women she was
leaving behind: the stunningly sexy Kendra with her good news playing sparkles
in her hazel eyes; and the beautiful Faustina whose sadness at loss had just
been multiplied a millionfold by the failure of her late wife to remake her
will after marriage.
The temptress teen made no effort to thank Micawberene.
Though she was too polite to show it, that upset Micawberene.
By contrast, Micawberene had expected no reaction from the
distraught widow whose sad smile and lovely lipped: “thank you” outweighed the
riches of the world for its sweetness.
Even as the door closed, Kendra rose to her full five-four
and reached for a bell rope she recognised as likely to be the means of calling
the housekeeper, or at least a maid.
Afterwards, she turned to Faustina.
“Who gave you permission to sit in my presence?” the
tempting tease quietly taunted.
As if in reflex, Faustina immediately rose to stand a black
rose on her long twin highways to heaven, and on her very tiptoes in her
twelve-inch heels.
Kendra had just begun. The hatred she had harboured for the
fifteen-year-old schoolgirl mother, who had let her be taken in adoption as a
baby, to save disgracing the family name, and who, now Kendra was old enough to
be wise enough to realise she must forgive, had died on her: her pain at such a
past and such a loss, she had turned to new hatred, and there was a target for
her hatred, and her pain, and here before her was that target.
“Just who do you think you are? You were my momma’s wife. As
such, I would have been obliged to tolerate you had I lived with my momma
instead of at a private school. But you are not now and have never been my
momma. You have no title or status other than that bestowed on you by the fact
of your being my mother’s wife.”
“I will issue instructions that, from this moment onward,
nobody but nobody is ever again to refer to you as ‘Lady Barnmouth’. It was an
honorary title: reflected glory. The real Lady Barnmouth was my momma, the late
Countess of Barnmouth. I am now Countess of Barnmouth, and you, in consequence,
the nobody you were before you deceived and seduced my poor momma into marrying
you.”
The door opened and, answering the pull on the bell rope, in
trotted a timid Emelda Geeves, housekeeper to the late Aemalia
Hendridge-Draegona – the late Countess of Barnmouth; and now, she hoped and
prayed, to stay housekeeper to the new Countess: Aemalia’s bewitching daughter,
Kendra Hendridge-Draegona.
“Geeves! At long last! I won’t ask what took you so long,
because it isn’t going to take you as long to answer my call ever again, is it
Geeves?” Kendra sarcasmed.
“No my lady”, Emelda Geeves responded, bobbing a curtsey to
the new countess, when she had never before been obliged to bow to the old
Countess of Barnmouth, nor her wife, Faustina.
“Geeves. Take instruction yourself, and instruct the
household, that under no circumstances will my momma’s widow ever again be
referred to as ‘Lady Barnmouth’. Henceforth she will be referred to as ‘the
Bitch’. Do you understand?”
“Yes my lady”
Emelda Geeves had turned to leave the room, when she heard
an annoyed crisp: “And just where do you think you’re going?”
Rushing back, she curtseyed deeper still: “I’m so sorry my
lady. I thought you had finished with me”, she apologised, with the clear hint
of a tremble in her voice.
“Geeves, from the time I first set eyes on you, I have
worked on the assumption you were stupid. And nothing about your performance of
even the totally undemanding services you are called upon to carry out in this
household, has persuaded me that my conclusion was wrong”, Kendra
slowly-scorched in her fury.
“Tell the Bitch that I have decided that she can stay in my
household on one condition, and one condition only. She’s now an old maid, so
I’ve decided she can be a maid. Huh. I like that. Yes.”
“I won’t have her added to the robotic maids you run the
household with. I want the old maid as a personal maid, so I can watch her
suffer.”
“She’s an old bag: an old woman. I bet her tits are starting
to sag. I’ll grant she’s still got great legs and a fantastic arse, but I’d
also bet her belly is getting fat. She’s an old fat slag in the making. Do
something with the Bitch, Geeves, or, not only can she go, but you might as
well pack your bags as well…”
Emelda Geeves’ heart sank as she listened to this disdainful
dismissal to dismal denigration of her beloved former mistress. Yet, as she let
Faustina glide her majesty from the room in front of her, she curtsied her
total obedience to the new Lady Barnmouth: and Kendra Lady Barnmouth closed her
pretty mouth, hiding her deep hurt in a cruel smile made all the more painful
for spoiling such a pretty face.
……………….
Kendra, now alone, began her search. This was the library.
She had heard rumour there was another will. A will that had not yet been
written-up by the family’s lawyers. A will her momma had merely sketched out
soon after her wedding to Faustina. A will her mother had then lost by leaving
it in the book she had been reading at the time. An alternative to the will
just formally read. A will that might or might not have been fully properly
signed and witnessed: with the fact that it ‘might’ being Kendra’s cause to
find and destroy it, so as to prevent it stopping her having her wilful way.
Evidently, nobody in this household knew about its possible
existence, else it would have been searched for and found in the interval since
Kendra’s momma died.
Did it exist? Had Kendra watched one too many old movies
maybe?
The maid, who had been Kendra’s spy before she had been
dismissed by Kendra’s momma, was unshakeable on the issue. Even when Kendra had
used the crop on her bare nipples, accusing her of lying, and told her the
flogging would only stop when she admitted she was not telling truth, the
ex-maid had insisted she had personally seen the will on Aemalia
Hendridge-Draegona’s desk in this very library. The maid had also insisted she
had assisted a search for the book, she had herself earlier replaced,
unintentionally, where neither she nor Aemalia could relocate it at the time.
……………….
“Geeves: Miss Geeves: my dear Emelda, you mustn’t. It is not
safe for you to do so”, Faustina concerned.
“For me you will always be ‘Lady Barnmouth’ my lady, and I
will call you nothing else but: ‘my lady’” Emelda Geeves repeated.
Emelda Geeves had never seen the beautiful negress naked
before. She had been overcome by the black girl’s immeasurable loveliness, and
her emotion had taken over from common sense, in the form of the now outdated
formal respect she still sought to show to the stunning beauty.
They had discussed escape. But poor Faustina knew that it
was cold outside for women, and not just in the literal sense of the snow that
was blowing into deep drifts outside the window. Prostitution was the only
alternative to enduring becoming Kendra’s slave. For Faustina, even to be
humiliated by her stepdaughter was preferable to having to stand on street
corners and go with any girl who bought her services.
Any other employment was out of the question, because there
was no other employment available. Machines took care of every industrial and
most of the service needs. This was England at the start of the second half of
the 21st century. If you were a girl, either you were rich, or you
were a slave.
Faustina stood high-stretched and steeple-legged on tiptoes
in white ballet shoes, with their bright white laces criss-cross-laticed
tightly all the way up her wonderful naked legs, over her knees and her
gorgeous thighs, before they were tied off in tidy bows at the front tops of
her thighs, where, behind, her round rumps began to take over from her gently
muscled limbs.
Between Faustina’s thighs, a tight bright white thong glowed
in contrast to and showed the contrast with her negroid nakedness. And only
sighs could summarise the wonders of what it’s pouched crotch contained in its
insides.
Her enforced en-pointe permanence clenched the firm cheeks
of Faustina’s round rump, as if her buttocks were biting the slim white rear of
her thong, which disappeared within her anal cleft, before reappearing to join
the waistband, so called, though it clung circle to Faustina’s shapely hips in
fact: where her buttocks became her femininely arched back.
Just above the waistband of her panties, Faustina wore a
mocking skirt, in the form of a bell-tutu. The stiff white bell-formed skirt
looked like a lampshade. It left everything a real skirt might have hidden,
still on open parade. Faustina’s non-pareille deep-scallop-scoop-dimple-sided
buttocks held sway in their mesmerising way, as did the mystery of the purse
with which she formed a pouch in her tight bright shining white thong panties.
Most bravely borne by the regal negress though, was the
crane-brassiere she was forced to wear.
Faustina was an amply endowed lady. Her breasts were firm
heavy and hitherto naturally softly swinging pendulously.
Now, her nipples had been grasped by individual grappling
grips. Each grip inserted a needle two-inches into her milk ducts through the
eye of her nipple. Its three in-curving needle-sharp outer grappling grips, had
then been closed down, to bite into her tender sensitive flesh, by having a
ring-collar, initially above them, slid down around them, so as to force them
closed.
From the ends of each nipple’s grappling grip, a gold chain
had dangled, until Emelda Geeves, who was preparing her former mistress for her
duties as Kendra’s personal maid, had taken these loose chains up behind
Faustina’s slender neck, and fastened them.
Thus Faustina’s heavenly breasts were brutally mockingly
cruelly hauled up from their natural nestling on her chest, so high that her
painfully stretched nipples pointed to the sky, and the undersides of her
stretched bosom showed that her glorious negroidity extended its completely
wonderful completion thereto too.
The maid’s bell was ringing. Faustina must hurry and scurry.
And to do so she must overcome the scurrilous imposition of the one-inch long
tab, that tied her ballet shoes as if they were one shoe on her two feet, and
thus hobbled her.
She was hobbled and thus wobbled as she wiggled her
wonderful wonder to wander her enslaved body for her stepdaughter to ponder.
……………….
It was ten in the morning and Kendra, despite the warmth of
the bed she shared with her latest girlfriend, had deigned to stir and rise for
the day.
A light polite tap at the door and the glorious negress wiggled
her wonder within.
“Oooh Bitch but do you look sexy?!” Kendra mocked from
beneath the bedclothes, and her pretty blonde companion wolf whistled cruelly,
making both bedded girls giggle uncontrollably.
In the same room another two girls were tied face to face at
wrists and waist, knees and ankles. They stood on tiptop-tiptoe dangling roped
up to a chandelier. They were kissing each other passionately. As she looked,
Faustina winced. Both their lovely young bodies showed a plethora of livid
bloody stripes. They had obviously been very brutally whipped.
Then, out of the en-suite bathroom, wandering back to the
warmth of the duvet and its rampantly randy companions, Micawberene Smith, the
Hendridge-Draegona’s family’s family lawyer appeared, wiggled her bare body
across to the bed, and slid herself between Kendra and her companion: a place
she had clearly rejoicingly occupied for much of the night.
Without her eyeglasses, the short-sighted Micawberene did not
really recognise Faustina. It was only when she heard Faustina’s delectable
contralto obedience confirming: “Good morning my lady”, addressed to Kendra,
that Micawberene uttered an: “Oh god no!” and tried to hide herself, and her
shame, deeper in the bed.
Kendra smirked. Her completely compelling sexuality had
worked its charms. She knew she could bed any girl she pleased to raise an
eyelash at, and the seduction of the staid and boring Micawberene had been a
cinch.
Breaking Micawberene’s heart by telling her she was a
totally useless lover with a lousy body and an ugly face – none of which was in
fact at all true - and that she never ever wanted to see her again, was a
pleasure Kendra would indulge a little later on; or maybe not, depending on the
whim dictated by the feeling at the time in her quim: her quim’s whims being
Kendra’s entire life guide.
Meanwhile, she, Kendra, had caught the path of Faustina’s
dark brown eyes, and seen the look, from imagining the pain of being whipped
like the dangling girls, that had flashed across her stepmother’s face.
“What do you think of them Bitch? Kendra mocked.
“Pretty aren’t they?”
“Angelina and me picked them and Micawberene up at a bar
last night. Till then I hadn’t imagined boring Barnmouth could be so rock and
roll!”
“They wouldn’t do sixty-nine for us when we told them to,
so, as you can see, we had to persuade them.”
“From the way they are behaving now, you wouldn’t believe
they are actually flesh and blood sisters would you?”
“No my lady” Faustina obediently confirmed, as she bobbed
another very leggy curtsey to her stepdaughter.
Faustina had already recognised Kendra’s blue-eyed-brunette
other bed companion, as Angelina Hart-Talbot, a girl whose exploits at the same
Swiss finishing school as Kendra, had seen her expelled, not only from the
school, but also from Switzerland itself. And, despite all evidence to the
contrary, Faustina found herself hoping it was Angelina who had led Kendra
astray and not vice versa.
Angelina rose naked as nature from the bed, and walked
around Faustina, admiring everything she saw.
“Hey, your maid’s one hell of a chick. I wouldn’t kick her
out of bed, that’s for sure! You got great taste Kendra: I always said you got
great taste”, Angelina mused aloud.
“You don’t recognise her then?” Kendra teased in response.
“Recognise who?”
“Oh the maid!”
“No. Why? Should I?” Angelina half-yawned.
“All Saints School: The copy of ‘Hi’ magazine and its so
called ‘wedding of the year’ five-years since?” Kendra guided Angelina’s
thinking.
“No. You got me there honey”, Angelina responded, getting
bored already with this guessing game Kendra was fuelling.
Then it dawned.
“Wait on now! Oh my god no!! Kendra!! It isn’t? Oh my god!…
Oh my god!…… Oh my god no!!……… It can’t be! You’re kidding me!! Kendra you
bitch, you’re pulling my leg…. It can’t possibly be! It just can’t be…. You
said you’d get revenge, but.. Oh my god!….”
“It is”, Kendra casualled.
“Angelina Hart-Talbot meet the former Faustina Lady
Barnmouth: my momma’s wife: my momma’s slag wife: the bitch the law made my
mummy when she married my momma: the mummified mummy left to me in my momma’s
will….” Kendra cruelly mocked.
In deep and utter humiliation and shame, the achingly beautiful
Faustina courteously curtsied to her stepdaughter’s lover, and whispered an
obedient: “Good morning my lady”.
The two teenage girls then began to whisper together, and
Faustina sensed that she was the subject of their intense conversation.
Lay my clothes out for me ‘mummy’” Kendra mocked between
whiles, “Don’t bother with underwear. I never wear anything that doesn’t show
on the outside”, she added.
The conspiratorial conclave continued. Faustina heard
‘party’ and ‘school-reunion’ mentioned. And she also noticed that, despite
Kendra’s seeming initial reluctance to treat her as an equal, Micawberene
Smith, eager to propose a plan she had perhaps nurtured for some time, got
included in the conspiracy.
Her menial duty of laying out her stepdaughter’s fresh
clothing completed, Faustina bobbed a curtsey and obediently awaited her next
order.
As she stood she tried not to let her face show the
unendurable pain she was suffering from her stretched breasts, or the fear that,
just maybe, her daughter and friends were planning to torture her in some way.
After all, the depths of depravity of which they were capable showed in the
brutally whipped sisters, who were still kissing like voracious newlyweds.
“That will be all ‘mummy’” Kendra mocked, “We’re spending
the day in town, and will not need you. But be in the library at 7.00 this
evening”.
“Yes my lady”, Faustina confirmed, as she curtsied, dipping
her lovely long legs once more, and then, head lowered in submission, tippytoed
backwards toward the bedroom door, as preliminary to leaving the room.
……………….
At 6.59pm to the split of the split second, Faustina tapped
on the library’s door, and then wiggled her agonisingly beautiful body face and
soul, in, to meet her stepdaughter, as appointed.
Kendra was, for some reason unbeknown to Faustina, busy
taking books off the library’s shelves, opening their leaves faced down to the
floor, and shaking them, as if she had lost some money or the like inside them.
“Well ‘mummy’”, Kendra used the appellation hurtfully
brutally.
“Well ‘mummy’, you seem to have made quite a hit with my
friends. They want to bed you.”
Kendra reached her pretty arms up for another volume, and
her voice stretched with the shapely rise to above-tiptoe of her lovely legs,
as she casually added: “And, as a matter of fact, ‘mummy’, so do I.”
“We want you fully ripe.”
“You will not wash, or in any other way bathe, for the rest
of this week or next. Do you understand?” Kendra enquired, with a continuation
of a purr that seemed to denote that her enjoyment was deeply sexual.
“Yes my lady”, Faustina curtsied.
“Yes what ‘mummy’?” Kendra taunted.
“Yes: I understand, my lady”, Faustina curtsied again.
“Good” Kendra mused, “You see, my friends and I …..”, the
implication of the incomplete sentence was lost on poor Faustina, who had no
right to enquire how it would conclude had it been completed.
Assuming something dreadful was inevitable, and, having,
through the veil of her welling tears, read the look on Kendra’s face as
dismissal, the dismayed and deeply hurt and humiliated Faustina curtsied yet
again, and slowly tippytoed backwards to take her respectful leave.
“Yes: you may indeed go now ‘mummy’, but one more thing”,
Kendra called, with her back turned to Faustina as she, Kendra, resumed her
search for the book she feared might contain her late mother’s revised will.
Seconds later, from within a book Kendra’s pretty hands
hauled from a top shelf, a folded sheet of parchment-yellow paper,
autumn-leafed to the library floor.
As Kendra bent to pick it up, compelled by their complete
bareness and smoothly shapely loveliness, Faustina ogled the younger girl’s
simply stunning thighs.
“Yes, one more thing ‘mummy’”, Kendra repeated, showing no
sign of fear or thankfulness that she might just now have found the will she
needed to destroy, and would destroy with a will, if it were a will, as soon as
this interview with her stepmother was over.
“During the two weeks I just spoke of, you will not change
your panties. You will wear the same panties 24/7.”
“Yes my lady”, Faustina’s lovely voice near croaked.
Kendra raised the folded parchment to her nose, curious to
see if the sweet, decidedly musky aroma, she could suddenly scent, came from
that quarter.
Sensing that her stepdaughter had not concluded her
instructions, and to prompt the momentarily distracted Kendra to issue any
further order she had in mind, so that she, Faustina, might hurry from the room
to hide her shame, Faustina weakly meekly whispered an anticipatory: “My
lady?”, as she dipped yet another very leggy curtsey….
Then Kendra, with her back turned to the astoundingly
outstandingly stunning negress once more, added, in a dismissive tone: “You
see, my friends and I, ….. we want to lick you clean…. So, furthermore, during
that fortnight, you will never lower your panties when you go for a pee. Do you
understand?”
“Yes…. Yes…. Yes of course my lady”, Faustina gasped, as she
curtsied devastatingly deeply: devastatingly deeply shamed by her panty’s
crotch’s sudden showing of a flagrantly fragrant, intimately located, swiftly
swelling damp patch…
<>
Disconnections
- a series
of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Lo Ve Me
Synopsis: Trigger happy?
Lo
Ve Me
Why such a low cut neckline?
She knew. But that did not stop her
being self-conscious about being dressed to reveal and appeal.
The carriage was half empty. There
were plenty of seats. Yet she stood. She stood with her back to the luggage
rack next to the girl in a smart pink uniform: the girl she was obviously with.
She stood out also. She was outstandingly outstanding and outstanding twice
blessedly too.
As the train swayed, her bosom, on
clear display, divinely divided, diving deep beyond her fawn top’s curved
neckline, held sway by not apparently swaying with the rock and roll of the
rattling conjunction of wheels with the pitch and yaw of the station’s
junction.
Although evidently naked under and
entirely natural, she seemed rock firm. Although naked under, her nipples’
evident insistence upon testing her top’s material resistance to spatial
penetration, also showed her bosom, though deeply perturbing, was apparently
unperturbed and undisturbed by the perturbation from the rail-switch points on
the station approach’s challenging curves.
The attractive blonde conductress,
busy with last minute ticket sales, saw her. Try as she might, she could not
help but run the angel over, using her eyes as the rule with which to measure
the immeasurable measure of the girl’s facial and physical charms.
The girl, maybe sixteen, a
school-aged dream, was in high heeled shoes. As she sought to counter the
train’s rocking motion, by slightly advancing one of her long trained-dancer’s
limbs whilst anchoring the other, her slim legs’ lovely curves showed their
sensational muscularity.
Her sweet swerves showed through the
long fawn wool-knit leg-warmers that embraced her to half-mast high half-thigh.
And above their elasticated tops, her bare flesh furnaced, furnishing that the hems of skirts, like school
these days, seemed to be finishing earlier and earlier.
The conductress longed to get to this
Eve and look into her dark brown eyes, to there see heaven had its
representatives on unworthy earth: and, purely coincidentally, to ponder if the
girl had any knickers on under her skirt.
Lo Ve Me wore coarse woollen knickers in
fact: knickers blessed with the sweet fragrance of her bud with its rose pink
inner petals. A bud, though leafed with spring’s blossom, remaining clamped
closed, still yet to be ripped into full summer bloom.
From the highbrowed oval face with
the eyes decided eastern narrowing, the Conductress bet this ethnic-Chinese
English beauty, was Vietnamese or Japanese or Korean for her money, and that
her full-bodied lips must taste of the purest honey.
Was the blonde conductress admiring
Lo Ve Me’s buttock sweeping hair? Did she wonder how
long it must take to brush such heaven to its glorious sheen? As Lo Ve Me merely moved and yet moved hearts with the merest of
motion, did she witness the light being intermittently refracted in its
tumbling dream midnight jet-black sensual stream?
Lo Ve Me
somehow sensed what would happen and longed to escape, but kept her place.
Then she and the pretty conductress
came face to face.
Lo Ve Me’s
stunningly seductive oriental eyes were cat-size but only kitten-wise. She
looked in innocent appeal at the conductress. Perhaps as a consequence, the
conductress forewent the face, and loudly spat at the top of Lo Ve Me’s cleavage in its place: her huge gobbet spattering
on Lo Ve Me’s breastbone.
Lo Ve Me’s
guard laughed cruelly. The little slut had just got what she deserved.
Lo Ve Me had been found out. The Girl-Police had had one of their
periodic clampdowns. Lo Ve Me
had been swept up in the corresponding roundup of suspects at her school. She
had been accused and, under interrogation, admitted to masturbating. The full
majesty of the law had subsequently crashed down upon her. She was now under
sentence and under escort fresh from the law courts.
Besides
being an immensely erotic pleasure to look her over, close inspection showed
that her hands were clasped at her lap, girlackled
together by thumb cuffs, her ankles chained with a six-inch hobble, and her
ever-moist mouth held succulently agape by a steel gag, that had her tongue
brutally bitten in its serrated jaws.
Her shoes were prison-issue. The
same closer inspection showed she stood not only on tiptoe, but on her cruelly
bent big toes alone, as the only way of easing herself above the agony of
standing and walking additionally on her other toes: those other toes being
curled back so she would crush them as she stood on them. The five rings
through which the toes of each of her pretty feet were forced imposed this
divinely cruel torture on her.
On each foot, she wore a ‘glove’: a
stainless-steel glove ending in the toe equivalent of a knuckleduster. Each toe
went through the ‘duster’ in its own way. The ring
through which the big toes went, formed a tube that persuaded those toes
forward. The remaining toes of each foot, and thus
both feet, through rings that eased them backwards.
The two ‘dusters’ were at the front
ends of her stainless-steel high-heeled shoes. But these were high-heeled shoes
with a difference.
Her toes were clamped through the
dusters. Or rather, the steel ‘glove’ that ended in the dusters covering up to
halfway up the arch of her foot. The ‘glove’ was then
fastened to her foot by a rigid bar up the front of her foot to an articulated
steel band tight around her dainty ankle.
From the front bottom rear of the
dusters, flat soles ran back toward her shoes’ heels: soles she dragged on the
ground as if she were wont to walk like a world-weary slattern, for these shoes
had heels with a difference too.
These shoes had eight-inch long
heels. But the heels, instead of coming down to the ground from the rear of the
shoe, pointed up from the rear of the flat soles. They rose as two needle sharp
pointed spikes that would stab Lo Ve Me’s feet if she
dared to put her weight on them. Parallel guides curved up either side of the
heels and ran up and through rings soldered to her ankle bands. These guiding
rods stopped her shoes’ soles from wandering away from true, and thus kept the
brutal heels - literally stilettos - at constant readiness to stab the heels of
her bare feet.
The heels thus ensured she stood and
walked at all times on her savagely bent big toes, trying to avoid the even
greater agony of crushing her remaining toes with the full delicious, light but
horrendously painful, weight of her delightful body, and even more so to avoid
having her feet stabbed by her heels.
The conductress’ cruel spittle burst
its bubbles in unorchestrated pattern, before the
heavy tear of its insult trickled the deep valley of Lo Ve
Me’s cleavage toward her belly.
“Yea!” said her uniformed guard to
the obviously informed conductress. “That’s the way to treat the little whore.
She’s a fuckin’ wanker. The
filthy little slut’s bin found guilty of masturbating. She deserves everythin’ she gets and is gonna
get!”
Lo Ve Me
hung her lovely head in scarlet blushing shame: a rose to the very heart of the
inadequately descriptive name.
But her humiliation wasn’t over. At
a wink and raised eyebrow from the vengeful conductress, her police guard
turned her around, and the pretty conductress took the unspoken invitation to
slap Lo Ve Me resoundingly hard on her delicious
bottom.
“Hey! Come on girls! I got yer open house here!” Lo Ve Me’s
guard then called. She had just pulled the back-panel of Lo Ve
Me’s knickers into the youngsters buttock cleft, and then hauled the rear of
her knickers up so hard, that their gathered crotch entered her divinity and
rubbed their roughness in her supreme sensitivity.
At the same time as pulling her
knickers up into her sex, her strong guard held the rear of Lo Ve Me’s miniskirt aloft above the dove’s bared derriere.
And each and every girl as they left the train,
slapped her there. As Lo Ve Me cried and sobbed
afresh, they pandied her bottom till it glowed red.
So hard did they slap her, that her eventual bruises would even show where
their wedding rings had bitten her soft complexion.
As she re-attached the short chain
that tethered Lo Ve Me’s clamped thumbs to her own
wrist , Lo Ve Me’s guard now taunted: “See what yer get, yer little slut? If yer’d only kept yer fingers out
of it, yer’d still be back at school with all yer pretty friends”.
“Come on young ‘un. Yer’ve got some walking to do!” she then commanded as she
pulled Lo Ve Me around, and led her to the carriage
door to step off the train.
As she alighted from the train, poor
Lo Ve Me’s lovely eyes showed the tears that teetered
at torrent’s tip, for every step was an agony of bent or crushed toes. Every
step was the cruel choice of striving to keep her 100-pounds of shear delight,
aloft on her cruelly bent big toes, or rest that agony, by crushing her other
toes, or relieve that torture by choosing to rest her heels where the razor
sharp stilettos would undoubtedly stab her.
Her progress was also slowed by the
six-inch hobble chain that linked the ankle-bands of her stainless-steel
torture shoes, and sought to tame the power of her youthfully slim lower limbs:
legs as long as they were seductively shapely as they were strong.
As Lo Ve
Me moaned out with the pain of walking on her crushed bare toes along the
unyielding cold concrete slabs of the train station platform, her guard simply
snapped: “Come on girl!! We ain’t got all bleedin’ day!”
Lo Ve Me
bore the pain of bearing the weight of her shapely young body, only with cries
of agony that tore her gagged and tooth-clamped tongue.
Her moans caused the commuters to
turn and stare at her beauty. Her only comfort came from the crotch of her
knickers, which was still pulled up hard into her divine divide. As she walked,
the coarse roughness of her knickers’ woollen knit,
heated the sensitivity within her split, till her natural lubrication flowed
and eased the pain of walking the road on her crushed bruised toes.
Had Lo Ve
Me longed for comfort from her fellow girls gathered round at the sound of her
gagged moans of pain, she found none, but assuredly heard the cries of their
disdain.
“Serves yer
bleedin’ right darlin’. Yer shoulda
kept yer fingers out of yer
knickers!” came one mezzo cry.
Another added: “Yea! Too right!
That’s not what god gave you a cunt for!”
“Yea!” added a third: “The rest of
us girls has had to keep our hands to ourselves!”
There was then a pause…
….There was then a pause, before a
giggling contralto responded to the latter cry with: “Silly bitch! It’s keeping
her bleedin’ hands to ‘erself
that she’s bein’ friggin’
punished for!” And uproarious mocking laughter, Lo Ve
Me in her despair assumed was aimed at her, hurt her
above and beyond even the taunts, or the terrible pain from her tortured feet
and tongue.
Lo Ve Me’s
guard sniggered at the insults, and, despite that she had already been pulling
her almost faster than the poor girl could walk, seemed to drag Lo Ve Me along even faster still.
Lo Ve Me’s
guard was making a beeline for the ladies’ washroom further along the station
platform. Although being on official duty, she was longing for a cigarette, and
needed to get where she could indulge her craving without being seen and
prospectively reported to her superiors for a breach of discipline.
Lo Ve Me’s
moans of pain were nothing to her guard, who cursed her with: “Get a move on yer fuckin’ whore!”
…………………
Now the smooth legs of the angel
stretched taut by her need to rise above the blades threatening her heels, rose
as two shapely sweetly muscular monuments to all that is feminine.
Lo Ve Me
was standing sky high up on her brutally bent big toes on the unyielding
polished black tiles in the vestibule of one of Barnmouth
and Clitoria train station’s washrooms.
The ‘snick’ of the switchblade knife
opening behind her made Lo Ve Me flinch, and ice
trickled down her spine. The echoing sharp mechanical sound put the already
terrified girl in even higher nervous tension.
Dreading to know what it was that
her guard was doing behind her, Lo Ve Me’s lovely
face shot around to look behind her, her terror widening her tawny eyes, her
dark black hair falling a fragrant curtain across one
glorious love-lantern.
But then her guard casually assured:
“I ain’t gonna hurt yer none. I just want yer knicks see. A cop’s pay ain’t
that special as an occasional bonus don’t come in
handy.”
“My so-called superiors don’t mind none. They’re all on the friggin
take anyway. All us guards sell the prisoners’ knicks,
after they’ve had time to get aroma’d up some. Yer bein’ such a fuckin’ gorgeous doll, and a virgin and all, yer fresh smelling knicks ‘ll get me five-thousand-dollars at
least, I shouldn’t wonder….”
Her smart clerical-grey pinstripe
trouser-suit cut to Parisian perfection, accurately denoting and promoting her
position in the working world, a very attractive blue-eyed blonde businessgirl now entered the scene.
Lo Ve Me
assumed she would head into a washroom cubicle; but instead she stood and
watched, thus increasing Lo Ve Me’s excruciating
embarrassment.
“I want $5k for these here Jemima”,
Lo Ve Me’s guard suddenly insisted, dawning the realisation that the businessgirl had arrived by pre-arrangement.
The businessgirl’s
retort was lovely laughter: lovely despite its sounding practiced and
professional. “Come off it Sarah! Even knickers fresh off of a pretty little
chick like this one, won’t fetch me a profit if $5k is the price I buy them
for. Let’s talk sensible numbers, or else I’ll just get the earlier train down
to Barnmouth Central. I hear they’ve got twins down
there, both in for one this one’s going to get”.
“That there Mbese’s
knicks went for $5k is what I heard Jem. I’m takin’ a risk here. I
could be drummed out the Girl-Police for much less. So far the old: ‘she must
have had them torn off by the crowd’ routine has seen me through. But it’s
getting’ harder to explain away. Last time my sergeant said she’d take the
price of twelve-dozen new pairs out of my wages. She were
only jokin’ of course; but yer
see how close I am to getting found out. $5k is more than reasonable…” Lo Ve Me’s guard replied, without sounding at all confident of
her powers of persuasion.
“Actually Sarah, Mbese’s
knickers went for just over $10k. Better get your facts straight, and better
you understand the market. Mbese was a negress for starters, and hers was
a hanging offence. She’d taken her own virginity?”
“This chick is only down for the
basic misdemeanour. She must still be intact, else her sentence would be the same as Mbese’s. Mbese got punished for a
first-degree offence. This chick will get the same treatment as Mbese, save for one thing: for a second degree verdict,
they don’t wind up being hung by their tits.”
“Don’t a lovely
Chinese doll like this here fetch the same as a negress
then?” Lo Ve Me’s guard enquired, having fallen
straight into the businessgirl’s trap.
The businessgirl
knew full well that Lo Ve Me’s knickers, especially
if they we well marinated with her scent and flavour,
could well fetch as much or more than Mbese’s.
Chinese lovelies were more rare in the English
populace as a whole than negresses. It was a simple
matter of market forces. The girls who bid for knickers on the Key-Way website
would always pay that touch more for something exotic like panties worn by this
lovely little honey prior to her punishment.
“Sure, she’s a stunner, but we
aren’t talking $5k let alone ten”, the businessgirl
answered, trying, successfully, not to let her sense of impending victory show.
“Look. I’ve got five more locations
to visit today. $1k cash in hand is my highest offer. And if you don’t cut them
off neatly, so as I can sew them back right again, that’ll go down by half”,
she added to make her pitch seem final.
“That’s a bit harsh Jem. I could raffle them to the crowd for more!”.
“Get caught doing that Sarah, and
you’ll wish you’d accepted my $1k! Now is it to be $1k, or else I just got to
go?”
“Fuckin’
hell! Yer know
how to fleece us don’t yer Jem?”
The crisp notes were held in a fan
waved before Lo Ve Me’s guard. With two brisk snips,
and a gasp of pleasure from Lo Ve Me as they were
tugged out from where they had been tucked up hard within her slice, Lo Ve Me’s knickers were cut off, pulled out of her, whipped
off her, and handed to the businessgirl.
The businessgirl
then opened a transparent plastic box with a sealable lid, and began to put Lo Ve Me’s knickers where her aroma would stay fresh.
But, even as she did so, she paused
and looked at where Lo Ve Me was standing skyscapered on her long slim legs: standing murderously
high on her big toes on the polished black tiles of the washroom floor.
The tiles showed everything: Lo Ve Me’s skirt hid nothing. With her knickers gone, the
tiles reflected Lo Ve Me’s hidden enticements
completely faithfully.
“Very nice! Very nice indeed!”, the businessgirl whispered as, while Lo Ve
Me’s eyes filled with tears from her utter shame, she ogled the floor’s
flawless reflection of Lo Ve Me’s wetted whetted
cunt.
…………………
The business girl had gone. As
Sarah, her guard, enjoyed the cigarette she was sneaking before walking Lo Ve Me further, Lo Ve Me’s head
still hung in deep humiliation.
Lo Ve Me felt more naked than had she been naked in fact. She knew
Sarah’s eyes were staring at the tiled floor, and just how much it reflected of
what there was to see up inside her tiny skirt.
It therefore came as a surprise and
yet no surprise to Lo Ve Me when her guard, cigarette
still glowing at the corner of her mouth, came closer to her to look more
studiedly at her well-filled close-clinging tee-shirt.
Sarah longed to feel Lo Ve Me’s breasts. She knew they were completely bare: that
she wore no underwear. Their wonderfully bold fullness embellished her
tee-shirt with their sweet soft swellings, topped with the taunting nipples,
whose enticements tightened the fabric with twin conical come-hither
near-puncturing punctuation points.
“My oh my,
but aren’t you the pert little lady? Do yer nipples
always poke out like that, or are they just pleased to see me?” Sarah cliché-sneered.
Lo Ve Me tried hard to shy herself away. But her guard cocked the
second finger of her right hand behind its thumb, ‘released the trigger’, and
flicked Lo Ve Me’s left nipple’s very evident
protrusion through the coarse cotton of her tight top, very hard.
In reflex from the pain, Lo Ve Me leapt taller, flinched back, and moaned through her
terrible gag.
Lo Ve Me
could not help but seduce. She longed that she were not so heavily endowed. Of
course it was no crime to have a thirty-eight inch chest, nor
to have nipples that formed one-third of each breast, nor to have
nipples mounting toward half-inch-long central peaks. Lo Ve
Me was only a natural full-blooded passionate loving gentle girl. Surely that
was no crime either.
Lo Ve Me
sensed Sarah’s craving to get her hands up her tee-shirt and feel her, and
caress her, and maul her, and crush her, and slap her, and pinch her nipples,
and haul one of her breasts out and take the nipple in her lips and nibble and
bite and suck her like a babe for sexual succour.
Her thoughts made Lo Ve Me flinch away, and that made her breasts swing and sway
and her nipples scribe seduction along the way, so she hung her head further so
as to try and stop her totally natural sexiness seduce in this way.
Sarah watched. As she saw Lo Ve Me’s crew of two come to rest with their nipples
pointing to heaven anew, her longing only grew. It was more than her job was
worth to be caught ravishing this girl. But, as she watched Lo Ve Me’s breasts emotion searing motion, sacrifice of a
career of long devotion formed more than a mere passing notion.
Aroused as she was by the seductive
angel, Sarah sought to sublimate her inflamed desires by being cruel.
“Yer’re in
no position to be stand-offish with me, yer little
slag. For what yer were found guilty of trying to do
to yerself, yer can think yerself lucky they
didn’t sentence yer to worse than yer’re
gonna get anyway for sure.”
“Just cos yer school’s
head-girl was such a sexy tart that the judge wanted to shag her. And just cos she was believed when she said she was sure yer’d never ever used it… and cripes knows where yer got it from in this day and age; but for just
possessing a vibrator, any other girl’d end up being
strung up by her clit!” she exaggerated.
Thereafter, to punctuate her
frustration at not simply being allowed to get her hand up Lo Ve Me’s tee-shirt and thoroughly feel her, and yet to
demonstrate her power over the tethered tortured angel even so, Sarah, her
smoke completed used the same second finger and thumb combination.
This time though, she loaded the
means she had used to flick Lo Ve Me’s excitingly
inviting nipple-tip, with the stub of her cigarette, and flicked it, unerringly
accurately, into a rising parabola, from the apex of which it plunged, still
burning, straight down the innocent angel’s cleavage.
So unexpected was this, that Lo Ve Me simply watched wide eyed as if the burning stub,
flying whilst spinning visibly glowing red, was heading toward someone else.
As a result, her last-second
breast-swinging reflex flinch was insufficient, and, even though she danced her
supremely sexy legs backwards, and thus made her heavy bosom dive float flow
and frolic fulsomely handsomely: first in an effort to avoid the salvo, then in
dire need to extinguish the pain, her scream as the dying stub burned a brutal
brand inside her navel, tore blood from her savagely clamped tongue.
…………………
“Come on den yer
fuckin’ tart. There’s a lot of girls waiting for yer out dare, and dey ain’t gonna be askin’ for no autographs neither”, Sarah sneered.
Lo Ve Me,
wishing she were dead, such was her shame, submitted, having no choice, to
walking once more on her tortured toes.
For a while before her enforced
return to her painful journey, she had heard a hum of conversation.
As Sarah emerged from the washroom
with Lo Ve Me in tow, the first gobbet of spittle
spattered in Lo Ve Me’s left eye, and trickled down
her lovely face to her lips.
“Take that you fucking whore!” a
fellow schoolgirl screamed, as, at every opportunity in the Lo Ve Me’s snail’s progress, more women spat on her face into
her cleavage and on the exposed upper curves of her firm breasts.
Word having got around, hundreds of
girls from Barnmouth had gathered, and now followed
Lo Ve Me as a moving gauntlet she must ‘run’ but
could never complete.
“Fucking slag! I don’t pay my fucking taxes so you can go to school to
learn how to wank. I hope they fucking sew it up for
you, you bleeding whore!”
“Too fucking right”, another
anonymous girl shouted, “I’d have them pull off their clits if I were making
the law!”
“Yea” agreed another, “There just
too bloody soft on them these days. When I was her age the headmistress used to
cane them in their bare cunts aiming for their clits. There was none of this
‘must give them a fair trial’ namby-pamby nonsense back then”
“They should make them sleep with
their hands tied behind their necks like they did when I was at school”, opined
another.
By the time of her arrival in Barnmouth’s market square, Lo Ve
Me’s face was a pool of dribbling drool, her sleek black hair matted with
spittle merging into long drips, and her lovely breasts spattered with spit
from the cruel anger of the crowd, come not only to see her punished, but to be
a part of her punishment.
Then a gentle voice behind her said:
“You could do with a wash down, you poor thing”
Lo Ve Me
did not catch the smirk on Sarah’s face. In her lovely loveable innocence she
turned toward the gentle succour of the sweet voice,
longing to see the face of the only girl in this, her home town, who had
offered her any gentleness.
As Lo Ve
Me turned with a look longing for mercy in her eyes, the girl with the honey
voice, thrust her hips forward obscenely, opened her cunt’s lips with practiced
fingers, and pissed on her.
The stream of steaming yellow-gold
slowly soaked Lo Ve Me’s leg-warmers and dribbled
down her en-pointe tortured feet, leaving her
standing in a pool of stinking piss.
Lo Ve Me
cried, and cried all the more as the crowd jeered and cheered-on the girl
pissing on her lovely legs.
…………………
Outside Moscow Lo Ve Me wiggled sky-high steeple legged on her snowshoes,
snug in her sumptuous furs. Her big toes were gripped by clamps that bit and
bound them upright to her snowshoes. Sadly unseen, beneath her ankle-length
white bearskin coat, her superb legs displayed their calves’ curvaceous
muscularity, rising to the backs of her dimpled knees, and beyond, to the
dynamite strength of her explosive thighs.
Naked under the nurturing warmth, Lo
Ve Me’s zephyrs streamed sweet scented vapours from her nostrils, as if
from a fiery mare whose hard fought race was long run won. Where free from
under her bearskin hat, her black mane twisted and settled and fluttered again
flatteringly in the teasing bitter wind.
Her dark brown eyes were lowered
seductively submissively. Her lips were pink and moist, their moisture redolent
of other, musk-scented moist pinkness: that between her heavenly legs.
Within her furs her breasts played
full freedom’s frolic and her teats’ pinnacle’s conducted the overture to love,
as they rubbed on her furs so, so as to have discovered electricity’s static
ecstatic threat to arc lightening between her engorged excited nipples.
Within her muff her thumbs were girlackled. Watching her buttocks weave apparently wanton
waves, her guards followed her willow frame. Beneath her furs Lo Ve Me wore absolutely nought but a tampon through the eye of god’s wedding ring:
the mark of her untouched innocent’s inner purity: her hymen. This she chewed
with her vagina as she soaked it with her sacrifice: the saintly flow of her
moon-cycle mystery taking the capillary course to turn it’s white to sacred
crimson.
…………………
Outside Istanbul Lo Ve Me was naked as newborn. The sun beat down on her body,
burning the savage candy stripes with which the whips had acutely cut her
cuteness. Her whippers had taken pride in their work.
Matching stripe alongside stripe for spacing, they had flogged her into a mock
human zebra.
Their savagery had not neglected the
breasts. Her teats were split twice open, and her blood traced its tears down
under their gently bobbing globes, or dripped to ground from the eyes of her
nipples: nipples crying the pain she moaned even as she bled too into her
tampon; or, rather, had till just before now.
Untying her after her surgically
precise one-hour whipping, tied to the post wearing only her tampon, her
torturers held the nose of the sobbing angel till she must open her mouth.
Then, laughing in mockery of her
winces and tears, one guard had seized the tails of her menses soaked tampon,
ripped it from her god’s wedding ring, and forced into her mouth, before gagging
her to stop her mouth and her sobs. Thus every time she screamed behind her
gag, her tongue pressed up to squeeze the saturated tampon, and she now
wretched at swallowing her cyclical blood.
Her feet bound with barbed wire to
force her to tiptoe, she shouldered the rough-hewn trunk: the log on which she
would be hauled aloft to crucifixion supported only by her already nailed
wrists, to hang in agony for her punishment.
Down the insides of her legs, her
menstrual flow wept from her unstanched cunt: become
an open wound.
…………………
In Moscow’s bitter cold and
Istanbul’s horrendous heat and in Barnmouth’s sweet
summer sun, when the sheep shears denuded Lo Ve Me’s
head, the same crowd jeered and cheered.
“Don’t look so high and mighty now
do you, you fucking whore!?” was the cry as all the midnight tresses that had
long so prettily trespassed down Lo Ve Me’s back to
her lovely bottom, fell free from one side of her denuded head, flopped to her
shoulder, and then rained to the ground.
“Give the fucking slut a Mohegan cut
wiv her hair standin’ up
down der middle of ‘er ‘ead!” cried one tormentor.
“No. That’d make her look like a
fucking toilet-cleaning brush!” came the echo.
“Yea? So?” a sarcastically cruel ill-wisher mocked, and screams
of feminine laughter accompanied the matching fall of the hair from the left
side of Lo Ve Me’s head.
A final run of the sheep-shears down
the middle from her forehead backwards, and she was completely bald.
The crowd jeered and cheered and
pointed and screamed with laughter as Lo Ve Me cried
and sobbed hopelessly helplessly: tears streaming from the complete rein over
her of humiliation and pain.
…………………
Lo Ve Me
now watched fascinated as a light was lit on a phallic upright: the light, a
gas fuelled flame.
But then she felt a tug, and must
obey, and was walked into a hutment. There, for the first time in their
enforced relationship, Lo Ve Me saw some gentleness
in her guard’s eyes.
As Sarah removed Lo Ve Me’s gag, she explained: “I hate the bit where they
shave them bald like that. It do seem so unnecessary cruel to my way of thinkin’.”
“Now
I got to strip yer naked darlin’.
Have to start wiv the gag, cos
I’m afraid they wanna hear yer
scream”.
“And I also have to tell yer what their gonna
do to yer. It’s laid down see. I have to tell yer cos the law ses so. It’s an official part of yer punishment to really fear yer
up before it happens, so as yer suffer for sure,
before, during, and after”.
“Well, first off, we have to smear yer pubes with that paraffin jell in the bottle over there.
And yer nipples too of course.
Yer see, they’re gonna
suspend yer, legs apart, over that phallus with the
flame goin’. And the flame will set fire to yer pubes, the paraffin will make sure of that. Then
they’ll set yer nipples alight. And, when yer pubes and nipples is all
burning slowly, they’ll whip yer to make yer go down on the phallus: cos yer is gonna be fucked by the
flame see.”
“And when they see the blood trickle
out from yer losing yer
virginity like, they’ll whip yer till yer get the phallus right up yer
cunt. And it will be nearly red hot by then. And the flame and the red hotness
will cauterise yer. And
they’ll make yer stay with the phallus up yer while it burns like fuckin’
hell. Cos they’ll whip yer if yer
try to get off it, until yer go back down on it
again.”
“Then, when they’re sure yer vagina’s burned numb, they make yer
hold yer clit in the flame till it’s cured too.”
“After all that, yer
won’t be a wanker no more, cos
yer won’t be able to feel a friggin’
thing, what with yer vagina bein’
cauterised, yer clit shrivelled up, and yer nips burnt
to hell too. Yer’ll spend the rest of yer life as a eunuch-girl.”
“They make the best wives do eunuch
girls, or so I’m told….” Sarah’s voice drifted into sadness at this point, as
if, not so long in her past, she had longed to marry such a girl and suffered a
rebuff, and as if the horrendous cruelty she had been terrifying Lo Ve Me with just before, had been in fact about the
arrangements for a family picnic.
Nonetheless, even while she tortured
the schoolgirl by reciting her fate, she had divested Lo Ve
Me of her shoes, and stripped her of her leg-warmers tee-shirt and skirt, using
her knife where necessary, as Lo Ve Me was still
thumb-cuffed.
“We’ve got a little while before we
chain yer up for yer
punishment. I don’t suppose a young girl like you…. what with it bein’ so bad for yer health and
all that: but, would yer like a ciggy:
it’ll help: it always helps a bit….” Sarah gently enquired.
Deeply in need of even this small
sign of human gentleness, but not daring to speak because of the terrible tears
her gag had gouged in her tongue, Lo Ve Me nodded.
So Sarah took two cigarettes from
her half-consumed pack, and put both in her lips, so as to draw on them and get
them lit for a certainty.
Retaining the one, she then gently
put the other between Lo Ve Me’s lips.
In an instant reflex from the smoke,
Lo Ve Me, unused to cigarettes, never having smoked
before in her young life, coughed violently.
“Hey, don’t do that sweetheart, that
their ciggy is no less than a Halboro,
the very best on the market”, Sarah tried to joke, in order to lighten Lo Ve Me’s terrible burden.
Before she had taken the cigarette
in her lovely lips, Lo Ve Me’s whole body had begun
to tremble with fear. Now, as the blue-grey smoke entered her, and rose in
erotic wisps from her lips: smoke she enhanced the benefit from by breathing it
in deeply through her flared nostrils: the tobacco calmed her, even to the
degree that she dried her tears.
A silence ensued. Both girls were
soothed. Tobacco was working its anaesthetising
charms.
The silence was long and yet so
short.
Sarah took her cigarette out of her
mouth, turned it to look at its glowing business-end, assessed that there was
one more draw to drag the last dreg from it, drew that final puff, and then
tossed the nub to the ground to grind it with her boot.
“Time to start now love”, she gently
whispered to Lo Ve Me, as she took the filter tip of
Lo Ve Me’s fully consumed cigarette out of Lo Ve Me’s cunt….
…………………
Lo Ve Me
finished this stage. She had been frisking her love lips and fingering her clit
with eager, increasingly rapid, increasingly sticky fingers, for over an hour
now.
Naked as nature and irreplaceably
more beautiful, she rose from her bed and admired her fully charged fully
aroused body in the full-length mirror of her wardrobe. When her mother and her
mother’s wife were away, she secretly masturbated for endless hours, loving to
arouse herself by imagining herself submitting to horrendous tortures.
Now she lit the readied candle, atop
its tall rigid decorative holder, and watched it flicker to all-too definite
life.
Such was her excitement and fear at
this sight though, that she felt a momentary urge to defecate. But then she had
determined to do this. A pause and she was ready again.
She had earlier readied the leather
strap with its tail pulled long through the hasp, thus leaving a loop through
which she could only just pass her hand and slim wrist.
Turning her back to the mirror, she
looked over her shoulder to be sure she could see her beautiful bottom.
Feeling she might be losing
determination, she now pinched her nipples as hard as she could and stage
whispered: “Yer fuckin’
bitch!”
Putting her left hand to the holding
of her right shoulder, to keep it from interfering and thus ‘showing her
mercy’, she slipped her hand through the loop of the belt and drew it back in
readiness.
Then her lovely voice hoarsely
whispered through gritted teeth in play-act to herself: “We’re gonna fuckin’ whip yer, yer fuckin’
whore, till yer fuckin’
snuff that fuckin’ candle out inside yer fuckin’ cunt….”
…….But Lo Ve
Me did not even manage to give her lovely bottom one stroke of her makeshift
whip, before her bedroom door burst open, and two voluptuous uniformed women,
uniformly forced her naked body to the floor, with both her slim arms
hammer-locked up her beautifully arched back.
As Lo Ve
Me was pushed onto and slid along the bedroom floor, her soft breasts were
crassly crushed to her chest.
Then a voice hissed threateningly
into her ear and through her fear: “Girl-Police Morality Patrol. You’re under
arrest darlin’! You don’t have to say nothin’, but anythin’ you do say
may be repeated in court as evidence against you!”
“You’ve been under suspicion for
some time. Your mama’s wife told us about you. With her cooperation, we’ve had
this bedroom well bugged since weeks ago.”
As, hands tied behind her back, she
was dragged by her also bound ankles, Lo Ve Me’s long
sensitive nipples felt furnace fire friction from their relentless rough
rubbing ride over the uncaring bedroom carpet’s cruel caress.
“You’ve got yourself caught sticky
handed sweetheart!”
“You’ve been breaking the law!”
“You’ve been masturbating….”
Disconnections
- a series
of stories -
by Eve Adorer
Lulinka Pravda
Synopsis: Greater love hath no girl…
Lulinka Pravda
A storm made a curtain along the
paving. A waterfall-wall, carried on a rising wind, overtook the scene. Spits;
spots; drips; drops; a sprinkle; a shower; each in successive succession,
succeeded in succeeding till the storm’s success was certain. Forecast
forewarned she raised her umbrella before the sudden summer shower could
saturate her.
As the miracle that is girl wiggled
hurriedly on her way, Moscow sparkled refreshed. In the rain’s reign, the
streetlamp-made shadows of the night, hitherto grey dry silhouettes,
became faithful mirrors on the wet sidewalk.
Her steps were confident. Their
light preciseness told of training. There was audible pride in her stride. The
erotic onomatopoeic poetry in the ‘click-clack’ of her six-inch heeled
stilettos spoke of steps steeped in dance.
The heels dragged not. She was no
sloppy slattern. One foot was placed precisely, exactly, exactingly, and
entirely enticingly before the other. Her rear thus the more rolled its rampant
role in magnetic attraction’s distraction.
Her raincoat showed she had two top
too to complete her form. For fore within it, were two, too firm, not to be
two, too restrained to escape and play fast and loose in rhythm with her
dancer’s prancing gait; yet still faithfully flowing within her bra, bobbing in
flowing unison with every sweet step’s gentle jar.
Before her raincoat belled out as
apron over her miniskirt, her pulled tight belly-height knotted belt, showed a
waist making hourglasses make haste to beg her shape. Her legs, surely starting
at her shoulder-blades or higher, went to every length to show their strong
long shapely symmetry.
When she heard the limousine, her
head turned.
She was at a street corner. Before
she stepped to cross the road in her turn, she sought to know if the vehicle
would turn in front of her path.
Her eyes shone with her feline
femininity. Her clothes reflected her comparative wealth. Her dark brown eyes,
her nose, her cute close-cropped curly hair, and above all, her god-made lips,
defined her as a divine negress.
As she stood and waited, legs
soldierly ‘at attention’, did the rain, pooled-mirror on the pavement, reflect
opinion upon what it might reflect, up in on the insides of her skirt? Did it
too wonder if this wonderful wandering wayfarer was wearing panties?
The long sleek limousine slowed. She
sensed its driver was paying homage to her beauty by letting her cross, before
it turned, and sped on its duty.
The auto would have shone even were
it not wet with rain. It reflected pride of place. She knew it was one of
seeming hundreds teeming the Moscow streets. Every
minion’s minion sought a ride inside one of these: a Zil from the government
fleet.
In the evening darkness she could
see the chauffeuse’s cap but not her face. As she stepped across the road to
make heaven the pavement across from her present place, she let her sensational
smile award the favour shown her grace.
Moments later, across the way, she
smiled again at the change of mind.
The car did not turn but went past
her.
Then, as a sudden wind took her
umbrella and inverted it, she lowered her head to walk into the driving rain,
until she could straighten her brolly once again. Lost in her own thoughts, she
struggled to regain her defence against the weather.
It was only then she noticed that
the car had stopped, with its opened rear door over the sidewalk. Her way
forward was blocked.
As she neared, her smile was
replaced by her natural proud-lipped kiss-pout. Her mind raced over her many
fears. As she drew inevitably closer, a voice from within the rear seat
commanded with its remark.
“We mustn’t have you both wet and
late for rehearsals Natashina. I’m headed past the Dollsure. Get in”.
A sudden urge to run had to be
overcome. If the owner of the voice knew her destination and her stage name:
her real name, her home address, or anywhere she might try to hide was as
likely known. There was no point in resisting.
As she lowered her head to enter the
car, her heart was pounding in her throat. Yet tender sweetness showed in her
face when she winced for the pain that must have seared the scarred visage that
loomed before her.
After silently sliding her
one-hundred pounds on the soft brown leather of the rear bench seat, she used
two pretty hands in unison to close the heavy door.
Of course she had instantly
recognised Comrade Tatiana Andropovna a hero of the Great Patriotic War, and
now the head of the uniformed branch of the NGPSU - the National Girl-Police of
the Soviet Union - indeed, as instantly as she next recognised the meaning, of
the over-eager damp cold hand, on the smooth red-hot bare flesh above her left
stocking’s suspenders-stretched top.
……………………
“Are you having your monthly bleed?”
the voice asked, with apparent indifference as to the answer.
“No comrade”
“Then lower your panties to your
ankles, and sit squarely upright on the chair”.
Despite the electrically-charged
eroticism from the butterfly-flutter of a pleated skirt being hauled up to
expose suspenders and cheap nylon panties – and the latter’s
crisp-static-crackle slide down nylon stockings to very shapely ankles - the
uniformed interrogator did not turn to face her.
“Name?” came
the next demand.
“Lulinka Pravda, comrade”, came the
tremulous response, with the hint of lisp from the sweet negress’
lips.
“Date of birth?”
“14th of February 1956
comrade”
“So you are fifteen Lulinka?”
“Early next year comrade…”, the angel tried to joke, to relieve her fear. Though
telling no more than the truth, she was terrified of seeming to correct her
interviewer.
Now she had undressed as commanded,
Lulinka sat herself on the seat of the straight-backed wooden chair. The wooden
seat of the chair had a central upright. Middle rear, it had an inverse-saddle,
made of heavily stained copper, for a very intimate part of Lulinka’s body to
straddle.
And, as she sat her virginity on the
sudden coldness of the seat and saddle, Lulinka let out an unselfconscious
indisputably sexy gasping “Oooooh!!”: a gasp all the more seductive for its
total innocence: the innocence of the supremely supersensitive tactility of the
lips that caused it, and the innocence of the sensual lips that spoke its
erogenous elongated single siren syllable.
The interrogator turned, and
Lulinka’s lovely darkest-deep-deepest-dark-brown eyes showed pain for the scar
on the otherwise handsome face that now faced her.
Comrade Tatiana Andropovna, the head
of the NGPSU, could hardly hide her astonishment. The girl who had been led in
and made to stand behind her, the girl who now sat in the interrogation chair,
was exceptionally pretty. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was clearly fighting
to keep them open, but her sheer beauty radiated from her.
Comrade Andropovna recovered her
composure, and her face turned to storm. She seemed to think there was
something amiss here. The girl was, or rather, just now had been, fully
dressed…
“Has she spent the full regulation
forty-eight hours in one of the refrigerators?”
“Fifty-two hours Colonel-General”,
the escort sergeant answered confidently.
“Yes: and with total sleep
deprivation?”
“Most certainly Colonel-General”,
the same junior sergeant answered, with a tone, not of insolence, but with a
hint that she was questioning why she was being questioned.
“Then if proper procedures have been
fully met Sergeant Ninsky, why was she fully dressed just now? Was she not
stripped naked for the refrigerator?
“Colonel-General….”,
the poor sergeant had lost her former confidence, she was struggling to answer.
“Yes Ninsky: ‘Colonel-General’ what
exactly?”
“Colonel-General…….. Colonel-General, ….. the girl is very
young… we….I …. I ….. I allowed her to keep her stockings and suspenders on…”
“And? Ninsky…. from even my short experience of you, I have
learned that there is always an ‘and’ where you are concerned Sergeant Ninsky? Comrade Andropovna sarcasmed.
“It was only stockings and
suspenders Colonel-General: I am sorry Colonel-General: it will not happen
again Colonel-General”.
The cowed sergeant, standing rigidly
to attention, eyes-front, had gone so pale with fear that she appeared to be on
the verge of vomiting.
It was an Oscar winning performance.
There was no need for a rehearsal. Sergeant Ninsky had won promotion from this
very well performed interplay. It set the scene nicely. The intention was, the
intention thus achieved by the interplay. The victims, tired beyond measure by
forty-eight and more hours without sleep, would be duly impressed by the
severity of Colonel-General Andropovna, even with her fellow NGPSU, and dread,
all the more Andropovna coming around to questioning them.
“Dismiss Ninsky: just get out of my
sight!” Comrade Andropovna concluded, with a duly instructive wave of her right
hand: a wave conveying despair and contempt in proportionate mix.
Comrade Andropovna now turned to the
girl in the chair, who flinched away in reflexed fear.
Pushing her monocle into the eye on
the scarred side of her face, Comrade Andropovna tried to hide that this lovely
creature aroused her: aroused in her a conflicting mix of wanting to mother,
and wanting as such: the desire to protect and yet to ravish: to gain trust and
yet betray: to comfort and to take.
Lulinka, no more than a girl though
she be, knew her stunning attractiveness had scored
yet another heart. She carried the burden of her shear loveliness responsibly.
She knew she was exceptionally attractive, and never abused the power it gave
her over her fellow-females. She knew she owed god for her beauty,
and the world the right to stare at her and share her heavenliness. That fact
completed the triumvirate of her charm. She was beautiful of face, beautiful of
figure: and, of soul, solely beautiful.
Comrade Andropovna looked at the
tattered white knickers around the angel’s ankles and imagined their central
essence: their essential aroma. She knew she could sell them to some capitalist
tart from the west for a small fortune in US dollars, instead of useless
roubles. Panties from girls interrogated at the Loveianka also went for a
dollar fortune on the internal black market: a fortune in contrast with NGPSU
pay that is to say.
As head of the NGPSU, Comrade Andropovna, had to be aware of and keep tabs on these
things. Discipline was a major consideration. Better pay was unlikely ever to
materialise; therefore the Soviet Union needed even to spy on its spies.
Comrade Andropovna now looked over
the panel in front of her. A light glowed steadily green. Through the wires
that led to the seat of the chair she graced, the little angel’s slit was
confirming her honesty and sincerity.
Comrade Andropovna looked again at
the schoolgirl. As she did so, she recalled the apt joke that was going around
the NGPSU canteen; or at least the outline of the skit.
It was about some American woman
tourist, who asked why all the dancers at the Dollsure Ballet were so
incredibly lovely: to which the answer was a play on words the American woman
could not understand.
It went along the lines of the name
of the establishment really being the ‘doll-ensure’. Told in English with the
words for ‘Dollsure’ and ‘Doll-Ensure’ not translated from the original
Russian, the joke was in the tourist pretending she understood when she so
clearly didn’t.
“You are a very pretty young lady,
Lulinka; as beautiful as your momma”
“Thank you comrade”, Lulinka shyly
blushed with lowered eyes.
The red light on the panel briefly
flashed: so briefly that Comrade Andropovna was not sure if indeed it had, or
if she had imagined it.
As interrogator, you always started
with an act of kindness. You frightened the victim, then
you gave them kindness. That way they would never know when you would ‘bite’
and when you would only ‘bark’.
“Your momma has been in touch. She
is safe and well in London with the advance party from the Dollsure. Your
friends took the call and told her you were fine and had gone to visit other
friends in Petrograd, as you apparently said you would…”
“Thank you Comrade Andropovna”,
Lulinka whispered sweetly, a start of tears in her eyes telling of her love for
her beautiful mother.
“Your friends did exactly as we told
them to do. Your friends know what is good for them. I only hope you do too
Lulinka”.
“Undo your blouse and bare your
breasts”, Comrade Andropovna now commanded unemotionally.
Lulinka had lived not yet fifteen
years since her birth in the Soviet Union, but she knew that you never
questioned the NGPSU. Although her sweet shyness bought her heavenly eyes to
the verge of fresh tears, she undid her buttons, and asided her white blouse to
bare her exquisite firm-soft-soft-firm brown breasts: breasts crowned by
turned-up dark-brown-pink nipples with very evident tightly closed horizontal
milk-holes.
Comrade Andropovna ogled Lulinka’s
nipples. Was there anything about this little honey that was not entirely
enticingly excitingly erotic?
As she watched, Lulinka’s bared
nipples momentarily individually twitched, as if they were breathing in her
admiration and beckoning her to caress them.
Comrade Andropovna rose from her
seat behind her desk and control panel, and came over to where Lulinka sat.
As she lowered a cable from the
ceiling above the seated girl, unravelled the tangle some previous user had
left it in, and finally had ready the attachments for Lulinka’s outstandingly
astounding, outstanding upstanding nipples: “This is just routine, Lulinka”,
Comrade Andropovna muttered.
With forefinger to brace it, Comrade
Andropovna pressed open the clip of the first attachment with her left thumb.
Meanwhile, bending over the charming negress, with her
right thumb and forefinger, she gently worked the little angel’s left nipple,
rolling it like an Havana cigar to test its responsiveness.
The nipple showed its pleasure,
Lulinka winced and gasped sexily; but then everything Lulinka did, or said,
was, by definition, sexy. Comrade Andropovna gently loosened her grip on the
clip, and thus attached the first sensor to Lulinka’s teat. The pleasure of
attaching the other sensor to Lulinka’s right breast,
was one Comrade Andropovna fought girlfully to avoid showing.
As she stood up from her pleasurable
duty: “I hope that is not too uncomfortable”, Comrade Andropovna concerned,
whilst regretting her phrasing had been the sarcastic throwaway she clichéd to
the girls who had to be strapped to the chair Lulinka adorned: the naughty
girls: the opposites of angelic creatures like Lulinka.
“We have to wire you to a
lie-detector, Lulinka, it is routine. It makes for greater efficiency. The
people’s electronics factories have produced this ultra-sensitive device for
the female of the species.”
“The truth will never harm you. Like
the truth, our little machine will never harm you either. It records your
reactions to questions, and confirms to me that you are telling the truth. That
is all”, Comrade Andropovna reassured the angel, wishing only to ease the
crease from Lulinka’s brow, the crease caused by Lulinka’s anxiety: the crease
Comrade Andropovna wished she could kiss away.
Three green lights now glowed on the
panel: one each for Lulinka’s two nipples, and one for her slit. The slit light
was in the centre.
Next, test questions were needed.
For any ‘sensitivity adjustments’ required to the lie-detector, ‘calibration
questions’, designed to check the machine and the interviewee’s relative
sensitivity, were necessary.
Comrade Andropovna had tailored a
questionnaire for Lulinka. She now sat in front of the panel, behind her desk,
and prepared to tick the questionnaire in accordance with the lights the
questions lit.
Training had taught Comrade
Andropovna that the first question was of the highest importance. So she said
nothing. She sat silent, and said nothing.
She looked at the way Lulinka sat
with her panties, stretched wide, between her ankles, her heels turned out, her
toes thus turned inwards, her lower legs in an inverted vee with her knees
pressed firmly together, and her pretty hands pulling the hem of her skirt
along-over the tops of her stunning thighs, no doubt to hide that the saddle on
the chair was giving her slit a seductive pink smile.
Comrade Andropovna sat silent and
said nothing, because that was the question. Her silence was eloquent. She
watched as well as listened for her answer. This was considered a sound
psychological move: to ask a question by saying precisely nothing.
According to what Comrade Andropovna
had been told in her training long ago, the interviewees divided into two broad
classes. Girls who were not going to cooperate, usually recognised the ploy and
set themselves to outlast the silence, and be silent in revenge, long beyond
its ending. They grew set in their mouths and eyes. The lights on the panel
would be expected to glow a steady amber. Amber meant
they were lying: lying about their innocence.
For Lulinka, the lights glowed a constant steady green, and she sat looking
frightened, but intelligently aware and eager to assist; if equally to be
allowed to sleep after two days of being kept constantly awake.
Comrade Andropovna ticked three
green boxes on her check sheet. ‘Question 1’ concluded,
she would now start in with the spoken questions.
“Are you a virgin Lulinka?”
“Yes comrade”
Three green lights continued: three
greens were ticked in turn.
“Are you still fully a virgin: are
you fully intact?”
Lulinka lowered her head and
glorious eyes in momentary shyness, and then raised her face with pride: “Yes
comrade”.
The three green lights still
continued: three green boxes were ticked.
“You are a very pretty girl Lulinka:
do you have a steady girlfriend?”
Lulinka’s mind flashed to Nenitsky
Kruchevskia, the Siberian born blonde girl she so wanted to date, but whom she
was too shy to ask, and who seemed to barely notice her, even though they
danced in partnership: so her: “No comrade” was a sigh of shy sadness, that
also scored the three green lights’ continuation, and three green boxes ticked.
Pausing for a discrete while Comrade
Andropovna asked next: “Have you ever been kissed Lulinka?” and then secretly
smiled, as Lulinka’s blushing shy all too insistent “No!” was also too quick a
reflex to be true, as her nipples flashed up amber lights, with her slit still
showing a green, till it two flashed a momentary amber: Lulinka’s girly
confusion thus being recorded and reported by the sensitive machine.
Despite the contradictory light show
resulting from that question, Comrade Andropovna, still smiling inwardly, knew
that that ‘no’ meant ‘yes’ and ticked three greens, before annotating a ‘yes’
at the end of that particular line, all the while wondering who the lucky girl
had been.
Comrade Andropovna now knew the
machine needed no adjustment: it was already at ideal ‘sensitivity-readiness’
for Lulinka.
The next question was to have been
‘is there any particular girl you are in love with?’, but Comrade Andropovna
sensed that that would be too upsetting to this evidently sensitive
oestrogen-saturated teenager, and simply marked three greens and added another
‘yes’ at the margin.
“Do you know what is meant by the
term ‘defection’ Lulinka?”
“Oh yes Comrade Andropovna, it is
when someone evil betrays the Party and the Motherland, particularly one who
leaves to live in the countries of the capitalist imperialists”, Lulinka
recited, vaguely recalling the lessons at Ballet School that had bored her: the
academic lessons she was too intelligent for, if truth be told: the ones she
wanted to escape from to get back to training and dancing: she being such a
physical girl.
As she watched and recorded the
three green lights, Comrade Andropovna thought her question should have been
‘do you know what perfection is?’ rather than ‘defection’, and she should have
told Lulinka to look in her mirror if she had answered ‘no’.
“The full Dollsure dance company is
due in London in two weeks time, am I right?” Comrade Andropovna asked next.
“Oh yes comrade. We are so looking
forward to it. We are to dance at the famous Sadler’s Wells, so named after how
they used to keep the England queen’s ponygirls stabled there when Queen
Henrietta the eighth was on the throne with her six wives….”, Lulinka
innocently enthused, garbling her vague historical knowledge, with green lights
a steady glow; even though she began to realise why the question might have
been asked, and thus her sweet voice tailed off….
“Have you..
you and your fellow dancers… when you are in London…
have you plans to defect to the west?”
“No!!… No
NO! NO!! comrade”, Lulinka cried out with genuine
shock, despite that she had known the question was coming: and the lights
three, were still green.
“One of you has Lulinka. One of you
has such a plan, and we have reason to suspect that it is your momma”, Comrade
Andropovna all but whispered to the stunned angel.
“Your momma is not Russian by birth.
She is from Ongeria. Ongeria is in the camp of the capitalist imperialists.
Mother Russia gave your momma a home when she was half your age now Lulinka. Not only a home; but also her ballet training and citizenship.
We suspect your momma has leanings toward the west and its superficial riches.
Of course when she defects, she will take you with her…”
As Lulinka repeated her ‘No’ over
and over, Comrade Andropovna looked at the tears welling and flowing from the
angel’s gorgeous eyes. Was this being too cruel? Was this just revenge for that
night last week in the back of the limousine with this sweet girl’s momma,
Natashina Pravda: Natashina with no panties on, crossing her
beautifully-powerful-powerfully-beautiful legs so that she, Comrade Andropovna,
could not get her finger in her fragrant slit: Natashina turning away so that
she could not kiss those oh so heavenly heaven-made lips: Natashina turning and
bending as she exited the car, her ample breasts falling forward within her bra
under her blouse as she spat in her face: Natashina’s incredible buttocks-waving-wide-to-wide
long-leggy-legged strides as she hurricaned into the Dollsure, wild with
wonderful fury?
“….ask my momma” Lulinka
concluded…..
Comrade Andropovna realised
something had been, and was still being said. Her erotic reverie had distracted
her attention vitally momentarily. She covered for herself by looking over the
lie-detector’s panel, and noting that the three lights were still a steady
green.
Lulinka had passed the test with
flying colours; or at least a consistent green, which amounted to one and the
same thing.
“We need someone to keep an eye on
your momma Lulinka: someone close to her: someone to listen out when she is in
conversation face to face or on the telephone: someone in her company at the
ballet classes she teaches: someone around her home outside of lessons, at her
dacha when she goes for weekends or holidays: someone she would never suspect…”
Comrade Andropovna began, as a lead in to confirmation of the precise intention
behind the interview…
“No comrade! Oh please no!” Lulinka
begged, already suspecting whom the oft referred to ‘someone’ was, that Comrade
Andropovna apparently had in mind.
Although it was an irrelevance now,
the corner of Comrade Andropovna’s good eye, the one sans monocle, told her
three green lights backed up the schoolgirl’s sincerity.
“Lulinka, during your membership of
the Komsomol …. the youth league… the lessons both at
their meetings and those of the political attaché at the Dollsure Ballet School
… surely you have learned that citizenship brings responsibilities as well as
honours?”
Lulinka made no answer. Her lovely
hands with the contrasting white palm and undersides of her long fingers, with
the contrast of her exquisite blackness with the white to counterpoint and
highlight it: her lovely long-fingered hands were being used,
heels of palms, to squeeze away the tears from her eyes: tears she was trying
so hard not to continue to shed.
“We are looking for a girl who could
seduce your momma: someone to go to bed with her: someone to become her
intimate lover: someone to compromise her and provide us with a hold over her. All this for your dear momma’s protection of course. We
would never use it unless absolutely forced….” Comrade Andropovna continued.
At this, Lulinka did not exactly
giggle with relief, but her face radiated a smile through the sadness that had
reigned over her so short a while before. Now, in her thinking at least, she
was assured that it was not, after all, she who was being asked to spy on her
mother, her mind ran over the gallery of all the lovely girls at the Dollsure:
all the pretty chicks her momma taught, and settled on the adorable face of
Nikolinia Dushdawskia.
“You do realise, Lulinka… You do
realise that I can have you whipped to make you give me what I want?”
Lulinka’s heavenly eyes closed. It
was not a wince or a wink. Her eyelids were oppressively heavy. Deprived of any
sleep whatsoever for over two days: two days of deprivation preparation to make
her receptive and vulnerable for her interrogator, her eyes simply burned: two
red-hot coals of total tiredness.
It was just a microsecond’s ease.
Her eyelids’ insides glowed red in her sight: the red of the
bloodshot that patterned her poor tired eyes’ tiny veins, and the red
from the strong white light, the strong white light shone on her face by
Colonel-General Andropovna: the bright white light that spotlighted her black
beauty.
And, for that microsecond, Lulinka’s
red eyelid-insides acted as if a cinema screen. And on that screen there
played, as if a movie, the memory of her preliminary incarceration.
……………….
Her teeth chattered as she shivered.
She looked exquisitely angelic. A girl of Lulinka’s own age
and probably as innocent as she.
When she stood, her golden coiffure
tumbled its teasing torrential torrents to the cold cell floor, joined there by
her never trimmed pubic hair: pubic hair that trailed between her gorgeous legs
caressing the cell floor with its conspicuously coiled copious curls: sweeping
along behind her, more beautifully and more beautiful than a virgin bride’s
wedding train.
She moved like a melody: her pretty
legs traipsed in transport of this delight as if she were levitated. Her tight
rotund bottom swang and sang siren’s songs as her hips swung as she danced
along on the balls of her dainty feet as if she floated on air.
Now, as she squatted shivering, her
pretty hands had hauled her hair and pubic tresses over her monumentally strong
thighs. She was naked and desperate for the warmth her twice-heaven-blessed
abundant girl’s curls might afford her in her deep distress.
Her protuberantly exuberantly firm
tiny breasts, peaked with perfect raspberry-pink conical nipples, provocatively
peeked as they played hide and seek amidst her tumultuous blonde tumbles with
her gentle breathing.
“Oh come on darlin’ please! If we
only wraps our arms around each uvver we can keep usselves warm!!”, Kissmeeskia Ravishmenka cried to Lulinka.
Lulinka had wanted her. The pixie’s face,
so mischievously pretty, even when, perhaps even more when, as now, distorted
with fear: the dainty freckles that danced on her brow: the cute turned up
nose: the piercing cornflower-blue eyes: the come-hither coral lips of her tiny
mouth: the sweet appeal of her slightly longer middle upper front teeth….
Lulinka longed to fall into her slim arms and share the warmth of this
creature’s copious curls.
What harm could there be for two of
god’s most wonderful creations to comfort each other in their deep dire need?
Yet Lulinka had held back. She was shy. She had never yet even been kissed. She
was a complete virgin intact and utterly chaste. But the longing to fall into
the arms of this heavenly vision and make gentle love in order to keep warm,
was one she could barely overcome.
The hum of the ruthlessly relentless
refrigerator re-starting over again, startled the two
angels to near tears of despair. The thermostat on the cell’s ceiling above
their reach must have issued its order. The little remaining warmth in the two
lovely girls must have raised the cell’s chill above the regulation
five-degrees Celsius: the cold that eat into their sweet souls to keep them
awake.
Even had Lulinka stripped off the
white suspenders and stockings from her glorious black body, the grille at the
bottom back of their vertical-steel-bar-fronted cage was too long to stop-up
with anything. More chilled air swept over their nakedness and the two angels
shivered.
Even though she still wore
stockings, Lulinka’s feet were numb. Goodness alone knew how frozen
Kissmeeskia’s tiny feet must be on the unyielding concrete of the cell’s floor.
“It won’t mean nuffink if we ‘ug
each uvver. I won’t touchya where yer don’t oneme to”, Kissmeeskia promised,
her lovely mouth with its little bunny-rabbit’s top front teeth: teeth that
Lulinka longed might bite her lower lip and nibble inside her yet lower lips,
lisped out.
Lulinka rose from her own erotically
powerful-thighed squat, and moved toward the shivering Kissmeeskia. And Kissmeeskia
rose too with her lovely slim arms out-held. But at that very second, a guard
passed down the corridor of cells.
The whip-armed guard in her heavy
black fur coat and hat: furs she wore against the all-pervading chill of the
pre-interrogation cells, revealed a flash of hot thigh above one knee-high
jackboot as she marched by.
It was only now that Lulinka and
Kissmeeskia realised that there were girls in the neighbouring cell to theirs.
“Get of each other you filthy cats!”, the guard shouted as she took the neatly curled
blacksnake from the hook at her hip, and readied it to use.
Her order and threat were apparently
enough. Whatever had been happening next door ceased to her satisfaction, and
she moved on.
For a moment, the threat of being
discovered by a guard was enough for Lulinka and Kissmeeskia to desist and
resist too. But nature and the incessant cold compelled.
Kissmeeskia’s pretty little hands
swept back the golden curls that covered her eyes, and tried to smile
reassurance to the divine Lulinka. Lulinka, despite that, in her tiredness, she
saw Eden’s serpent in the tiny sweet mouth, long teeth and pink tongue of her
fellow teenage temptress, moved closer, and the two angels embraced.
And oh god no, don’t let it happen;
but those lips! And oh god no, don’t let it happen;
but that mouth! And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but the softness of her
curls! And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but the sensationally inspirational
scent of her hair! And oh god no, don’t let it happen;
but the sweet smell of her breath! And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but her
eyes! And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but the
smooth passage of the gentle hand over the soft flesh of her thigh! And oh god
no, don’t let it happen; but the press of breasts on breasts and nipples on
nipples! And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but the sighs! And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but each and both girls saw in
their each and opposite colouration the contrast that is love with love. And
love embraced love with no contrast and no contest with this the highest of
loves the love of girl for girl. And black and white and white and black, in
equal perfection, intermingled lovely limbs and
close-pressed breasts. And their angel’s faces drew near. And their mouths drew
near. And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but those lips!! And their mouths
drew nearer. And oh god no, don’t let it happen; but those lips!! And their
mouths hovered unsure as their eyes closed and their lips brushed. And oh god
no, don’t let it happen; but those lips!! And oh god let it happen! Do let it
happen god, for it must, for this is no lust; this is the purest of all love.
And they kissed and the world ceased to be and only they were. And, as their
lips drank the nectar of their lovely loving beings and their souls migrated
and merged with the pounding of their innocent hearts and their closed eyes
rolled to the heaven from whence both came and had returned, and hours and
seconds and days and weeks and months and years, became meaningless measures,
as timelessness passed from one girl’s mouth to the other, and the universe was
renewed with hope and love, and their kiss lingered long, the bitter cold
forgotten, Lulinka became Kissmeeskia and Kissmeeskia Lulinka: perfection met
with perfection and two delicious too delicious confections comforted each
other in their deserved bliss: the bliss of a gentle sweet living loving lovely
girl and lovely girl love-kiss.
As the two girls parted after their
timeless seconds of bliss, and the just ended endless perfect kiss, they smiled
sweet first-love into each others eyes, and Kissmeeskia signalled her surrender
by standing her lovely legs apart, so that her aroused slit, hidden among the
profuse abundance of her six-foot long pubic curls, was accessible to her
would-be first-ever lover.
The unforewarned crack of the
guard’s whip was bitter. Its up-flicked tip hit Kissmeeskia between her parted
legs, and somehow cut a path through her jumbled jungle of pubic curls, to kiss
her in her slit, sundering her love-lips with a thunderous lightening lash,
that made the poor girl scream and leap and wrap and clap her gorgeous thighs
tight closed around each other, and squeeze them in need of kneading them and
rubbing their soft smoothness together to ease the horrendous pain.
Yet after heaven came hell and then
hell’s heaven. In milliseconds Kissmeeskia had broken the sweetest of sweet
embraces and dropped to her haunches and was rubbing her magnificent crossed
thighs together to ease the dreadful pain in her slit. Tears rolled from her
eyes, as she fought, like all good girls should, not to touch herself in a naughty way, and yet. Then her eyes opened wide
with her pain, and yet. Then her mouth screamed her agony, and yet. And yet she
took her tiny breasts in her hands and played a melodic tune with her thumbs
across her nipples: but one sweep of her thumbs across their supreme
sensitivity: then her sweet mouth opened and she sighed, and cried out with
pain and shame, as she came. As she orgasmed, and orgasmed, and orgasmed, she
hung her head and blushed scarlet with the bitter humiliation of being such an
animal; even though she was really only being pure human girl. And Kissmeeskia
looked up at the gentle tender Lulinka with unseeing eyes: eyes wide with and
lost utterly within the deepest pleasure, as she, Kissmeeskia, orgasmed again;
and again; and again; and again; and again….
……………….
All this flashed by so quickly, that
her interrogator had not even noticed the momentary closing of Lulinka’s dark
brown eyes.
Comrade Andropovna was looking at
the control panel. There was a sudden flash of the red light: one red light on
the panel in front of Comrade Andropovna: the red light in the centre. It was a
definite show this time.
It was indicative of something the
Party could use. It was just what was needed right now too, but it had not been
what Comrade Andropovna had expected to find; at least not so early in the
interview, and not with so young a girl.
She was surprised. The girl looked
so innocent. When she was older though…. The decadent west loved that kind of
thing. She was, by reputation, a superb dancer. It would be a shame to order
her out of ballet school to where she could learn the other tricks she needed:
the tricks necessary to get her into such as the US president’s bed.
President Clitton had another term
to come. She was a shoo-in for the second four-year term two years hence, and
this doll would be sixteen going on seventeen by then. It was well known by the
KGB, that former Senator Cleavage D Clitton loved to take virginities. Maybe
that would be a suitable contingency, if the present plan did not work out.
Comrade Andropovna was, of course, quite sure what her present plan was, over
and above enjoying this charming creatures discomfort.
Lulinka smiled shyly: “Would one of
the girls from the ballet class be what you are looking for comrade?” Lulinka
queried out of the blue, hardly believing her own treachery.
“Yes Lulinka. That’s the kind of
thing we have in mind, if there is some link with your momma”, Comrade
Andropovna answered, as she took up her questionnaire once again.
“Your beautiful momma has the
reputation of being something of an ‘ice queen’. Is she… as far as you know….
is she completely celibate?” Comrade Andropovna enquired.
“As far as I know comrade, she is”,
Lulinka responded, growing a little brighter and more relaxed, despite that she
was betraying her own mother.
Despite that she was betraying her
own mother, this question was capable of an answer
that only enhanced her momma’s sexual attraction. Lulinka was proud of her
momma’s world-renowned beauty. She was only too pleased to be able to add to
her momma’s mystique.
Comrade Andropovna looked at the
three lights – the three steady green lights.
“But she is a woman of fire and
passion. No woman can train 365/365 and dance like Natashina Pravda does,
unless her mind, her heart, her soul, and, above all, her cunt are on fire.
Surely there are girls she admires, girls she talks to, girls she makes love to
if only platonically. Does your momma not like girls?”
“Momma loves girls!” Lulinka
answered defensively, and the two outside lights flashed red for a microsecond,
before all three lights glowed green.
“Okay: name one then? Comrade
Andropovna challenged with the beguiling innocence of a fisherwoman casting a
skilful fly on the still waters.
“Well there’s Nikolinia Dushdawskia
for a start…”, Lulinka blurted out, before she
realised she had betrayed a lovely loving friend from her own ballet class.
In her high stress and supreme
tiredness, Lulinka had answered as if she had been in conversational gossip
with a loving friend. For that fatal moment she had forgotten the bite of the
clips on her nipples, and the discomfort of the copper ridge her slit
straddled: she had forgotten that she was being interrogated in the Loveianka
prison, the Moscow headquarters, indeed the national headquarters of the NGPSU.
Comrade Andropovna noted three amber
lights. The answer had seemed wholly sincere, but the detector said that
Lulinka was lying. A quick supplementary check was needed.
“Do you fancy Nikolinia Dushdawskia
yourself Lulinka: do you also find her attractive?”
Poor Lulinka, only too aware of the
roll-call of betrayals she had begun to indulge despite herself, paused,
lowered her pretty head and sighed. A picture of the adorable Siberian beauty
Nenitsky Kruchevskia flashed across her minds eye. In that instant she
determined she would not betray the girl she loved, even if Nenitsky had never
once returned her affection.
“No” Lulinka answered.
“No what Lulinka?” Comrade Andropovna quickly parried.
“No I do not find Nikolinia
Dushdawskia attractive: not at all as a matter of fact”, she answered with a
sweet pout of her gorgeous negress’ lips, and her innocent face cocked to one
side as she looked at Andropovna with tired but determined eyes.
The two outside lights on the panel
glowed amber. The central light flashed red: then it too went amber. Comrade
Andropovna noted that Lulinka did indeed find Nikolinia attractive: very
attractive to judge by the middle light, and realised Lulinka’s ‘no’ had meant
‘yes’ in the case of all the amber lights that had immediately preceded and
caused the supplementary question.
“Do you wish to save your momma from
herself? Will you help her save herself? Will you give us what we need to stop
her defecting to the west?”
“Oh yes!” Lulinka answered, her love
for her momma overcoming all doubts she might have about whether there was
really a plot by anyone in the Dollsure troupe to defect.
The interrogation, brief though it
had been, had thoroughly tired young Lulinka. It was not that there was a
physical strain. She was supremely fit in any case, and could have withstood
most stresses from that direction. But her mind whirred. She was in deep mental
distress. Being arrested by a Girl-Patrol, and taken in for questioning: the
looks on her friends’ faces as she was obliged to leave them and come to the
Loveianka for: “routine questioning ma’am: just routine questioning ma’am”, had
alarmed her.
She knew her friends would never
ever ask her about what had gone on: what she had been asked: why the NGPSU had
asked what they had asked. She knew they would never tell anyone that she had
been arrested. Indeed, such was the fear of the NGPSU, that the fact that she
had gone missing from among them right there and then that night, would be a
fact unspoken: a ‘non-fact’.
Her friends would have carried on
their conversation as if she had never been among them: as if it had never been
intended she be with them that evening.
What had happened and what might happen to Lulinka would never be raised. No-one dare
raise it. No-one among her friends knew which if any, how many, or if indeed
all of them were spying for the NGPSU, and would thus report their loose talk.
No-one among her friends knew which,
if any of them, might have betrayed Lulinka, or why. No-one among them would
ask. No-one among them wished to be the next girl taken away by the NGPSU for
‘routine questioning’.
Lulinka’s mind fought against the
notion that her momma planned to defect. Yet she knew that, if that was the
plan, she would, of course, not have been told.
Obviously, any girl who knew the
plan, even Lulinka, Natashina’s daughter, might betray what she knew under
interrogation by the NGPSU. The worth of the precaution of Natashina not
telling even her own daughter that she planned to ‘go over’ as it was termed,
and take Lulinka with her, if indeed Natashina had any such plan, showed right
here and now.
Right here and now Lulinka was being questioned by the NGPSU and could not betray her
momma’s plan, because she knew of no such plan.
“Do you wish to save your momma from
herself? Will you help her save herself? Will you give us what we need to stop
her defecting to the west? Will you give us the devastating source of blackmail
that would ruin her reputation if the truth of it ever came out? Will you give
us that degree of hold over your momma so we may bank it, whilst letting her
know we have it, and thus save your momma from the clutches of the evil
capitalists?”
“Oh yes!” Lulinka answered, her love
for her momma overcoming all doubts she might have about whether there was any
plot to defect.
Lulinka was so tired and stressed,
that she thought she had been asked this question before, or that she was
experiencing déjà vu.
“To achieve the end that we both so
strongly desire: to save the honour of the Motherland: to save your beautiful
momma, we need some hold over her Lulinka: some scandal, preferably substantial
and provable: something which, if it came out in public, would destroy her
reputation; but something we would never use unless forced of course. Will you
give us what the situation so clearly demands of you Lulinka?”
Lulinka smiled wanly. The fear and
tiredness in her youthful eyes did not lift, but she knew, or thought she knew,
that she had what Comrade Andropovna was looking for.
“Nikolinia Dushdawskia is of royal
stock comrade. She is a great-grand-niece of the last Czarina. If she had an
affair with my momma, treachery to the Party would be the immediate conclusion
when word got out…”
Lulinka let her answer tail off. She
was sure it was exactly what Comrade Andropovna was looking for. To elaborate
further might take her interrogator away from the obvious conclusion: the
shared conclusion that this was a ‘eureka moment’, and that the clamps could be
removed and Lulinka allowed to get some feeling back into her slit, and to go
to sleep… at long last to be allowed to sleep….
Comrade Andropovna’s response was
devastating: “NO Lulinka!!” she shouted. “NO that will not be
enough!! Are you so stupid as not to understand that there is and can be
and must be only one solution to this dilemma: the solution that you yourself
must and can alone supply?!!!”
Lulinka burst into floods of tears
and hung her sweet face so low she could have kissed her own beautiful thighs.
She was completely and utterly devastated by the brutality of Comrade
Andropovna’s shouting.
“There is only one way that what is
needed can be delivered Lulinka: you know it as well as I”,
Comrade Andropovna whispered in a gentle tone to sooth the distraught
schoolgirl”.
“Do you want to help the Party and
save the Motherland from the scandal of such a high profile defection to the
capitalist imperialist traitors, as would be that of your beautiful momma?”
Comrade Andropovna gently coaxed.
Comrade Andropovna was skilled. She
knew when she had said enough. She knew when silence could and must be the only
guiding light. She let Lulinka sob and think.
But, trained, skilled, and highly
experienced as Comrade Andropovna was, she was almost shocked by the suddenness
with which the central light on the lie-detector’s array, went straight from
green to a flashing red, to be joined moments later by the companion lights:
those wired to Lulinka’s nipples: the sensors matching that sensing her sweet
scented slit.
As Lulinka sobbed, sitting with her
naked demurely gaped slit smiling pink on the interrogation chair, Comrade
Andropovna’s upper lip, hitherto twisted to a scowl by her cruel scar,
momentarily showed its original beauty as she smiled.
Lulinka saw nothing of this. By the
time she looked up, comrade Andropovna was still studying the panel on her
desk. Three flashing lights on that panel were alternating her monocled eye
from its own light-blue, to bright-red, and Comrade Andropovna was making a
final note.
“Lulinka Pravda, you are as brave as
you are beautiful. You are your momma’s daughter without a doubt.”
“By that I mean not to question your
birth for one second, but to sing your praises: to praise your wonderful
spirit. No higher praise can be found in the whole of Mother Russia than to be
the daughter of Natashina Pravda, Principal Dancer of the Dollsure Ballet.”
“You should feel no shame that you
have agreed to cooperate, Lulinka. Few could have resisted our little methods
of persuasion for as long as you did my dear”.
Lulinka suddenly hung her head so
low in total shame, and blushed so deeply, that Comrade Andropovna walked
around from behind her desk, and lifted the schoolgirl’s adorable face with a
gentle forefinger under her dimpled chin.
“Although your cooperation will, no
doubt, be distressful and distasteful to you Lulinka, I can assure you that you
will suffer no worse punishment in your mind than that you have already
undergone from the questioning you have just been put through”, Comrade
Andropovna reassured.
As Comrade Andropovna turned her
back and walked back behind her desk, both Lulinka and Comrade Andropovna noted
the increasing frequency with which the three red lights were now flashing.
As Comrade Andropovna’s cruel eyes
ran the length of her stockinged legs, Lulinka felt a renewed trickle of fresh
shame-cream dribble from her slit to anoint her chair.
“Do you agree to do what your Party
and you country needs, Lulinka?”
“Yes comrade”, Lulinka whispered,
with fear and desire in equal strength and evidence within her innocent
innocent’s confusion….
Meanwhile, amid Lulinka’s sexy heavy
sighs as she hung her head in shame at knowing what Comrade Andropovna knew,
and what Comrade Andropovna was after, and what she, Lulinka knew now she
wanted to do, the red lights on the panel: the lights specifically monitoring
Lulinka’s sexual arousal, no longer blinked: they glowed, all three glowed,
steadily continuously scarlet….
Although Lulinka did not know it,
the savage twist in Comrade Andropovna’s smile had told the bitter truth.
Behind her smile Comrade Andropovna was trying to hide that she had just
exacted the perfect revenge for Natashina Pravda’s rejection of her advances in
the rear of the government limousine….
There was no plot for Natashina to
defect; nor had there ever been one: at least not as far as Comrade Andropovna
knew…
….After a long while with her head
lowered in shame, the wholly holy innocent Lulinka looked up and her honest,
honestly stunningly beautiful face, looked straight at Comrade Andropovna:
straight into her eyes, and whispered: “Please let me be clear on this comrade.
You want me to seduce my own momma and sleep with her…. To provide the scandal
to save my momma from defection, you want me to get my own momma to go to bed
with me: is that exactly right?”
“Yes Lulinka, that is right: that
is, as you put it, ‘exactly right’: we want you to perform incest with your
momma”, Comrade Andropovna, with her lovely smile cruelly twisted to obscenity
by her eye-to-lips-long wartime-torn facial scar confirmed, as three red
lights’ steadily glowed in the mirror made by her monocle…
<>
Leonina (by Eve Adorer)
Synopsis: Is there a beast in all of us?
Leonina
The doll that stepped from the SUV looked petulant.
In truth she was shy and self-conscious, covering her shyness by bossing her
six-month-younger half-sister, who was giving as good
as she got. Their attractive mother looked on, smiling indulgently.
For a fleeting moment, as another four-by-four, containing two very attractive
blondes: driver and front-seat passenger: pulled into the parking slot beside
the doll’s vehicle, this triumvirate were lost from
view.
Then, as the doll, her kid-sister, and their mother waited to cross the car
park, a reassuring ‘beep’ sounded in unison with amber lights flashing fore and
aft, and five retracting door-locks ‘clunking’ as their Japanese SUV was
instantly secured.
Locked also were the eyes of Sarah and Mary, two ‘Chocola-Consultants’
who had stopped off at this wayside halt for weary travelling salesgirls such
as they. They met up once a month this way. Sarah covered the south of England
for ‘Chocola de Royale’, and
Mary the English midlands.
‘Chocola de Royale’ claimed to bring ‘the shear
indulgence of the finest Belgian chocolate to the select few’, at a
‘reassuringly expensive price’. The ‘Chocola de
Royale’ advertising also averred that their product was to be found ‘at all
good emporia’.
Thus their advertising implied that by buying the Chocola
de Royale product, at its ‘reassuringly expensive price’, one was, somehow,
transported to very select circles, and that those ‘emporia’ that did not stock
their product, were, by that very fact, self-defined as inferior.
Sarah and Mary’s two territories, or ‘patches’ as they themselves called them,
overlapped, marginally, here at Sirensister. And old school-friends, and ex-lovers, as they were, they would
meet here for a monthly coffee, and the occasional sinfully indulgent doughnut,
under ‘the silver Q’ of the local MacQuims.
Was she fourteen or fifteen maybe? Sarah and Mary were transfixed. What pretty
legs she had. They shone as if she had undergone a very recent waxing. Sarah
and Mary thought alike, as great minds are said to do, and knew where else this
little angel, and her kid-sister come to that, would definitely have been carefully
fully waxed. They knew that her tight little virgin’s slit would be returned to
pre-pubescent immaculate-innocent’s nudity.
Were she not required to be shaved and waxed to virginal shining innocence, as
the law for girls under sixteen dictated, in order to label them as the intact
virgins they were required to be and stay, the doll’s pubic hair would
undoubted have been curly. That much was certain, for the little angel’s head
bubbled with a plethora of natural ringlets of dark beguiling brunette burnished
like bronze, that fell in fulsome frothing frolic to her
shapely calves and beyond, even to her slim ankles.
Her curls danced a caress around an adorable heart-shaped face. Her eyes shone
intelligently, baby blue. Her brow and her retrousse
nose were sprinkled with tiny freckles. Her small squared chin had a delicate
central dimple. Her mouth was exquisite. Closed, it was a small round ‘O’, with
her lips pouting almost impertinently pertly, but perfectly posed to posses the
eye and break the heart of their beholder. Such lovely
‘come-hither’ lips could only be those of a close negress ancestor.
She was a walking kiss with a face that said lovely loving mischievousness. She
was a girl who could break a heart with just the flash of her eyes, but who never
ever would, even though she could tease as she pleased.
Maybe she stood five two: certainly no more. In the summer warmth she wore a
tee that told she had very firm titties and no bra to
hold them. A bra was needed to control them. They were virginally bold and yet
so freely frolicsome. And, in the summer warmth, her nipples had blossomed into
full bud. Her short-sleeved tee thus sported teasing pleasing paps, pleading appointment with sexual suckle.
As boldly bountifully beautiful as the lips of her small round mouth, her
nipples thrust out, stiff upright candle thimbles, midst her tee. As her titties rhythmically bobbed becomingly beckoningly with her
wiggling signalling walk, her taunting teats danced,
confirming her breasts were exercising their right to roam: indeed their right
and left to roam.
As the titties of the 34-21-34 little angel bobbed
with her wiggling walk, her nips begged only their milk as ink with which to
write love letters like nibs.
And, as they rose and fell and swung to yell ‘smack me I am very naughty’, her
swinging-rolling buttocks also confirmed she was a girl as well, with every
sweet step her pretty little feet befell, dispensing beauty as her steps
momentarily momentously converted this wicked world to heaven from hell.
Before the doll stepped from the SUV, she had turned, bent, and picked up her
little white handbag, and then looked mightily haughtily petulant, adorably
sweetly.
It looked so lovely. Her soft young face could not carry it off. She was simply
just too pretty to look successfully successively or collectively cross or
snooty. Indeed, all her trying so to do, only succeeded in adding to her
indisputable charm.
She was also so sweetly innocently sexy, with her being in contour-clinging
white shorts with turn-ups, filled so smackably by
her beautiful little bum: little white shorts with their legs so short she
showed the crescent domes of her beguiling buttocks, and the sweet creases
where the flat backs of her thighs were about to become smooth moonrises.
The doll that stepped from the SUV looked petulant, the shimmering white of her
simmering shorts and the pink of her tee, making her look a girl younger than
her already truthfully youthful years: as much a younger yeared
girl as her body called her indisputably a new woman.
Sarah and Mary ogled the little beauty and turned to each other with the same
phrase in mind, which they whispered to each other in unison: “Gaol-bate”.
A girl like the petulant doll had the freedom to drive other girls wild with
desire, but, under the Girl Laws, to make love to a girl under
sixteen was worth the not inconsiderable matter of 100 daily bullwhip lashes
during a minimum month’s imprisonment.
“Don’t know about you, Sarah me gel, but if I were that little chick’s
girlfriend, I wouldn’t be able to wait out the chimes of midnight a year or two
hence, before getting into her knickers!” Mary sighed.
“She’s a gorgeous little thing. Remember when you wore your first pair of
toe-tip-topping heelless ballet-shoes? She’s only just learned how to walk in
them by the looks of it. But god, just look how shapely her legs are with them
on”, Sarah reminisced as she also admired the sweet chick.
The youthfully fashionably dressed girl, her kid-sister, and their patient
mother entered the MacQuims restaurant.
Although they longed to admire the lovely doll further, Mary and Sarah thought
it more polite to concentrate on their already delicately nibbled doughnuts.
But, in the event, Sarah could not resist, and the doll knew she was being admired,
and, as her means of hiding her immaturity and shyness, looked even more
crossly petulant.
Sarah’s appreciative eye took in that the doll was wearing panties under her
shorts: she could follow their delineation. It was a supreme pleasure to look
over the minor disruption they caused to the smooth outline of the doll’s
divine bottom.
For her part, having turned her attention away, Mary, picked up her still warm
jam-filled-doughnut, but accidentally squeezed it too hard, so that a droplet
of livid raspberry preserve spattered onto her hand.
Then, in recall of what she used to do as a child, she licked the preserve from
the heel of her palm, before using her long tongue to bury into, and her tender
lips to suck the hot raspberry out of the cavity it filled within the still
warm appetisingly fragrant sugar-coated cake.
Suddenly: “Do you know what: I think she’s on her red!” Sarah whispered
conspiratorially, without turning her complete attention back to Mary.
And Mary instantly choked into giggles, causing Sarah to turn this time, and
see Mary breaking off from performing ‘cake cunnilingus’, causing both girls to
collapse in helpless golden laughter at its relevant redolence.
“You dirty little cat!” Sarah teased, as she wiped away a laughter tear before
turning her face once more to the magnetic distraction of the attraction of the
doll, who was standing in her toe-ends of tiptoe
enforcing heelless ballet-shoe-trainers at the MacQuims
counter, looking self-consciously haughtily impatient, exquisitely attractively.
“If you look closely, you can just see she’s wearing a sanitary-pad. She’s on
her bleed. No wonder she looks so tense”, Sarah speculated sympathetically.
Sarah was right. The darling doll was on the first day of a heavy period: the
very first period she had ever experienced. Her nipples were sore, her nerves
as tightly strung as the violin her figure so out-swerved for shapely curves,
and her god’s wedding ring: her intact hymen, marinating in her feminine flow:
the teardrops of her monthly sacrifice to the goddesses.
In Sarah’s sympathetic contemplation, how many bleeds the angel had experienced
was hard to know. This might well not be her first she thought, but she would
probably not have had that many. And her testy petulance could be explained by
the severity of her period, and her being unused to a really heavy bleed, as
much as by her youthful shyness and naivety.
“And what about you Leonina?”,
the pretty, pretty patient mother enquired of her devastating teenage daughter.
“May I have a girl-pee please mummy?” the doll asked with magically musical
sweetness, as she shook her head and used her pretty hands to shimmy and then
gather her shimmering curls into tumultuous tumbling togetherness down her
sweetly arched back.
As she gathered and garnered her conspicuously conspiratorial curlicue coils,
the doll’s hair swung clear from, and flashed the legend on, the twice firmly
filled rear of her shorts.
In a pink to match her tee, as a clit-tease ‘come on’, her sparkling white
shorts had embroidered in them, on one very cheeky side, the aside: ‘Spank me!’
and on its equally cheeky opposite side, the plea: ‘And me too!’
Sarah smiled inwardly at this naughty teenage tease, and wished shops had sold
such saucy outer garments when, ten years since, she had been this doll’s age.
She recognised now where this teenager shopped, no
doubt along with her pretty little friends. ‘Ms Nellie’ was a recent phenomenon
on the English high streets: a boutique for young misses such as this sweet
angel. The ‘tit-top’, the ‘slap-pants’, and the Vike
en-pointe trainers obviously came from there.
“You must have something to eat as well darling. You don’t need to starve
yourself at your age. You have a lovely figure, and a little something to eat
won’t spoil it for you sweetheart”, the mother tried to insist.
“Just a regular girl-pee will be fine mummy. I’m not hungry: honestly”, the
angelic voice of the doll insisted.
Resigned to the angel’s decision, the mother ordered: “Two veggie-burgers with
red-cabbage-coleslaw, both with salt-free fries; two regular ‘MacQuimcokes’; and one regular ‘Girlpeecola’
please.”
“Certainly madam. What flavour
Girlpeecola? We’ve got apple, strawberry, raspberry,
lime, pear, banana, or gooseberry? I’m afraid we’re out of the lemon and orange
just at the moment…” the pretty negress
behind the counter enquired.
“Apple please” the doll’s adorable soprano sweetly sang: “I mean apple if it’s
cider-apple….” she continued, gently.
The negress smiled at,
obviously smitten by, the walking talking teen temple of love, and reassured,
with a wonderful smile: “Cider-apple it is miss!”
Walking her naturally entrancing dancing steps away from her sister and mother,
the doll took herself to a high stool against one of the correspondingly high
round tables mounted rigidly to the floor, and thereupon sat her delicious
bottom.
Putting her ballet-trainers shod feet behind the lower cross-supports of the
stool’s long legs, gave her own bare legs supreme curvity
of calves. Although she was not wearing a skirt or dress, she still kept her
knees demurely together, and her smooth lightly-tanned
thighs in a close-closed protectively virginal parallel proximity.
Pretty Leonina thus sat on the sanitary-pad she wore
to cope with the first full day of her particularly heavy very first bleed: and
thus with her pre-puberty-smoothed completely depilated intact-virgin’s slit,
kissing a residual pool of her sacrificial blood.
As she sat, till she gathered their abundant harvest, and swept them over her
lap, Leonina’s glorious deep-brown halo of curls
dangled down to drape to the thus abundantly caressed and blessed floor.
As she contemplated the gape the doll might have in her oyster now she sat, and
the pretty pinkness within her perfect petals, and the untouched untouchable
innocence of the doll’s clitoral pearl, Sarah felt her own clitoris twitch.
And then, the doll, still sitting alone waiting for her mother and kid-sister
to join her, looked over, knowing she was being, and enjoying being admired and
desired by the older woman, before she, Leonina,
lowered her curl-kissed head in one of the sweetest of sweet, and completely
deep red-heat-replete blushes, that give the ‘English Rose’ its apt name.
“I think I know her”, Sarah, blushing in turn at her realisation
that the immaculate maiden knew she lusted after her beauty, whispered to Mary.
“Oh yea: I’ve seen her around too”, Mary responded, between sips of coffee. She
regularly drops the girls off at St Hymenia’s on the morning school run”.
Reckon she and her wife have got a new auto though. She used to drive a DMW.
That show’s they’ve got a dollar or two between them: the private school and a
top of range DMW Clitisra, and now the Tokyota Roughtrade: guess that’s
a second car: a two car family no less: one car each: ‘hers and hers cars’ as
they say….”.
“No, you silly mare, I mean the honeytrap: the little
gaol-bate”, Sarah giggled, as she playfully slapped
the back of Mary’s hand.
“You don’t know her, you just wish you did, you dirty little alleycat”, Mary reposted playfully.
“No. Don’t you remember? About a year back. It made the national papers. The girl that got locked in the lion’s cage?”
The lovely doll had now been joined by the rest of her family, and was chatting
and smiling animatedly.
There was clearly a lot of love in this close gathering, and, as her eyes
looked the astonishing angel over, Mary felt herself to be an intruder.
It had been year since, so the lovely curls were longer by now, but she did
look very like the little heroine that had made the ‘Sirensister
Sentinel’ a year or so ago: Sarah had a definite point.
How had that first headline and article gone? I was something like:
‘Beauty and the Beast’
‘For thirteen-year-old Sirensister heroine, Leonina Godspride, work
experience was very nearly the last experience of her sweet young life.
Plucky Leonina, pictured here with classmates from St
Hymenia’s School for Highly Gifted Girls, had a narrow escape when she was
accidentally locked overnight in the lion’s cage at Whipsnake
Zoo last weekend.
When ‘The Sentinel’ asked her school for an interview with her, they responded
that sweet Leonina was keeping mum about her
experience. And wouldn’t you if you had spent a night as an unwelcome guest of
the fearsome Nawab, Whipsnake
Zoo’s world famous Asian Lion?
Nawab, one of only eight Asian Lions left in the
world, takes a literal pride in his role as sire to dozens of cute cubs in
innumerable zoos. But he too was saying nothing about his night with the very
pretty human cub, Leonina.
‘The Sentinel’ wants to know the roar truth Nawab!
But the happy ending to our story has a serious side. Leonina
was a very lucky girl. An inquiry is being held into how teachers from the
thousand-dollar-a-month St Hymenia’s, overlooked ensuring essential safety
requirements were adhered to for one of the school’s most able students.
A spokeswoman for the school referred ‘the Sentinel’ to the zoological gardens.
A spokeswoman for Whipsnake Zoological Gardens said
that the matter was in the hands of their solicitors, and that, on legal advice, they could say nothing at that moment.
That is not good enough for ‘The Sentinel’. ‘The Sentinel’ will have its
answers, and will tell its readers. You may be assured of that.
The delightful Leonina, who is studying for an honours degree in pure mathematics under a
distance-learning agreement St Hymenia’s has with St Saint’s College at Camford University, was found safe, sound asleep with the
lion, in the early hours of last Sunday morning.
She explained that nobody had told her that the cage door and the door to the
sleeping quarters, where Nawab was holed-up whilst
she hosed and swept the open-air area of his cage, were electronically
interconnected.
The zoo was closed at the time. She had been left alone to clean the lion’s cage,
and then return to a room above the zoo entrance, where she had been sleeping
whilst away from home on her first out of school job experience.
Although she had performed the cleaning-out duties twice before, it had always
been under the supervision of one of the zoo’s full-time employees. But the
zoo-girls supposed to be on duty with her that evening, had, allegedly, left
her alone this time, as they had wanted to go to a birthday party.
Unknowingly unwisely, thinking to protect against Nawab’s
escape, since she was alone, Leonina had closed the
outer-cage door, thinking it made for greater security, only to find that, not
only was it self-locking, but shutting it opened the door to Nawab’s sleeping quarters, and Nawab
was far from wanting to sleep!
At dawn last Sunday, the partying zoo-girls returned to the dormitory Leonina was sharing with them, only to find that little Leonina was not there, and her bed had not been slept in.
Rushing to the Lion House, they found Leonina
snuggling up on Nawab’s mane, and both of them fast
asleep.
Fearsome Nawab had obviously shown he had a gentler
side, and the lion had lain down with our sweet Sirensister
lamb.
Although Leonina’s horrendous experience had a happy
outcome, her mother and her mother’s wife are understood to be pursuing court
action against both St Hymenia’s and Whipsnake
Zoological Gardens.’
After that local fanfare about the dreadful and terrifying affair it had made
the English national newspapers briefly; or at least the notorious Sunday scandal
sheet, ‘The Grapevine’.
Such serious newspapers as ‘The Watch’ and the ‘The World’ disdained what
appeared to be common gossip being spun into sensation, but ‘The Grapevine’
went to town on the story:-
Its headline, and the copy that followed, was a literally juiced-up and mangled
up version of the story that had appeared in the ‘Sirensister
Sentinel’: a story one of ‘The Grapevine’s’ reporterettes
had spotted on the news wires, and felt free and easy about using and abusing.
‘Pretty Schoolgirl in Roar Deal’
‘Sexy schoolbabe Leonora Godsblessing
(aged 14 and 5’ 2” tall with a 36-24-36 figure) pictured below, had a narrow
escape last month, when she found herself locked alone in a cage with Nahab, a fearsome Brazilian white lion.
Leonora, who had been taking lessons in lion taming, found herself cornered,
and her enforced withdrawal from Nahab’s hungry jaws,
caused her to back into the door of the cage she was practicing in, with only
the traditional kinky whip to keep the hungry lion at bay. The cage door
slammed shut and she was locked in.
Although pretty Leonora screamed, she had the misfortune that she was alone
with only schoolgirls from the local deaf community, doing their work
experience elsewhere in the circus, who therefore could not hear her.
Resourceful Leonora realised she was going to be live
meat unless she did something quickly.
Fortunately, like all girls she had read the story of Beauty and the Beast, and
Leonora knew that she was no beast. So she stripped herself naked for Nahab, to let Nahab see her full
beauty. Lucky Nahab!
Lucky Leonora too, for her smart move proved her saviour.
How would you like to be locked in a cage with lovely Leonora? Tell us how much
by phoning our voteline number on page 7. Calls cost
one-dollar per minute. (Please ensure you have the okay from the phone’s owner
before you call). Nahab need not bother to ring: he’s
had his turn!’
This terrible mangling of a near-tragedy for the sake of salacious sensation
and increased sales, had caused a court case; or would have, had ‘The
Grapevine’ not seen the sense of settling out of court.
Yet the gossip among girls in local and national public bars, had been that Leonina had been found sound asleep, with all her clothing
shredded, but not a mark on her lovely young body.
Mary re-reminded the gist of this now largely forgotten history to Sarah, only
to notice her companion lost in seeming rapture. The world had moved on
multifariously since little Leonina’s near mishap,
and so it seemed had Sarah’s mind, if not quite so far geographically, or so
far into the past as opposed to the very immediate present.
“Penny for your thoughts”, Mary teased, “What’s on your mind, as if I couldn’t
guess?”
“She’s really hot, and she’s hit your g-spot by the looks of it. What are you
thinking about kiddo?”
“Oh nothing…… Well, okay something”, Sarah answered, blushing visibly as she
watched the little dolls soft-moist moist-soft-lipped, heart-stopping,
heart-moving mouth, in emotion-making motion as the doll spoke to her mother.
“Do you suppose she’s even had her first kiss?” she sighed, as she went off
into another brown study.
“You know that your two mummies can’t afford to keep you at home honey”, the
doll’s mother was now overheard saying.
What sudden crisis had brought this on, Sarah could not say; but she listened
more attentively.
Then she turned to the car park, and witnessed a crew of three girls craning
the doll’s family’s SUV onto the back of a breakdown truck’s trailer. Was this
a sign of a financial crisis? Was the four-by-four being reclaimed for
non-payment of a loan? Was it being impounded by bailiffs?
“You know that your mummies can’t afford to keep you at home anymore honey.
College is also way beyond our affording for you now, unless you go through
with what your other mummy and I discussed with you last week and last night.”
“But I don’t want to work in that kind of kennels mummy. I love doggies and
puppies; but hunting kennels are gross. They are all hunting hounds. It’s not
the dogs’ fault. But mummy, you know how I hate hunting. Me and the other girls
at school got this big petition together, and even the teachers signed it and
we took it round the town as well, and got lots and lots of signatures, and
we’re going to send it to our senator too, cos
hunting with dogs has got to be stopped: it’s so cruel mummy, like you wouldn’t
believe”, the doll protested melodically with her innocent sincerity oozing
from her sweet seductively soft mouth and her glowing eyes: and her absolutely
perfect beauty thus enhanced.
“But darling, darling, life is not always that simple. We all have our
principles: of course we do. And, when I was your age sweetheart…Well… But even
hunting dogs need warmth shelter and the comfort you’ll provide them when you
go there…”
“Darling, for a first experience it’s absolutely ideal! The new Lady Barnmouth is a joy to talk to. Your other mummy met her and
told her all about you and she said you sounded perfect and for you to come
down to Barnmouth and work up at her house in the
kennels for your trial week. And, who knows, she may have you there as a
regular …”, the mother insisted.
At this, the lovely doll pouted, sulked supremely seductively, and then burst
into tears.
Sarah’s heart melted at the sight.
The mother’s arms were instantly wrapped comfortingly around the angels’
shoulders. “There, there sweetheart. I know you are
upset at having to leave your other mummy and me. But it’s only for your trial
week. Your other mummy and me will come and see you on Saturday, when my little
girl has her fifteenth birthday: that’s a promise Leonina”,
the mother sincered, as she kissed the doll on her
forehead.
The girls from the other SUV now breezed in: two all too blonde
egg-timer-figured eighteen-year olds.
Heads turned as they daintied tiptoe-topped in on
their ballet-shoes, showing their million-mile-long legs:
bare legs bronzed by the lucky old sun’s kissing their soft complexions,
as they tippy-toed confidently into the fast-food restaurant.
Their micro-mini pinafore dresses were uniformly black. They were A-line-shaped
till a belt, a belt with a bum-bag apiece at the left hip, drew them in to hug
their breathlessly slim waists.
Their dresses, with a red trim at hem, covered their lovely bosoms completely.
They seemed to be a uniform representing some kind of calling when they were on
duty.
Their uniform dresses were sleeveless. Their slim arms were thus completely
revealed. And their slim arms thus revealed, sparkled
when the sun caught the soft gold down on their forearms: sweet soft down that
matched the beach blonde of their shoulder-length hair.
Their micro-mini-dresses were uniform, and so were they. They were twins. Four
lovely legs displayed erotically tensioned calf-muscles as they stood in line,
laughing and giggling lovingly at each other’s conversation as they waited to
be served.
Golden girls, their dark brown eyes contrasted startlingly with their light
blonde naturally sun-bleached hair. Their faces, with slightly overlong noses,
were not beautiful; but nobody, but nobody, could deny that, despite any
attempt by nature to make their faces a marginal mismatch to the rest of their
natural wonder, they were both very pretty, and that their demeanour
and vivacious liveliness and girly giggles made them stunningly attractive. And
that was so even without a glimpse of their simply gorgeous legs.
“Hi Milly!” one of them called to the girl behind the
counter: the smiling negress
who had earlier served Leonina and her family.
“Catilia! Amitha!! Hi! What are you doing here?” the negress answered, hardly pausing
as she wrapped a veggie-burger, and then paid due attention once more to her
present customer, rewarding her with a sunny smile as she took her payment.
Catilia and Amitha’s turn
to be served came next. “Got to get away from exciting old Barnmouth
some time Mill!” Amitha answered satirically, with a
golden giggle bubbling in her voice.
“Hey you got a couple of cider-apple girl-pees with loadsa
ice? Whilst you’re keeping your customers waiting with talking all the time,
two of them here have just been left dying of thirst!” she teased the negress.
As Milly moved away to serve Catilia
and Amitha’s drinks, Catilia
leaned over the counter to look Milly over head to
toe, and an audible gasp came from a woman queuing immediately behind her, as
she realised that Catilia
was very obviously wearing no panties.
“Hey, like the uniform Mill! Almost as sexy as Amitha’s
and me’s!” Catilia called
over after making her over-the-counter assessment. “How long you been a MacQuims’ dolly-girl then Mill?”
“Give me a break willya” Milly
giggled, “I gotta do something in the summer vacation
to pay college fees haven’t I? We can’t all get work with landed ladies. We all
gotta earn now girls don’t get college fees anymore
don’t we? Just cos you two brains got in at Fordbridge University and spend your summer vac sunning yourselves on Barnmouth
beach”, she pretend sneered.
“Four-dollars twenty” she then added, with a lovely smile, as she planted Catilia and Amitha’s drinks on
the counter. “Drinking straws are over there, she nodded, coincidentally
indicating the direction in which little Leonina sat
her pretty bottom on her high-stool.
“Gee! So we gotta get our own straws these days?! Amitha asked mockingly aghast.
“Yea! Service has gone right downhill, if you ask me!
‘Spect that happened as soon as our Mill walked into
this place!!”, Catilia
teased.
“Hey! You two just get outta here!” Milly responded. “I’ll try and catch you later. I got
customers to serve right now, even if you ain’t got nothing better to do: customers wanting to spend real money,
and not just blow their overwhelming generosity on a coupla
cheap iced-girl-pees!”
Lovely loving smiles were exchanged all round, as the twin beauties with their
twin twin lightly bronzed legs, tip-top tiptoed in
sexy wiggle-pirouette to collect their straws, poke the tops of their drinks’
plastic lids with them, and, as, when they would lower themselves to sit, their
micros’ hems would rise to expose their saucy lack of any panties to cover its
source, choose a seat to bless with the sensational scent of their naked
identical-twin’s twin-identical slits.
Catilia and Amitha sat
themselves where they could see the adorable doll, as her mother helped her dry
her tears.
“Sorry mummy” the angel whispered, as her mother found a handkerchief with
which to dry the soft diamond droplets.
“It’s because you’re having your first monthly darling. Believe me I know how
wretched that can make a girl feel”, Leonina’s
attractive mother, as stunning as an older Leonina
would be, comforted.
“I think those two pretty girls, the twins over there, are the ones we need to
meet. Why don’t you pop to the bathroom, freshen yourself up, and get ready for
them sweetheart, whilst I let them know you’re here”, the mother coaxed.
Her lovely legs stretched to highest tiptoe in her ballet-shoe-trainers, the
pretty doll began to walk to the bathroom, only to have to come back, having
forgotten her little handbag with her ‘necessaries’ in it.
……………………
In her cubicle in the ladies’ lavatories, Leonina had
already managed to pull her tee over her head and work her sumptuous abundance
of impossible curls through its neck.
As, like a good daughter should, she neatly tidied her removed tee by turning
it back from being outside-in, and folding it to put it, temporarily, on the
closed lid of the toilet bowl, her little virgin’s titties
joggled on her chest, and her upturned thimble nipples, stood up like tiny pink
candles: candles above the altar on this walking hymn to the goddess who
created such a perfect wonder.
Leonina next had her lovely left leg up with her
pointed-down toes still in her left ballet-shoe-trainer, thus shaping her calf
divinely as, with that raised foot rested on the lavatory bowl, she undid her
shoe’s laces to take it off.
Then a light tap came on the cubicle door, and one of the lovely twins put her
head around its opened edge.
“Are you alright sweetheart? Is there anything you
want a hand with?” she enquired genuinely kindly.
With one ballet trainer off, Leonina turned and stood
momentarily tiptoed by her other trainer and on the big toe of her now bare
left foot, her darling little titties bobbing as she
sought to balance herself.
“Would you keep my clothes safe and tidy for me please?” Leonina
asked.
Atilia turned and smiled at her sister: smiling at
the complete innocence of little Leonina, before she
gently answered: “But of course sweetheart: of course we will”.
Her second trainer off, Leonina handed the pair to
the lovely pair outside the cubicle, and then ran the zip at the left side of
her cheekily filled shorts down, and eased them, and the panties that their
tight cling to her body drew with them, down her lovely little legs.
As good as their, or rather Atilia’s word, the twins
took each item of removed apparel and neatly folded and placed them on the
shelf in front of the ladies room’s mirrors.
As Leonina came out of the cubicle, she wore only her
elasticated belt, and the absorbent pad hooked at
each of its ends to it, front and back of her, and thus held between her pretty
legs up against her virgin vagina.
By then, Atilia had taken a variety of leather items
out of her bum-bag, and Catilia some pairs of rubber
articles, and these were on the shelf, next to Leonina’s
tidily piled clothes and trainers.
Trying to hide that the sight of the leather and rubber items made her want to
cry, the near-naked Leonina, wiggled over to her
handbag, atop her pile of clothes.
“Can you handle the rest on your own?” Atilia now
asked.
“She’s sweet. There won’t be any problems”, Catilia
affirmed.
“Okay, I’ll get the SUV opened, and we’ll be on our way just as soon as we
can”, Atilia confirmed.
Leonina watched Atilia’s
bare long sun-bronzed legs, as that one of the twins, their four-by-four’s key
in her hands, left her, and the equally lovely Catilia,
together.
“Should I put on a fresh one?” Leonina asked, as she
drew a new pad out of her handbag.
“No. That’s not really necessary darling”, Catilia
answered: and Leonina burst into instant tears.
At this the older girl ran to hug the little angel and muttered: “I know: I
know: I know my love. And you have been so very very very brave so far! Dry your tears my sweet little angel. We
must get that lovely hair of yours tied up so you won’t tread on it mustn’t
we?” she coaxed as Leonina sobbed in helpless
despair.
……………………
“….At least that was the gossip at the time” Mary concluded.
“Sorry?” Sarah responded.
“The doll: the gaol-bate. It was in the papers like
you said. And they didn’t say how she survived. How the hell does a girl
survive a night alone with a wild lion without getting torn apart for jeese sake? And you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve
been saying have you Sarah?” Mary protested mildly.
“I’m sorry?” Sarah repeated, whilst touching Mary’s hand to emphasis the genuineness
of her apology.
“I don’t know what it is with you right now Sarah. First it was the gaol-bate, then it was those lovely twins you were ogling,
and then it’s the darling little doll once again. There was a time when you had
the hots for me like that!” Mary reminisced.
“I know. I know. Then you met Alice and I met Ellen. But you and me… we were a
great couple: not a care in the world while it lasted…back in college days”,
Sarah agreed.
But, even so, as one of the twins came out of the lavatories and left the MacQuims, seemingly to get something out of their shared
SUV, her appreciative eye followed Amitha’s
seductively swinging rear.
Sarah then turned to pay the attention to Mary that Mary was so strongly
hinting she deserved. And so, despite her continuing curiosity, she did not
turn when she heard the ‘beep’ of the twins’ four-by-four being unlocked.
At least she didn’t for a while. But when she did turn that way, she noted in
passing, through the MacQuims’ windows, that Amitha had opened the rear hatch of the vehicle, and opened
out a small shiny aluminium folding stepladder,
placing it sideways-on to the rear of the vehicle, on the ground behind it.
It was a while before Catilia came out from where Amitha had emerged before returning to their auto.
“Come on then angel, there’s a love”, Catilia’s horny
voice gently coaxed.
At the sight of little Leonina being led on a leash:
a leash clipped to the dog’s collar around her neck: being led on a dog leash:
crawling on all fours: being led on a leash with her hair tied in curly
Catherine-wheel coils at the side of her head like floppy ears: being led on a
leash by a dog collar with her legs tied double by her having her ankles
strapped tightly to her strong young thighs in close proximity to her crotch:
being led on a collar and lead crawling on the padded points of her knees and
on her pretty little hands in new rubber mittens: being led on a collar and
lead crawling on the points of her knees and on her pretty little hands like a
dog, naked on all fours: nobody turned to look.
It was routine, it seemed, to see a girl trussed up as a dog-bitch being led
away on a leash, having to weave her way through the seated customers of a MacQuims restaurant, avoiding their feet as she rolled her
lovely bum, crawling tied cruelly up as a bitch-dog: naked.
Sweet Leonina looked resigned to her fate. Her lovely
baby blue eyes were obediently on the tanned bare legs of Catilia,
as Catilia, wiggled en-pointe
in front, leading the naked fourteen-year-old angel on her leash out to the
twins’ four-by-four.
As Catilia, wiggled en-pointe
in front, leading the naked fourteen-year-old angel on her leash out to the
twins’ four-by-four, Leonina’s eyes were compelled to
follow the smooth flow of the curves of Catilia’s calves,
and espy up her dress, the neatly trimmed blond-straw surrounded nest that
nestled between her lovely thighs.
As she crawled in her humiliating bondage, lovely little Leonina
was naked; except that she was not entirely bare. For the schoolgirl angel had
an elasticated belt around her shapely hips, and a
flash of something white glowed between her bound heavenly thighs: the white of
something soft and absorbent: a white pad that was held between her legs by
being hooked by hoops in each of its ends, to the elasticated
belt around the hips she so enticingly naturally swung as she crawled so demeaningly.
Leonina’s mother now walked up and touched Catilia’s arm.
Catilia stopped and Leonina
stood obediently still on all fours.
“May I just kiss my daughter before she goes?”
“Yes of course”, Catilia smiled, understandingly
lovingly.
At this Leonina’s mother knelt and kissed her
daughter’s curly coil halo crowned head, before unhooking the front end of Leonina’s sanitary-towel, taking it down between her daughters
exquisite thighs, unhooking its rear end, and folding its fresh blood soiled
front in half.
She then unclasped Leonina’s elastic sanitary-towel
belt, and took it off, leaving the totally intact wholly holy innocent little
angel completely and utterly naked: openly seeping.
“Be brave my love”, her mother whispered, with a pronounced hint of oncoming
tears, before she rose up from her haunches, and held the MacQuims
restaurant door open, so that Catilia could lead Leonina onto the car park outside.
A moment or two later: “They’re kennel maids from Lady Barnmouth’s
place aren’t they?” a voice careless of the tears of Leonina’s
mother and sister queried audibly, and within their hearing.
Leonina’s mother and sister watched out of the
window, as little Leonina walked her tied tight
folded thighs slowly up the aluminium ladder, still
on her leash as her lovely legs struggled with each painful step, before she
was finally able to crawl into the rear of the four-by-four, and her leash
could be removed, and the SUV’s tailgate slammed closed.
It would be a two-hour drive to Barnmouth, before the
lovely schoolgirl, still bitch-tied, would be made to crawl into Lady Barnmouth’s kennels to sate the hunting hounds.
Heavily on heat as she was, she would not stand a chance. Her only way to avoid
being torn apart would be to cooperate. And she would have to cooperate 24/7
throughout the remainder of her holy bleed week….
……………..
“Hello!”
“Hello-oh!” Mary’s teasing voice was repeated.
“This is planet earth calling Sarah. Has anyone seen her around?” Mary joked.
Lovely little Leonina heard the loving teasing in the
voices and looked her adorably appealing baby blue orbs over at the two older
women, before she lowered her devastating gaze, and sipped some more of her Girlpeecola through her lucky drinking-straw.
“Sorry Mary. I was gone then wasn’t I? I was quite dreaming!”
“Oh yea. Let me guess what about, as if I need to. It wouldn’t happen to have
featured some exceptionally pretty gaol-bate, or two
horny eighteen-year-old blonde dark-brown-eyed twins, dressed in identical
black micro-mini-dresses; or maybe even all three of them would it?”
“Don’t answer that!” Mary giggled. “I know you: I used to share a home and bed with you remember? God you were a perve
then, and I don’t need to guess if you still are!” she teased.
“You still haven’t answered my real question though. The doll: the gaol-bate. It was in the papers like you said. And they
didn’t say how she survived. How the hell does a girl survive
a night alone with a wild lion without becoming live raw meat for god’s
sake?”
“They say her clothes had been ripped to shreds by the lions
claws, but there wasn’t a single solitary incy-wincy
scratch on her.”
“It’s all established fact. Nobody ever denied it. Even her two mothers, wife
and wife, though they took it to court when that awful gutter-rag twisted the
story: they never disputed that Leonina over there,
when they found her asleep with Nawab, was as damned
near naked as completely bare.”
“The medical examination confirmed she was completely unhurt. So just how the
hell did she keep Nawab from tearing her to bits?
She’s not a living saint or something is she?”
How Leonina had tamed that wild beast remained a
mystery.
Leonina had told no one and never ever would.
But, as the incredibly pretty Leonina put her
glorious negress-inheritance lips to the straw once
more, and sweetly kissed the straw and slowly drew up some more of her Girlpeecola, looking round about herself with her gorgeous
baby blue eyes, Sarah suddenly nudged her partner.
Sarah’s mind had just worked through its full wiring and a light within it had
sparked.
Mary looked up and over at the intact immaculate pretty teen temptress drawing
up her drink, and, as rapidly, came to the same realisation
as Sarah.
Open mouthed with astonishment, both older women now looked at Leonina, who blushed divinely, and momentarily desisted
from drawing the liquid up into her lovely mouth, though it still glistened on
her lower lip.
Her mouth thus moistened to a seductive mirrored perfection had its stunning
lips, unselfconsciously formed in a pose proposing continuation of the
completely sweet completely immaculate virgin schoolgirl’s succulent kiss of
the rigidly erect drinking-straw.
And both older women turned to each other in absolute astonishment, whispering
aghast: “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god: she surely didn’t did
she?!!”
The Things We Do For Love
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: “To honour and obey…”
The Things We Do For Love
by Eve Adorer
The olive-complexioned brown-eyed Italianate English housewife, her
fresh-washed brunette hair flowing down to her shapely bottom: her soft fragrant
hair gently fluttering on her arched back, as the breeze tousled and teased it,
to taunt the eye and please it - Monimika Honeydew - tiptoed her way to the
local shopping precinct.
The sun was wan: the day cool. The trees’ leaves, newly minted, beginning to
unfurl to greet with green the summer’s coming on scene; today seemed to have
decided to stay abed a further while instead.
Yet, in the goose-pimpling chill of early-morn, Monimika had dressed to please
in a ‘little black number’ she considered had been too long at the back of her
wardrobe.
Monimika’s hips waved magician’s wand as she wandered her wonder toward her
day’s destiny: to begin her chores as a housewife, bored by shopping for the
larder’s restocking. She was in the week before her sacrificial bleed. She was
hormonally hyper-charged to her full emotional brim.
Dressed as if heading for a nightclub, she, listless and list less, overed in
her mind the goods she needed to order today, and was headed first for
greengrocery: when, to chill further still, came a confidently authoritative
mid-distant call:
“Hey you there! The girl in the black minidress! Stop right where you are!”.
Monimika halted in her dainty tracks. The voice was polite, even if the call
was rude and crude.
Two police officers, hitherto across the busy road leaning, backs to a wall
holding them lazily tall, were now waiting for a gap in the traffic to come
over to the side Monimika blessed withal.
The call could have been to any one of the dozens of girls milling around, and
from either of the copettes; but Monimika somehowed it was for her, and knew
why: she knew it was for two abundantly prominent reasons.
It had happened before when she had dared this way, to comport herself in such
an attractive way.
As Monimika nervously waited to see the copette’s faces, her stomach let
flutter its metaphorical butterflies. She was praying that neither of these,
was one of the girls who had pulled her up in this way before.
As the pink-uniformed Girl-Control officers approached, Monimika smiled at them
nervously, trying to find reassurance. But even her sun-shaming searing
sincerity, with passionate lips, pristine white teeth, and love-lit eyes, could
not win the moment.
The leading cop’s instruction, world weary in intonation, was brief and to the
point; or, rather, to the points:
“Lady: if’n you don’t wanna be arrested, get those tits under control!”
Monimika blushed divinely. The Italianate dream knew that, as she traipsed her
temptation’s temptation, her twin hills at roam, had risen and fallen more
significantly and magnificently than the homophone city’s empire.
She was an exceptionally attractive young woman, and loved the head-turning
stares caused by the double-dare of leaving her breasts bare under where she
should have been wearing underwear.
“You won’t get another warning sweetheart. And don’t give us the old: ‘sorry
officer I must have forgotten to put a brassiere on this morning’ routine, cos
we’ve heard it a million times before, darlin’. Go home and get your tits bra’d
in: and now!……. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes officer”, Monimika whispered nervously.
“You better had darlin’ if’n you don’t wanna trip to the station house.”
“What in G’s name is your husband doin’ letting you walk around like a tart?”
the pretty blonde copette continued rhetorically.
Then, as she tried not to be seduced by Monimika’s disarmingly challenging
charms, the officer, who had drawn close enough to Monimika, to assess her
olfactorally, was suddenly aware of the staggeringly erotic seductively
enticing musk she could smell.
“Jeese, you’re a daring one ain’t yer? Do you think us cops don’t got no sense
of scent? You better go home right away sweetheart, and not only get yourself
bra’d up, but get some panties on too.”
Monimika blushed again, deeper rose than before. She had dared herself to go
‘commando’. Under her figure-confirming black mini-dress she was as natural as
the day: making the day long to stay daylong with her eternal loveliness. But
society condemned this form of display.
On a now distant past day, she might have got away with it. But things were
getting tighter.
The government’s call for a return to ‘Victorian values’ had hit the right note
with a society that had also become hooked on narrow and ever narrowing
religions.
Monimika was 24. In her teens, she had known the freedom that she was now
trying to take advantage of. But, even in Monimika Honeydew’s sweet young life,
the world had changed.
Like so many things, it had started in the USA.
The wearing of silver bands on the wedding ring finger, as a sign of chastity
among the born-again celebrity ‘virgins’, had been taken up on the political
right.
Schoolgirls copied the celebrities. The celebrities were also, and accordingly,
influential with government. The establishment saw votes in getting them
alongside, using high-profile visits to the White House. The ball had really
got rolling with the election of President Georgina Shrub.
Legislation had been followed by legislation, all applauded and lauded by the
right wing press and the ‘shock jocks’.
The abolition of abortion had come first. It had won an overwhelming majority,
with the Democrats running scared of the voter’s reaction, if they did not
follow the line dictated by the Republican controlled Congress and the
president.
Nextly had come arranged marriages. Then the enactment, as law, of an
obligation for girls to promise, at the altar when they married, to obey their
husbands.
Then, finally, removal from the shelves, and the full legal prohibition, of all
means of birth control, most especially ‘the pill’, with pre-marital
intercourse an imprisonable offence, and restraint within marriage left as the
only means of birth control still legally allowed.
As a result of this, it was not only the girls’ backs that were being turned to
the increase in forced anal intercourse. Both sodomy and fellatio were illegal
of course. But as long as they assured lifelong marriage, monogamy, and male
satiation, the authorities turned a deaf ear to match a blind eye.
‘What the USA did in the morning, England would do in the afternoon’, and
British society had gone through the negative-revolution, that could see a
natural beauty, such as Monimika, in trouble the way she just now was, for
simply being adorably natural.
In the here and now, Monimika Honeydew was saved by the bell; or, rather, the
urgent radio buzz that called the Girl-Control patrol to the local park, where
two schoolgirls were reported to be kissing secretly behind a woodshed.
As the cops left her, with a look summarising their warning about her state of
dress, or, rather, undress, Monimika’s distant but distinct Italian blood,
showed in her determination to be a one-girl-rebel against society’s
strictures. She would not go home, she would continue, dressed just as she was,
even though she was scared of doing so.
And, ‘oh my goodness, isn’t she pretty?!’ Monimika thought, as she spotted her
new neighbour, or rather the new neighbour’s wife, little Casta De’Merara.
The delicate blonde was just coming out of ‘Heads N Tails’, the best
hairdressers in Bulmington.
She wore a headscarf to keep her fresh sculpted hair from any harm.
‘If she’s protecting it that way, she must have some event in mind’, Monimika
thought: ‘perhaps she’s off to a wedding or a special party’.
Monimika tried to hurry and catch the girl she had no more than exchanged
distant smiles with till now. But she need not try too hard, as Casta had
stopped, and was searching in the bag on the belt around her trim slim waist,
to find her insistently ringing mobile.
Monimika therefore slowed, so as to combine her arrival with the end of the
phone call, insofar as she could time such unpredictability: in order not to
seem to be intruding or rude.
The two girls were close enough to smile in recognition of each other now. And
Monimika’s sixth sense told her that Casta, far from wanting her to move out of
earshot, wished her to stay so that they could meet.
The moss-green of Casta’s headscarf went with the bottle-green of her
mini-dress, and the shimmering blonde of such as remained visible of her soft
hair.
She stood en-pointe tiptop-tiptoe in her heelless square-toed ballet shoes,
with her dainty feet at 25-past and 25-to the timeless eternity of her feminine
beauty.
When she smiled, her lower eyelids closed up prettily, a little, as if to focus
the beam of her natural seductiveness, like a heart-piercing laser arrow, while
all the stars of the universe shone from her light-blue eyes.
She appeared to be 20 or 21, and yet looked such a young girl: just a
schoolgirl, she was so fresh, and her complexion so heavenly. She was no more
than five two tall, if that, and had the figure of a delicate doll: a porcelain
doll standing on the shapeliest tanned bare legs.
Her freckle-danced face was heartbreakingly lovely. She wore no makeup. Above
her sensually centrally-dimple-cleft chin, her pertinently prominent lips shone
promisingly moist: her mouth being ever wet, and ever ready.
Although she surely had no need for one, she was wearing a brassiere, as the
law required these days. And it was far from feminine, being too rigid for her
two: thus, in effect, giving the distinct impression that Casta had conical
breasts: which was a terrible lie, as the two heartrending gentle teardrops her
bosom formed when she was naked, could irrefutably prove.
And she wore panties. Again, that was what the law demanded, even though it
might prefer that they did not show this lovely girl’s potent bifid pod,
bulging quite so evidently.
Casta was so sweet and innocent, that she was completely unselfconscious about
the fact, that the skirt of her dress had such a high hemline, her transparent
panties were completely revealing her just now freshly
pre-pubescently-depilated purse.
Monimika’s eyes were drawn to this essential centrality. The most feminine part
of this extremely feminine girl. And she felt tears of gentle love start in her
eyes as she espied its heavenly beauty, for Casta’s inner lips naturally
protruded beyond her labia majora, and she, in consequence, had the appearance
of having a delicate pink orchid between her lovely legs.
“Hi!”, Casta breathed, breathtakingly, as she popped her phone back into her
waist-belt-bag, and held out her sweet hands for Monimika to take.
“You’re so lovely”, Monimika found herself involuntarily volunteering in sudden
outburst of her previous thoughts.
“Oh…thank you!” Casta breathed again, genuinely flattered; adding:
“Coming from such an attractive girl as you, Monimika, that is a real
compliment”.
“How are you and David settling in at number 69?” Monimika ventured next, after
the two beauties had exchanged sweet blushes.
“Well: fine! But poor David is so busy at work, and when he comes home, there
is so much to do about the house and garden. And he so wants to get on with his
career. And he is such a lovely man, I’m so glad his mummy and daddy agreed he
should have me for his wife. We were betrothed a year ago. Sorry we haven’t
looked Richard and you out: apart from the telephone directory to get to know
your names. But we’ve been so busy. David wants to get Tokyo. His boss is
coming at the weekend with his new wife, David’s competition for Tokyo. He’s in
marketing you know, David I mean. Well so is his boss too of course: silly me!
Anyway, so David’s little wifey here is going to show that she supports him all
the way, and will make any sacrifice to support him, and honour her wedding day
promise to obey him. I’ve started with having my hair done specially for him,
and a full body waxing, so as to be at my best. He’s such a lovely man: and
such a handyman. You should see my kitchen, and our bedroom, and the bathroom
is done out in the darlingest pink! And he’s done magic with the garden. His
daddy taught him all David knows about vegetables and herbs and things, and
helped him dig the barbeque pit. Even if the tomatoes have not been too
successful, and the grapes are staying green, if that is what grapes do; or
it’s too early in the year yet, or something of the sort. I’m on a grapes-only
diet. Have to get them from the supermarket though! You really should try it.
It’s great for the complexion and keeps you all nice and fresh inside, if you
know what I mean. But David says it makes me giggle cos it’s like, fermenting
inside me? or something like that. But I’m still going to stuff myself silly
with grapes ready for the weekend. We got married as soon as I was old enough.
And the house came on the market just at the right time!” Casta enthused, with
sweet smiles, and occasional light touches on Monimika’s bare forearm with
gentle fingers, to punctuate her innocent sincerity.
Monimika listened dazzled by Casta’s lovely face, fascinated by her gorgeous
freckles and her ever smiling ever shining eyes.
“So how long have you and David been married?” Monimika ventured, in order to
have the joy of Casta pouring out her golden soul to her once more.
“Six months: since I was old enough to be allowed to lose my virginity” Casta
replied.
“Old enough?” Monimika queried, surprised.
“Yes: you know: six months since when I was sixteen!”, Casta responded with her
smile asking what the look of surprise on Monimika’s face was from.
“So you’re only sixteen?” Monimika astonished.
“Sixteen and a half!” Casta giggled, with a smile and a look that asked: ‘so
how old did you think I was?’
“How about you and Richard then? Casta’s soprano sweetly sang.
“Oh we’re okay”, Monimika responded with a voice that said that that was not
quite so.
“Just ‘okay’?” Casta whispered, with the gentlest look of concern for this
comparative stranger, she was seeking to get to know.
“We’re alright now. It was stupid really. Young Frankie next door: he’s still
at school, only a boy: about your age Casta: no: younger.”
“Well, he’d been moony about me for months. It’s so lovely and so flattering.
Till one day he told me he loved me, and bought me the most gorgeous bouquet:
it must have cost him a fortune, the poor lamb. And it was so lovely of him, so
I gave him a kiss: just a teensy weensy peck on the forehead.”
“And Richard saw the flowers. And he was furious and kept on about my wedding
vows. But he’s very inclusive on decisions is my Richard. So, between us, we
arranged to have me whipped as punishment?”
“We used ‘Girl Cure’? – they’re in the golden pages. They were very good.
Richard and I would definitely recommend them to anyone. All their operators
are ex Girl-Police you see, so they know what they are doing. You should see my
back and my bum! This is my first time out for a month!”, Monimika informed.
As she finished her sentence about her sentence, Monimika spotted two Girl-Police
officers sauntering around, more in conversation with each other, than on the
lookout for crime.
But, caution to the fore, recalling her earlier encounters, Monimika suddenly
prompted: “Shall we go to ‘Bacchanalia’s’ for your grapes?”.
Casta smiled her assent, and two stunning girls, the gold wedding rings they
wore through the septum of their noses, glinting in the soft sunlight,
progressed in what the passing, wolf-whistling schoolboys, knew as, and called
‘the totty-trot’.
Both girls pirouette-high in their squared-off toed heelless ballet shoes,
walked with steps saturated with sex.
Both girls, being married women, wore one-inch-chained gold thumb-cuffs to bind
their hands, like emotional butterfly wings in front of them on their soft
bellies, or more usually held up clasped, palms and fingers together, at lower
breast, as if in a prayer of supplication: even though it was they who should
be worshipped rather than them being the worshippers.
And they wiggled wickedly, because they also wore tight leather anklets with a
two-inch long, two-inch short, two-inch strong, gold hobble chain between their
ankles, to keep them under control, ensuring that, on foot alone at least, they
could not wander far from the marital home, and must do ‘the totty-trot’ to
progress at all.
With such short steps being dictated by their bound ankles, and with being
sky-high on their big toes within the squared-off toe-ends of their shoes, the
girls were at constant peril of a fall, and must use to the full, the beautiful
muscles of their lovely legs even to stand at all.
Perforce they had had to learn the skill of walking in the tiniest of steps. To
progress at all was immensely difficult: to perform other than an extremely
erotic walk, impossible.
Their tiny tidy rapid steps, made the natural undulations of the hemispheres of
their gorgeous bottoms, even more pronounced, indeed their buttocks to waddle
like ducks’ tails, and their breasts, at least those of generously endowed
lovelies like Monimika, to jig and jog sensationally, even despite a bra, when
one was being worn.
The girls were therefore, as ever with girls of course, wonderful
contradictions. That which the law had imposed in order to reduce their
compelling attraction, had only resulted in its increase.
But, even though such imprisoning control of their beautiful legs was
coincidentally erotic, and even if the result here was contrary to intentions,
the state encouraged any control over matters sexual, and girls were seen as
one-hundred-percent sexual.
In the new Victorian age, the state wanted the seductive attraction of girls
overcome. It had begun with the re-confinement of women within marriage. It had
continued, and was continuing, with the erosion of all women’s rights.
The state wanted men in church praying to a god, not worshipping the earthly
goddesses that girls are in themselves.
As four stunningly strong shapely chain tamed legs wiggled the two wives about
their sweet street ways, the passing schoolboys’ ever louder wolf-whistles of
longing and unquenchable desire, fluted fluttering oral posies floating to
ground before, to scent a petal path worthy of the immeasurably treasureable
tread of the overwhelming beauty of these deeply blushing divine roses.
…………………
Casta and David had never had an argument on this scale before.
Casta was so sweet.
…………………
“Where’s you lovely wife? ‘JC’ - John Chalmerson - enquired.
“Yes, David, where on earth is the delicious Casta?!” The former Angelica Noir
teased, whilst hiddenly enjoying David’s eyes roaming over her handsome thighs,
as she once again changed her position so, as she hoped and intended, he might
see further up the bell of her tiny skirt.
“Casta insisted on playing a personal part in the food preparation. She begs to
be excused. She wants to let us talk ‘work-talk’ as she puts it. She says it’s
far too complicated for her pretty little head.”
“We’ve hired staff: two very attractive redheads: from Herrod’s, to do the
barbeque. But Casta wants to spring a little surprise. And she absolutely insists
that she herself, ensures her meat is properly cooked. She’s terrified she’ll
give us all food poisoning!” David informed, with the latter line intended to
lighten the message.
“She has a point”, JC responded.
“Not about the food poising: about the work front I mean. I’ve got my laptop in
the car.”
“Whilst your wife gets cooking with the old cooking, perhaps you me and
Angelica can go through the accounts and the draft of my board report.”
“Angelica ought to leave the company now she’s a housewife of course; but she’s
still with us in spirit, aren’t you darling?”
Angelica smiled loving consent, and David looked at her lips: the lips of
heaven; the lips of an ebony negress: the lips she had parted with her squeaks
of pleasure when his cock had pushed past her sphincter last Christmas after
the office party. God how she had loved his cock filling and drilling her
bumhole!
………………..
Casta and David had never had an argument on this scale before.
Casta was so sweet.
She’d planned, as soon as she had returned from the hairdressers, to reveal her
new boyishly-feminine close-cropped gold-blonde hair: whisking off the
headscarf inconsequentially as if she did not realise how devastatingly pretty
her new hairstyle made her look: as if she were not pretty already with her
innocent pixie’s face, the dapple of feckless freckles on her forehead and
nose, and her so soft mouth with its constantly naturally moist shining lips.
That was her plan, her plan to make David fall in love with her all over again,
as if he didn’t every single second; but sudden things had led to this row.
Casta was only sixteen. She would always look maturely young. Her high
cheekbones and her deep-set sparkling blue eyes were part of the assurance that
she would look young when she was ninety-five, and beautiful throughout her
life. She had classic beauty: her freckle-kissed face had timeless loveliness.
She had so wanted David to notice and compliment her on her hair.
She had donned the headscarf, not out of need for it, but for its ‘abracadabra
factor’. The opportunity it provided to flourish it from her head, and
seemingly coincidentally reveal her new trim. The anticipated opportunity to
casually remove it when she was sure David was looking: to do so with a look of
cool commonplace on her face: to do so, and see his jaw drop at how pretty she
looked with her glorious cool-gold-blonde corn stubble: to do so and await the
compliment she was sure she would secure.
But David had not turned. Instead he had again been looking, first at the OBey
internet website, and then at the Golden Pages, for the ‘Caterers and Catering’
sub-category.
Casta had not noticed the page on the computer’s screen at first.
In order to get him to notice her, and look at her, so that she could unveil
her ‘new look’, she had leant her chin on his shoulder, and let him scent her
soft breath, as she sighed a sweet “Hi” that was more sexy and sexual for its
cool relaxed familiarity, than if she had ripped both his and her own clothes
off and jumped on him.
It was a ‘Hi’ latent with cool relaxedness. It was a ‘Hi’ that was sensual and
consensual. It was a ‘Hi’ of lust as well as a ‘Hi’ of trust. It was a ‘Hi’ of
friend and platonic partner. Yet it was also a ‘Hi’ that said ‘bed’. It was a
‘Hi’ that told that they were lovers and in love with love as well as one
another. It was a ‘Hi’ of high brevity; but a ‘Hi’ that spoke endlessly.
As it had happened out, Casta had got up close, breathed her breathless
deathless breathtaking “Hi”, and then, straight after, whipped off her
headscarf in anger. David was yet again looking at the Golden Pages website and
the ‘Caterers and Catering’ category.
“David! Please darling! How many times? We’ve agreed. I’ve told you that I’ll
provide. You don’t need to go to the expense of hiring caterers. It’s an insult
to me. I find it so hurtful that you will not let me do my duty as your wife. I
promised to obey when we married. I promised to support you come what may. I
know how much Tokyo means to you my darling, and I’ll do my wifely duty to get
you the post”, Casta repeated, reheating a discussion had more than once
already between this lucky man and his absolutely lovely wife.
David turned and saw Casta’s new hairstyle. It was adorable. He longed to tell
her that she looked simply stunning; but he could not risk losing the argument
at this, it’s third eruption.
So the golden moment that should have been: the revelation of the field of
gold: of the close-cropped boyish hair of the supremely feminine Casta, had
missed its moment.
For her part, Casta knew David had noticed her hair; but she looked at him with
her eyes conveying that she did not want to hear, what she really did want to
hear in truth: a subliminal message that resolving who was to provide what at
the weekend garden party, was more important, even though, just at that second,
it was not, and even though a perfect moment in their love would be lost
forever by it.
“Darling! Darling! Please!” David pleaded in loving submission, a hint of
laughter in his voice, the laughter of love of his perplexed and perplexing
wife, the laughter of surrender that precedes a kiss of adoration of a
beautiful girl being so adorably frustrating.
“I am not, and you know I would never ever ask you to do that kind of demeaning
thing for me sweetheart. We need you there as the lovely hostess. You can’t
sacrifice yourself that way, even for my career”, David continued, his longing
not to hurt his lovely wife paramount, and informing the gentle emotion in his
voice.
“We must have caterers in for this one. They… if we hire them from Herrod’s….
they’ll supply everything, from crockery, and cutlery, to the vegetables and
the all-important meat: I agree we need a whole carcass: that’ll impress for
sure. But it’s not a job for you darling. It’s just way too demanding of you my
angel.”
“JC himself will be coming. I want you there to meet him. He’ll fall in love
with you. Every man does.”
“I…. we have to make the right mark, if I’m to get Tokyo, we’ve just got to hit
the right note bang on target, and this weekend’s barbeque is our one shot…”
David could see that Casta was still feeling slighted, but he knew a way to her
heart. He kept this ‘key’ under locked guard in turn. The key was a card that
could not be overplayed, but it definitely needed deploying here, to save the
day.
David never showed it openly, at least he assumed he didn’t; but he thought he
knew Casta’s psychology enough to dangle his key card as bait to hook her, and
fish her out of stormy waters such as he presently found her dwelling in and
upon.
The opportunity to use the new hairstyle as the card was lost; but David was
nothing if not quick-witted and clever.
“JC says you’re an absolute doll”, he threw out: using key, card, hook, line,
and sinker in one nuclear burst of desperation: fishing with a compliment as
oil to calm the oh so troubled waters.
“But he’s never met me!” Casta, touched and flattered, blushing the colour of
rosé wine, prettily answered, as she shyly smiled: smitten: with David’s angled
dangled bait completely bitten.
“I caught him admiring your photo on my office desk”, David informed.
“What photo?” Casta asked, kittenishly pleased to have David’s top boss as a
hitherto secret admirer, and knowing, or thinking she knew, the answer before
David gave it: thinking the answer would be one of her, in her former career as
a gentle caring angel: one of her in her hospital nurse’s uniform.
“You on the beach in Senabre”, David answered to Casta’s shock.
“Oh god David: not me topless!” Casta concerned.
“No! Silly girl. As if I would. It’s one of you in your one-piece”, David
assured.
Casta was reassured by this. As to why that should have been so, only an expert
on girls could possibly know; and even she would have been baffled.
The photograph in question showed Casta in a figure confirming swimsuit, white
and very wet, with her nipples promisingly prominent, and her love-lips
outlined by the costumes intimate cling to her body: a cling intimating
everything intimate: lucky thing.
Such was the shrink-fit of the costume she wore in that particular picture,
that she appeared to be more naked in it, than in the snaps of her topless, in
the thong she had worn later on in their honeymoon, when she had sought a
fuller tan, and her shyness had been overcome.
David knew that. He found the picture he had on his desk incredible. He adored
his young wife, and was so proud of her beauty that he would as soon, and with
pride and no shame, have had a photo of Casta in her thong alone, were it not
that he found this particular shot to be so tremendously erotic.
His trick card had worked. He had diverted her mind from her worries about the
weekend barbeque, and Casta’s eyes once more shone with the shear joy of being
a girl.
“I just love the hair sweetheart!” David now added, to pop a cherry of love
atop the iced cake of peace.
Casta knew the latter compliment was rehearsed and consequently a tad
insincere, but she fell forgivingly into David’s arms nonetheless, and held her
face up, offering her ever-moist lips for a kiss to complete her and his bliss.
Afterwards came Casta’s sweetly determined after-words:
“That’s settled then. You arrange for Herrod’s to provide the caterers: so that
they can produce the vegetables, whilst I oversee them; and I’ll cook my own
meat”, she smiled, with adorable determination.
Although that was not what he had had in mind at all, and David could have had
Casta whipped for being so presumptuous, he looked at her and laughed his
loving surrender:
“Okay: okay: you win darling! You always did and you always do!”
“But, my love, I am not allowed to make decisions. I am only a wife. I promised
to obey….”, Casta sweetly reminded.
“Then take it as an instruction from me for it to be as you suggest”, David
responded.
……………….
When he had kissed Casta just now, why had David dreamed of the former Angelica
Noir?
Casta’s sweet laugh as she parted after the kiss and swept up her discarded
scarf, to get ready to go about the gardening David had earlier ordered her to
do, only made David feel more guilty.
Angelica was his boss’ new wife. JC had married Angelica Noir, not three months
since.
But not three months since before that, David had had Angelica in the storeroom
at the Christmas party. The horny negress had ‘begged for it’, according to
David’s self serving self-confidence-assuring version of the event: a version
he had repeated to himself so often, that, truth or not, it was the truth as
far as he was concerned.
What a sexy bitch Angelica was. Oh god she was horny! Before the bonds of
marriage, and the ties that bind, she had walked as if she had a cock up her,
and was enjoying its constant attentions, however inadequate they were compared
with her appetites. If her walk had not been so natural, surely the pope would
have had it banned.
And the colourful clothes she wore to contrast so beautifully with her dark
brown complexion!
The day she wore geranium-red and the astounding compliment it was to her
stunning negress black. The day she wore red and her bare brown arms! The day
she wore red and her bare black legs in the summer sun! The day she wore red
and had stood next to David in the office canteen, and their hands had
accidentally touched! The day she wore red and he had smelled her natural musk,
and just knew she was wearing no panties, and had turned and seen that she knew
he knew, and had turned and seen her dark brown eyes and the orgasmic lips of
her negress’ mouth, and the look of challenge in her ever-smiling eyes!!
Angelica and David were work companions and rivals. She was ex-university, with
an acutely sharp mind, that JC, their joint boss, the local boss of bosses, had
obviously noticed.
David had been in military service. Always an adventurer, he had seen the world
and met Casta when posted in Africa, being given the lovely Senabrian, a girl from
one of the white tribes of that god-blessed country with its over
ninety-percent female population, and bringing her back to lucky England.
That was now a year since, and David, though in the forefront with JC hitherto
as he, David, had calculated: he, David, was, was now concerned that Angelica,
a newcomer with the brains and education he lacked, would leave him behind.
What David lacked in formal education, he had in cunning: and cunning he had in
spades-full.
To his mind, the one sure way to ‘put Angelica in her place’, and to ensure he
had a hold over her to keep her down, was to screw her, and threaten to let it
be known she was letting herself be drilled outside marriage.
To David’s simple thinking, every girl wanted it up her; Angelica would be no
exception. No girl could have what they had between their lovely legs and not
obey its command over her; Angelica would be no exception to that.
………………….
The pop of champagne corks had caught David by surprise.
Indeed, it took the whole office by surprise.
But JC’s announcement that he and Angelica were to become man and wife, had had
David jumping for joy on the inside.
His joy was not for the couple. His joy was from the fact that Angelica had,
with the sub-orbital flight of one ground-to-air champagne cork, been shot out
of the skies where Tokyo was concerned.
Tokyo was his! Angelica would be a housewife. Married women were not allowed to
work. Angelica was no longer a threat: where Tokyo was concerned, Angelica was
shafted.
Talking of which, he assumed that Angelica would still be free for a shag, as
long as he only used her lovely bum as before. But then again, now she was
married and a pregnancy could be risked, perhaps he could slide his cock into
her sheath…..
………………
The weekend had arrived, and so had JC and Angelica, who sat at table on the
front lawn of David and Casta’s home, enjoying the sun and cocktails.
“Where’s you lovely wife David? ‘JC’ enquired.
“Yes, David, where on earth is the delicious Casta?!” Angelica teased, enjoying
David’s eyes roaming over her handsome black thighs, as she once again changed
her position so he could see further up the bell of her tiny skirt, as she
intended.
“Casta insisted on playing a personal part in the food preparation. She begs to
be excused. She wants to let us talk ‘work-talk’ as she puts it. She says it’s
far too complicated for her pretty little head.”
“We’ve hired staff: two very attractive redheads: from Herrod’s, to do the
barbeque. But Casta wants to spring a little surprise. She absolutely insists
that she personally ensure her meat is properly cooked. She’s terrified she’ll
give us all food poisoning!” David informed, with the latter line intended to
lighten the message.
“She has a point” JC responded.”
“Not about the food poising: about the work front I mean. I’ve got my laptop in
the car.”
“Whilst your wife gets cooking with the old cooking, perhaps you me and
Angelica can go through the accounts.”
“Angelica ought to leave the company now she’s a housewife of course; but she’s
still with us in spirit, aren’t you darling?”
Angelica smiled, and David looked at her lips: the lips of heaven; the lips of
a negress: the eager lips of the girl whose tight anus he had had his cock up
just last Christmas.
“But there’s no reason why your little lady can’t join us if she wants to. If
she’s as pretty as her picture, I can’t wait to meet her”, JC charmed.
“She insisted on helping the caterers so as to leave us alone to talk business,
which has, to be honest, always bored Casta”, David excused yet again.
A silence ensued. Neither JC nor Angelica wanted to challenge David’s
explanation for the continuing absence of Casta, and David began to recognise
that he needed to divert them further.
“Those papers then?” he reminded JC.
“What? Oh, the laptop. Sorry to be a bore old boy, but it would be very useful
to go over the sales figures before the board meeting on Wednesday, and, as you
know, I’m in London Monday and Tuesday”, JC summarised.
An hour’s distraction followed, with more cocktails being consumed, and much
satisfaction being expressed, as Angelica pointed out an error in and between
Tokyo and Kinshasa, the corrections of which, showed, albeit only marginally, a
better performance in the far east and Africa, than the draft board presentation
had hitherto been able to record.
As she concentrated on making the relevant changes to her husband’s notes on
his laptop, Angelica licked her lovely negress lips, and giggled as she pointed
out error after error in his syntax, and duly corrected them.
Angelica’s mind was as razor sharp, as her beauty was dazzling: and the black
beauty was simply sizzling.
David and JC just had to sit back and let Angelica take charge.
With every point they raised, she came up with at least two counterpoints, and
then a synopsis of the best way forward, which the two men challenged, only for
it to dawn that this beautiful woman was, as ever, entirely right.
Glinting in the welcomingly warming sun, the wedding ring through Angelica’s
nose sparkled, as, despite that she wore a wife’s controlling thumb cuffs, she
dexterously flew her slender fingers, fingers David longed were stroking his
cock, over the laptop’s keyboard.
As she did so, when she checked she had typed what she’d intended, her dark
brown eyes flashed wasted love at the screen.
David’s eyes could not help but return to Angelica’s thighs: Angelica’s
enormously strong long black thighs: the thighs of the amateur marathon runner
she had been before marriage had confined her to domesticity.
A sideways flick of heaven’s lanterns, formed a look that said to David, that
Angelica knew full well she was fascinating him, and that he wanted her: that
he wanted to work her and spurt inside her: to inject her with the salty oyster
swimming with his virile sperm.
And a mischievous smile played over, and then took over Angelica’s lips.
She was not given to being cruel, but she loved to tease, as much as she loved
that her face and her body pleased. So it was no coincidence that her fingers
wandered now to the wedding ring through her nose.
It looked from her lovely face, as if she was just touching it as if it were a
charm that would aid her thinking.
Surely the fact that it signalled a reminder that she was no longer available,
and that David should have done a better job when he had it up her bum that
time, was accidental; or was it?
Her job done, without asking her husband’s permission, as she should have done,
Angelica rose and rose to the top tips of her big toes en-pointe in her
ballerina’s shoes, showing the incredible soft smooth strong muscularity of her
calves, as she ‘totty-trotted’ tiptop-tiptoe back to JC’s car, to put the
laptop safely away, and thus placed where it would not be forgotten later in
the day.
As she wiggled away, she felt both men’s eyes ogling her, and held her
dark-curled head high, with wholly justified pride that she was so
sensationally attractive.
JC and David watched the rear of the devastating black beauty, as she
totty-trotted, dancing entrancingly on her tiptop tiptoes, making her way down
the garden path, with her immensely strong legs kept so safely under control by
her two-inch chain hobble.
David had been drinking too much on an empty stomach.
Waiting for the meal that Casta was tied up in the preparation of, and relaxing
while Angelica had completely redone JC’s work on his, JC’s, laptop, both men
had drunk too much.
And David found, too late to prevent what he next said, that the drink had gone
to his head. As both men ogled Angelica’s glory, he blundered out:
“Dear god almighty, you’re a fucking lucky man JC! What’s she like in bed?”
But, far from being upset by this crudity, JC did not even look to see that
David was now biting his tongue in horror and regret at blurting this out; but
continued to be the second man eyeing his wife’s lissom legs.
“Man to man David: just between me and you old boy, is that understood?” JC
began, checking the ground for hidden mines as it were.
Trying to fight the tipsy feeling, David nodded confirmatory assurance, that
whatever JC’s just now introductory statement was followed by, he would keep it
cave.
“Well, entre nous, old chap, it’s an unmitigated disaster.”
“The wedding night was a total Titanic. She is just so beautiful!”
“When I saw her naked… oh god, I just came. I never even got it in her! And she
was so forgiving….”
“I think I made my mind up there and then. I’m rising sixty. I told her I would
never be able to give her what she needs: not in that way: I mean, she can buy
all the fur coats and dresses and hats a girl could need, and as many more
again; but I can’t take her where a girl needs to go: especially a girl as
young as Angelica, with her drives and her passions….”
David was moved. Before now, he had never seen the human side of JC so openly
displayed. And so he walked over and put a consoling hand on JC’s shoulder.
Even as he did so though, or just after, he looked up, and saw Angelica
totty-trotting on her gorgeous legs, back to join JC and himself.
But JC had not apparently noticed, and continued his alcohol fuelled
confessional lament:
“To be honest, old chap, I had a chat with her, and I told her I’d have no
objection if she found herself a lover: someone younger.”
“And you know what? As if she knew what I was thinking, she insisted she would
only do that if I watched them in bed: if I watched them screwing: if I saw my
own wife being shagged……”
“Of course I said yes.”
“She chose the gardener: Steve…”
David was fascinated.
Angelica, despite the restriction of her stride to a two-inch wiggle, was
totty-trotting closer and would soon be in earshot. He had to get the last
dregs from this heart burst, before JC would, of necessity, have to clamp up,
and he, David, might never hear how it panned out with Angelica and the
gardener. Yet JC was silent, seemingly gone off into irreversibly internalised
reverie.
“Steve the gardener?” David asked, to remind JC where he, JC, had just left
off.
“What do you mean?” JC slurred.
“You were saying that Angelica chose Steve, your gardener, as her lover, and
that they make love while you watch?” David coaxed, to milk more dregs of this
high-octane gossip fuel.
“Oh yes: she’s a lovely girl: a very lovely girl”, JC rambled.
“Yes: Angelica’s a lovely girl: she’s every man’s dream”, David agreed, trying
to hide the urgency in his voice: the urgency with which he sought the final
punctuation mark in JC’s tale: the urgency with which he sought for this superb
future ‘completely unattributable’ gossip gobbet, to be at its ending, rather
than at a hangnail.
“Yes: Angelica’s a lovely girl”, David repeated, “But what about Steve then,
the gardener, does he give her what she needs, have you watched them at it
yet?”
“He?” JC snapped, “What are you on about David old boy?”
“Steve sir” David answered, fearing that alcohol would finally stay his bosses’
final say about this confession of inadequacy, and the solution he had found
for his sensational wife’s insatiable needs.
JC looked up with complete mystification in his face:
“Steve”, he repeated: “Steve is a lovely girl: I mean Stephanie of course: they
call her ‘Steve’ or ‘Steph’. I thought you’d… you know, I could have sworn
blind; but no of course, I’m mixing you up, you’ve never seen Steve have you?”
“No sir; I’ve never met Steve sir” David answered, fighting his cock’s growing
urge to rise and take no bow, but shout ‘wow!’ at the thought of Angelica
rolling in bed in another girl’s arms.
But the confession would have to end without the embellishing relish David
wished for, for the bewitching Angelica wiggled onto the patio once more, and
sat her statistical perfection between the two men that her devastating black
beauty was completely devastating.
From the looks she saw on David and her husband’s faces, Angelica knew they had
been talking about her behind her back.
And her eyes, her clever eyes, never showed that she knew she had been the
subject of converse, or that it pleased her, or that she hoped the talk about
her had been really deep down dirty.
Easing across, JC took the nubile ebony angel’s thumb-cuffed hands, and gently squeezed
them. Angelica then craned her neck and kissed his cheek, before she leaned her
lovely head on his shoulder.
………………..
Time had moved inexorably forward.
Whilst distracted by the work Angelica had orchestrated and succeeded with, on
JC’s laptop; and by the gorgeous Angelica herself, none of the three had
hitherto fully noticed the delicious scent that was wafting from David and
Casta’s rear garden, behind their lovely home.
As the sweet aroma of cooking meat met his nostrils once more, and this time
registered fully: “What a delicious smell”, JC opined, only to have Angelica
nudge him in the ribs.
“Well: it is a lovely smell” JC insisted, with a look of love at his charming
wife.
“There’s a little something special on the spit for us”, JC informed.
“Casta absolutely insisted her surprise be kept, so none of us can go round the
back till the caterers call us. I’ve got Herrod’s in. They have a wonderful
catering department” David slurred, his tipsy state making him not realise he
was repeating himself.
“If Angelica wasn’t here, I’d tell you just how pretty the young girls they
sent us to do the catering are too!”
“Don’t let me stop you”, Angelica responded, with a tone of voice and a look of
face aside from JC’s seeing, that conveyed ‘don’t you dare’, in contrast with
her seeming assent.
David felt ashamed. Angelica’s look had hit home. He knew he needed to sober up
and that he was behaving oafishly.
A distant clatter of crockery, and a chink of wine glasses suggested that the
meal was close to being served up.
“Let’s pop out the back and see if they are ready for us, shall we”, David
suggested, his realisation that he could stall no longer driving home into his
mind, despite his desire to make the treat he and Casta had arranged, tantalise
his guests a little longer.
With Angelica pushed aside by her marriage to JC, David’s confidence that the
sumptuous feast that awaited his boss and his boss’ wife, would swing the Tokyo
post his way, was sky high.
His only problem was the timing of his raising of the subject. He knew he was
‘muddled’ with drink. Now was not a good time. He would wait till an early day
after the wonders he and Casta were about to serve up, had swung things his
way, as he was sure they would. After all, now Angelica would be confined to
the marital home, there was less of a swing for the meal to traverse.
As the threesome walked around the side of the cottage and into its back
garden:
“We’re almost ready for you sir”, the lovely lead chef, and lead redhead
smiled, calling over the distance, as she rotated the meat being slowly cooked
over the red-hot artificial coals in the barbeque pit David had dug: the
whole-roast meat impaled on the spit that ran through it from head to tail.
David almost dare not look to see if his boss was impressed; but JC was not in
fact looking at the whole-roast, the piece-de-resistance close-ready for their
feast.
Instead he was looking as if he’d found a chance needed, and was about to take
a suddenly found opportunity, to whisper something as an aside to David:
something it seemed he did not want Angelica to hear.
“David old boy” JC whispered, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I haven’t told
her yet: I mean Angelica.”
“I don’t know how to put this to you old man. So straight to the point, as
you’d expect from me old chap”
“I’m afraid the board has decided that Angelica will get Tokyo…… I know you’ll
be disappointed, old son, but I hope you’ll support us in this.”
David was stunned: “But she can’t!” he said, all too loudly.
“But she can’t!” he repeated immediately after, more softly, as if his so doing
would undo his earlier shout of exclamation.
“Why ever not?” JC responded in total surprise.
“She’s….. Angelica’s a housewife, the law doesn’t allow…” David reminded, but
without any real confidence in his tone: sensing he had missed a trick, and
expecting, despite hope against hope, that his ambition for Tokyo would be
finally torpedoed.
“Oh that!” JC answered:
“Stuff and nonsense old chap. There’s no need of Angelica staying here in
England old boy. She’s my wife. I’m her master. I can send her where I please.
And, as you know, there’s no restrictions on women working in Japan old man… no
restrictions at all.”
“Angelica’s got a first rate mind: we, the board and I, don’t want to see it go
to waste….”
“Are you with us in this one Dave my boy?” JC concluded, with false-sounding
bonhomie.
“Of course” David instantly answered, with his speech rising to a squeak like
an adolescent boy’s newly breaking voice.
“Of course”, David then repeated in a more manly timbre, after he had cleared
his throat from a longing to sob that was choking him: a longing to curse aloud
at the shock disappointment that had just sledge-hammered him flat.
“I knew I could rely on you old chap: ‘rock solid’ - ‘David De’Merara is rock
solid’ that’s what I always tell them at headquarters”, JC reassured, not
realising that David was in need of consolation: not knowing the full
bitterness of the pill he, JC, had just administered.
Resigned to the sudden shocking failure of his campaign, David turned to JC and
Angelica, forcing himself to convey the look of the perfect host inviting his
guests to go first; a host now resigned to his fate: a host about to drown his
sorrows in the wine bottle given half a chance.
And so JC now turned his attention to where Angelica was already looking.
“Is that the lovely Casta over there?”
“Yes”, David confirmed, with pride that, in his life he had at least won one
incredible top of top prize: his adorable wife.
“She looks absolutely delicious old boy!” JC confirmed, meaning it to be out of
Angelica’s hearing.
“You’re incredibly lucky old man. She’s a complete dish.”
“What a wonderful tan she’s taken on! Wow, but she’s just so edible David:
she’s so appetising!” JC murmured, despite that Angelica had heard what he was
saying, and was giving him the strongest look of disapproval a wife these days
dare, if she did not want to be whipped.
“And you’ve gone through a lot of trouble for us David old boy” JC continued,
turning back from his first sight of the roast on the spit, as if choosing to
wait a little longer for a fully cooked slice of meat: but turning back,
noticeably without anticipatory signs, such as the clap of and eager rubbing
together of hands, which is often symbolic of someone being almost unable to
wait for the pleasure of hunger’s upcoming satisfaction.
As he followed this action up: as he followed his turning his back on the
barbeque, JC’s usually bullishly confident speech was stumbling, yet he carried
on despite that he hated showing indecisiveness the way he just now was:
“David old boy…. I don’t know quite how to put this but…. Angelica and I: we ….
we can’t thank you enough ……..”, JC began, his conclusion veering off the path
he’d intended at his outset.
“But… well I assumed you knew. I hadn’t realised you were preparing quite so
much meat old fellow me lad.”
“I thought, maybe ‘just enough meat for David himself’ don’t you know.”
“It doesn’t stop me enjoying the aroma of meat cooking of course…”
“Only you see we: I mean since I married Angelica: we: both of us now: she
always was of course: me, in this one thing at least, I have to do as I’m told
by the dear little wifey old boy, you know how it is…. JC feebly tried to
joke…..
“Well… to put it bluntly old chap…. You see…. I’m afraid: Angelica and I:
Angelica and I…. we’re strictly vegetarian old man: strictly vegetarian these
days…”
“…..Sorry old chap…”, JC finally announced, to the simply stunned David: to a
David on the verge of simply simpering….
With the crank handle’s slow turn in turn, the two pretty redhead caterers
constantly rotated the meat, at the ideal speed for it to cook; but so that it
would not shrivel or be burned in the blazing flames from the gas-heated
artificial charcoals in the barbeque pit they were rotating it over.
It’s grossly swollen tongue looked as if it were felating the steel spit that
ran through its sexual part and out of its mouth.
The meat’s long legs were stretched out and tied to either side the spit, a
fork from which also entered its anus, so as to ensure the carcase rotated with
the spit, and avoided the spit simply turning within it; and thus without the
meat itself turning.
Too distant to have heard JC and David’s conversation, Casta, making the
ultimate sacrifice for love of her husband, to enable him to fulfil his
ambitions, rotated slowly on the spit. In her terrible agony, she was still
alive.
She was still alive and yet her breasts, her buttocks, her shapely calves, and
her superb hams were already cooked to succulent dark brown perfection.
“Shall we serve her now sir?” the sexy saucy redhead, lead catering chef,
asked, with a curtsey that answered for much more than the simple necessities
of showing courtesy alone…..
Though poleaxed by the lost cause of Tokyo, and of his darling Casta in that
same lost cause: too late by far, David just managed to raise a hand to stay
the use of a carving knife to slice the perfectly deep-side-dimpled, perfect
bottom, of his lovely wife Casta: of Casta intended for even an escoffier’s delectation:
of the delicious Casta, spit-roasted to perfection, alive ….
Sendara
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis:
Does a question mark her future?
Sendara
by Eve Adorer
As Sendara read over her latest update, her breathtaking milk-white breasts, uplifted to outstanding magnificence within her low cut neckline, rose and fell in delightful duet and complete unison with her fragrant breaths.
Then next, with the act of her leaning forward confirming the fact of her gasp-making cleavage, grasped by gravity’s forgivable eagerness to grope her, they flowed outwards heavy parabolas: belle bell parallels, disappointing only in their undelivered promise to swing out of her dress.
To pout such pretty bee-stung lips so, was to propose a kiss. But the looks, the lips, the gentle heaving of her handsome bosom, and the sweet furrow on her brow, were only from concentration.
Working, standing in the corner of an airport departure lounge, leaning forward to shield the screen from the setting sun, this aided by the coincidental twin shadow of her exceptionally generous breasts, her bosom emboldened by her quarter-cup bra, Sendara had had a sudden thought, and was altering one short passage where she feared the case she had compiled was made obscure by her turn of phrase.
She’d heard it called ‘death by Slidepoint’; Sendara didn’t want that. Sendara wanted the lecture she was flying out to deliver in Ntoli City, the lecture in and on her laptop computer, to not only be heard, but also clearly understood by the world.
She’d re-written it so often now that she could recite it by heart. Sendara would deliver it from the heart. That was for sure. Sendara was a very passionate girl.
She knew what she risked. The roundups had even started over there in Ntoli, ‘the heart of Africa’. The Republic of Ntoli had agreed to come back into the British Empire. Its new dictatorship, was, under Edith Amin: a puppet of the English government: the English government which was itself now a dictatorship.
Over here in England, a residue among the intellectual elite, the influential, and the wealthy had survived, Sendara among them; but their turn would come unless the tide was turned.
It was like in Germany. What was going on was just like Germany in the 1930s. Sendara knew what she risked. She knew where she stood and the chances she was taking; but someone had to speak out: someone had to call for tolerance.
All too aware of the two older women wondering if the long shapely legs of the five-eleven tall Sendara, started at her ears or still nearer heaven, Sendara, her update entered, closed her electronic notebook with long adept fingers, turned and smiled, her green-blue eyes glowing with high intelligence, vivacity, sensitivity, humour and, above all, love; but her eyes still cast down, as the sweetest kindest way to brush off the welcome but uninvited and highly dangerous admiration.
………………
“You coming for a run or not?”, a sweet soprano sang.
“Mmm? Sorry. What was that?” Sendara’s distracted soft-whisper kissed the air.
The sound of a rattling keyboard had just now told of an unskilled typist, Sendara, in a rare purple patch of progress. That progress had been irrecoverably disrupted by the question half heard; but Sendara’s look still told of love.
“Are you still on that same project?” the same soprano enquired. And without waiting for Sendara’s answer, responded to itself: “Well, at least if I go for a run on my own, you won’t leave me dead in your tracks again. I don’t know where you got your legs from, Sendara, but jeese, they’re not only just so fucking beautiful, but so bloody strong too”.
As Sukie Lovemade complained about Sendara’s outstanding athleticism, and her erotic means of motion, Sendara smiled, blushing slightly.
“I’m no Olympic champion, Sukie”, she answered shyly: flattered by her lovely legs being ogled as she sat. But then Sendara always smiled. It was, not least, the charming way in which she punctuated her speech.
“I wouldn’t mind losing every time, if only once, just once Sendara, just frigging once, you got yourself out of breath!”
“Cripes, you did fifteen miles Sunday, and wanted to do fifteen more back again! And you bloody well did too: after I bet you that you couldn’t. And still you weren’t in the least bit done for!”
“That reminds me. You still owe me that twenty dollars!” Sendara giggled teasingly, as her lovely turquoise eyes sparkled champagne.
Sukie watched Sendara’s sweet eyes light up with her natural charm, and her soft bold lips kiss out every single syllable of even so brief a phrase, with contralto intonation that blessed the world by such a lovely presence.
Then, in a slow motion cause of commotion, Sendara swept a kiss of her kinked curls over her shoulder, to free the full view of her heartbreaking visage.
Sendara’s hair, conflagrational waves around the ghost white shores of her lightly freckled face, flowed, alike to flickering flames, all the way to her ankles when she stood.
Indeed her glorious hair would, had it been straight instead of in storm tossed waves, have trailed the floor behind this flawless temptation: Sendara: Sendara a living, walking, talking, sensual siren.
Overwhelmed once more by her former tutor’s beauty: “I still love you, you know Sendara”, Sukie whispered.
Sendara blushed. Sukie knew the signs. She knew that shade of blushing matched with a corresponding moistening of Sendara’s panties.
“Now look what you’ve done” Sendara teased blushing lovingly: not prompting resuscitation of the love affair Sukie longed should be revived; but simply knowing what Sukie knew was happening within her honeypot: within Sendara’s floridly fragrant cunt caressing the gusset of her exceptionally skimpy panties.
Sendara’s dampened gusset and her soft words confirmed to Sukie that she, Sukie, had lost none of her ability to turn another girl on, and the supremely feminine Sendara not least.
………………………
Sendara’s mind momented back to their first meeting.
Music had been Sendara’s major at St Hymenia’s College, University of Camford, and the subject of her doctoral thesis. That thesis: ‘The Harmonies in the Dissonance of Klara von Stchikhasen’s Quartets’ had won her the Nipplelungen Prize, and offers of a university fellowship and professor’s post, when she was still only sixteen: offers Sendara had eagerly taken up.
Where Sendara was concerned, before their first chance meeting, Sukie had gone unnoticed on campus. However, it was far from being so the other way around.
The source of the fresh dew-dappled red rose Sendara began to find on her lectern each morning had been a complete mystery to Sendara.
Discrete enquiries by Sendara, blushing to outmatch the loveliness of the flower she held up as evidence, had found no solution.
Her own former tutor and present head of the University Music Department, had answered Sendara’s enquiry with a loving smile and: “Expect some girl in the fresh intake has got the hots for you Sendara. You can’t blame her sweetheart. There isn’t a woman on the campus who doesn’t long to strum your clit to Rachmaninov’s eighteenth Paganini variation, sweetheart, and, off the record, that includes me!”
Although this was the truth, it had been quite the most shy-making of the dozens of responses that conveyed the same, if, as is obviously non-too-difficult, in less blushing-rose faced and panty-gusset-moistness-ensuring language.
………………..
Sendara had actually met Sukie at Herrod’s, the Queensbridge, Hondon department store. This: five years since by now, and therefore three years before the election: the election that had swept the Hetzis to power.
As a university professor, Sendara was among the elect of English society in the early 22nd century: not least in income.
By contrast, Sukie, from a less wealthy background, had had to take a summer vacation job to pay her way through college.
It was not as if she did not keep them corralled. She knew how wilfully wild they could be if not rounded up and securely constrained.
It was also not as if she did not keep them covered; although it was as if she did not realise how head-turning even her buttoned-up containment of them made them.
Copiously cupped they might be, but underwiring and cantilevering could hardly compete, let alone completely cope, unless they combined to make them into comic-book balloons. So Sukie normally wore softer support: indeed only such as would lift and separate them, whilst restraining them from completely free spirited sport.
To say that, like Sendara too, Sukie was sumptuously appointed, would be to make an understatement. She was a little doll of no more than five-three, and had long been shy about the pert prominences that all eyes could not help but home in upon, even when she merely passed by in the street.
If they had been bigger they would have looked obscene: alike to a cartoon lampoon of a lusciously laden lady. It was a matter of proportionality. Although Sukie was very amply endowed, twice over; although she was a double-D-cup thirty-eight; Sukie’s simply sensational bosom loomed buoyantly large in the eyes of the world, only because she was so petite. Sukie was a very big little girl.
…………………..
“Ah: Professor Angelskiss! Good morning ma’am!”, the floorwalker for Herrod’s had greeted the titian-tressed goddess that morning, as Sendara wandered her flame-haired wonder into the hallowed hallway of the famous Queensbridge store’s Camford subsidiary.
“We haven’t had the honour of a visitation from your good self for a little while now ma’am. I trust you are in the very best of health”, Miss Smith, the tall blonde straight-backed straight-laced supervisor ingratiated, with professional sincerity.
“I am very well thank you Mary”, Sendara smiled, and her glowing eyes made even the prissy Miss Mary Smith blush with love for this apparition among angels.
“May we offer you the services of one of our personal shoppers, ma’am?” Mary Smith enquired, even as she beckoned Sukie over, unseen behind Sendara’s back, in anticipation of Sendara confirming she did indeed desire such an escort.
“The young lady coming over will look after you.”
“I’m afraid she’s only a summer vacation hire. A college student I believe. But, rest assured ma’am, that if she doesn’t do a satisfactory job, summer casual or not, we will have her whipped”, Miss Smith reassured, in the most confidentially conspiratorial of her obsequious tones.
Although Sendara had no wish to even think of a girl being beaten for any shortcomings, even she had had to accept that that was now society’s norm; with the rise and rise of the Hetzis leading to their recent election, and now the dictatorship. But, rather than try again to register her distress at such an idea, she chose to remain silent on the subject.
Instead of responding to Miss Smith as she might, hearing, even above the conversational hum of the busy store, the erotic ‘tip-tap’ on the polished white marble flooring, of what she took to be stiletto heels, Sendara turned toward the approaching would-be escort: ‘Sukie’ by name, though Sendara was yet to hear mention of it.
Sukie, all five-three of her little-doll’s frame filling out the store’s standard uniform in a delicious, almost wicked way, was in fact on the very tip-tops of her big toes, in her uniform-issue heelless ballet shoes, wiggling en-pointe, obediently toward Miss Smith and the lovely redhead.
Sukie’s dark-brown dreadlocks framed the astounding beauty of her negress’ face. Her dark-deep-dark shyly darting brown eyes were full of bubbling laughter. Her dainty nostrils lightly flared above her mouth. And, oh goddess, those lips! The little round mouth with the bold upturned cupid bowed flat upper and succulently swollen lower, combined in the thrust of a must for a trusting kiss, when this little doll was not smiling, made Sendara’s heart leap and miss ten beats.
Sukie was a walking kiss, in cool cotton, with red and white - used-tampon-red and pristine Sistine white - vertical-candy-striped micro-skirt, so bereft of hem, that it displayed the gusset of her bright white cool cotton panties, and the bulge of her hot love-mound.
An expanse of mirror-black thigh, preceded white nylon stockings, which gold suspender clasps were fighting to ensure did not slide down her very shapely very smooth legs.
The brilliant red and white of Sukie’s uniform skirt and crisp blouse glowed halo in contrast to her heavenly Nubian black. The starched blouse, red and white upright candy-stripes like the skirt, was buttoned at wrists and up front to her neck.
Her spotless red and white attire, not least the plain white of her panties, would not be misread if taken as conveying the state of this negress dolly’s virginity and potency. She was intact, yet some years into losing-streak-weeks.
A charming little used-tampon-red bowtie completed Sukie’s smart display.
And Sendara’s loving eyes took all this in, as too the mesmerising rise and dive of Sukie’s magnificent two, riding the range together, side-by-side.
As Sendara gasped and gaped in admiration, the darling little negress tiptoed en-pointe, tapping her squared-off stainless-steel toecaps on the marble floor of the department’s store’s hallowed halls, walking her naturally seductive marvel to her appointment with Sendara: the customer, Miss Smith the floorwalker, was calling her attention toward.
As Sukie approached her, to Sendara’s loving eyes, the fact that Herrod’s store uniform did not include or allow the wearing of brassieres, was four-foldly evident. For not only were Sukie’s breasts cavorting wild-child under her blouse, but her defiantly bold nipples were showing they would be no disappointment to those many, who speculated that her teats must be proportionately as huge as her astonishing bosom.
“Right Number 69, this is Professor Sendara Angelskiss, a very valued customer”, Miss Smith confirmed, addressing the adorable Sukie, just after Sukie had arrived in Sendara’s presence.
“69 will escort you and carry any burdens for you ma’am. Is there a particular department you would wish to visit first?”
Sendara blushed to the base of her slim neck as, unavoidably captivated by the blouse-button-testing bosom of the devastating little doll standing on heelless tiptop tiptoe before her, she answered: “Soft furnishings please”.
“Make due note please 69”, the crisp Miss Smith commanded tartly, not noticing the twinkle of lovely laughter in Sukie’s darkest-deep-brownest-dark eyes, or the darling doll’s near collapse into helpless giggles, as the scarlet blushing Sendara was next asked by the tart Miss Smith enquiring crisply….:
“And any other departments after soft furnishings ma’am?”
…..and answered: “Bed… N’no! I mean bedrooms… I…I mean beds please….”
…………………..
Only as Sendara at the airport walked away from the pillar that half hid her, did her admirers see the pink garter.
Thus made to recall themselves, they pretended they had not been admiring Sendara’s immensely long and equally strong legs.
…………………..
“Go for your run only within the campus please Sukie!” Sendara begged. “You know how it’s getting”, she concerned.
“Come with me then” Sukie sighed, longing for her one-time long-time-past love and lover once more by her side.
“Two girls together?!” Sendara reminded, as if she needed to.
“I suppose you think you’re brave making that speech to the gathering of Terrestrial Women Against Terror. Yet you’re scared even to come out and have a jog with me!” Sukie complained, uncharacteristically bitterly.
Sendara was hurt. She knew she was challenged to turn her intellectual arguments into physical reality. Here was a chance to demonstrate. But her fear caused her, yet once more, to defer. For Sendara it was ‘bravery tomorrow’ and always ‘tomorrow’ it seemed.
As she watched Sukie check the pink garter just above her left knee, and admired Sukie’s pretty legs when she flexed and stretched her calves in preparation for her run, Sendara, knowing she was being cowardly, answered: “I just must finish this speech Sukie….we can always take a run some other time…..”
…………………..
Sendara knew she was being cowardly. But, after all, she had known the practical implications of the current situation.
That morning, two years ago, the week after the election, the day when she had arrived home in that dreadful state, had seen the first crack in their relationship: the relationship with Sukie that had since drifted apart and ended.
Waiting on the train station platform that morning, three girls had noticed Sendara’s pink garter, and begun nudging each other, and urging themselves on.
Pink was not Sendara’s colour and yet the colour she must wear. The blue denim microskirt her fulsome bottom rounded out to double-half-mooned perfection, the matching jacket her very challenging bosom had successfully buffeted aside from the royal blue shirt her breasts and nipples doubly emboldened: the blue of her clothes, in contrast with the cascade of her conflagrational hair, and her ghost white complexion, were more suited to her than the pink garter.
It was a very hot summer. Amid the humidity, Sendara had chosen not to wear tights or stockings, and her billion-mile-long legs were bare: bare except for the pretty, and yet petty and cruel regulation one-inch wide pink garter she wore just above her left knee.
She had also opted to give her breasts their right to roam. Thus, under her shirt, her nipples were playing the flirt, catching the eye as if they too were eyes, as they puckered the silk of her blouse, its softness caressing theirs, and even that gentle caress being answered by their obvious stiffening, so sensitive were Sendara’s teats to touch.
Sendara’s legs were the wonderful products of nature sculpted by her love of art and sport. She swam, she danced, she cycled, she skated, she ran, she trained ballet: above all, and in more ways than one, she saw good players fall to love from her on the tennis court, and, in their superbly toned muscular smoothness, the beauty of her legs showed this honey-babe’s active life.
Today they were at the pinnacle of their lissom loveliness. She was wearing cobalt-blue front-heeled ballet shoes with squared-off silver toecaps. She was standing in permanent pirouette on her tiptoed big toes like a ballet dancer, but resting her heels – the stiletto heels at the front of her shoes - on the ground she blessed by her merely standing upon it.
She was at the highest extremity of en-pointe in her fashionable shoes, and her legs thus captured in captivating curvature, with the slimness of her ankles, the high-risen highly visible tautness of her strong calf-muscles, her knees dimpled and locked back as her legs bowed slightly back to hold her steady in stance, and her enormous thighs, two massive monuments to graceful power.
And yet these dual steeples, leading from the ground she made holy, to the undivided divide between their stride: her pink lined crevice with its sensitive trigger and sheath, must have their perfect line broken by the tight elasticated circle, of a one-inch wide pink garter, just above her left knee.
Sendara had been visiting her parents in Hondon and was making the journey back to the home she still dared to share, back then, with Sukie, up at Camford.
In the clampdown, when the Hetzi Police had visited the Camford University, both she and Sukie had agreed to wear the garter that labelled them publicly. The alternative was prosecution trial and the farms. Only the bravest or most foolish opted not to be open.
The price of being open was the humiliation of being ostracised: the acceptance that you were less than human in the eyes of the rest of society. In effect you were a prisoner albeit that you were free to roam. The reputation of the farms was so dreadful; that to be labelled a pariah was preferable, even though that was becoming increasingly a living hell.
The gang of girls on the station platform drew near Sendara’s lovely figure.
In the micro-micro-skirts they wore, which, in combination with their kneesocks and shirts, were shades various of brown: in their beige heelless en-pointe ballet-boots, and above all, in the visible circular logo on the exposed crutches of their white panties, Sendara recognised members of the Hetzi Youth League.
Sendara hung her head in fear as the girls sidled closer to her.
“You’re a bleeding lezzy then?” the bravest of the girls, all aged around sixteen or seventeen, had sneered at the twenty-four-year-old flame-tressed angel.
Sendara not knowing how to answer, lowered her head in the hope they would go away.
“Me and my mates: we don’t like lezzies: do we?” the ‘brave’ girl added, looking to increase her courage through adding her two companions as support to the insults.
“Girls doing all those filthy things with other girls: I mean it ain’t natural is it lezzy?” she taunted.
Sendara almost began to cry.
As two policewomen strolled down the platform, her soulful turquoise eyes glanced their way in hope they would help, or at least in hope that the taunting girls would follow her eyeline, and desist when they saw the cops.
“Let’s hear you say it lezzy. Let’s hear you say: ‘I’m a filthy lezzy’” the taunting girl sneered threateningly, even despite the two bored cops dawdling into earshot.
At that point, an announcement came over the station’s public address:
“The train now arriving at platform two, is the nine-o’-six to Cunnilingham, calling at Holdem, Handon, Caressall, Wetnow, Fingerin, Kissnow, Lickit, Camford, and Cunnilingham Central.”
“This train is due to arrive at Cunnilingham Central, in sixty-nine minutes. Will passengers wishing to board the train please note that the first and standard class compartments will be found at the front, and that for under-girls at the rear.”
“Leave her alone. She ain’t doing no harm” the most timid of the three taunters added at the end of the announcement.
“Alright I’ll leave her. As long as she knows she’s a fucking lezzy slag, and that all lezzies slags should be hung!” the lead girl concluded, as she spat at Sendara, before joining her companions to board the train.
Bravely fighting her tears, Sendara wiggled her lovely figure toward the rear of the train, seeking the roped off area in the end coach, where such as herself now had to travel.
As she walked in her tiptop-of-tiptoe enforcing ballet shoes, her near tears blinding her turquoise soul-lanterns, her stunning legs showed all their understated gentle muscularity.
Sendara glided toward the train to the sound of insulting wolf-whistles from the Hetzi Party Youth League girls that had just been threatening her.
In her hurry to escape their attentions, though, and with the tears that filled her eyes, she got on at the front end of the rear coach, instead of at the very rear.
And now a call came: “You! You know who I’m talking to!” It was the conductress on the train, who had spotted, in the not long distance, the pink garter on Sendara’s long legs: legs loping as she strode, displaying her perfect muscle tone, a gentle gazelle, with the radiant waves of her luxuriant hair flouncing as it danced around her shapely ankles when she swept along toward the open doors leading to the haven of her carriage.
At the shout from the conductress, Sendara realised her error, stepped off and ran in her tiptoe-shoes to the very rear access, which was shutting as the conductress, having ordered Sendara get out of where she was not allowed to board, now closed the electric slide-doors careless of weather Sendara made it onboard her train at all.
When at last she sat on the worn and tattered seat, Sendara unavoidably shaped her gorgeous legs, toes, in her front-heeled ballet shoes, pointing straight to the coach floor, curving her calves beyond the descriptive abilities of earthly geometry, as her hem rose to reveal a vast expanse of massive supremely-white bare thigh.
Distressed by the further sign of cruelty from the train’s conductress, Sendara, eager to hide herself away, had dashed to an empty place and sat quickly, by more or less sliding down into the seat, thus causing not only her hem rising far further up her completely naked snow-white thighs than she intended, but also the crutch of her thong panties to be tugged up hard against her potent purse, promising to divide her honeypot’s lips, it was pulled so tight.
Uncomfortable though this was, Sendara chose thankfulness for the shelter from those being cruel to her, over the wish to rearrange her clothing. She wanted to hide herself away in the corner seat she had adopted.
She was, of course, unaware of the wisps of red curls, only a shade darker than her glorious coiffure, that were consequently sneak-peeking out from the sides of her panty’s gusset, as some of her nether tresses escaped her pulled-tight panty’s crutch, and were exposed like all-consuming flames: flickering prominences around her pink-hot sun: the unquenchable flames around her insatiable vulva.
Sendara longed to cross her fabulous thighs so as to hide the shaming garter; but, so close were her knees to one of the two luscious blue-eyed blondes in the seats opposite hers, and with her legs being so long, she could not do so without asking to be excused.
Her heart still pounding with the late onset of the fear she had bravely held at bay on the platform, Sendara closed her eyes in relief, only to open them again when she heard neighing noises and equine-like snorts from the mocking Hetzi Youth League girls, who had made their way to the chain that marked off where the confessed lesbians were required to sit, away from the rest of the public.
Sendara knew only too well, that the neighs and snorts and the one ‘forefoot’ pawing of the ground by the chief among her tormentors, was meant to convey that her insulters considered her to be a Girl-Farm candidate, and her brief deep rose blush of shame contrasted her lovely face with the dream cream-white of her huge bare thighs and of her heavily heaving heavenly heavy breasts.
One of the girls opposite looked up, and Sendara tried to smile.
It was a failed attempt to communicate. Sendara should have known better. Black leather had taken the place of the pink they wore when these girls, the two sat opposite her, had been mere Girl-Control officers.
With the arrival in power of the Hetzis, young women such as these, had taken that cause to heart, and the consequent conversion course that enabled them to transfer to the Central Lesbian Identification and Termination Sisteren: the CLITS: the Hetzi’s morality police.
It did not need the girl who had been admiring Sendara’s escaped pubic hair, flickering its flaming wildfire from the sides of her panty’s crotch, to cross her black stocking clad legs, and thus show the Hetzi Party garter she wore around her left thigh, just below her suspender clasp, for Sendara to wish she could be anywhere other than where she was at that moment.
As she crossed her left leg over her right, being practicedly careful with the wheel spurs she wore at the top end of the heels of her twelve-inch stiletto knee-high calf-hugging jackboots, the buttock bottom revealing slit in the girl’s black-leather miniskirt flashed her enormous thigh.
And the garter around that thigh, her thighband, showed the Hetzi Party and government symbol. The garter was blood red, but for a white circle, in which, embroidered in black, a huge erect and upthrusting human phallus, pierced a tall slim oval, representing the lips of a delicate quim.
Sendara wished she could hide. So great was her fear that she felt sure she must defecate. Yet she knew that she, as a labelled lesbian, was not allowed to use the lavatories on the train, or at the train stations come to that.
Her guess, which was right, was that these two girls were Girl-Farm warders, and that they had some unfortunates under their charge. Otherwise they could have chosen to sit in the very best seats on the train, instead of the slum quarters Sendara was obliged to occupy.
A clunk and clank of couplings confirmed as much. One of the notorious prison wagons had obviously just been attached to the rear of the train.
At least, that was what Sendara assumed, since, other than to be near the cages such trucks contained, there was no need of these CLITS to sit where they were.
The unfortunates in the truck would be girls caught in each other’s arms, or alleged to have been so caught. The CLITS got a bounty for every un-outed lesbian they rounded up. Spies were everywhere. No girl now dare to have even the most innocent relationship with another girl.
For those, like Sendara, whose only desires were for the highest love of all, that of one girl for another, life had become hell.
The choice for such girls was between trying to hide that they had the divine orientation, and thus risk being caught and imprisoned; or a public admission by the open wearing of the pink garter: a symbol that ensured that, for an absolute certainty, no other girl would ever come near her: a symbol that made a girl a prisoner even though not behind prison walls as such.
Now the Hetzi Party was in power, the pink garter was the cruel symbol that all confessed lesbians were forced to wear, to label them, and single them out from the rest of society. And so Sendara had had to settle for sitting in the litter-strewn unclean partitioned-off area of the train. She wore the garter, and was therefore, in the new parlance, an ‘under-girl’.
Sendara
by Eve Adorer
PART 2 (TWO)
How had this come about? Well, take a financial crash, and the certainty it would wipe out fortunes and industry and commerce, as assured as the guarantee that its parallel in the late 1920s would be taken as offering no lessons for this recurrence.
Then take the fact that the post crash nations were confrontational once more, and needing their populations boosted to provide armament factory workers and soldiery.
Take also the fact that the new rush to arms needed money. It also needed a disciplined society. Furthermore it needed the poor to stay poor whilst the economy was bled of the wealth they, the working people, actually created.
At least, that was the view of the self-interested wealthy: the monied class that had grown from the ashes of the old economy after the boom bubble had burst with a second bang; this one scoring 1929-plus on the Richter scale.
Lesbians had been an easy target. They were not productive in the sense of being reproductive. The Hetzis had a leader, Adela Hilter, whose love, it was rumoured, but categorically denied of course, had been spurned by a gorgeous actress, who had since died in mysterious circumstances.
In her book, ‘Nein Camp’, written in her long years of frustrating opposition to the then prevailing but rapidly declining liberal-democracy, Hilter had told of the international conspiracy of lesbians and capitalists who were seeking to bleed the heterosexual majority of their rights.
Focusing hatred on a minority kept the majority happy.
Lesbians had become the target of blame for the horrors of the long years of the second post Wall Street crash rebuild. Hilter had made sure of that. In her election campaign, word was put about that during the long years of the slump, when many girls were quite literally starving, the lesbians had lived in luxury with the black-marketeers, whilst the rest of the populace had suffered.
Two years had passed since Hilter’s first coming to power. Whether because of their policies, or because it would have happened anyway, England had recovered to an economic state akin to that it was in, in the first decade of the twenty-first century. But the clampdown on lesbians continued; indeed, had even increased.
The public were sure the Hetzi Party had delivered the new comfort of full employment and excellent pay for the working day: so convinced in fact that they had voted for the last time, as they overwhelming elected Hilter as Lord High Protector of England, in a second ballot one year from her first election win.
The persecution of lesbians was cruel and futile; but it kept the nation distracted, and provided sport for the network of servants in the Hetzi Party’s employ: the CLITS not least. So much was it now part of the accepted way of the modern world, that even the liberal press praised it, if faintly, describing it as: “a justifiable aberration” and “an unfortunate necessity”.
……………………
The Chinese girl who wandered into the train carriage compartment Sendara blessed with her presence, was simply stunning. She was perhaps twenty, five-seven to five-eight tall, with straight black hair from her head to her bottom. Her honey-complexioned oval face glowed with a loving smile. Her light brown orientally narrowed eyes shone.
She wore a white blouse with its sleeves rolled up just above her elbows, thus exposing the profuse soft down on her slim forearms. Within that blouse her little breasts cavorted like kittens at play.
And she wore shorts. She was bare legged in tiny white shorts that showed the concave hollows in her ample firm buttocks, caused by the front-heeled ballet-shoes she wore, raising her legs to very shapely perfection.
Her shorts were so short they also revealed crescents of bare bottom, and so clinging that, what they outlined between her tanned thighs, confirmed that she was undoubtedly a girl.
For all the girls sitting in the carriage, to look at her was irresistible. For none to have done so was inadmissible. Like all girls, they looked her over to compare notes. They assessed her ‘bedability’ and saw that she was extremely attractive.
Had the Chinese girl’s lovely legs been able to blush, they would have done so. All eyes ran them up and down repeatedly, making her lose countenance and flush a confused profuse puce.
To cover for her embarrassment, she nervously swept her raven hair back with her pretty little hands: completely unnecessarily, as it was in perfect order down her femininely curved back.
“Can we help you sweetheart?” asked one of the CLITS, the one sat opposite Sendara, the one who had crossed her shapely thighs.
“I look for lavatory?” the Chinese angel whispered in shy innocent mezzo.
“Other end of the coach darling”, the CLITS officer advised, even as her eyes repeated the tour of the Chinese’s extremely shapely legs.
“So sorry” the girl whispered, now clearly enjoying being ogled, and she gave a sweet seductive smile over her shoulder: a ‘do you like my bum?’ smile over her shoulder, as she went back past the chain that marked off where the likes of Sendara must sit, on the way to fulfil the urgent mission of discharging her mulled wine.
……………………
After the sweet Chinese girl was out of view: “Jeese! Did you see the fucking legs on that?!” the cross-thighed girl enquired, unnecessarily, of her fellow CLITS officer.
“Yea! Too fucking right! And there were two of them!”
“I’ve heard of Chinese crackers, now I think I’ve just fucking seen one!” her equally lascivious companion replied.
“Wouldn’t mind putting her across my knee and playing the finale of the 1812 on that bum of hers, that’s for sure”, she added.
“Did you notice the lezzy looking her over as well?” the crossed-legged girl enquired, meaning to be cruel to Sendara, whose crutch with the tight crotch of her panties pulled hard against her honeypot, with the incendiary flames of her escaped pubic curls consequent, were in her eyeline, and inflaming her.
“Yea I did. And if I could be assed to get my whip out, I’d give the fucking slag a taste of what for”, the companion CLITS constable answered, in a near bored yawn.
Sendara lowered her lovely eyes, in fear but not shame. She was terrified the CLITS officers would beat her up. And therefore relieved, with or without justification, she was unsure which, when the seat next to her was suddenly occupied.
At least she was relieved for the split-second before she realised that her new companion was not a fellow pink-garter wearer.
“You’ve got gorgeous tits. Bet your girlfriend likes to kiss them don’t she?”
“Bet you’ve got really massive nips ain’t you? You lezzy girls have always got enormous nips with all that tit sucking you do to get each other off.”
“Bet they’re even bigger in this hot weather. Heat makes them swell up don’t it? Bet your lezzy lover loves to suck them then don’t she?”
As he breathed his halitosis and alcohol mix over her, the man now sat on Sendara’s right, had already unzipped his jeans, and was working his erect bare cock like a slide-trombone at the crescendo of a jazz solo.
Disgusted and horribly embarrassed, Sendara strained her head to one side to look out of the window.
“Look at my cock darling!” the overheated drunken man demanded.
“That’s what you lezzies really want. That’d cure you. A cock hard up you and you’d go like this fucking train darling: bet you would.”
“Our next station stop will be Caressall. That’s Caressall for our next station stop. Please be careful to mind the gap when the train enters. Caressall is our next station stop. Thank you”, the conductress’ sweet voice almost sang over the public address in the carriages.
“Look at my prick darling! Would you like to feel it? You’ve got lovely long fingers. Toss me off will you eh? I’d love to be tossed off by a lezzy.”
Tears teased the corners of Sendara’s lovely loving eyes as the raincoat-clad man continued to work himself off on the stunning beauty of her body.
The train began to leave Caressall, and the conductress announced over the speakers: “For the benefit of passengers who have joined us at Caressall, our next station stop will be Wetnow, followed by, Fingerin, Kissnow, Lickit, Camford, and Cunnilingham Central, where this train terminates. We apologise that we are running a little late, owing to our wait at Hondon for a cage-wagon to be connected to the rear of the train. But we hope to come inside Wetnow in approximately ten minutes. Thank you.”
“Look at my cock darling! You’ve got such fucking beautiful thighs. Bet your girlfriends love to have their heads crushed by your fucking thighs wrapped around their faces till they’re smothered by the smell of your cunny don’t they?”
“Bet they long to have your fucking gorgeous thighs crushing their faces into your crack so their noses can only smell the real you, and their tongues have to lick-beg you for your thighs not to crush their fucking skulls, don’t they darling?”
“Toss me off bitch. I’ve always wanted to be tossed off by a fucking lezzy.”
Sendara did not need to turn her tear-caressed face to know that the man’s demands needed only disappointment by her for his excitement to grow.
Her cool distance and hot proximity were both fuels for his desire.
He wanted not to be touched by her but to touch the untouchable: Sendara’s agonising beauty.
Sendara’s unspoken refusal, her turning her head away in distress, aroused him the more.
“Look at my cock darling or I’ll slap your fucking lezzy face!”
As she turned for fear he would indeed hit her, the train hurtled down the tracks no faster than Sendara’s soft tears trickled down her stunning face.
“That’s better darling. You’ve got such fucking beautiful legs sweetheart” the raincoat man hissed as he worked his foreskin with increasing fury.
“You got fucking beautiful thighs! Oh fuck you got…oh fuck fuck fuck you got fucking ….oh fuck fucking fucking fuck fucking fucking fuck, oh god you got such fucking beautiful thighs, I want your fucking thighs crushing my fucking face, I want you sat on my face, I want your sweaty cunt sat on my fucking face” he hissed through tightly gritted teeth, till, in the very instant that the train shot into the Wetnow tunnel, his semen at last spurted, and then trailed down his still rampant stem.
“You’ll feel a whole lot better for a rub down with this darling”, he then mocked as he caught up his spunk in the palm of his right hand, and worked its still warm stickiness: his salty secretion, his semen, drying in the heat of her hot body, on the inside of Sendara’s beyond beautiful bare right milk-white thigh”
As the expended drunken raincoat man ointmented her thigh with his smelly semen, and finally wiped his fingers over the god-given-lips of her beautiful mouth, Sendara fought her sobs.
The filth of his fresh excrescence now dried on the beauty of her inner right thigh, and under her passionately flaring nostrils, nauseated her, yet she dare not try and cleanse herself of its mockery.
Re-housing his now flaccid prick in his jeans, as he rose to go back to his own seat further up the carriage, the raincoat man seemed pleased with his efforts.
Sendara fought bravely not to cry once more.
“Look at me darling” the raincoat man demanded as he backed out from the seat beside her.
Sendara looked her angel’s face up: and he spat on her kiss. He spat on her gorgeous bee-stung lips.
“Fucking lezzy slag!” he derided as he departed.
No other passenger on the train even turned as they heard his abuse. Indeed the two CLITS officers had fallen asleep, one of their blonde heads resting on the other’s black-leather-clad shoulder.
No passenger turned when the raincoat man had insulted and ravished her. Nor did they turn when he brushed past the three teenage Hetzi Youth League girls, who had come past the chain, each brandishing a one of the long-necked-bottles of wine sold on the train, two emptied, and a third full, with its cork stopper still in place, and blustered in their newfound wine-fuelled bravery.
“Yea. That’s right. You’re a fucking lezzy slag, and me and my mates here are gonna take you into the fucking John, and show you what your three holes were really made for, you girl-murdering bitch.”
And nor did the other passengers turn as the Hetzi girls dragged the screaming Sendara down the central aisle of the coach, forcing her along by pulling her glorious hair, or when they heard the lavatory door bolt slammed locked, or even when they heard her lovely face being slapped in barbaric foreplay for the pain with which she was about to pay for being exclusively a lover of the divine way.
…………………..
The constant memory of her life with Sukie before the ordeal of her bottle-rape, had awoken Sendara to the need to take action. But it also met with Sendara’s fear that she could not overcome her fear of doing so.
She knew Sukie was right. Or at least, unless she went ahead with the speech she had written as a plea for tolerance of lesbianism, Sukie would be right.
The bottle-rape had left Sendara torn and bleeding. The girls raping her had also bitten her nipples and her clitoris, and, to her everlasting shame, Sendara had cum.
Nobody had rushed to her aid, even when she had struggled to walk, in her steepling shoes, off the train, her clothing irreparably torn, and blood trickling from her bitten nipples.
She had had to walk all the way through Camford town, the three miles from the station to the university, bleeding, and almost naked, except for the mocking pink garter she must always wear.
Sukie had been exceptional. She had saved her tears till she had bathed her lover and nursed her well.
But the rape and the cum had ended their relationship.
Sendara never mentioned the cum. The fact she had orgasmed repeatedly during her rape, had shamed her so deeply at the time, and still did now in retrospect, such that she pushed the matter to the deepest recesses of the back of her mind. Even so, it surfaced in her wet-dreams.
The rape had decided Sendara on celibacy. In the two years since its occurrence she had foregone other girls, and even refrained from the joy of masturbation.
For a passionate girl like Sendara, to forego pleasuring herself: for her to not worship the heavenly beauty of her own body was the highest of high sacrifices as well as the deepest of deep tragedies.
Sendara knew she could only really cum now if she masturbated brutally. In the aftermath of the bottle-rape, she had, just the once, found herself slapping her own breasts in preparation for the wine bottle she had half drunk and was arousing herself to sip with her other lips: to slip between her other lips: to force up herself; and had stopped herself, even though to go without relief was an agony, an untold agony to forever stoke her feminine desire fires.
……………………
As she waited for the return of her luggage after the security scan at the airport, all of these sad thoughts ran through Sendara’s brilliant mind, a mind tortured by her enforced celibacy.
“Professor Angelskiss?”
The uniformed Cunnilingual Airways ground-staff girl walking a waltz toward her, was a very pretty brown-eyed brunette, whose figure threatened hourglasses with lawsuits for middling falsification of statistics.
Sendara turned.
“I thought it must be you. My colleague said to look for a lovely redhead”, the ground-staff girl blurted out, before her face burned scarlet.
“Oh I’m so sorry!” she blushed, “Mummy keeps telling me off for thinking out loud….”, she apologised.
Sendara smiled lovingly.
“I’m sorry professor; but your flight has been cancelled” the ground stewardess conveyed, with a look of genuine sympathy.
“And…and… I’m so sorry as well professor, but your luggage has been damaged”, the sweet girl whispered sympathetically.
“Would all passengers for Cunnilingual Airways flight 362436 to Ntoli City, please report to terminal 96 with their tickets ready”, a tinny female voice announced, amid feedback squawks, over the departure lounge tannoy.
“That’s my flight”, Sendara whispered, as if she could deny the truth of what the sweet girl had just told her.
“I’m afraid not professor”, the blushing angel confirmed.
“I think it’s all so wrong miss. It really and truly is. But some passengers, two women who said you’d been looking at them, objected… you know… about travelling with someone wearing the pink garter?”
“Can I get another flight?” Sendara asked, knowing she knew the answer even before the ground stewardess shook her fresh-washed soft brown perfumed curls, and shyly said: “Not on Cunnilingual Airways I’m afraid. And that means not to Ntoli, as we have sole rights on that route miss”.
“I’m so sorry miss. Really and truly I am!” the sweet girl apologised from her gentle heart.
“Can I get you a cab maybe?” she added, as she brushed a comforting hand on Sendara’s bare forearm to seal the truth of her sincerity.
“No thank you. You have been kindness itself”, Sendara answered.
The girl began to walk away, but then returned.
“Please believe me. It was my boss that did it. She can be such a cow”, the stewardess explained for an as yet unknown cause.
As the miniskirted porteresses put her luggage around her pretty feet, Sendara’s eyes were drawn immediately to the strangely deformed look of her electronic notebook.
Thanking the young women who had taken her luggage off the flight she had been refused, Sendara picked up her laptop and, after a struggle opened it.
Something, probably a stiletto heel by the look of it, had stabbed through the screen, the same heel or heels had irreparably ruined its interior workings, and all the keys were missing from the keyboard, bar nine.
Sendara’s sad eyes looked these over.
In ‘qwerty’ keyboard formation, they read: ‘!etyulzcn’, which Sendara’s sharp brain instantly translated from its anagrammatic form, to the cruel insult: ‘lezy cunt!’.
As she closed the lid of her ruined laptop once more, the glorious beauty, Sendara Angelskiss, was only just winning the fight not to cry.
……………………
“Well, what do you reckon?” Lianta Smith asked, praying that her fellow leading lady would not be too displeased with the film’s rushes.
“But where do we go from there?” the stunning titian haired Angelica Amalata responded, not entirely unenthusiastically; but with a hint she knew the project had ‘terminal status’ as a subliminal subtitle all through, and that she had been saving up the point just made, for days since before now.
Despite herself, Lianta answered, only with a downcast sigh.
Angelica tried to cheer her: “Look Lianta. You know I believe in what you’re about. You’re the real deal. Calling the public’s attention to what the Hetzi’s did and are still doing over there in England, has got to be the best of causes. I’ve even put my reputation on the line by playing Angelskiss. Cripes knows I could never be as brave as she was later on in life.”
“But I haven’t got any more to give the cause. You heard the latest from the Republican candidates. Come November and a landslide for Renata Ragen, and we’re gonna have got our own Hetzi government over here stateside.”
You ain’t gonna find a distributor anyways, sweetheart. You and I know it both.”
“My advice would be that you trash it before they find it.”
In her heart of hearts, Lianta had known for weeks that this response had been simmering. But hearing it from Angelica’s lovely lips was still so dispiriting, that, as she still sat before the tape editor, her head slowly sunk even lower than her heart.
Angelica knew she had delivered a fatal blow to the flawed project she’d long since known must be headed for the cutting room floor.
So she knew she must pause for poor Lianta to re-find her determination to go on: to go on without this, her pet project.
It was therefore several moments later that Lianta’s face arose amid the sensational scent of the superabundance of incendiary curls that surrounded and surrendered her, as Angelica’s sweet lips sought to softly console her.
And, as Angelica’s gentle right hand, whiter than a ghost’s, led the Nubian negress Lianta to their long-shared bedroom; both actresses longed to share tongues in the way they had dreamed all day: oh…. at least sixty-nine times.
And, as Angelica’s gentle right hand, as white in contrast as her aroused nipples were pink and her engorged lips coral, led the Nubian negress Lianta to their long-shared bedroom; her left grasped a wine bottle from the stage set and hid it behind her provocatively penduluming rear.
…………………..
As she closed the lid of her ruined laptop once more, the glorious beauty, Sendara Angelskiss, was only just winning the fight not to cry.
The agony’ agony she had endured that day when the leading Hetzi girl had forced a wine bottle completely into her and its neck had broken off and lodged up her: when her cunt had swallowed a whole wine bottle: a bottle pushed so high up inside her that she had gagged and nearly wretched, after she had belched, and then screamed with a massive cum: a cum of fulfilment at her full-fillment, had been only a mild portent of what was to come.
Sendara never mentioned the cums. That she had orgasmed repeatedly during her bottle-rape of her throat her anus and her cunt on the train, had shamed her so deeply at the time, and still did now in retrospect, that she pushed that fact to the deepest recesses of the back of her mind. Even so, it surfaced in her wet-dreams.
For then had come the walk home with the broken-off bottle’s neck still right up inside her, irremovably inside her, so that her every sensual step masturbated her, and its jagged end ripped her sheath.
As she stagger-stepped from the train tousled titian-tress temptress steepled in her front-heeled shoes on her supremely shapely sensationally sexy limbs, had her stunning legs ever looked longer?
Nobody lent a hand to help the distressed angel. The bitter bite of the breeze on her bitten nipples emboldened them to the stiffest attentive erectness: to painfully stiff peaks: split peaks bleeding from the cruel bites of her rapists. Yet nobody lent a hand to help the angel.
For then had come the walk home with the wine bottle’s neck still right up high up inside her, irremovably inside her, so that her every sensual step masturbated her sheath.
And as she stepped one languorously long supremely smooth strong divinely sexy leg off the train, she belched. Unbecomingly, unapologetically, she belched, long and crudely, because of the high-thrust phallus that had taken her intimacy.
And she wiggled. She was wanton with wiggle. Her salivating cunt slabbered its secret secretions, as her rip-raped phallus-filled vagina cuddled its cruel invader.
Sendara wiggled wantonly because she was wanton. The bottle-rape had unloosed the whore in her. The phallus-filled Sendara was slut, and her walk hooker’s stroll, as she masturbated herself with the enormity of the penetration, that she wanted so to expel, but which could not help but tell her that she needed what was up her to continue its brutal penetration and merciless rape of her gentle body.
So she wiggled and her bare bottom waved flag for a flogging. And so too her breasts. And so to her breasts. She was bare there. She waved them as she walked, and their wave talked of her wanting what she was getting, even though she had never before been penetrated, and her hymen had paid the ultimate penance, and was still sacrificing the scarlet blood that trickled the insides of her fabulous ghost white thighs.
The agonising pain of her god’s wedding ring being split in the rape, had made her cum, and now its tattered remains retained the brutal bottle’s sheared neck up her.
At all of twenty-four she had still been a virgin and was now a slattern, slobbering her sexual juices as she snaked her swinging hips, and licked her bee-stung lips, and eyed all around with the blind wantonness, of a woman on the height of heat, begging that her other holes be filled, and her tits slapped, and her nipples pulled, and her clitoris squeezed, till she screamed with another cum.
And Sendara had walked her sexually sensual walk: from the town to where she donned gown, as the professor she had become, before the wanton whore that was her, now that her womanly wiles had been made wild by the rape, and she filled with the phallus she masturbated in her nurturing sheath as she wiggled, her legs never longer, her lips never bolder, her thighs never stronger, her breasts waving wild in wanton wander, her eyes aflame with the fires of desires that she be taken yet higher than the cums that had already come, as her glorious hair, an incendiary pyre no redder than where her fingernails had driven stigmata of her sacrifice to pain into her palms, as the bottles had been pushed up her cunt and her anus again and again and again, to her repeated refrain of screams, that told of her love of the pain no more boldly that the juices that flowed from her cunny, joined by the blood of her ripped praetorian, as her ring had been dashed aside and sundered, as she was plundered without mercy, until the snapping thrust that had filled her and filled her still, making her wanton animal infinitely femininely feminised by her rape.
And the continuing presence of the broken bottle’s residue up her cunt so hard and so high, in her mile-long walk all but naked as nature giving way to girls’ nature as she nurtured her torture and knew she would cum. And she wanted to cum but not yet cum. for the journey, the pain of the journey, the humiliation of the journey, was joy as she masturbated with her wanton whore’s wiggle and her bottom’s undulations, and her breasts beat soundless bells to sweep aside the weak who could not look on such a girl as this and not weep.
And Sendara knew she was going to cum and let no one touch her, oh please god let no one touch her, for no one could touch her for her stunning beauty as she worked her body with her sensual sexual walk, as she walked her mile in penance for her rape and her cums on the train as the bottles had been pushed up her cunt and her bum again and again, and still she was in pain from the bottle’s neck pushed into her pink, the phallus she womanly nurtured as in feminine nature as a child borne as yet unborn, even though the child was cold cruel glass that had her hymen torn as its neck kissed her fallopians with its final thrust and she had belched with the enormity of its insistence and its enormity of distance up her and its enormity of enormity filling her vagina…
….But Suki saw and ran to her: she saw her love so dishevelled, with her glorious golden hair in sweat-matted tangles, as she walked supremely femininely on superbly beautiful legs toward her. And Sendara’s glorious eyes begged Suki not to touch her, but Suki must embrace with her gentle love, and so Sendara’s cunt must crush, for she came now as her cunt crashed-in the walls of the bottle’s residue inside her and, as her vagina went into paralysed crunching seizure at Suki’s sweet embrace, the bottle’s neck imploded.
And, after it had burst, crushed, shattered, smashed to slivers by the massive grip of her vagina’s crushing walls, Sendara’s cunt was ripped by the shards of the glass when she gave it birth. And her waters were her blood, and her child was the broken glass that her cunt expelled, as she squealed, sexually screeching with the joy of the agony, at her love-lips being torn, and at her sheath being sliced and ripped. And, as Sendara screamed with the pain of her cum, she screamed as she became her cunt and her cunt became her soul, with her blood now trickling out of her as afterbirth while Sendara writhed on the ground, a white galleon tossed on the tumultuous waves of her sea of flame red curls, her sweaty thighs clasped clapped in iron grasp, as she fought to increase the agony of her cunt’s ripping, by grinding the razor sharp shards still within her, deeper into its inner pink, while she came and came with cum after endless cum, till even a girl as fit and strong as she, must faint with her excruciating joy from her even more excruciating agony from her excruciating agony’s agony.
………………..
And, as the two actresses from the incomplete film of Sendara Angelskiss’ incomplete life story, made their way to make love: as actress Angelica Amalata’s almost transparent gentle right hand led the Nubian negress and actress-director Lianta Smith to their long-shared bedroom; neither actress had changed outfit from recent participation in their roles…..both still wore, on their left thighs just above their pretty knees, ….. pink garters
The Little Sister
(a Charlotte Moans prequel)
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis:
In this prequel to ‘Dead Dames Don’t Lick’, (posted as a separate story on this site) Charlotte Moans finds herself on her first case as a newly-minted Private Investigator......
The Little Sister
(a Charlotte Moans prequel)
by Eve Adorer
I stood back and read the graffito on the door. As of right now it should have read ‘wet paint’. Instead it shouted: ‘Splayed Moans’. I’d always liked the sound of that. But; to get back to the wording I’d just splashed on the door’s window, I’d stencil in: ‘Detective Agency’ later.
For me, Samantha was everything now. Samantha? My partner, Samantha Splayed – ‘Sam Splayed’ to those in the know. You never heard of her? You will. Read on.
Sam and me, we’d done cop training and three years uniform together. We’d gotten close in that time. It was a mutual thing. We were partners and more than partners. If two sixes added up to sixty-nine, the saying: ‘six of one and a half-dozen of the other’, would have summed it up swell.
Sam and me had just moved into 122V Faker Street: our office and living quarters.
The rent was a tad high and our bank balances read red, but there are always ways of keeping costs down.
Our landlady, Mrs Hodson, had an eye for the girls, and Sam had a tongue in her head. So, Sam had dared to ask, and Mrs Hodson had answered in the enthusiastic affirmative. And just now, even as I daubed brush, I could hear Mrs Hodson’s moans from downstairs.
Sure I could have been jealousized; but hey, Sam was just getting warmed up for a romp with me later in the day, and, at least for this first month there would be no rent to pay.
Our office and its anteroom, the annex Sam and I’d minded to be reception-lobby time to come, were in total chaos, doors flung wide. So the first I saw of the stranger was a shapely silhouette when it caught my eye, and my first thought was ‘neighbour come to say hello’, so I sured that the handle of my blackjill cosh was quick-draw out my pocket, and went to pay call.
Don’t get me wrong none. Faker Street was then, and is still now, a good neighbourhood. Good neighbours abound in good neighbourhoods don’t they? Well, that’s the theory. Me, I reckon a saint is just a sinner who ain’t got found out yet. So I wanted know who was nosey parker around our still packed move-in crates.
In I went on tiptoe to surprise her. I knew how best do that. Once a cop always a cop at heart: least wise training don’t get forgot.
I was not sure if she heard me approach or knew I was there yet. She stayed where she was and continued curious about whatever she was peeking into or looking for.
She was a sensation. She was the cutest blonde, with the neatest middle parting you could ever wish to see. And her hair was shorn so neat and tidy, that it made me wonder if it matched what was under her hat.
As she rose up and her hemline came down, my eyes needed a new home.
I’d just seen her nest. When she turned, I was negatively disappointed by the rest. She was one delicious dame.
Under her perky baby-blue pillbox I could see she was ripe corn blonde to match her snatch.
She had shoulder-blade-kissing curls that also moment wandered over and shaded her right eye peek-a-boo-style. That Vagina Lake lady came to mind: the 1940s actress with the unruly hairstyle?
Maybe the eye-covering curl and the spider-web net dangling down from the saucily slanted millinery to cover her dial, were meant as a mercy. One baby-blue eye had me transfixed already: two on full view, and I would have been butter on a summer sidewalk.
I took the ticket and started the tour. But, after a tick and tock, I’d already decided I would have to come back to her legs later. Only infinity could match their divinity, and my life, unlike them, wasn’t long enough.
The best things in life are free, and so were her tits. She had a matchless matched pair of market melons, with a cleavage that’d give the Grand Canyon an inferiority complex. She also had nips that loved provoking. They were propping out her dress’ top like conical tepees.
The top and bottom matched size wise. And, what was in between would have made hourglasses sue their slimming consultants for money back.
As if that needed emphasis, she had a broad baby-blue suede waist-belt, which, like the hat, seductively slanted, though opposite slope, because it had so little to grab a hold of around her middle.
She was up on her toes in high class, not High Street, stainless-steel-toe-capped baby-blue heelless ballet shoes. They gave sensational shape to legs sculpted by nature and nurture. Her divine calves showed she was one fit chick.
Her dress, based on baby-blue as if you needed me to say, proved that where fashion-house creations are concerned, the bigger the price, the less you get for your dollar.
That went both for size and material. The diagonal candy-striped baby-blue and white of her couture-cultured little number, was shorter lived in line, than a nightdress’ in time on a wedding night. It also had apparent transparency; yet it somehow managed to hide the delights inside.
I certainly wasn’t complaining. It was one delicious sensation worn by god’s finest creation.
The seams of her baby-blue nylons were peerlessly straight. Though she wore no panties, she hadn’t forgotten her baby-blue suspenders, and, visible beyond her hemline, they fought to stop her stocks sliding down her endless curved smoothness, by hauling huge vees at outside sides of the darker blue stocking tops circling her stupendous thighs.
She was dream and cream. Her face had the complexion of a redhead’s ghost; but her pout’s pout, had the richness and moisture of ripe strawberries. A bet that her nipples were twin twins with the colour of her lips wouldn’t even have gotten you evens.
She was cool too. I don’t mean that such little as she wore meant she was well ventilated on such a hot day, though that was clearly true. I mean that she took my open-mouthed head to toes ogling of her five-eight, with an air of relaxed expectation. She knew she was dynamite. She’d probably been knocking the girls dead since she’d reached first teen. Now she’d topped that with twelve more and gotten used to admirers drooling.
“Hi” she whispered; then dropped her head and eyes, genuinely shy.
Her voice purred like a French kitten snuggled in a polar bear rug.
“How can I help you lady?” I casualled, except that my voice squeaked, obliging me to clear throat and do a repeat, so as to make out that my squawk was not caused by the lump her voice, face and body had made in my throat and my clit.
“I lost my purse?” she whispered distractedly, with her eyes darting side to side to better focus their seductive beams in mine, even while her mind was for search and find.
I was minded to say I’d just seen that it was safe and sound between her goddam gorgeous thighs, but I wanted to make her blush with something less direct than that.
I wanted know why she was poking around Sam’s and my place. I was going to detain her till I found out what she was at. Okay, so I couldn’t take my eyes of her either. But there has to be some payback for a PI’s lot in life, and this chick was first prize in that otherwise losing lottery.
“Suppose we start with your name honey?” I serioused.
“That is my name”, she meowed with a hint of giggle.
“What do you mean sweetheart?” I queried.
“No, not ‘Sweetheart’!, she teased, with a definitive giggle this time: I’m Honey – Honey Godmade?” And I wanted to bow and kiss the long fingers she now put my way to hello say.
“Ooh there it is!” she then cried, and gave me another flash of heaven’s gates, as she bent and picked up her purse and baby-blue gloves from where she’d forgotten she’d temporarily put them.
When she straightened and turned to face me again, her eyes said she knew where mine had just been, and what they had seen. And her face said she hoped I’d enjoyed it.
I mentalled a tumble with this babe: a fight I’d willingly lose. But that daydream ended nightmare with my face helplessly nut-crackered ‘tween her thighs, and my nose inside her petals stunned by her bouquet, even while my tongue couldn’t reach to lick her across the finishing line.
“Are you just passing neighbour Honey, or did you threshold with something on your mind?” I calm voiced, despite my equilibrium doing yoyo pogo.
“Are you Sam Splayed?” she queried, with a look that I read as her saying she’d warm my bed if the invite was said. It was a look of guilless innocence in a sense. Her whole being spoke of sex and yet of touching untouchability.
“No”, I answered. I’m Sam’s partner: Charlotte Moans: but to friends and neighbours, it’s ‘Charley’”
“Why lovely to meet you Charley. You’re sweet!” she slow-meowed, making a raindrop of hot perspiration trickle and tickle my spinal cord.
I wished she were friend and neighbour. I didn’t know yet if she was even just neighbour. But I still minded not one jot that she gave me my ‘Charley’ handle, like I’d given her permit to be so cosy already.
“Why are you looking for Sam?” I continued, in order to try and get my mind back on track.
“I may not look like a girl who wants to get both hands on a dick; but I do”, she innocently sincered.
“My momma said ‘if you want a good private detective, go see Sam’. Momma and Sam’s mom, Natasha Splayed, were raised same town, and volunteered cop together. They were doing great at police college till mom copped a slug in her spine on parole patrol. She’s still wheelchair; but you better believe there ain’t no one more independent than my momma…”
I could hear the sweet tears of love in Honey’s voice, as she spoke of her ma’s tragedy, and for me it was instant dime drop.
“Honey Godmade! You’re Senta Olove’s daughter. Senta Olove who was Senta Godmade before she married…what was her husband’s name?….. I queried, as if it was quiz night at the precinct canteen, cruelly forgetting that I was talking in Honey’s sweet presence about Honey’s dearest ones.
“My other momma was…. is ….. Plenty Olove, but Senta and she got a divorce, a year after my sis was born?” Honey informed, with sadness in her tone.
“I remember now!” I rejoiced. “Sam and you and your sis did school together. Your sister is Unica Lee Godmade, am I right, or am I right?”
“You’re right alright Charley”, Honey purr-mewed, with sadness hinting, and diamonds glinting edge her eyes.
I sensed that under the sweet smile and the golden giggle, this stunning babe had worry. She clearly knew how to knock another girl dead with her charms, but I somehowed that she used her weaponry to hide her shyness, and, just now, to disguise that she was tears, but for her determination not to show it.
If Honey was the product of her ma and ma making a withdrawal from a sperm bank, then that was the kind of bank account that offered great interest to me. Looking the doll over yet once more, as I couldn’t resist, I almost wished I had the means of making a deposit.
“Sam’s downstairs talking to our landlady right now. But she’ll be knocked out to meet you again Honey. I know she will. She recalled you and your sis to me many a time. She said you were the prettiest pair in the school, and that must mean something, cos Sam’s a great looker herself”, I smiled, thinking of Sam’s kisses.
“It’s about Unica”, Honey sighed.
And, just as I was looking to resist kissing the tears starting in her eyes once more, there came a knock on the opened door just behind us.
It was Mrs Hodson. Mrs Hodson, the landlady, with a very flushed and very pleased face. Mrs Hodson with a seraphic smile playing on her rather attractive mouth. My guess that Sam had been sipping from Mrs Hodson’s honeyhive two-minutes since, would account for her florid face, I was sure.
“Excuse me Miss Moans, but Sam…. I mean Miss Splayed said to say she’d had a call from a Lieutenant Pat McClit at the station house, and was going over right now to see her, and a Captain Kismet Lipps…if I have all that right.”
“You have it dead right Jonita”, I assured Mrs Hodson.
“Did Sam say what McClit and Lipps wanted see her for?”
“No. I’m so sorry Miss Moans. And I never thought to ask”
“No apology needed Jonita. Sam could and should have said; but no mind”, I comforted.
“Does that mean there will only be one for afternoon refreshment now, or would your lovely friend be taking Miss Splayed’s place?”
I turned to see Honey blushing at Mrs Hodson’s compliment, and without consulting, I turned back to Mrs Hodson, and nodded tiffin for two.
……………….
It was a tradition that had come from old England to New England, and one that, with my English ancestry, I liked to preserve.
Honey and I stepped into the main room, and, Mrs Hodson carried in the rattling china on a silver tray with pot, spoons, sugar bowl, and milk jug to match. The tray was silently slid onto the table between Honey and me.
So the table was an overturned wooden crate right now. Come unpack and I’d have got the real deal. But unpack was time to come yet awhiles.
I beckoned Honey to sit, and watched her dress glide up her suspenders, as her hem took a hike and her thighs metamorphosed to magnificent monuments before my eyes.
As she sat, because she was still pirouette in her ballet shoes, her toe-tips still kissed carpet. In consequence, her calves were curves to crave, and her dress slid up so short she was surely kissing the goddam lucky chair with her unclad love cave.
Honey was knees to knees with me now, and I caught the scent with which she would have gloried her panties if only she’d worn some.
To hide that I longed to stroke her, I lifted the pot in my right hand, and ensured it was warm with my left, before raising Honey’s saucered cup, and filling it with the hot brew.
“You’ll like this Honey. It’s Asian. It’s from a specialist on the corner of Leaf Street and Main. A balanced mix of Indian and Chinese, specially imported from the far east, where the girls produce the finest.”
“Milk or sugar?” I enquired after passing her the cup, but Honey was already answering that enquiry with her lovely lips sipping the heavenly heavily scented concoction, just as it had come, straight from the pee pot.
She looked distracted and on the edge of distraught. Her innate good manners were to the fore though, as was her sensational bosom when she leant forward to rest her sipped-from cup back on the tray.
Suddenly I was realise that I was letting my longing to prolong her presence hold sway over my duties.
“Sorry Sam ain’t here, sweetheart, but if you lay down the dope on Unica, I’ll promise you my fullest attention. You’ll be my first PI case, so I’m okay for pro bono for a coupla three days. After that, we can agree a fee…..”
“Money’s not a problem Charley”, Honey overrid in her urgency to say her say.
“I’m clearing more in an hour than most girls my age get paid in a year. You’re looking at the fashion editor of ‘Hi’ magazine’s US edition, save that the appointment up from deputy hasn’t been announced yet”.
“It’s Unica we, momma and me, are worried lots about. We both did college at Bale; Unica and me, but Unica was two years behind me of course? I majored in English; Unica went for mathematics, and was prize winner two years running, till socialising got the better of her”, I watched Honey’s lovely lips as she fragranced the air with her beautiful breath.
Unica fell in with a crowd. You know the kind of thing I’d guess. First it was the drink. She was downing at least two bottles every single night – the finest French and Italian girl-pee it was too. She was living way beyond momma’s means.”
“Then she took up smoking: you know: down there”
As she indicated with her index finger to show the general direction of ‘down there’, a rose hue arose on Honey’s perfect pale countenance.
“At first it was just tobacco; but I’m sure she was into cannabis. Then she began to white-line?…..”
As Honey hung her head in despair, I longed to comfort her, but knew I must stay professional. So I let her recover, and stayed silent till she wanted to talk some more.
Meanwhile I overed in my mind what she’d said so far.
Like she said, I’d seen it before. I’d done beat officer in the docks area one time. The sailor-girls there just loved a rough shag. Many a time, late at night, I’d seen them: dead drunk in a doorway, three months pay from away at sea, spent in one night, on cheap girls and expensive girl-pee, or else stolen by the goodtime girls.
There they’d be, the sailorettes, squatting on their haunches, drunk out of their minds, with their skirts up, their panties down, and a cigarette or else a joint between their lips.
Like Honey’d said, I’d seen it before. I knew it was horrendously addictive, even if it was only tobacco they took. I knew that once a girl got into cunt smoking, it was and is hell’s own habit to break.
As for white-lining, if Unica had also taken to wet-fingering coke into her sheath, she was already beyond what even rehab could rescue.
Cocaine gave a girl a hyper high that way. But it needed the purest grain. That cost an arm and a leg. Most girls would end up paying for it with their whole body. Unable to live without the high it gave them. Out of work, out of money, out of a home to live in, coke-cunts were on every corner in the filthiest quarters of the town, begging for the dough to pay for the mix for their next fix.
Men took advantage of course. A cock gave coke-cunts a similar thrill; but was always a let down, and no real substitute. A good poke with a finger laden with snow, and a frisk to crescendo of her own, could take a girl to multi-cum nirvana. No wonder the coke-cunts needed more and more.
This was cinch for my first PI outing. I coulda told Honey where to go to find her sister pretty sure to show. Coke-cunts needed dollars by the heap. More wants more when the vagina gets a taste of good blow. And more wants more money in consequence.
The Brickyard had gone to the dogs. There’d been a big spread in the ‘New Edingow Penetrator’ about it.
It was sure as probable that Honey, if she could be assed to eye over the local print at all, would be front-page news when reader, even if the Penetrator’s circulation went out her distant way. The Brickyard’s makeover, from auto racing when there’d been oil to spare, to what went on there now, had made only inside back page, and that a twelve-moon since.
I like a gamble as long as it’s, like a great dame, a high-octane risk. I’d thrown my bucks down on the dog-races more times than I could afford. That place, ‘the Brickyard’, as they first called it auto history, attracted high rolling traffic.
Some women spoil their wives like that. A lot of the chicks that gathered there were spare for the night. Let loose by their busy wives: wives doing great-shakes in the Fall Street banks and stock exchange and the like, they went to the Brickyard to let their hair down and their purses wander.
All that money rolling loose, made the Brickyard a Jupiter sized magnet for the coke-cunts. Of course, they had to go cold-turkey for the hours they did duty. And there was risk attached, the highest of which was that they’d lose, so there’d be no pay that day.
But there was a queue of queues Mondays. Mondays being recruiting night, all the coke-cunts gravitated there. They all gathered over the weekend and squabbled like cats drowning in a sack, to get themselves the jobs that might be free. Then the owners would disburse the surplus ones, letting them go to hell or to sell their bodies on the street for the cocaine they craved to take them to an early grave.
“You got a notion, Charley?” Honey whispered, both reading and disturbing my thoughts, and a whole lot more, when her long fingers touched my knee.
I knew I had to break it gently to this wonder. Life can be such a bitch. I suppose I was being a bit of a bitch too. I so wanted to impress Honey: to show her I was a girl of the world.
So Sam was my woman these days; but that don’t stop eye roving none. I’d mentalled Honey doing bed-sandwich ‘tween Sam and me, so we could take her to the stars together. But I hoped that’d be second night, after I’d taken her orbit solo.
“Sweetheart, you being an out-of-towner, you won’t have heard of the Brickyard?” I began, in explanation mode.
“I sure do!” Honey protested. “We got a brick pigsty built back home by the sweetest coupla builders! They was singing, laughing, and joking Ma Senta and me, all day!”
“I was only just turned teen then, and, on the sly, both those girls kept asking me if I was date.”
“I was in my first ever pair of heelless tiptoe-ballet shoes too. Ma gave them me my new-teen birthday? I was so proud those brand-new tiptop-tiptoe shoes, and the Hicksville tattered straw hat I’d worn forever?
Those girls would give me the whistling wolf, and try and pinch my butt? They chased me round like I was a rooster headed chop for Thanksgiving! They were real honeys, out to give me my first kiss?”
“I’m so clear recall, cos it was after that, when Ma Senta found out the builders had been after me, that she insisted I start wearing clothes, and not just a hat and shoes around the farm.”
As her eyes glowed and showed what love she had for the world, Honey’s tone was totally innocent.
“That’s one kinda brickyard sweetheart” I agreed. Those kinda bricks gotta come from somewheres. The kind of brickyard I got in mind has the bricks buried some these days, now it’s a dog track”
“They race dogs there!? Oh how sweet!” Honey glowed. “They’re not cruel to them are they?! Oh please say they’re not cruel none!” she then concerned.
“They ain’t cruel to the dogs at all, and that’s fact. They just love to run and chase”, I assured her.
“There’s a meet tonight. Girls like your sis. I mean girls who need crack in their cracks. They go there for the good-timers who confetti their doe like it was going outta fashion. It’s the best place bar none to earn some money. If you get chosen that is of course”.
“You mean Unica’s there right now!!”
“Maybe and maybe not. Surest time to certain ourselves is when the races are on. Floodlight time is when the girls fill the stands, and the ‘coke-cunts’ – begging your pardon Honey – when the addicts do their thing.” I calmed.
“You got time to hotel and get back here for 7.00. Dress evening some. We gotta mix in. We gotta look dollars so we don’t show out none. Unica’ll be a run away if she obviouses you.”
As she rose to high heaven on her heaven high legs, Honey practically screamed at me: “No way the delay! We go there right now!”
“You go now, and you go it alone kid. That’s even if you can find your way.” I wised her.
“You hired PI and now you’re not advice. I’m knowing the low down. You go there now, and you’ll be sore thumb. Word will grapevine like gunpowder trail sparked. Unica’ll get know, and sure you a no show!”
“Sorry Charley!” Honey sweetened, reluctantly sitting down again. “I’m clearly just a girl with these things. But it’s so pain knowing Unica’s found, and we can’t go get her home!” Honey purred, as her tears poured love for her kid sister.
“I never said for sure found, Honey. We got to gamble and see if we win Union or Confederate dollar”
Honey stood again and shouldered her head on me, and I could have cried too; but for joy.
Even though I could embrace her for good reason, the crush-confirmed firmness of her tits and teats, the heat of her body, the scent of her cunt and the fragrance of her hair, made me slick as sin within, and my clit dance seismometer jig.
………………….
At 6.55 that eve, I watched from the second floor front, as Honey’s ponygirl clopped her impatience to pull cab some more, while Honey paid the driveress.
I was totalled. I’d bid Honey to dress money, but I’d not expected a zillion-dollars.
I wanted rest my eyes forever on her, and she was coming my way. Last I saw of her window, was a pretty hand suring her darling hat was straight.
As I listened while our rickety elevator strained chain some, even with only Honey’s max one-hundred-ten-pounds of joy, my heart beat drum parade.
When she entered room, her eyes said she wanted admire and she got what she deserved.
Her dress clung so tight it musta been sprayed on. The baby-blue had gone. This rig was scarlet. The blonde curls still did a peek-a-boo over one shy summer-sky eye, behind the net that curtained her goddam gorgeous kisser.
The hat this time was a big scarlet beret, slouched left side her head, with a rainbow making peacock’s-eye feather rising front centre huge high, afore curving back almost behind her head.
The rest was the dress. It followed her every nook more wholly than a religious zealot a holy book. The scarlet was only broken by spotless white wing collars under her chin. Below the collar, ‘tween neck and toes, the satin sheen shone spotlight on her every delight.
Tight as her dress was, her breasts, though pressed by its lucky caress, impressively doubled out the front, with their teats poking perky peaks.
She was showing no leg, but she was showing what great legs she’d got, cos the dress was so tight it told them like they was. She was up top tiptop tiptoe ballet in her shoes under. Her calves said so, and so did the acutely cute concaves in her butt’s sides.
With her lovely face behind the curtaining net, and her curls draping the back of her neck, the only bare flesh Honey had on show, were the tops of her arms at her shoulders, the rest of her hands and arms up to there, being enraptured by shimmering scarlet satin gloves.
I looked for visible panty line, or anything to relieve the eye from this astonishing vision, and could see plenty to cause the deepest disturbance, but nothing to disrupt the flow. Her tits and her nips were au naturelle too, that was a sure show.
In her right hand, held by its drawn draw-string, was a neat and tidy tiny scarlet leather reticule, that put me in mind of just how tight-closed another purse must be under this shrink-fit hug-gown.
Me? Oh I’d just gone businessgirl stripes, navy blue and white pinstripe jacket and skirt, white silk blouse with panties to match over my snatch: white suspenders, black stockings, and front heeled ballet-shoes.
With me being white and negro half-cast, the suit was not my favourite colouring, but it had been going cheap sale, and I needed something quality quick when I was first no longer cop uniform.
If what Honey wore was a pencil dress, it needed no sharpening. It narrowed to her ankles, before it belled out where her feet were hid, and then it draped floor so she was cloud and love potion number nine divine in her every motion.
“Will I do in this?” Honey dangled bate.
“Honey, in anything, you’re knockout and breathtake; but in that especial, you’ll have them down knees kissing ground in worship!” I genuined.
“Sweetheart, when the chicks at the stadium see you in that number, they’ll be stun-gun tazered total, and so they should be: you’re a babe’s babe!”
Honey now gave me the twirl, so I could see that, as no one could deny, she was every part a girl.
“You don’t think it’s too showy do you Charley?” Honey concerned, talking girl to girl, and ignoring my lascivious look, even though her face said she’d scored me as a won one in her mental book.
“‘Showy’ don’t even make first base”, I assured.
………………….
I could now hear hoofs prancing the cooling concrete of a day advancing dark. It was coming our way for sure. I was window, and saw it was a pink cab like I’d ordered for 7.30.
Even if it was not ours for certain, the babe and I needed to get sidewalk for when the hire came to take us stadium.
I motioned for Honey to go ahead, and watched her move. In that gorgeous gown she was butterfly with a wiggle that’d make a rattlesnake pursue infringed copyright.
Tippytoe in her ballets, and with the taper of her dress confining her ankles to a quarter-inch stride, she walked pas-redoublé two-dozen to the dozen, and her satin caressed ass swished Satan’s lure for sure.
I mighta wished she’d worn something more practical; but I could never wish she’d been adorned by anything more sensational. My eyes followed her like they hoped they’d never have to blink; even though they were burned blind by her hyper-feminine undulations.
After elevator, when we made street, the waiting cabbess’ spotted Honey, and her jaw dropped, or would have, if she hadn’t had to control her urge to drool.
“Wow! But ain’t you the lucky girl?!” she astounded to me, as she next gave Honey an arm to hold, so Honey could wiggle up into the two-passenger cab, via the ramp walkway the cabbess had been only too keen to deploy Honey’s way.
As Honey now snuggled her darling butt and sweet-scented petals on the cab seat, the cabbess couldn’t help herself: “Jeese! Is she heaven or is she heaven?! She murmured out loud, before she whispered to me, deliberately so Honey could hear: “And is she only show, or does she really go?”
For that I could have slugged the cabbess, but time was moving on and I needed her to get this ponygirl taxi doing way beyond standard snail.
“Double-fare if you get us to the Brickyard in fifteen”, I businessliked.
The cabbess turned frown, and confided: “You can tell me it ain’t none of mine of course, but why you taking a swell dame like that to the Brickyard tonight of all nights? You don’t look as if you don’t know the dog trots is top-billing there….”
My thoughts about the cabbess turned from the urge to show her instant midnight, to a regard for her concern for Honey.
“There’s good cause. She’ll be among a crowd of other dames watching. She won’t come to no harm”, I reassured her, even if not myself.
“But the dog races?! You sure know how to pick your ‘tainment for a honey babe!” the cabbess concluded.
Then she stepped up driver, upped the reins, and, as she flicked the ponygirl’s traces to twice-tug its tits in unison, thus to tell it to start towing the cab some, called: “Hupp there ‘Sweetkiss’, hupp there gal”.
………………….
The cabbess was as good as the word she hadn’t given. It was fourteen minutes and no more, when she began to tug the rein to repeat-lift the ponygirl’s left tit, so it would know to take the cab left turn into the Brickyard’s entrance.
“Whoa Sweetkiss!” she called as she hauled rein to lift both the ponygirl’s tits aloft to a hold, firmly as one, to signal the halt.
Honey was now all anxiety. She was not realise we had the cabbess and admission-money to pay. She was rapid tippytoe for the main entrance, fast as her sexy butt could wriggle-wiggle her.
As both our eyes were locus, on Honey’s sensationally sensual glide: “Say, you better catch the sweetheart afore they make her volunteer”, the cabbess concerned, even overlooking that I’d not given her the promised double, or even a tip for the trip.
Fee paid, with my free stride, I was two seconds before siding Honey’s rapid but tiny progress once more, and took her satin gloved arm to stop her wild wiggle awhiles.
“Don’t stop me Charley!” Honey begged. “Unica’s in there I know sure. We gotta find her Charley. Please gee we just gotta find her!”, she begged.
“You gotta be escort if you go in there kid.” I informed. Solo women get rounded up, thrown out, or dumped in the can. You buy badge with ticket, and the guards keep eye you got a number and colour match, or take you on the bye-bye for the exit or the Girl-Control patrol wagon.”
“The girls that come here, do it in groups or not at all. The management don’t want the prostitutes around making the place look untidy begging money see. Coke-cunts don’t got no badge, and don’t usually make single check never mind double-eye. But one day recent past they found one with stolen badge. So these days, it’s double-up or more, or else quit the place single at the double”.
“So where we gonna find Unica then Charley?” Honey concerned, with a tone saying she was moment conclude I’d led her there chasing wild goose.
“I never said she was here for sure Honey, now did I?”, I reminded so as to put her calm down.
“No...no Charley, I know you didn’t”, Honey whispered in a tone to make me lump throat and heart broke.
Despite what I feared we’d find, and what I knew it would do to this angel, I poured the beans.
“I’ve been here before Honey, that’s why I said here was a likely for your kid sis”, I confessed. “I wasn’t realise who she was then. But time before last I was here, she was one of the entertainers. You see, I knew the name, but only as Sam told schooldays story… I’d never clapped my eyes on her before…..so I didn’t know then, that she was your sister, or even a relative of any kind at all.”
Tears were corner Honey’s baby-blue peepers as she looked plead into my soul.
“What did she do entertaining Charley?” she asked, her voice hoarse croak, her tone saying she didn’t really want know if it was bad.
“She was cheerleader at school. Is she cheerleader here?” she false-brightened, doing an ostrich sand-dive with her mind.
As invite for me to dry the sweet diamonds from her stunning eyes, Honey was giving me her worst fears, with wish they would not be realised. She was worst casing it in hope I would give her Christmas day morning.
I longed to comfort Honey; but I knew it had to be pain. I kept it short. I paid admission and badged us both up.
Honey’s silence was the sweetest eloquence as she wiggled at my side, with me leading her to the changing rooms under the main stand.
At the third door, we saw a six-pointed star, and a name ‘Unica Lee Godmade’, and Honey turned to me wide eyed with her lips open as if to kiss me as I longed she should, but to be in fact, understood as her not understanding, and so begging me for explain.
After we’d knocked and gone straight into Unica’s changing room, before closing the door behind us, we, Honey and I, turned at the bright knock on the door we had just seconds before closed.
“Ten minutes Unica sweetheart!” came the door-muffled call from the stage-girl.
Unica acted like she hadn’t seen us. Honey clung to me limpet, but knew she shouldn’t , now we’d found her kid sis.
I’d expected the big reconcile and the two girls slow-montioning into each other’s arms in a sea of tears and joyful cries, as the violins competed for yet higher sighs.
Instead I stood holding Honey’s gloved hands before she clung her flung arms around me and pressed her head on my shoulder, working her silent lips like she wanted to suckle on my tit.
The sight of her sister had stunned her, and dumbned her, but it hadn’t stopped her crying, and her sobs were breaking my heart.
Unica could have been a miniature of her older sister. She was five-two: a petite doll replete with a repeat of all her sister had had two years before her, and still had. Just like Honey, she was sweeter than sugar sprinkled on maple syrup.
If I’d guessed she was a product from the same sperm donor as Honey, I wouldn’t have been wrong. And that’s precisely what I did guess, while wondering, at the same clock tock, as I glanced her angel’s face mirror, why she had such gorgeous brown eyes, when Honey’s were summer-sky blue.
As Honey sobbed in my arms, Unica, with her back still toward us, settled a safety razor into the bowl of warm water on her dressing table, and swished the fresh mix of shaving foam and pubic stubble off it.
When she now turned to face us, I could not help but look where she’d been shaving.
Post fresh-depilation her legs shone. But where she had just finished the last whisk of the blade, she looked so completely innocent even I could have cried.
Unica wore only a sweat-stained cotton chemise and rather grubby ballet shoes.
She had great legs, and stood en-pointe with the easy grace of a born dancer. ‘Great legs must run in the family’ was an obvious thought, as was the speed with which such legs could carry this petite delight if she turned to flight.
As Unica sat and then lay back on the edge of her bed, and began to run her pretty little hands down her legs from her groin to her ankles, to check she was as completely smooth as she appeared and wished to be, I studied the large bold ‘96’ tattooed on the left side-cheek of her very pert posterior. I’d seen it before of course, and it made me recall what she was here for.
An unfinished glass of water, and a bottle spilling a train of familiar white and pink pills along the glass shelf that lipped below her mirror, told me she was still in the frame for the big game.
“So you found me then Honey”, Unica, whispered, hiding a choke that the emotions she was stifling would have let roar, if they’d had their way and say.
“Have you come here to gloat at your coke-cunt little sis?” she added like the stroke of a whip on a bared nerve, to hurt herself by being cruel to Honey, and thereby hurt Honey double more.
“Darling! Please!!” Honey gasped with such a contorted voice I could not have known it was her, were her sweetness not in my lucky arms.
From the distant outside, we heard a cheer and jeers and derisory whistles. I instant looked at Unica. No eye or lid did she bat, as she rose from where she had sat.
Another tap at the door and “You’re on in five Unica. Better get down and saddle up now honeybunch. Don’t work the day and you don’t got the pay!”, came the same cheery stage-girl’s voice.
I watched in fascination, as Unica gripped the hem of her chemise in her tiny hands, and lifted it over her head to leave herself naked but for her ballet shoes.
In doing so, she caught up her tits in the soft material still warm from her hot body, and they flipped firmly out, bounce-swayed the same and then their own individual ways, before settling to point their exquisite strawberry-pink nipples accusingly up my way.
“I’m sorry Honey. I gotta go. If it all goes well, I’ll be back in forty-five or so. I can’t talk now. I need all the concentration I got…..I just gotta go…” Unica repeated as she swung her fabulous frame past us to the door, and I watched her legs as I couldn’t help, they were so dammed pretty.
Unica then added, as she put her head back round the door: “Out of here turn right, three flights up, and you’ll be in the high-rollers’ stand. Nobody’ll notice none. They’ll all be watching the last girl getting it, or else placing their bets on me”. And, with that, she disappeared.
After a long pause that could only be put down to continued shock: “I want to see what happens here!” Honey insisted.
“No you don’t sweetheart: believe me you don’t” I up-wised her. “You and I both best stay here till Unica’s back, Honey. That’s my advice”, I added, knowing it was useless, and that my intent we could smuggle Unica out disguised somehow, anyhow, had gone forever drain.
Honey was having none of my cautions. As I tried to warn her up, her face looked devastatingly into mine, while I simultaneous struggled to find my up-sleeved handkerchief, she so needed do a quick fix.
After she’d dabbed tear, she took charge, and practically dragged me to the stairs for the top stand, making amazing speed in her hug-gown as she tippy-tiptoe-totty-trot-wriggle-wiggled along.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked round for the elevator that wasn’t there, and then at me, as if it was taken for granted that I’d do my duty: the duty the beauty could not do for herself with her tight hem.
Of course, I did just that.
As I swept her up from standing helpless floor, Honey put her gloved arms round my neck, rapturous wrap, and breathed breathless deathless rose-scented assenting zephyrs on my mouth.
When Honey snuggled to me, like she was carry bride threshold for first night love fight, I longed kiss and more, and wished she belonged and we might.
She weighed wind-blown tumbleweed in my arms. She was trust and treasure beyond measure, so I took the highest care as she let me carry her the flights, till I could set her down and upright in her ballet shoes once more.
As I put Honey down on her big toes once again, I saw she was blushing to have found me so strong. And I wondered if her wonder was whetted and wet, and if she was gratitude with two moist lips more than the two I could see, when she purred: “Why thank you Charley. That was so sweet of you!”
Where we were now, we both looked down on a circular sand based track, with a raised middle monorail worn to a shine that glinted in the floodlights like sun-reflect.
Several pretty girls in gold-cord-decorated scarlet circus-ringmaster jacket uniform, scarlet ballet shoes, and tiny thongs of differing hue to denote their respective ranks, were out on the track erasing the marks made by the previous event, and ensuring an even sandy-bed over the occasional exposed brick in the brick-based track, for the next one.
At the far end of passageway that led out to the banked seats of the stand proper, packed with girls out for a good time, Honey had lost her nerve, and grabbed both my hands. This was lucky-daysville for unlucky me. I wanted her bed, but knew she needed said what was going on here.
As she turned and gave me the full earnest, Honey’s eyes melted my heart. Her looking to me to spill the naked was a soul-breaker. I would be tramping trampoline on her adorable innocence, and driving a wedge between us. I was but the messenger; but I was also going, I knew, to become blamed dame.
“Do you really wanna know?” I answered her silent question, in hope she’d give me a ‘noway’; but all she did was nod and give me the unwavering beam of her baby-blue desire magnets.
“It’s great to bet on”, I honested as a starter, to get out the way the further confession I’d been here before, and was seeing this view with no déjà vu.
I turned around and watched over Honey’s shoulder, as the five traps were prepared, the two each side of the rail on the sand-strewn track itself, and the one, the much bigger one, some distance behind the others, presently making hut over the rail. This latter had a crane arm reaching to its top middle so that it could be whisked up and out of the way.
My tired eyes took in the girls in the crowd on their mobiles, looking up at the five numbers on the big board, and choosing where to place their dollars.
“It’s great to bet on because it’s all computer controlled. Unless the dogs are…”
I stopped at the look of pain that made Honey’s pretty face look as it never ever should be allowed to.
“She swallowed hard, and gazed at me sweet innocence once more as she reminded me of my leave off; “’Unless the dogs are?…’”
“Unless the dogs are really fit, the sled will outpace them. It all depends on a programme that randomises the sled. It chooses the speed and whether it’ll run smooth constant or play the tease by slowing? It stops too once in a while, if that’s how the programme maps it. Sometimes that’s just a tease to please too, but sometimes it’s cos there’s to be a loser, like in the last race?”
Honey’s bravery astonished me. The sweetest look of determination was on her face. We both knew that she wanted to cry; but also that she wanted I should go on.
“The girls are kept constant tampon. They’re kept heat by pills. Every girl has her unique scent. The dogs get the fresh-removed still wet tampon dangled before them, when they’re in the traps just before the off….”
I could say no more, because discover was that we were standing just below the public address, and I would have been gaping like a landed fish, to all appearances, had I tried to carry on above the over-amplified announcer.
“Ladies and ladies, the 8.45 features one of your and my favourites, the stunning Miss Unica Lee Godmade!”
“Those of you studying form, will see that Unica has featured in twelve races so far in her short career. And, of course, she’s been a lucky girl in every one: so we’ve put her up against the best here at the Brickyard Bitchway! And let’s hope that thirteen is the golden-haired honeybabe’s lucky number; or ours!!”
“For those not in the know, our Unica is a petite blonde angel all the way from way-beyond Hicksville-Sticksville, two-hundred miles west of New Dulbin City, where the girls are so pretty.”
“Unica graduated Bale with a masters in math. Yesser-marie, our twenty-three-year-old little angel’s got brains as well as a face and bod that’ll knock you out, all 38, 21, 36 of it. And you just wait to see the legs on her – god’s own, believe me!”
“And what’s more ladies, she’s a shaven honey! Yes ladies, we are talking total innocence here. Our gorgeous little hick-land country gal, has still got a wholesome whole-cherry pie!”
“Up against the lovely little Unica tonight, we have: No 3 – Lotus-Flower; No 5 – Deep-Lick; No 7 – Passion-Perfume, and No 18 - Cactus-Horn.”
Hearing this, surprised me a little. All the chasers would be huskies of course. But the inclusion of three bitches and only one dog was unusual.
The thinking was probably to save Unica’s hymen for another day. If she was caught by the pack, she might be lucky and have the bitches fight the dog off her cunt. Then again, bitches were notorious for savaging tits. If that happened, Unica would have it taken, unless the dog preferred her ass or her mouth.
I kept this to myself of course. Honey had suffered enough.
The girl on the address cut back in again, and Honey grabbed my waist and put her lovely head on my shoulder, determined to watch.
“The pre-race betting for the 8.45 is now closed ladies and ladies. The odds are as follows: against winning the first full contact prize: No 3 Lotus-Flower 10 to 1; No 5 – Deep-Lick, your 5 to 1 favourite; No 7 – Passion-Perfume 30 to 1, in her first race here at the Brickyard Bitchway of course, and No 18 - Cactus-Horn is evens. The odds on our pretty little Unica getting hers also stands at evens tonight.”
Despite myself, I felt a frisson of excitement as the yelping dogs were led into their little hutches, to hold them trapped till the race was on. And, to my total astonishment, I caught the same tension in the gorgeous Honey.
As they watched Unica’s saturated tampon being dangled at each dog’s nose for two seconds by turn, the women around appeared bored, but, as the kennel containing Unica was lifted off the track, appropriately like the lid of a tureen covering the tastiest little dish, they looked up with keenness and more, some glancing at their mobile-phone screens to check on what they had bet on.
Unica was strapped to the sled in the traditional manner. The sled, stainless-steel, straddled the raised monorail like a saddle.
Under the squared-off straight central hump of this saddle, were the electric motor, and the wheels it drove to run the track when the sled was in motion.
At either side, and just above ground-level in consequence, were ledges –running-boards. The naked girl riding the sled, knelt with her body on the central hump. Her tits thus divinely divided and either-sided the cold steel her cleavage and belly pressed down upon.
Unica knelt, and her wrists were tethered to hold her flattened hands, as if paws, on the elongated front ledge. At her belly a strap over her back held her steady. Her gorgeous legs were tied by their ankles by straps tight round her enormously strong thighs and she thus ‘stood’ on her knees on the elongated rear ledge.
Around her forehead a band, emblazoned with her number, gripped her poor head like a tourniquet. A chinstrap down from that headband, stopped the headband slipping off.
Two tight straps then ran back from the rear of her headband, and grasped her big toes. These straps were murderously tight so that, not only did they pull Unica’s dainty feet straight sky and beyond, thus giving her calves the greatest of great shape, but they also ensured she held her head up and her mouth ready, if unwilling.
Unica’s heavy tits hung either side the sled’s central ridge like the gentlest tears.
Now the little angel rode the Bitch-Sled, the tattoo on her ass cheek was audience side. And now she was face down and not as she had been on the dressing-room bed when she’d inspected the perfection of her perfect legs, her number had reduced by all of 27. Her forehead band confirmed as much.
The dogs were yelping. Now she was uncovered from the hut, they could smell Unica’s bleeding cunt.
As Honey watched aghast, the sled whooshed through the middle of the four cages, past the still encaged dogs, and tripped the whole long circuit of the tack with the tethered bitch, Unica, at the ready on its back.
As the sled came past the caged dogs again, at an instant predetermined by the computer, the front of their cages lifted in unison, and the chase began.
In place of the girl who had introduced the race, an older, slightly world-weary woman’s voice, with a lovely contralto husk, took up a running commentary.
“And the 8.45 gets underway, with our sled-bitch, No 69, right in front as you’d expect at this stage. And so we must wait and see what random choices the computer will make for the delightful little blonde girl.”
“And so it’s 69, with No 5 closing in, followed by No 7 and No 30, who seems already out of breath, unless she’s playing the long game. And nowhere to be seen for the moment is that prize stud No 18 – Come on now Cactus-Horn!”
“And 69 is slowing she’s definitely slowing. And here comes No 18 right past all the bitches after the main prize you can bet!”
As Unica’s sled obeyed what the computer said and sped away from the horny hounds once more, I was as much eyes on Honey as Honey was on her delicious kid sister.
Honey in her hug-gown, had lifted away from lean on me now, and I could see her baby-blue eyes wide with wonder as she watched her naked sister slow to tease and please the dogs with the scent of her cunt, till they closed almost too close, before the sled sped away again to cheers from the crowd.
What I saw on the track filled me now with horror. When I had not known a participant I’d bet and won. In the recent past, a roll-up on Unica had netted me a neat $1K. But now I knew who she was, and she’d ceased to be just meat, I felt disgust at what was going on.
At least I only felt disgust mounting nausea for what was going on on the track, till I also saw Honey.
All the crowd were shouting for the dogs to catch her sister, and so, as I astonish realised, so were Honey’s nipples.
Either she had two Egyptian pyramids mounting hard guard in her dress, or else they were up so hard and huge-high it musta hurt like hades.
Her mouth was open and invitation wet. And it would be no losing bet that she’d be wetting her knickers but that she was butt naked under that girl-confirming gown.
And then I could see ‘neath the spider veil in Honey’s widening eyes that that was it!
Even without looking back track, I instant knew Unica had lost the race.
It was in Honey’s face.
Before I tore my eyes from Honey, and looked myself, I could see in Honey’s wide eyes, Unica screaming with terror as the dogs closed in on her, and again, in agony, as Lotus-Flower and Deep-Lick tore at her lactation-pill filled tits, slobbering in the milk that poured from her nipples, while Passion-Perfume jumped onto the sled’s rear platform lapped at Unica’s love lips tasting the fresh salty blood of her constant monthly.
And I watched in horror as the crowd cheered and claimed their prizes for second third and fourth.
Only if Cactus-Horn buried his cock in the point target would a first prize be awarded; but he lolled tongue, more than happy to be shagging Unica’s now consequently silenced mouth.
And I could see that Honey was close to cum. Her eyes opened and closed with her pupils huge from the fascination of seeing her kid sister getting it. Those baby blue eyes opened and shut in time with the throb and bob of her nipples.
Her ghost white face was flushed with red fire that burned her cheeks. Her gorgeous legs shook with her desire to intertwine them divine vine, and give her juicing lemon the squeeze that her hug-gown would never let her.
The inhuman squeal of pain as Cactus-Horn showed his claim to fame and name by taking Unica’s cherry, was followed by Unica’s moans from being ridden to pleasure, and was split-instant with Honey biting her gloved forefinger as she, though silent, echoed scream in measure, and was total cum, head to her darling tip-top-tiptoed toes, even as she stood ballet in her full-length satin gown.
When she turned my way, Honey was still cum and cum again, her nipples dancing entrancing tango and her eyes a billion miles away, as she creamed on her sister being dog-shagged below the stand, in front of the ten-thou who were betting on the next race by now.
“Oh jeese Charley! Oh jeese what have I done?! That’s my poor little sister out there Charley! Oh jeese how could I?!!”
I didn’t wait to answer: I didn’t know the answer.
As I one-eightied and walked away, I felt no urge to turn back even when I heard Honey scream: “Charley, oh god Charley, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me Charley! Please!!”.
But I did U-turn twenty yards later, and I saw an angel in a scarlet silk gown wriggle-wiggling total girl after me, as fast as her tiptoed feet and the tourniquet-tight hem of her hug-dress at her ankles would let her.
I suppose I should have been flattered that Honey was wanting be with me, even though, over her shoulder, I could see Unica was still getting hers hot and slow, with the bitches worrying at her nipples, chewing her teats, snarling with their bared teeth tugging the bitten nips, frustrated that she was milked-out.
Honey caught the line of my eyes, and hers followed, and she bit her gloved forefinger again to silence her would-be scream as she came on her sister’s cries of joyful agony when Cactus-Cock changed tactic and rammed it up her ass.
Honey was all confusion now. She so wanted to complete her sibling treachery by watching Unica’s rape; but she also feared being left to fend for herself, and maybe, just maybe, wanted me to have her to a finish, beddy-byes wise, back at my place or her hotel, whichever was nearer, even if she could wait that long to be stroked and licked-out.
Even as Unica screamed out her want for all the dogs in the whole damned city to be let loose on her, in language so earthly earthy it could only have come from a natural lady cumming massive-multiply-multi-time, Honey decided to drag herself away from her sister’s torture and try to get back with me.
So, having turned my way once more, she was running to me on the tip-top-tips of her big toes as fast as the miniscule step her dress would allow, would let her. She was running on the tip-top-tips of her big toes, with the hinge formed by her minge unquestionably lubricated lubriciously by her love juices.
So tight was her figure confirming gown, that, were she not so evidently woman wet, her outer love lips would have been chafing on one another as she wiggled as fast as she could, short of a fall.
As Honey totty-trotted after me, I pictured her clit doing a war dance at the sight of her sister’s cunt being lanced. And it would not have surprised me none if, even now, it was not only out of its hood, but ‘tween her slippery petals being rubbed in semi-circle-semi-rotations, back and forth with her alternating steps.
But her miniscule steps were not fast enough, and it would never be fast enough for me.
“Charley! Charley!! Oh god Charley, please don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me!! Charley!! Please!!!
And I heard Honey’s tone turn to purr and I knew that her walk in that gown was putting yet more cream in her éclair. And I turned again to watch her wiggle as fast as her gown would let her, as fast as she could, to when and where I topped the down stairs.
And I heard her whispered cry of: “No!! Oh please god no!!” and saw she was a walking cum coming toward me and cumming and cumming and cumming.
As she was mince-wriggle-wiggling best she could to where I stood, she was big-toe-stood running faster and faster, the faster and greater to pleasure herself to cum upon cum upon cum.
And now, as I took the stairs a flight at a time, in a dream and my flight from what I had seen: that something so obscene that I could make no rhyme nor reason of it, Honey’s desperate screech of: Charleeeeeeeey!!!!!” echoed around the stadium.
………………..
I hit the bourbon for a week after.
Sam saved my day.
She never asked what had corkscrewed me, and why the lid had again come off my noway to the boozy day.
That was the greatest kindness of all.
Sam knew without asking of course. Mrs Hodson would have given her the entrée, and she herself could fill in the other courses, and thus the causes.
Despite that, Sam was love and forgiveness and kisses my way all day every day till I pulled out of my drink fuelled dive.
………………..
Last I heard of the Godmade sisters, was six-month on from my deserting of Honey at the stadium, in my pride and disgust, and, truth told, my longing lust.
And, as I was told it, as of then, six months since I ran out on Honey, her sister Unica had cleared rehab, and was about to wed a society hostess.
And, as I was told it, as of then, six months since I ran out on her, Honey herself was still winning races……
Petalina’s Progress
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis:
Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town......
Petalina’s Progress
by Eve Adorer
Saturday 1 June 2052.
Fresh showered this morn she chooses white. Practicedly flicking her damp-darkened flame-red hair over five-five shoulders with pretty hands and an unsettling settling shake of her proud head, with long-nailed long fingers she untangles and then floats her choice of stockings from a left-open drawer onto the end of a bed still fragrantly warm from her sweet body’s sleeping there.
She is draped within a white bath towel: naked thereunder as yet. The towel wraps her akin a decidedly divided, divinely cleaved, low cut, bosom emboldening strapless mini-dress.
Now she purchases a perky perch prettily before a mirror deeply in love with her, and busies herself with her hairdryer over a confusion of matted diamond droplet dripping curls, that spring to dawn life under the tease of her comb and the blow of the glowing air, as the blowing air teases and tousles her glowing hair.
Now her smiling deep dark brown eyes glance at her room reversed in her mirror, and see why mummy is always complaining of her untidiness.
She will, she promises herself, not be such a trial to mummy, and tidy away this very day.
But, as yet, and likely to stay that way if truth be told and tolled, yesterday’s clothes scatter the floor fallen from the bedside chair at which they were carelessly thrown and missed or slid from at bedtime.
On the dressing table at which she sits sideways, is a profusion of lipsticks, mascara, cotton buds, combs, brushes, trinket holders, a half-emptied cola bottle, patent unguents of every description, nail varnishes of every shade from pink to pink, and back again, via pink, two opened boxes of paper handkerchiefs, another of face-wipes, and a pair of pairs of femininely-scented so-called ‘soiled’ panties.
The bedroom walls are draped with taped posters of very pretty, pretty well naked starlets, and soap actresses dressed in character.
In one key one, Leticia Lombardy’s gorgeous blue eyes sparkle laughter as she fills the glass she lifts to the whisky optic behind the bar of the ‘Siren’s Rock’ in a ‘still’ from an episode of ‘Lovelorn’ dating back a year now.
The brassiere that she had worn with one set of the panties on the dressing table, is tangled in the folded down duvet.
Her down-feather pillows are separated. One, still impressed by Petalina’s head, is half down the bed. The other fallen to the floor, is intimately scented where, last night, for an hour, she silently saddled across love’s prairie, and then rode rodeo with her clitoris as pommel, a wild pony.
Amid sighs and cries sensual and sexual, bareback, bare all bar the cape of red curls that flurried and furled in the wild wind of her even wilder imagination, the midnight-cowgirl, Petalina, had reined in and reigned over a magnificent bronco, bucking a dreamy dreaming schoolgirl to Deliverance City.
Time was moving on. School holidays: so she had slept late. Today she had a date with mummy, who had just tapped the door with a cry of: “Petalina: are you ready yet sweetheart?”
The bath towel to carpet now floated and her pretty feet stepped over its sodden circle, to fling on her clothes.
The white bra from the bed would do. She grabbed it and then leant forward to round up and corral her wilfully wildly wondering wonderful breasts, in order to order them to ‘stand to attention and face front!’.
These thus domed and dominated to strictly behaved twin unison, her dexterous fingers now win the fight to connect the hook and eye behind her back, and then settle the bra’s beautiful contents before running a thumb inside the straps to sort and settle the straps assuredly untwisted over her delicately boned shoulders.
Where are her suspenders? She scrabbles in a draw and scatters aside fresh laundered neatly folded clothing, mummy’s hard work, to find a matching white, except that they are not quite, and puts round her hips a pretty floral-panel pattern with side-clasps for the stockings she vaguely recalls putting somewhere ready a short while since.
The fingernails she has cultivated with such patience, she must now take care do not carelessly tear a snare in the stocking she has rolled up like a new condom to sheath the length of her conspicuously curvaceous left leg as she sits once more and scents the chair seat with her lower kiss’ femininity.
She forwards to the edge of her chair and her pretty lips pout as, after rolling the stocking out and up the shapely road of her divine left leg now outstretched, she finally positions the suspender clasp, to pull up and hold the stocking’s darker circling top, till it is lightly impressing her impressive thigh mid-high.
After the right stocking has also been rolled into its lucky role, she stands and grasps next a pristine white wisp, and it becomes a sling to slay an infinite number of Goliaths any and every day, with potent pouch petals kissing it inside and a girl’s red nether curls gathered and overspilling, as she carelessly tethers her g-string tying a swift bow skilfully behind her, and flounces to her chair once more to don her shoes there.
Her white leather four-inch-stiletto-heeled-sandals, have long straps tracing criss-cross lattice around her pronounced calves: straps she buckles under her knees: the neatness of the criss-crossed leather caressing her lovely legs, showing how artistic she is by nature, and, indeed, how tidy she can be if she tries.
She then rises and traipses ballerina-light, as she throws a white, clean but creased, sloppy tee-shirt over her head, sweeping out her hair so its curls fall behind her once more, to rear of her knees, as all round, does her short-sleeved tee’s hem, save not so far down, to make like a micro-mini-dress.
As Petalina Goldkiss clasps a light white leather belt at her hips: “Do come on now darling, it’s ten to nine already!” her mother calls again, muffled by the bedroom door.
………………….
“Oh: Darling, you could have made an effort”, Namatina, Petalina’s mother despaired as her pretty daughter stepped into the hallway.
“What’s wrong mummy?”
“You know what an important interview this is for me Petalina. You’re nearly sixteen now sweetheart. You’re going to go to an interview yourself next week. Surely you don’t think Camford will put you on its PhD programme, if they see you dressed like that do you? You could have put on a proper dress, or at least a skirt”.
Petalina recognised her mother’s anxiety, and just smiled innocently, knowing Namatina’s remarks were no more than a reflection of tension.
A moment after the smile lit Petalina’s lovely eyes, her mother kissed her daughter’s cheek to signify and beg forgiveness.
Petalina admired Namatina’s outfit. Namatina’s burnished red hair shone contrast with the fern-frond green of her Parisian-cut wool-weave jacket-and-skirt combo. Petalina was less certain about the mid-grey stockings. She was not sure they went with the white silk pearl-buttoned blouse, and white patent-leather three-inch-heeled pumps. Nonetheless, she answered affirmatively to her mother’s concerned: “Do I look alright?”
“You look wonderful mummy: you always look wonderful”, she assured.
If that was true of Namatina is was also true of Petalina, for mother and daughter were peas of the same exceptionally attractive pod. They could have been twins, save that Namatina was five-eight to Petalina’s still growing five-five. Namatina’s face was the face of a thirty-four year old woman, which had the pure mature beauty that Petalina’s more than mere prettiness would graduate into.
Both girls had the opalescence: the near transparency of a redhead’s complexion, with Namatina’s eyes showing laughter lines at her temples, and Petalina’s pretty little nose a fairy dust of freckles.
Namatina’s decision to use the same sperm deposit that had originally fathered her, had worked a miracle with the daughter, who was also her sister, in that anonymous sense.
..........................
Breakfast over, there was no more time to wait. Namatina checked she had the key of the apartment, and both girls were on their way.
Was it coincidence that John Barnett’s lovely blonde wife was always at the door whenever Namatina went into the communal hallway?
As she noticed that, as always, Marianna’s eyes were only for her momma: “Good morning Marianna!” Petalina called brightly and totally mischievously.
“Hi Petalina. Hi Namatina!” Marianna called in turn in return, the latter a little louder to cause the hurrying Namatina to notice her, as if she hadn’t already, and respond with, the white lie: “Oh hello Marianna, I didn’t see you there”.
As mother and daughter met the warm morning air outside, and exchanged knowing looks: “You’re blushing mummy!” Petalina teased.
“No I am not!!” Namatina protested, as she flushed-up even deeper.
Petalina felt a surge of pride in her mother’s indisputable attractiveness to the same sex. When she settled down in life, she dearly wanted to marry a girl as lovely as her momma, that was for sure.
Just outside the apartment block, the twisted wreckage of Namatina’s 7-litre Cugatti coupe, glinted in a sun reflecting off the bare metal involuntarily violently exposed when Namatina’s Russian girlfriend, Ariana Spermspurna had totalled it.
It had been there a week. Both Petalina and Namatina recalled watching in horror as the garage girls had lowered what was left of it on the parking lot outside their condo.
Thank gee Ariana was okay. This they knew for sure because Ariana was with them when the wreck was returned. But the “slight scratch” that Ariana had told Namatina she had given Namatina’s brand new auto, had turned out to be a whole world more than what Namatina had already spanked Ariana for being the confessed cause.
The walk to ‘Girls-ALoan’ was not far. Namatina and Petalina could breeze there on the sidewalk in ten minutes and did so, through an initial gauntlet of wolf-whistles and earthy genuflections, imitating erectile tissue, from the bored girls on the building site near their home.
Mother and daughter lowered their heads and tried not to look at each other in case they started to giggle.
“Hey darlin’ you want my number?! You can bring yer little sister wiv yer if yer want!” preceded mother and daughter blushing divinely at the appreciation of their attractiveness as they proceeded, parading their charms as they progressed.
“You know why she walks like that dontcha?” came a rhetorical introduction next, followed by: “Cos it bit his cock off him last night, and it’s still chewing on it..........”
At this Namatina threw up her head in hurt haughty anger, and then bristled as she bustled along to clear the leering builders the quicker, clasping Petalina’s pretty hand to drag her daughter as fast as Petalina could manage in her four-inch heels.
“Sorry darlin’. Didn’t mean it like dat!” came the genuinely apologetic call, at which Namatina stopped and turned, and the full view of her lovely face silenced the crude women.
“Wow, she’s a fuckin’ cracker she is!”, came the converts concluding sigh.
“What’s a girl gotta ‘ave to get a crack ‘ot bit of stuff like that inter bed?”
“More money dan what you got would ‘elp Zarah!” came a teasing response, followed by resigned laughter.
………………….
Money was a key: a key, not to the heart of loving girls like Namatina and Petalina; but the key to why they were walking to Girls-ALoan.
The old-fashioned shop that Girls-ALoan occupied, hardly inspired confidence.
It was just that: a shop: at least a former shop. It was lodged at the base of a low-rising brownstone.
It sported no grandeur. There were no Doric columns, nor oaken door, nor marble interior to impress the public with its solidity and soundness. It had not even a polished brass plate to understate its name.
The glass of the former high street shop was curtained inside with a variety of second-hand drapes that had seen better days, and far better locations, when they had hung as new. Three or four dead flies were scattered, legs upwards, at the base of the window glass they had died months since back, trying hopelessly to fly to freedom through.
Behind the glass of the entry door, were net curtains that could be politely called “off-white” because, they were not clean and were decidedly yellowing.
The door of the shop, and the wooden frame around the shop windows, had been painted navy blue a long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that the once dark shade was now an appalling pealing powdering grey.
“Gosh... is this where you got the money from mummy?” Petalina enquired, with her tone unintentionally giving away her astonishment.
“Beggars can’t be choosers darling”, Namatina responded, with her voice showing she had registered her daughter’s implied criticism, and knew herself that the deal she had struck had been a mistake.
The mechanical bell that croaked its cracked ‘ring’ as Namatina pushed open the door and graced over the threshold of Girls-ALoan, put the period full-stop on Petalina’s conclusion that this was hardly a Federal Reserve Board supported institution.
As there was no one present in the interior, both lovely women sat on two of three in a row of chairs, thus letting their hems slide up their stockings to reveal their superb thighs right up to their stocking tops. Their hems being so short, they sat with only their intimately scented panties between their intimacies and the chairs’ seats.
But no sooner had they put their potently pouched panties on the seats, than the door bell rang another cracked clang, and a beautiful Nubian negress, six-foot tall, flowed in, as gracefully as a sailing summer cloud.
“Who said you could sit?” the negress asked coolly as she entered.
Both girls rose in reflex, and: “Oh, hello again, Karana: Namatina Goldkiss? We have an appointment at ten...” Namatina began, very tentatively.
“Yes: I know full well who you are”, the stunning negress responded: “Why did you bring the little tart with you?”
“This is my daughter”, Namatina responded nervously: shocked by the crude terminology applied to Petalina, but too in need of Karana’s good offices to be able to dare to challenge it.
“Are you deaf or stupid? I asked what you brought her here for, not who she is?”
“It’s her school’s summer vacation. I promised Petalina we’d go shopping after this. It’s coming up her sixteenth birthday, and she’s got an interview at Camford University, so we’re off to choose a suitably smart outfit.......”
“I didn’t ask to be told her boring biography”, Karana cut in, while she looked the lovely Petalina over head to toes and back again: “But I suppose she can stay”.
“You’d better come through....”, she added, before her eyes roamed up the seams in Namatina’s stockings.
Though they were the customers, and the customer customarily comes first, the two redheads instinctively let the catwalking Karana lead them through, past yet another curtain, which each girl held aside in turn when it was their turn to go into the back room, so that they could join Karana in the inner sanctum: the shop’s back office.
There, in complete contradiction with what she had instructed when she had first re-entered the shop, Karana flourished a lovely hand to show where the two girls might sit. She then sat opposite them, so they formed a three-sided circle.
Because they were bare above their stocking tops, the cold sweaty black PVC of the seats of the wooden-framed chairs, stuck to the backs of Namatina and Petalina’s thighs.
By contrast, Karana wore a long skirt, but not so long that, when she crossed her legs, the two redheads could not see her lovely white stocking clad limbs up to a hint of her stockings’ racy lacy-pattern tops.
“Let’s not beat about the bush”, Karana began: “You’re in deep shit Namatina. Your chick wrote of the Cugatti I gather. You should choose your girlfriends more carefully. That’s a cool 800K dollars your tart totalled.”
“You’ve been skipping the repayments too. Your pathetic email told us you lost your job six months back. Add that to the wrecked auto, and we’ve got some serious talking to do sweetheart.”
“So what are you going to do about it? And, just in case you didn’t notice, we ain’t a charity.”
“I’m trying to get another job”, Namatina began, with a distinct hint of uncertainty in her voice.
“Meantime, I thought...well...there’s the insurance of course....” she continued lamely, watching the gorgeous negress’ sarcastic smile turn to cold incredulity.
This whole business was far from going the way Namatina had assumed it would. The free coffee and the smiles of the interview when she had fixed the cheap loan, the only loan she could get from anywhere for the longed for Cugatti, which was otherwise way beyond even her high earner’s income, were, she was sure, an accurate memory. Nothing had been too much trouble then. Everything was worryingly troubling now.
“You mean your whore was insured?” Karana enquired with one eyebrow quietly quizzical heavenward.
“Who?” Namatina asked, getting confused by the pressure of the negress’ sarcasm.
“Your girlfriend: the bed-meat: the tart that slammed the Cugatti?”, Karana whispered slowly, as if Namatina were a fool.
“Well no: Ariana was driving on my insurance of course....”
“No she wasn’t Namatina”, Karana abruptly scoffed.
Namatina opened her lovely mouth to dispute this, only to give best to the Karana’s swirling dark-brown dreadlocks as the negress slowly shook her queenly head.
“You brainy chicks never read the small print do you?” Karana asked rhetorically.
“The insurance....I’d say ‘let me remind you’ at this point, but let’s face it, as you couldn’t be assed to read it.....you’d better just take my word....the insurance covered you and you alone.”
“And, before we go any further, the loan was backed by surety? Girls-ALoan now owns your condo, sweetheart. It ain’t worth a fig to us though, unless we sell it, so you and your pretty little daughter here are on the street as from right nowsville. That is, unless you can afford to make up the six-months missing payments on the Cugatti, and still continue the rest of the payments to completion of the buy of an auto you’ve no longer got and can’t therefore sell.....And do all that without an income from a job....”
Petalina reached a comforting hand, to touch the two well girlicured hands of her momma.
A silence that was as short as it seemed long, followed, as the eyes of the two stunning redheads followed the equally astonishing negress, when she rose and walked to her briefcase to pull out what appeared to be a diary.
Karana then returned to her seat and, without looking up from the book she was opening, ordered: “Stand up, lift your hem clear, and let me look at your legs.”
Namatina felt Petalina move her hand away, so that she, Namatina, was free to rise. Namatina then looked at her daughter, and began to stand up.
“No: not you, you stupid bitch, I mean the little tart!”, Karana insisted quietly.
Namatina cod-fished her mouth to protest, but no sound came out bar a sweet soprano as Petalina assured her: “It’s alright mummy: I don’t mind”.
Moments later, the deeply blushing Petalina stood high to heaven on her heavenly legs: legs stretched to superb curves by her stiletto-heeled shoes.
At an indication from Karana’s forefinger, Petalina began a slow pirouette, with the wonderful bonus that her g-string left her bottom completely bare.
“Mmm. Are her tits real? Does she have any piercings? Does she sport any tattoos?” Karina stabbed out at the astonished Namatina.
“Of course not, she’s completely natural”, Namatina answered.
“And just how complete is that exactly?” Karana asked next.
“How do you mean?” Namatina croaked, before she cleared her throat.
“Good god: I don’t have to spell it out for you do I?! Is she or isn’t she?” Karana insisted, as she flicked out an impatient wave to order Petalina to stop turning.
Petalina was blushing beetroot-red as she stopped turning, and now stood showing her bare bottom to the gorgeous negress.
“Well?” Karana persisted, demanding that Petalina’s momma answer, as if Petalina could not respond for herself.
“My darling daughter is a fully intact virgin, if you must know, but I don’t know what the hell it has to do with you!!” Namatina answered, tears verging on the precipice of her lower eyelids.
Ignoring the tantrum, Karana continued: “Does she masturbate?”
Regretting her uncharacteristic temper outburst, Namatina blushed to match Petalina, save that Petalina now lowered her lovely head in additional shame.
“I don’t know”, Namatina answered.
“Huh! Some kind of mother you are, not knowing if her own daughter frigs herself off”, Karana scoffed.
“Yes I do mummy”, Petalina whispered, and then raised her head proudly.
“That’s unfortunate”, Karana mused, as she thought out loud.
“Take your belt off and your tee-shirt right up, I want to look at the tits”, Karana now commanded.
“Is all this really necessary?” Namatina begged, with a voice saying she already knew the answer.
“I’ll ignore that question!”, Karana snapped back.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful for once, and undo your daughter’s belt and help her unhook her bra for me?”
As, a short while later, Petalina’s breasts flowed out from overfilling and overspilling the fullest capacity of their cupped captivity, Karana looked at them as captivated as they were free.
“They are wonderful. Your daughter has a very beautiful body to go with her ravishingly lovely face. Is she, say, a 36D?”
“No: she’s a 38E same as me” Namatina responded, now resigned to the humiliation she and, more so, Petalina, were being put through.
“The nipples are very pronounced: does she suck them?”
“No!”, Petalina herself responded, lowering her head in shame once more.
“Mmmm. I don’t really believe you could resist them, but you can sit down now Petalina”, Karana ordered very gently, thus revealing that she was smitten by the younger girl’s beauty.
Not attempting to re-hook her brassiere, Petalina dropped her tee-shirt’s hem back down, but did not notice it was caught on her suspender belt at the rear. In consequence, when she sat once more on the clammy PVC of the chair, she did so with her bottom completely bare, and let out a decidedly sexy “Ooooh!” as the seat’s chill startled her.
“I think we may have a solution here, Namatina”, Karana now began.
“We, my partners and I have been thinking for some time about a collateral swap. Originally, we had just you in mind, Namatina. But it’s a fortunate coincidence that you brought your daughter with you today, and that she’s up to the mark.”
“We’ve actually had an eye on Petalina for this last few weeks, just in case we needed her as well. Did you know that she’s the most sought after girl in her school? If you want to see it, we have video of her headmistress trying to feel her up.”
“No? Well, no matter, the choice is entirely yours”, Karana sarcasmed.
“Now then: this conversation is totally deniable. If you don’t deliver on your part, or if you involve anyone, especially the police, then this conversation, quite simply, never took place. Do you understand?”
The two redheads held hands, as Namatina nodded.
“Good” Karana responded, and then paused.
“Okay. To come straight out with it, the deal is this. You can keep your home for now and what’s left of the auto. Your debts will be written off entirely by Girls-ALoan and we’ll only sell your condo after the deal gets underway.”
“The deal has a high and heavy price. The price: the price for the deal: the only price acceptable to Girls-ALoan, is that you and your daughter, Petalina, repay the debt with your bodies”.
“No!!!!” Namatina cried, rising from her seat in her rush of anxiety: “God no! Not Petalina too!! Please no!!!” she begged
Petalina put a comforting arm around her distraught mother, and sat her down again.
“It’s alright mummy. It’s alright. I don’t mind. I’ll do it for you mummy, I’ll do it for us, you know I will”, she soothed.
“I haven’t finished yet!” Karana shouted above the two wailing women.
Then, her words punctuated by Namatina’s continuing sobs, Karana concluded: “There is but one strict stipulation that goes with the deal. It is that, despite her masturbation devaluing her, when she is delivered up, Petalina must still be an intact virgin, otherwise the whole deal is off”.
“We have a millionaire countess who will fund this. She’ll want a DVD of it being done and regular reports on Petalina as she goes through life after.”
“You, Namatina, will go into service with the countess as her lifelong slave. Petalina will be free to enjoy life, if ‘enjoy’ is the right word.”
“Now go. You have the phone number. We plan to start at the weekend – Saturday next. We will make preparations on that assumption. You can have time to think about it, but don’t have any alternative I can think of.”
“And, so, when you’ve also reached the same conclusion, you, Namatina, will phone, ask for me, and use the code word ‘red’ to confirm you agree the deal. We will then come and collect Petalina and yourself, take her to where it will take place, and you will become the countess’ slave, after watching it being done to your daughter”.
As the two sobbing ghost-white curly-redhead wonders rose to leave, Karana shot out two more points: “Remember, all you’ve heard is totally deniable.”
“Oh: and, when you get home, so as to mark her out as a virgin, Petalina must lose the pubes. Shave it totally smooth, and shave it twice a day after that”.
“What are you going to do to her?!” Namatina begged, as she bit her pretty lip to hold back her tears.
“You’ve been told the deal, bitch, now just get out of here!” Karana sneered triumphantly......
.......................
It had been good of the countess to let Petalina continue to live in the condo she and her dear momma had shared. Namatina’s apartment in the condo had gone to the countess as a contribution toward Namatina’s debts. But the countess had recognised that little Petalina needed a roof over her head until she left school: a home from which she would dutifully email the countess with a report on her sex-life every month: reports that the countess would take delight in having her slave, Namatina, read out-loud to her; though, fortunately, Petalina did not know that.
Today Petalina sat on the 15.30 train home to Barnmouth. Out of the window, she could see the River Barn’s valley in all its spring loveliness: the unfurling of the pristine green leaves on the deciduous sisters among the evergreen pines they gave way to, as the latter strode alone up the distant distinctly dark Barnwold Hills, told of the dawn of the new year, as did the trackside fields full of lambs springing over imagined obstacles as they learned to use their newborn’s legs.
The astoundingly glorious gold of her glistering cascade of complex curls might be a mite autumnal; but spring had also sprung in ghost-white pretty Petalina’s mind, and she tried not to return the bewitching smile in the sparkling almond-hued almond shaped eyes of a stunning jet-haired ethnic- Japanese girl in the seat opposite her. Yet, so pretty were this twenty-year-old’s legs, and so seductive the line that led to the bell of her skirt and the mystery between her thighs hidden by the shadow from her hem, that Petalina must pretend that she was looking out of the coach window.
Petalina had a lot to contemplate. She was returning home after an interview for an appointment as an office-girl, at the main UK factory of the world-famous Clittitass Love Toys Inc., and it had been a strange interview.
The countess had allowed Petalina to complete her time at school. The office-girl job was the first Petalina had ever applied for post school, and even though she would never now go to college and get the education that the qualifications listed for the post she had applied for, purely speculatively, demanded, her interviewer had said how very attractive Petalina was and selected her right there and then, without any reservations.
Her interviewer, Milandia Loveworthy had made some very strange comments.
Through the glass of the one-way mirror window in her ground floor office, it was possible to look, unobserved, at the factory-girls as they went about their dreadfully repetitive work.
“Psychologists have extolled the virtue of jealousy as a driving force among the females working in a factory environment Miss Goldkiss. Delivering a cause for a united focus on a figure of desire and jealousy, keeps the old ‘green-eyed monster’ from causing the factory-girls to turn on one another. Fessenstein in her treatise ‘The Female Jealouside and Redress Through Focused Targeting’ speaks of using a ‘tease-tart’.
“I want you to become this factory’s first tease-tart Miss Goldkiss. You will not find it difficult to look stunningly attractive: nature has done wonders by you. We will pay for your clothing.”
“You will not wear the factory products. I have Paris for dresses, skirts and supporting underwear, London for millinery and stockings, and Milan for shoes in mind for you; and, of course, it has to be New York for your panties.”
“Fessenstein recommends ‘The finest designer outfits’ to convey that the wearer is either being paid much more by far than the shop-floor girls are, or that she is sleeping with the boss to get favours and, either way, is desirably unavailable: available unavailability being the key to the success in deploying a tease-tart.”
“Please don’t let worry-lines crease your brow so Miss Goldkiss. You don’t actually have to sleep with the boss, but I am not about to say ‘no’ if you decide you would like to!” Milandia had joked as Petalina had blushed beyond English Rose.
“All you have to do is to be your lovely self. But you must never ever date any of the shop-floor girls. You are to be a ‘tease-tart’ – what we in England also call a ‘clit-tease’. Apart from looking lovely at all times, all you have to do is accept a lift to and from work in my Leopard, so the girls will not only think you’re being bedded by me, but will long to sniff the leather of the passenger seat after you have just got out!”.
.......................
Back in the very present, Petalina’s peripheral vision told her that the Japanese doll was smiling at her, and looking to engage her in conversation.
Unable to avoid the older girls stunning eyes, Petalina lowered her head shyly as she heard her whisper: “I just love you hair....How ever do you manage to keep it so beautiful? What conditioner do you use?”
But before the conversation could be struck up, the train pulled into a station and a group of girls, over-cheery, with cherry-red cheeks from the intoxication of youth, vitality, and more than a little alcohol, ran giggling into the carriage and latched onto the pretty Japanese.
“Hey now doll: are you a cracker or are you a cracker?!” slurred the newly boarded girl who seemed to be the centre of attention.
“Me and me mates are out celebrating see”, she went on to say, as if the lovely Japanese wanted or needed to know.
“It’s me last day of freedom. Madeline and me is getting married tomorrow...only Madeline ain’t here of course, cos she’s getting drunk somewhere down-town see. And it’s bad luck to let the bride see the bride on the day before the wedding. But if you wanna come with us sweetheart, I’ll forget all about Maddy and marry you instead: alright darlin’?”
The Japanese girl giggled divinely.
“Waz you name den darlin’?” the drunken bride-to-be then insistently slurred.
“Nimoto”, the Japanese angel answered, giggling once more, with a pretty hand touch on her nose and sparkles in her eyes.
“Well you’re absolutely fuckin’ gorgeous Nimoto. D’yo know that?” the tipsy girl sincered.
“Thank you”, Nimoto smiled as she lowered her head shyly.
“Bet you shave it too, don’t you darlin’?” the drunk girl then blurted out: the short distance between her unconscious and conscious minds having been hot-wired by drink.
In the instant, Nimoto looked upset, and the drunken girl was genuinely apologetic: “Sorry darlin’ I didn’t mean no ‘urt to a gorgeous doll like what you is!”
Nimoto instinctively knew the apology was from the tipsy girl’s heart and soul. And so she looked up with her countenance showing her confidence renewed, and joined in the fun by whispering the truth; “Yes: I do”, and then giggling lovingly as she saw it was now the drunks turn to blush.
“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell! I don’t want to fink about dat, ‘cept that I bloody well do! Oh bloody ‘ell! Wow and bloody wow!”
This stunning revelation seemed to poleaxe the tipsy soon-to-be bride, who just could not get rid of her blush, and now covered for herself by saying: “If’n you want to come and join us Nimoto....we’re off to Camford to see if we can find some student girls to shag. Them brains tarts has always got hot cracks. We’re on a bet see. We wanna see how many students we can get the knickers off this side of midnight, and me pals say I’ve gotta lick out at least one PhD, whatever one of them is......”
“Nimoto blushed crimson at this directness: “I’m sorry, I’ve got a wife at home cooking dinner for me. It’s our first anniversary”, she began.... “But why don’t you ask this lovely redhead to join you, she then offered....thinking both to get rid of the attention she was getting, and sure she could defend both herself and the redhead if, as was surely to be expected, the redhead also declined the invitation. Nimoto so wanted to talk to the titian temptress, and this was a way of including Petalina in the conversation, as certainly as it assured success in subsequently including the drunken bride-to-be out.
.....But as she looked up and across to where Petalina had, she assumed, sat throughout the barrage of loud but friendly badinage, Nimoto saw only an empty seat.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the next carriage but one, lovely lonely Petalina sat trying to hide her sadness. The countess may have insisted upon Petalina being ‘protected’ as part of the repayment of her momma’s debts, but Petalina’s mind heart and very soul was still in love with love and longing for it.
.......................
The unfurling uncurling mint-fresh leaves were not the only sign of spring in the air. The season’s slow warming glow also saw the arrival of fresh freckles on the spectral face of the bewitching Petalina. One even teetered top edge of the siren strawberry of her seductively succulent lips.
Though to others they were astonishingly adorable, Petalina had always hated her freckles. As an even younger girl, she had tried to cover them with makeup. But now, for the greater glory of the world, she let them show.
This was the first day in her new job and her darling freckles had not gone unnoticed on the workshop floor.
For her first day as the factory’s tease-tart, Milandia Loveworthy, had had Petalina dress in a ‘little green number’.
The verdant pastoral pastel shade of green chosen, was a compliment to the shear glory of Petalina’s flaming tresses. Though it was long-sleeved, the top was worn off-shoulder and the supreme whiteness of Petalina’s soft skin and the intricate delicacy of her shoulder and collar bones, showed how carefully god had made her.
With her shoulders bare, there could be no brassiere, and thus Petalina’s generous portions played their appointed role in prominently propping out the clinging line of her dress’ figure-hugging elasticated top, and deployed their alarming charms as she wiggled in walk and they wandered wonderfully within their tight but light restraint.
The skirt of her dress clung too to her delicious derriere and hinted that her hips were decorated, as indeed they were, by a delicately designed suspender belt.
The twice told truth of this ran, beyond the miniscule minimum of her min-dress’ hem, down the outsides of her bare translucently white thighs: with the extra-long reach of these, her suspenders, kissing her stockings just above her knees where they drew their tops up in long victory vees.
Mint-green was the theme not only of her dress but also in her underwear and stockings, and the saucily slanted Panama that sloped atop her impossible curls, and the five-inch heeled slingbacks posing her lovely legs in delectable tension.
The dark rings under her soulful brown eyes hinted that Petalina had hardly slept and the answer to the cause of that god-given blessing and curse spotted its scarlet tears under her mint-green thong.
Her bleed had come on this dawn, and was a great discomfort to Petalina. Tampons were out of the question of course. She could therefore only use pads or panty-liners to soak up her sacrificial blood.
As intended by her boss, one magically majestic stroll of this wonder of nature through the throng on the workshop floor was enough to set tongues wagging.
“’Ere Trish, you seen the new girl in Accounts? I wouldn’t kick ‘er out of bed, that’s for sure!”
“Yea. It’s not bloody fair.” Trisha Smith answered. “She goes about all hoity-toity wiv ‘er ‘air right down to beyond ‘er bleedin’ arse, and we ‘as to ‘ave it trimmed short and wear ‘air nets for safety an’ all”.
“I know; but she ain’t factory, she’s office, and them rules don’t apply none to office see”, Martha informed, as if Trisha didn’t already know.
“Bet you don’t know what colour knickers she’s got on!” Trisha teased.
“Coarse I do. Dey’ll be fuckin’ green same as der rest of her rig-out won’t dey?” Martha responded, losing her certainty toward the end of her answer.
“But I dunno though!” Martha then mused.
“I fort you said you did!” Trisha shot back.
“Nah. I was just asking meself, same as what you was Trish. Dey might be red or blue. Lenf of that bloody dress she’s almost got on, and we’re sure to find out afore the day’s gone, eh Trish!
Both women then chortled, but still carried on with their work on the constant conveyor.
“What’s ‘er name den?” Trisha asked ten seconds later.
“Ooze?”
“Der new girl in Accounts: der red ‘ead. What’s ’er name?”
“Oh. I ‘erd it were ‘Petal’ or suffink like dat” Martha assured, her tone suggesting she had authoritative contacts in ‘high places’: sources not shared by anyone else.
“Rose Petal would suit ‘er wouldn’t it? She ain’t ‘alf got lovely skin.” she went on.
“I ‘ear she comes to work in Milandia’s auto, so I bet she’s shacking up wiv der boss”, Trisha speculated.
“I bet she cums to what, in what?!” Martha responded, trumpeting her nearest ear in pretence she was deaf and hadn’t heard the previous sentence.
This did not get the laugh intended. Instead Trisha almost stopped work as she speculated: “Just imagine that ‘eh. Bet she can’t keep ‘er ‘ands off of ‘erself: I mean, ‘ow could yer, if you was as pretty as dat, an’ built like dat eh?”
At that point, Petalina walked onto the factory floor, and began to walk up the open lattice staircase to where the office worker’s lavatory was located.
As her sweet face smiled at the two talkative girls near the staircase, Trisha and Martha fell shyly silent and appeared to be concentrating on their work without time to look up from it.
But after Petalina had traipsed her treasure in very leggy measured steps, to where she would deal with her crimson, the two women looked at each other and knowingly mouthed in unison, their agreement that today they were indeed: “Green!”
..........................
For pretty Petalina, passing her golden wine was now a very difficult business, and worse still was ridding her menstruum.
In the ladies’ lavatory, Petalina lowered her panties, whilst all the while fighting her urgent need to do the necessary. In her bleed week she stored her wine this way, because she needed a good flow of pee to hose her seep out.
In her situation, she found it best to seat herself with her thighs pressed up to her breasts. And, to ensure her urine would flow into the lavatory bowl, to put a pretty hand between her thighs to direct the multiple sprinkles to become a single stream.
For pretty Petalina, passing her golden wine was now a very difficult business.
Lifting her skirt so it was well off her lower body, and with her tiny tight thong panties binding her ankles, almost as if she were featuring in some kind of BDSM story, she placed her shoes’ heels within the rim of the toilet’s seat and looked down toward her lower mouth, between thighs made monumental by her purposeful pose; and paused; put a sweet hand in front of her slit, fingers downward, and then peed profusely.
As she urinated, she peeked between her enormous thighs, and was relieved as she relieved herself, to see her wine pass from Oporto red, to sweet rosé, and then to pure white, as her peeing flushed out her moon cycle sacrifice to the altar of pulchritudinous potency.
Petalina was used to this vile indignity now, and had found this way, this stance, this mode of sitting, was the best, indeed, the only way to ensure her pee escaped neatly, rather than showering her gorgeous thighs and going almost everywhere bar where wished it to.
No concession had been made for her need to urinate and menstruate.
Her powerful piss would have to wash out her vestibule when she was menstruating, and this it did because its hissing jet shot back off the insides of her outer lips and hosed her out before it seeped in tiny jets.
It would be nice if there were a bidet in this room Petalina mused, as she washed her hands afterwards, just before pulling up her panties to hold a new panty-liner in place, and then running enquiring fingers around the simply skimpy panty boundaries, to ensure they were not folded-in anywhere.
The stitches had been painful at first. They made her delicate flesh very sore because they were pulled so tight. But that soreness had eventually abated. And that was not because they had got any degree looser. Their defence of her virtue was still absolute.
Petalina’s complete infibulation was very thorough in performing its duty.
As Petalina’s contribution to countess, for the countess having repaid her momma’s debts to Girls-ALoan, the countess had insisted upon Petalina being sewn-up.
Furthermore, her mouth, her lovely mouth, was protected by a ball-stud with its two hemispheres screwed together by an axle penetrating her tongue. A stud large enough to prevent her tongue being reached out beyond the duty of licking her delicious lips: with even that only possible to perform with its extreme tip. The ball-stud coincidently gave Petalina’s sweet voice a very sexy innocent’s lisp.
The stainless-steel conical covers completely encapsulating her captivating nipples, and held hard over them by rivet-headed horizontal rods piercing Petalina’s fresh girl’s flesh, also put those sensitive signals of her signal joy at sexual arousal, forever out of play’s way.
Petalina’s other penance had been the total ban on her having any contact whatsoever with Namatina.
For now though, Petalina pulled up her panties, and the panty-liner she wore hid the ridge formed by the way her lips had been drawn together so that they pouted, and the pout then sewn tight closed forever, with neat hand-worked stitches that sealed her completely.
..........................
Petalina did not want to hurry back to the office. She knew Milandia had a meeting at 15.00, and was looking forward to the peace and quiet when her boss was not there for a while.
It was not the work that she could not cope with: it was another pressure that was getting to her.
To prolong her stay in the lavatory, a lovely ghost looked at her flaming curls, and caressed them with long fingers into acutely cute conformity.
For such a highly intelligent girl it had taken a long time for the penny to drop, that, when she had just now climbed the stairs to spend that same metaphorical penny, the two girls who worked just below that stairway must have had the heavenly view up Petalina’s dress: they must have been able to see everything!
Now the realisation raced to her, Petalina blushed so deeply that her shyness caused pretty tears to teeter on her lower eyelids.
And she must shortly wiggle the same gauntlet!
..........................
The click and clack of Petalina’s stilettos sounded sensational to Trisha and Martha’s ears. With such an erotic sound as foreplay, they did not need to nudge each other to remind themselves to look up as Petalina came down. But both girls noted that there was not as good a view that way, and thus they must look forward to Petalina going the other way again, later in the day.
Despite that Petalina had done nothing other than to be her natural charming self with them, the two young women - Trisha and Martha – established the distance between ‘them and us’: between the factory-girls such as they, and ‘management’ such as Petalina, by letting Petalina hear them saying:
“I fink green’s a smashing colour don’t you Martha?” on the one part. And, in case Petalina thought they might only be talking about her Parisian couture outfit, responding: “Oh yea, smashing: but meself, I prefers to wear knickers what covers me bum!”
Petalina hung her head and hurried by. And two young women individually wished they could bite back their spiteful words; but were not going to lose face by seeking for that to become their combined view.
.......................
Milandia Loveworthy lived up to her name; in her own interpretation of it that is.
She had risen like a rocket from the factory floor, because the predecessor in the post Milandia now occupied, had done the same just before her, and gone on to HQ over in Tokyo, leaving the vacancy.
The predecessor in Milandia’s post had chosen Milandia because she liked a nice pair of legs, and Milandia had a great pair, and gorgeous green eyes that startled with champagne’s sparkle, framed by her soft nut-brown shoulder-length hair with its saucy fringe.
Petalina had been recruited from outside, because Milandia had done her MBA and read her Fessenstein, and because she – Petalina - too had great legs.
Between her duty to devastate the women and girls on the factory floor, the flawless Petalina sat working on a PC just outside Milandia’s office.
The pain of sitting with her stitches was something Petalina had only just got used to.
Sitting caused the stitches through her love-lips to pull painfully. Nonetheless she managed.
But, despite that she had not yet been with the company for a full day, she already dreaded Milandia putting her head around the door of her inner office partition and saying: “Miss Goldkiss!” For at that Petalina knew she was expected to enter dutifully in and sit her one-hundred pounds of plus-perfect confection on the boss’ knee: on Milandia’s stockinged knees.
So sat, precariously and trying to smile to please, Milandia would expect Petalina to pencil notes in a pad always left at readiness on the corner of Milandia’s desk, and would use the excuse to feel the hot flesh of the inside of Petalina’s right thigh, whilst both girls pretended that that was not really happening.
In such circumstances, Petalina’s position was precarious in two ways.
Firstly, the perch she purchased on the thirty-year-old Milandia’s shapely knees, necessitated her raising her feet out of her shoes and pointing her toes to the ground, giving her calves exceptionally sexy shape, as her big toes sought to balance her, so as, Milandia assumed, to keep her full mass from pressing down on the sensitivity central to every girl’s centre of gravity: the lips which Milandia was seeking should feel her stockinged thighs pressing up on them. Unbeknown to Milandia of course, Petalina lifted her sweet weight for fear her humiliating infibulation would be felt by Milandia’s handsome thighs.
And, secondly, Petalina knew that, if she upset her employer in any way, she could and probably would be dismissed in the instant, and she had no other employment to go to at the time.
“Take a note please Miss Goldkiss”, Milandia insisted as 15.00 arrived and passed and she showed no interest in, or intent of letting Petalina off her knee to go to the meeting in her diary.
“Take a note please Miss Goldkiss. It must read as follows: ‘Milandia Loveworthy invites the gorgeous Petalina Goldkiss to wine and dine at her home tonight at eight. Miss Goldkiss need bring nothing bar her adorable self, and, if she insists on wearing one, a nightdress’. Now read that back to me if you would please”, Milandia instructed.
“Are you okay Petalina, I notice that you are very hot?”
Petalina did not answer and tried not to show her relief as Milandia concluded for herself: “Tch! I’m such a stupid mare! You’re on a losing-streak aren’t you: you’re having your monthly?
Petalina nodded confirmation of her weeping femininity.
“Okay, okay, nature wins out this time sweetheart, but I’m going to get you rocking and rolling on top of my queen-size duvet, that you can bet on as a certainty, Petalina...that is an absolute dead cert”.
Petalina sensed she was supposed to be flattered by this, and tried, with adequate success, to convey a pleased and honoured look, as she traipsed ballet-beautiful steps out of the room, so that she might sigh with relief out of Milandia’s sight.
.......................
For a girl as shy as Petalina, it was a surprising choice to make. She could not, of course, be sure it would have the effect intended.
But she knew, now she was dry again, that Milandia would not continue to take ‘no’ as an acceptable answer, and she longed to get away from something she actually longed to get into.
Contrarian as any girl, she had to find a way out that would see her summarily dismissed from a job she enjoyed. She wanted to avoid being felt and having loving feelings. This way, the way she had opted for, did not guarantee that she would be told to go, but it was a good possibility, and better than having her enforced disability discovered when she was in Milandia’s bed.
Ordinarily, red might not be considered the best colour for a redhead to wear, but the red Petalina wore, from head to toes, including her tiptoe front-heeled heelless rear ballet shoes, on the first day of her bleed-free weeks, could not compete with and could therefore only compliment the ravishing flow and glow of her radiant hair.
Her choice from the vast wardrobe Milandia had bought for the company’s tease-tart, was a carmine teaselled-wool tailored skirt and jacket combo, with suspenders and stockings in devil-dark maroon. The jacket she wore without an accompanying blouse. Thus, with no blouse being worn, and the maroon brassiere that matched her suspenders having strongly underwired quarter cups, she, the shy Petalina, showed her 38Es eased high, as enormous gentle frontage, with immense cleavage within the vee of her dress suit’s lapels.
The skirt was a little longer this day, but the tops of her stockings and her gold suspender clasps showed as she wiggled into the factory, and blushed and giggled at the wolf-whistles that assailed her from the girls there, so that she blew them a kiss as she went into her office.
In her inner office within the office Petalina worked in, Milandia was noting the marked increase in productivity, since Petalina’s arrival, and the consequent focus of the factory-girls in speeding throughput, so that they could be free to look at the angel when she came onto the workshop floor.
Every girl there wanted to get to talk to ‘Miss Goldkiss’ and, to her shame when she thought about it and her total helplessness now she had been ‘protected’ as per the countess’ demands, Petalina found the attention very flattering.
Petalina had spent much of the weekend composing her email to the countess, telling her mistress of the Japanese girl on the train, how all the girls in the factory wanted her, and how Milandia was trying to seduce her.
She added detail of her role as a tease-tart, and how her boss’ letting it be known that she, Petalina, took notes sitting on her knee, and let it be seen that she brought her to work and took her home each day, had indeed focused jealousy upon her, and upped production several-fold, as the girls in the factory were thus united in peace with one another, and focused all the energy that might otherwise be wasted in back-biting and cat-fighting, on longing to bed her.
And she concluded with the true story of how the factory women were having a daily sweepstake on what colour panties she, Petalina, would be wearing that day.
A truly embarrassing event had told Petalina of that. A new girl: a girl new to the factory and the daily lottery, had asked Petalina if she wanted to join the betting, innocent that pretty Petalina was the girl with the panties being bet upon.
This detail she told the countess in her dutiful email. And then she added that, even though she knew it was forbidden her forever, she longed to see her momma, and that she sent all her highest and most heartfelt love to Namatina, and hoped she was proving a good and faithful slave to the countess. Had this been a letter on paper, it’s seal would undoubtedly have been poor Petalina’s loving tears.
For a girl as shy as Petalina, it was a surprising choice to make. She could not, of course, be sure it would have the effect intended.
Because of her sweet shyness, she delayed her trip to the lavatory for as long as possible.
Then, when she had to go, she had to go hurriedly, and feared it might not be spotted. But she could have counted on the betting syndicate.
The buzz of conversation and talk of who got the money that day was audible to Petalina, even though it went down to a whisper when she wiggled back down the stairs and into her office.
For a long while, Petalina assumed that it had not worked. But the tone of voice in which Milandia eventually beckoned her into her inner office gave her hope.
“Please don’t sit down Miss Goldkiss.”
“I have had a report: in fact more than one report, from very reliable quarters, that you have behaved in a quite unseemly manner today”
In response, the gorgeous Petalina merely blushed.
“I can see that you know what I am talking about Miss Goldkiss. And the girls who reliably reported this to me, tell me that you...your...that you are wearing no panties, and that you are... that you very clearly...shall we say, you are very clearly, erm..... that is.....let’s say: ‘unavailable’?”
“Please don’t answer on that point. You can be assured of excellent references Miss Goldkiss, but an unavailable girl is, of course, of no use to us as a tease-tart....”
“We are going to have to let you go Miss Goldkiss. Here are your wages for today, and I hope you have every success in finding new employment...I’ll send someone round to have all your clothing collected, but you can keep anything you have already worn, as it is hardly likely to look lovelier on anyone else....” Milandia concluded, in indication that she had fallen in love with the coil-tressed beauty.
“Thank you Milandia – I mean Miss L.......” Petalina lovingly sweetly lisped, short-tongued, and erotically breathlessly, as she struggled to speak past the huge ball that stopped her mouth.
But her gentle words so softly delivered were not completed before her lips were suddenly silenced by a long and longing kiss from Milandia: a kiss that Petalina oh so wished she could fully return.
Guided only by the kisses she had exchanged with her headmistress when still at school, kisses nothing like this, innocent Petalina was completely overwhelmed by the sudden rushes in her body.
She had both hated and loved the surreptitious fondling of her thigh when she had been obliged to sit on Milandia’s knee, and this full-on, full-blown kiss, empowered her favourably.
She was being coaxed into being the willing equal partner in this embrace. She could break free and end the kiss whenever she chose; but she did not choose. She had always found Milandia attractive, it was only Milandia’s taking advantage of being the boss, and groping her without her assent, that Petalina had hated. She now not only welcomed but adored this confirmation that Milandia regarded her as more than just a body.
It was a millisecond before Petalina’s full passion kicked in, and it only took as long as that, because she was a complete innocent, never yet taken to bed, let alone to beyond the beyond’s beyond; except in self-delivery.
If there had been any question that Milandia’s kiss was expressive of something much deeper than a fond farewell to an extremely pretty girl, Petalina’s melting into her arms would have found that out. Petalina was, instantly, not just passionate, she was passion personified as she surrendered to Milandia.
But the pain began with Petalina’s nipples. It was not physical pain: at least not just physical pain. The real pain came with the killing of Milandia’s desire.
The instant Milandia felt for and fondled Petalina’s soft-firm right breast, and discovered she could only feel the steel cones covering Petalina’s paps: the very instant of that discovery, Milandia pulled away.
At the discovery of Petalina’s nipple protectors, Milandia pulled out of the embrace, and Petalina knew that her punishment for her momma’s debts had won.
Milandia coughed falsely, as if the need to clear her throat had caused her to end the embrace. Then: “I hope you’ll very soon find another job Petalina, only I must go now, I have an appointment”, Milandia lied, as she swept up her briefcase, and left the sobbing frustrated Petalina to wipe her own tears.
As Milandia swept past her, Petalina raised her arms to signal her longing to return to the embrace; but knew the truth that a woman like Milandia had no use for her: no use for a girl who could never ever receive love in its physical form.
And thus Petalina knew renewed knowledge that her sewn chastity would as surely leave her without love all her days, as the sun would rise each dawn in worship, and die each dusk in love and praise of the glory of girls such as she.
.......................
It had not been as foolish for Petalina to actively seek dismissal after not even three weeks at the factory, as it might seem.
After all, this was 2052, and workers such as she no longer had any right to resign. Only if she were dismissed could she leave. But Petalina was not so incautious as not to have already and previously found herself another post. And she had a plan.
Petalina planned to get back with her momma. It was forbidden her to seek that solace. But her thinking was that it could surely happen as long as it was accidental, and her thoughts added that ‘accidents’ could, of course, be aided.
Accordingly, it was no accident that Petalina had answered an advertisement she had found in the ‘Tittler’ – a magazine published by the upper crust for the upper crust. The vacancy described in the ‘Appointments’ column at the rear of that august organ, was in the home of a daughter of the Beaumont-Fortain household: the Beaumont-Fortain household being headed by the Dowager Countess Racanata Beaumont-Fortain – the lady in whose home Petalina, of course knew, that her mother, Namatina, was enslaved.
.......................
Despite the cool of the supposedly summer’s day, Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, the heir to the Beaumont-Fortain title, and her best friend at St Innocent’s Academy for Girls, Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas, had decided upon afternoon tea on the extensive lawns of Victoria Beaumont-Fortain’s newly acquired country home.
Acanda, though a mere commoner, was trying hard not to let her feelings of superiority show. Through her now notorious whirlwind romance with a princess of the blood royal, she had completely upstaged Lady Beaumont-Fortain in the gossip columns during the year to date, and felt she had to be kind to her fellow twenty-year-old, and disguise that she had not really been that impressed with the fifty-acre gardens and Elizabethan mansion house that Lady Victoria had just been given by her – Lady Beaumont-Fortain’s - momma: Countess Beaumont-Fortain.
Despite sensing the truth, that she had not impressed her school friend, Lady Beaumont-Fortain had every appearance of success: a hint of a smile: a ‘something up my sleeve’ look on her very pretty face.
During a lull in the girly conversation, at the sound of china cups rattling on a solid silver tray, Acanda casually turned, and then returned her face swiftly Victoria’s way, with, for Victoria, a very satisfying look of total astonishment, and then turned back again to gape open-mouthed at the lovely creature that carried the afternoon tea across the lawns to her mistress, and her mistress’ guest.
By the express order of her mistress, Petalina wore a contour-caressing black lycra mini-dress, a tiny frilly-edged white apron tied round her tinier middle, and a pair of black squared-toed heelless ballet shoes, in which she tippy-toed en-pointe, displaying the very shapely beauty of her very shapely legs.
Petalina’s legs were caressed by burnt-charcoal stockings, with regimentally straight seams: shear nylon stockings maintained in place by sinfully black suspenders, that grasped the deep dark tops ringing round Petalina’s strong thighs: stocking tops on full display below the hem of her dress this day.
Petalina’s dress was so short as to show also, the pert lips that pouched her black thong panties with their impertinent pout. Her bare breasts wondered about wonderfully, to show that they were divided widely but not divided and thus ruled over, because they made display nature’s way under her white-lace-frill-necked sinful black contour-clinging dress.
As she only wore frilly lace wristbands matching the apron and the headband that marked her servile role, Petalina’s slim arms were totally bare from the puff-sleeves at the shoulders of her dress downwards, and the gorgeous soft down on her forearms glinted more desirably than gold itself.
“You little bitch Victoria Beumont-Fortain!” her friend and school years’ lover cried in laughing loving joy at having been trumped by her friend: “You never told me you had a new slave!”
“Oh thet” Victoria responded, in her usual luxuriously-slow bored-sounding nasal drawl, trying to hide triumph behind extra-particular casualness on this occasion. “It’s just a little something mummy got me through the good eld ‘Tittler’, after my eld personal maid, beck at momma’s hame, heyd to be dismissed.”
“Turns out she’s oine of a pair ectually. I think the other oine was this oine’s sister or cousin or some sarch. Mummy – the countess – already eorned the eolder oine as it turned iate, and therefore said I could hev this oine.”
“Best to split them up, so they can’t learn bard ways of oine another and all thet....”
As she and her mother, Namatina, were being discussed, Petalina, having placed the tea tray on the table between her seated mistresses, stood statue no more than three feet distant, with her sweet brown eyes respectfully cast down while Acanda’s dark blue orbs mentally undressed her, and lusted after what her mind’s eyes saw.
“Oh you lucky bitch Vicky!”
“Have you shagged it yet?”
“Shush! It’ll haar you!” Victoria responded, visibly embarrassed.
“Oh for god’s sake Vicky darling: you don’t imagine these creatures have any feelings do you?!
“Talking of ‘feeling’ though, I’d love to feel its tits!! Why not order it to go and warm your bed, and we can spend the afternoon having some fun with it.”
“Mind you, I hope it’s clean. You are never too sure where they might have been.....I mean, considering where they come from.....”, Acanda opined.
“This one’s from a quate respectable stable ectually. It and its sister...the oither oine thet is....got into debt and thet kind of how d’ya do thingy....... Momma paid orff the debt in exchange for a little deal don’t ya know......” Victoria began to explain.
“Oh bloody hell, Vicky darling, pardon me while I shed tears for the little tart; I don’t think!!”
“These creatures bring these things on themselves. They breed like rabbits for starters, and then by their total lack of anything one could even remotely call intellect, they get themselves into some trouble or other, and expect their social superiors to carry the burden of their stupidity and profligacy!
“Anyway it caan’t be shegged”, Victoria interposed, both to stop her friend’s tirade about the shortcomings of the lower orders, and to complete her victory over Acanda, before the opportunity was lost through time and the conversation moving on.
“What do you mean ‘It can’t be shagged’? These working class tarts may be no bloody good in bed; but aren’t their inept fumblings, calamitous clumsiness, and complete lack of finesse, all part of the fun of having one of them?” Acanda retorted, before a memory shot back into her mind.
“D’you know: I actually had one that said it was in love with me. ‘In love with me!’ Oh dear god I ask you!! Can you imagine?!!”
“And d’you know what? I had the kitchen maid give it a squirt of that oven-cleaner thingy, you know, whatever it’s called, just a quick squirt inside you know where, and the stupid little whore never said it was in love with me again, I can promise you that!....”
“This one caan’t be shegged” Victoria repeated, “It caan’t be shegged, so we aren’t ever going to know what it’s layke in beyd”
“Why can’t it be shagged? Has its slit healed up or something?” Acanda enquired, thoroughly intrigued, with a look on her face that said she knew Victoria must be joking, but could not herself think out what the punch-line to that joke must be.
“Quate simply my daar, it can’t be shegged, because my momma has hed it snipped and sewn up. It can’t even pway with itself, It caan’t feel a thing down thar, don’t ya know......”
“Oh my god!! Oh bloody hell!! Acanda shouted, as she shot a hand up to cover a mouth gaping with astonishment and pleasure at the thought of such cruelty.
“Oh do: oh please do tell it to strip off so I can have a look!” she then demanded, her curiosity spurred by a sudden wetness in her very expensive panties, and showing by her leaning forward in her chair, the better to ogle Petalina’s pretty legs.
Victoria ignored this peremptory command and continued to whet her one-time lover’s appetite, and quim, by filling in some detail.
“Oh yes, it hed it done when it was just tarned sixteen. It ended its state school with it done - I think the oiks leave at eighteen don’t they? – so we are talking about one wewy fwustrated wikkle whore. It’s never hed it: can’t hev it: and will never ever hev it now, especially since mummy had it pokered tooa.....”
Lady Victoria now stopped, because Acanda was up from her seat and whispering in her ear.
Then the two girls fell to giggling, before, screaming with laughter, Victoria shouted, with tears in her eyes: “Acaandar St John-Fortesque-Thomaas you are a pwize bitch and a cwever wikkle whore tooa!! Of course one ought to. We can shaar a shar first!”
Trying to straighten her face, and wiping tears from her giggles from the corners of her eyes with the heels of her hands, she then turned to Petalina, who still stood with submissively lowered head.
“Woberts come har please!”
Petalina was reduced to and used to answering to the surname ‘Roberts’, the name Victoria had given her, because Victoria could not be bothered to learn Petalina’s real name. Petalina had just replaced the previous ‘Roberts’ who had, of course, been no more a ‘Roberts’ than the girl before her, or the one before that.
“Woberts come har please!” Victoria demanded, and Petalina slow-wiggled her lovely presence toward her mistress before curtseying as deeply as her total obedience demanded she should, and beholders of her shapely legs longed she would.
“Woberts you will go to one’s bedwoom and stwip yourself barr. You are to wash Miss Acaandar and one in the shar. Do you think you carn menage thet?” Victoria enquired with a mocking snigger only just under reins.
“Yes my lady” Petalina responded with her appealing lisp, as she bobbed another sexy curtsey.
“And you will then stay barr while you watch Miss Acaandar and I making worve. Thet will be alwight with you Woberts, woan’t it?” Petalina’s mistress enquired, with a cruel enjoyment barely suppressed and clearly expressed, if not by her words, by her snide tone.
“Of course my lady”, Petalina answered with her third sensational curtsey.
“And if you have any love-making tips from your vast experience over the last two years or so....”, Acanda added, before both mistresses once again fell into peals of uncontrollable hooting laughter, that blinded them with tears, and almost had them doubled over.
......................
It was, of course, Petalina, standing naked all afternoon, and even evening long, that longed to shed tears of tortured total frustration, as she watched her two superbly athletic social superiors, challenge even supremely able contortionists to match such positions as they found to make love profound, and show anyone around who did not know, that sixty-nine has no right way around, bar far beyond every way that can possibly be found.
It was as if the two girls kept themselves supremely fit and supple only for this. And ‘this’ was a thing of such unsurpassable beauty that Petalina, who, though now eighteen, was, by watching, getting her very first ever sex education, found herself crying when she saw these lovely girls, a tangle of limbs and longing lips amid the silence and giggles and sighs and gasps and guiding looks from glowing eyes that said ‘I want you now to kiss my thighs’ followed by the squeal of joy, as one showed she had learned a newer way to kiss and lick the other’s toy, and giggles when their noses clashed turning to sighing silence suddenly when their mouths engaged in what made both girls one, the kiss of passion on mouths tasting of their own quims as tongues wrestled and showed where they had not long since been, and these four-limbed creatures became one so that mutual love became octopusian, as mind entered mind and heart and soul, and duo became solo with the girls so united that they felt each other’s ecstasy as their own, and to Petalina’s eyes, amidst their beautiful sighs, Victoria’s nubile half-negro merged with Acanda’s wonderful white, such that Acanda seemed half-cast and Victoria transposed too, then both girls looked alike the superior black, and black was beautiful in the extreme, till even these fit creatures became exhausted, and gave way to Morpheus’ schemes, and sleep metamorphosed them to their original hue when the sated single body once more became two: two wonderful dreams become dreamers now, the dreams they dreamed having just come true.
......................
The next morning, Victoria’s plan seemed to be coming true too. Acanda showed no sign of wishing to leave.
Petalina’s only wish was that they would not be so cruel to her. But she bore it, because she had to, and because she knew these girls were meant for each other.
Her mistress was civility itself when alone with Petalina, but mischief was to the fore when the two mistresses were together, and Petalina within range of their torment.
Today it began at breakfast, while Petalina, looking astoundingly saucy in a leaf-green maid’s outfit, turquoise stockings, and sun-yellow ballet-shoes, busied herself, tiptoeing dutifully between charging her two mistress’ plates and coffee cups, as they commanded and demanded.
“Well, Woberts, what did you think of our little performance wast evening? Was it up to the stendard you have experienced yourself perheps: mmm?” asked an unusually crude Victoria, egged on by ‘nudges’ from the laughing eyes of Acanda.
“If I may make so bold as to say so ma’am, I found it incredibly beautiful: so beautiful it made me cry”, Petalina answered, with sweet sincerity in her lovely lisp.
At this, Acanda nearly spat out the toast she was chewing, snorting in her fight to swallow but not choke, she so wanted to roar her disdainful laughter; but Victoria, as suddenly, sunk her head deeply, and after a pause, whispered:
“Pwease forgive me Woberts, thet was wewy unkind of me.”
“There is nothing to forgive my lady”, Petalina responded, curtseying and blushing in turn and together, at this touch of gentleness from her superior.
“Oh for god’s sake Vicky! Keep the little bitch in its place. If it’s so stupid as to have earned the punishment of lifelong chastity, it has to get used to it, and there is no harm in showing it what it’s always going to miss. One doesn’t want such trash forgetting how it’s being punished. Reminding it how it’s being tortured also reminds it of its fundamental stupidity in getting itself into such a horrid scrape in the first place”, Acanda insisted, as she dismissively beckoned for Petalina to fetch her some more toast.
“Go and see if today’s mail has arrived pwease Woberts”, Victoria now instructed, so as to divert Acanda, and try and impress her love that she, Victoria Beaumont-Fortain, did in fact know how to treat the lower orders.
Petalina was only too pleased to obey this instruction. She knew where the postgirl would be at this time of day. The ten-mile long cycle trip from Barnmouth out and up to this distant Elizabethan house in Barnmouth-Magna, would probably right now be being rewarded by a cup of tea in the kitchens with the chef: and Petalina loved the fun the postgirl always brought with the mail.
In that, Petalina wasn’t disappointed, for as soon as she appeared through the kitchen doors....
“’Ere she is chefy! Petalina!! Cor ain’t she a sight for sore eyes, eh chefy?!”
“Didn’t she ought to be in the kitchens wiv you chefy, she’s as sweet as any of dem dare puddings what you mek for der tofs upstairs, that’s for sure. If only me and the missus wasn’t coming up to our tenth, I’d chuck ‘er out and ‘ave our Petalina any day of der week; ‘less me missus got in first and gave me the old ‘eave-ho for Petalina ‘erself dat is!”
Petalina giggled, and the chef smiled, as she nodded in the direction of the silver salver on which there was one item of mail.
As pretty Petalina wiggled across to pick up the salver, both older women ran their eyes up and down the seams of her stockings absent mindedly, but with mutual appreciation of Petalina’s well turned legs.
“’Ere chefy, when is it the forteenf of February den? See, I gotta ‘ave me one day off a year on dat day like”, the postgirl enquired sounding suddenly serious, while she watched Petalina’s hem rise when she bent to pick up the tray with the letter and letter-opener on it, and her thighs met the silent sighs of the same four appreciative eyes.
“Oh: and why is that posty”, the chef enquired, in a tone signalling she knew what was coming, but would not spoil the joke.
“I gotta ‘ave me day off den chefy, cos I ain’t never gonna be able to carry all dem valentine cards wot our pretty little Petalina ‘ere is gonna get dat day, am I?”
At this, Petalina blushed, and made a signal, with her delicate right hand dropping from the wrist toward the postgirl: a signal that said ‘go away and stop teasing’ but did not mean it: a signal that also said: ‘that was nice!’ and did mean that.
With no time to pause, Petalina looked over her shoulder and smiled at the postgirl as she left the kitchen with the letter addressed to Victoria, and hurried to the breakfast room to deliver it.
And, as she left the kitchens she heard: “So then chefy, is our little Petalina spoken for, or is all der young girls round ‘ere blind or summat?”
“Oh, I thought you knew posty! Petalina can’t do no courting, she’s had it done. I hear say she’s been sewn-up this last two years and more.”
“Oh fucking ‘ell! Pardon my French chefy: but the poor kid! Wot a waste eh. Wot a bloody waste! Whatever did she do to deserve dat?....” .
......................
As a rule, Victoria would throw any mail she could not be bothered to read back on the salver, with the instruction it be put on her desk in the main bedroom. And there it would remain unopened, until some brave maid took it up and tried to deliver it to Victoria again. But the letter on the salver today bore a familiar crest.
“It’s from the countess: it’s from my momma!” Victoria announced to an Acanda concentrating on page three of ‘The Daily Semaphore’ and only half listening.
Victoria then opened the letter, returned the silver letter-opener to the tray Petalina held, distractedly dropped the envelope on the floor, for Petalina to pick up, and read the missive’s opening:
“She’s complaining she hes hed no word from a ‘Petal’ someoine or other. who is suppoesed to be witing her monthly emails, and hes been neglecting her duewties?.....”
Victoria then read on in silence for a moment, before looking up with: “Oh blarst! Oh dem and blarst! Momma is insisting on the annual cway woast!”
At this exclamation, Victoria lowered the letter she held in her left hand, and flicked it with a back swipe of the fingers of her right hand, as if doing so would wipe away the words that bored and annoyed her: or as if she were bidding an insistent fly to go somewhere else.
“Are you wistening darwing?” Victoria then enquired, controlling her desire to vent her exasperation on the tempting target of the distracted Acanda.
“So, you don’t go to the bloody clay bake”, Acanda answered, to prove she had heard the essence, before she got back to reading about Leticia Lombardy’s lurid love life.
“One hes to go Acaandar!” Victoria responded, with a tone that conveyed an assumption Acanda was aware of the full contents of the letter that only she, Victoria, had in fact so far read.
“No you don’t. You just send a message to your dear momma, saying you don’t want to go to the damned thing this year, because it’s so naffing boring, her chef is a pigswill-merchant, and the peasants who hang around for a handout, stink to high heaven!” Acanda murmured, as she turned the page to read of events at the Holden hotel in Paris, under a picture of ‘Rachel’ from the girl-band ‘Ranatana’, that suggested she must have had another facelift, surely making it at least three since she had been famous back in the 2030s and married the delectable soccer star, Dalina Difinder.
“One hes to go Acaandar, quate simply because one’s dear momma wants one to heold it harr, at this hall. She’s hed the kitchens at the main hall clarsed for weedecorwating, fired her chef till they are weddy again, and wants the woast heold har at this eld hanting lordge!”
“Well at least that’s one item of good news!” Acanda responded.
“What do you mean darling?”
“The countess has given her chef the shove, that’s what I mean”
At this Victoria giggled divinely: “You can be so cwude sometimes Arcaanda!”
......................
Victoria knew her duty. The annual clay bake was an event going back before history it seemed. The lady of the manor played host. All the girls who worked the estates attended. It was their annual treat: a feast at the table of their mistress. All the girls who worked the estates attended, except of course those who must work the kitchens and serve table.
Obviously, the ponygirls, girloxen, and bitches were not invited, and a number of the staff would have to stay behind to mind the stables, cowsheds, and kennels. Also, the roast being held at that time of year when the bacchanalia-girls would be gathering the harvest, it would mean some of the prettiest among the peasants would be absent as usual, they being, of course, too busy with the task of treading the grapes in the barrels, whilst also eating them and, of course, peeing on them.
Victoria knew her duty. She clearly also knew that this duty would be hers in time to come, when her momma passed away.
For Petalina, the sudden flurry of the hurry to be ready for an event only a week away, disappointed her in two ways.
Having no love of her own, she had taken to longing to see her mistress and Acanda become ‘an item’. But, so busy was Victoria with the event thrust upon her out of the blue, that Acanda had left to return to her city banking job, and revive her relationship with Princess **********, leaving almost without Victoria seeming to notice she had gone.
Petalina’s other disappointment was that her mamma had not been among the retinue of extra servants the countess had sent the four miles from the main house, as reinforcements for her daughter to use. Clearly, the countess had no intention of letting mother and daughter ever see each other again.
......................
Petalina’s surprise was in her role in the event. She had assumed she would work waiting table. She had already assisted in unloading the temporary trestle tables the countess had also provided. But, in fact she was delighted to find that she would be deployed in the kitchen. She and Victoria’s chef got on together wonderfully, and Petalina wanted to take up quizzing ‘chefy’ about news of her momma once more: news from ‘the big house’ that the chef somehow seemed to get in plenty.
“There’ll be two hours on, for you sweetheart. There’ll be a team of you younger girls to run in the wheel, cos it takes all day from before dawn to bake a feast like this one proper see”, the chef advised Petalina, as she gave Petalina, everyone’s sweetheart, a detailed look around the kitchens.
“I expect Miss Victoria will keep you busy till I needs you. I reckon as how it’ll be ‘bout four in the afternoon for the last trot.”
“Oh, my dear, you must be wondering what I is on about!” the chef’s smiling voice announced, as she looked at the pretty furrows on a freckled brow, showing the mystification Petalina was too polite to speak aloud.
“These here kitchens haven’t seen no changes since Elizabeth the first’s times. Now your good queen Bess must have had foresight, because now the oils run out, along with electricity, ‘cept from the pedal-power stations where they works the girls so hard turning those dynamo thingies, the equipment here is about as good as it gets for a banquet such as this they clay bake.”
“It’s quite simple see my dear. On that wall there is the treadmill, that big basket-like wheel with steps in, you must have been wondering what was for? And that they drives the spit next door, through the wall there. Them they walls is three feet of solid stone, my little darling, but you’ll still feel the heat of the fire through them. And that’s why we need the girls running in the wheel see, so the meat gets baked evenly in the clay.”
“You’ll not have to mind me on the day. I’ll be dashing to and fro ‘tween here and next door where Miss Victoria will be overseeing me, and me the fire and the meat. So you’ll have to excuse I, if I don’t seem myself that day, my pretty angel.”
......................
Time flown the clay bake day dawned, the bees hummed, and a true honey among girls, the gorgeous Petalina, trotted on constant en-pointe in her almost luminous red ballet-shoes, to the kitchens to take her turn running inside the tread-wheel.
Victoria liked her slave to wear red. She was constantly seeking a shade that would outshine the total glory of Petalina’s wonderful hair, and had been defeated every time.
But a maid’s dress, suspenders and stockings in a shade known as vivid cerise, with panties and the shoes to match, but never shade her coils of kissing curls, had been Petalina’s uniform this day, till now and this final afternoon, two hours before Victoria would condescend to greet ‘the peasantry’ as she called them, dutifully mumbling to disguise that she did not know and did not in the least care what the names she was being prompted to greet them by, really were.
“Ah Petalina my precious little darling!” the lovely chef greeted her. “You is just in time my dear. Now then: if I was you I’d get that they frilly hat, the apron, and even the dress off sweetheart. It’s going to be hotter than hades running in that they wheel, and you mustn’t mind none, about stripping off my lovely, we are all girls together here.....”
At that the chef trotted back next door to see that her mistress, Victoria, was content to manage without Petalina at hand for an hour or so.
......................
Stripped to her red suspenders, her red stockings, her red panties, and her red shoes, Petalina, patiently trotted, patently sexy, endlessly trotted, daintily trotted on the squared-off toes of her heelless ballet shoes, within the wheel, her tiptop-tiptoe steps whirling the rolling road as she obeyed the chef’s command. This girlest and girlmost of all girls, ran with her tresses of glorious red spread out in flames that outshone those that rose, unseen by her, from the fire over which her run in the drum rotated the clay-baked roast, she was aware she was rotating in the huge fireplace she had been shown the previous day, on the other side of the kitchen wall.
In the heat of the kitchens of this ancestral home, Petalina’s near-nakedness was necessary, or at least thought so, for her body must inevitably run too, to trickle and tickle with rivulets of perspiration, and gleam with the sheen of her sweat and its sparkling diamond droplets as she ran and ran.
And so indeed it did, and so indeed she did with her naked titties dancing and prancing, with the light glancing off the stainless-steel cones on her nipples: her naked titties dancing and prancing wildly for the sheer joy of being free.
And her stitches hurt her. Yet they hurt in a peculiar way. They tore at her with her running, and it pleased her in a way she thought she would never feel again: a delicious and delightful feeling she had not felt since she used to masturbate when a schoolgirl.
The flaming curls of her incendiary hair were aglow. As her curls flew and whirled and twirled in the breeze of her speed, they must but must inflame the desires of all who could see such glory.
The eyes, Petalina’s gentle brown eyes, burned with her passion to live and serve. The long slim arms pumped with the rhythm of her sexy trot, and the glistering down on her forearms glinted, as the kitchen candles, like spotlights, lit upon her sweaty body, highlighting the well-toned muscles in her fabulous legs.
The breasts were wild and free to roam as nature would have them, and swung out the joy that she was a she, as they echoed her every dainty tiptop tiptoed step in her ballerina’s shoes, by slapping her and then each other and then bouncing together, or alone, in the same or the opposite up or down or side to side or to clash in significantly soft silence, as they buoyantly danced advanced twisting turned drooped and leapt for joy on her chest.
And her chastity stitches were pleasing her as she ran along on legs unwanting of curves and strength, or length, to be pronouncedly those that could only belong to god’s highest creation, the human girl.
And as she ran, her thong, her bright red thong, the thong over her sewn-up cunt, seemed to grow redder, darker from soaking in her sweet sweat, with every step of her endless sexy steppy-leggy trip.
Her thong left Petalina’s bottom bare and she blushed as the chef patted her there and told her she was a good girl, and so she ran faster.
And so Petalina ran faster, and rotated the clay coated feast over the fire in the neighbouring room, where the countess and her guests caroused before the fire on which their meal was being cooked.
The sound of a trumpet blown by an off-duty cowgirl, brought two reactions from two too wonderful girls. Petalina’s pretty ears caught the sweetness and skill of the amateur player; but in the neighbouring room where the trumpeter blew pre-banquet, Lady Beaumont-Fortain only just managed a fixed smile, and to avoid clenching her teeth in horror.
And Petalina slowed to a steady trot within the wheel her running within which, showed her body to maximum appeal, and her traitorous stitched up lips pleased her all the more. And her thong sang an intimate song that her body was not supposed to be able anymore to feel, for the countess had had Petalina protected and sealed, as was done with the nuns of old, when their bodies tolled against them being told, there was only god and that they must be delivered unto him by force if need be. For her mummy’s debts, Petalina had sacrificed her clitoris and had her sheath shafted with a red-hot poker, at the countess’ insistence that she be unsexed and vouchsafed by being sewn closed, a girl thus made dead between her lovely legs, a girl bound to live without love all her days so the countess would her momma’s debts repay. A girl tortured since she came round from her agonising pain, that she would never ever know love’s gain, and yet her thong was pleasing her as she ran, and as she ran, she recalled the humiliation she had endured in writing to the countess of her encounters with girl-girl bliss, she knew she would never now know, as her love had no means of physical show, as they had finished her sealing with the multiple stitches, and the cones she must wear under her bras, to cover the nerve endings that would otherwise have served to deliver a cum in time to come and marriage and a wife and the bed bound strife, as lovers lingered in longing embrace and kissed their lips with their lips in tonguing grace.
And Petalina’s two-year-long sexual silence was somehow being overcome by her run. And her lack of the full retinue of sensual sexual sensitive instruments to feel the joy were no obstacle to what her mind now deployed. She daydreamed she recalled the way she had been splayed and the swift knife’s snick as they cut her clitoris away, and her scream at the excruciating agony as they cauterised its stump, and then her uncontrollable bucking on the bench as the still hot poker had deflowered and raped the poor wench, so her nostrils flared in the smell of her own burning flesh’s stench, as they held it in her vagina to the slow count of ten, before they took it out again, with her virgin’s blood boiling till her nerve-endings were dead, and she cried for a week with the agonising pain, not only of the torture, but from knowing she would never feel joy again, in her favourite recreation, of sensuously slow masturbation. And then the stitches one at a time, drawn through her flesh to seal her in her prime, pulled through her lips time after time, till she was closed to the world forever, and forever a virgin sublime.
In the neighbouring room, Petalina’s sexy trotting rotated a joint covered in clay, within which it was cooking over the log fire’s flames. The joint was mounted on two rods that ran between the crooks of its elbows behind its back, its hands being tied at wrists in prayer at its belly, and behind the knees of its folded legs. These iron rods ran out parallel to fix to two wheels, the one of which at one end was slave to the other, the latter being iron cog driven by Petalina’s sexy appeal, as in the next door room at the rear of the flaming fire, she obediently trotted within the drum of her wooden wheel.
The meat within the clay, took on decidedly feminine form. From the flow of the clay now dried over it, the head must have been shaved bald. The ankles were tied at top thigh high, and at knee around her neck by and by. And out from the mouth was formed a clay cone for breathing, which emitted the sighs that told the waiting hungry girls that some unfortunate suffered inside. And a groove in the clay was open wide, where the pink slit in the girl could be seen with the outer lips propped aside, so that over the flames she would also cook outward from her insides.
And as the squeals of orgasmic joy were heard through the three-foot-thick walls from Petalina’s side, while she still trotted her heavenly body, heaven’s delivery replete, all her chastening chastity stitches cones and ball’s mighty might besides: who, despite their clay coating, could not look at the lovely legs of the girl being clay baked over the fire and not know? What connoisseur of feminine limbs that had memorised them when their owner but merely walked by, on these the most wonderfully means of emotion-stirring motion: of commotion causing locomotion, in the universe?
Who would not remember such legs when they had them admired? And who would now not be recollecting the girl being rolled in the flames, as ‘the girl with the legs’ the girl with the prettiest of names, the girl trumpeting her orgasms through the breathing horn in the clay, as she cooked in the flames throughout the day, baked through the clay and up through her opened-out cunt, rolled in the fire by the unknowing Petalina running in the wheel to torture, both she and her with her sexy strides, to cause her momma, Namatina, to be clay baked, slow baked, baked to orgasmic heaven alive.....
...........................
.....At the sound of the joyful squeals from the next door room, Namatina smiled understandingly, as she tumbled and turned, over and over, and over and over, and over and over ...... in her bed, remembering when she too could enjoy imaginative masturbation as much as her totally uninhibited fifteen-year-old daughter, Petalina....
And before she yawned prettily, smiled devastatingly, and fell sweetly asleep once more, nestling in the softness and sweet scent of her just-washed coiled curls of astonishing autumnal hair, Namatina mused to herself, but without real worry: ‘.......I hope Petalina will be fresh to come with me to Girls-ALoan tomorrow......’
Victoria’s Tribication
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis –
Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....
Victoria’s Tribication
by Eve Adorer
Monday 12 May 2053.
It didn’t look good. It decidedly didn’t look good.
Victoria Lady Beaumont-Fortain read it over again.
Spilling out of the waste basket under the ancient oak desk at which Victoria occasionally, if very rarely, condescended to sit and look at household accounts, were paper balls aplenty. Each snow-white bauble swiftly rough-formed by her pretty hands, as she raised her queenly head disdainfully, before bowling the pleas in the general direction of the trash can; displayed red print.
Nudged by her completely-neatly pedicured big toe at the unconscious kick of her right foot, in her three-inch heeled sandals, an account displaying the letterhead of Fortfeel and Nathan, covering two-year’s back charges for grocery supplies, cannoned off another from Herrods, the Queensbridge Hondon department store, itemising unpaid items, even down to Victoria’s preferred brand of tampon. The latter then rolled along the carpet to score a soccer goal between Saxe and Saxe’s bill for the superb Siberian girlpee laid down in Victoria’s much praised wine cellar, and the bill from Demimonde Boutique, the size of which vastly contrasted the miniscule Parisian fashionhouse panties Victoria regularly wore from that very elite emporium.
Had anyone been lucky enough to hear her, her honey-toned contralto upper-crust accent drawled under her sweet breath, in her erotic short-tongued diction: “Gwate heavens, how darr they? One will wite to the editor of ‘The Tames’ about this. These twadespeople are getting weally ite of hend!”
But, as her stupendously attractive dark brown eyes and highly intelligent mind re-ran over the letter she still held: the first she had opened: one she had not yet thrown aside in disdain: the pretty, pretty devastating, twenty-one-year-old half-negress-half-white Victoria, pursed her potently pouting lips in their natural pose: a pose irresistibly proposing a passionate kiss.
The letter she read, was in the long long-nailed fingers of her right hand. Her equally sweet left hand held a statement of account, hand written on velum in copperplate script with a fountain pen, if not indeed a quill.
The letter and statement were from Clits and Co, the exceptionally exclusive private bank, Victoria’s personal bankers, calling her to an interview about the state of her account, at any time she might choose to appoint, within the next fortnight; or offering to send a Clits representative to her, anywhere in the world, if that was her preference. Discretion was, of course, unnecessarily assured: after all, Clits and Co were discretion personified.
As she read the letter from her bankers for a second time, Victoria’s peripheral vision took in that her girlfriend, Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas, was now awake in the bed Victoria had left, to go for her daily five-mile run around the gardens of her home, two hours since.
“One just caan’t bewieve this!” Victoria breathed, for Acanda to hear.
“Yes, I know darling, you are incredible lucky to have got me into your bed”, Acanda giggled, as she stretched, and yawned into the four upright fingers she had raised to cover her mouth out of politeness.
“This is not a joking metter Arcaanda. Cwits say one owes them five-miwwion. They are fwettening to hev one put in debtors’ pwison”.
Acanda was about to continue her input to the exchange, by responding that she was not joking about Victoria’s good fortune, in having won the right to bed her, but realised the joke was already flat.
Instead, Acanda remarked: “Don’t worry darling, you have Runkett and Runkett Attorneys on tap through me; if they’ll take a post-dated cheque of course”, meaning her latter gentle jibe as a reminder to Victoria, of how often Acanda had pressed her to deal with household accounts. Not just a reminder, in Acanda’s eyes, but a completely just reminder.
Acanda was now out of bed and had a gentle hand on Victoria’s shoulder. For her part, Victoria scented the erotic perfume of Acanda’s unwashed naked body, and turned toward the exciting scent. Her nostrils flaring the better to enjoy the heady aroma: “Don’t shar yet darwing: I want to wick you cwean!”, Victoria purred, her gorgeous brown eyes shining with her daring and, as always, her vivacity.
Acanda blushed at the thought of Victoria licking her all over, but still wanted Victoria to pay overdue attention to her mail, and not the attention due to her loving female: Acanda.
“What’s that one falling off the edge there?” Acanda asked, drawing attention to the only letter left for Victoria still to open: this to distract Victoria’s and her own desires.
Reluctantly, Victoria stood and reached over to where the latter letter had drifted, when she had taken her correspondence off the silver salver on which her maid had dared to bring it to her, and she – Victoria - thrown it down on her desk in annoyance.
With the rose’s slow rising, so slow rose the rose’s hem, and a glimpse of the petal-filled sling of Victoria’s g-string, flashed compelling white between her immensely strong coffee-brown thighs.
Taking the opportunity to escape from the escapade Victoria had proposed, and to remove the excuse for Victoria to be distracted by her presence, Acanda slipped into one of the en-suite shower cubicles in the bedroom, and squealed with joy as the cold water she habitually showered in to invigorate her day, hit her cleavage and then, as she opened the control, fanned out to play with her breasts, erecting her nipples joyfully stiffly, before she turned away and danced about in the chill, whilst palming shower jell with which to wash her lovely body.
“It’s from the Girl-Poweese” Victoria uttered at just above a stage mutter.
“Sorry darling?!” Acanda called, unable to hear above the noise of the jets from the power-shower now pummelling her eager nipples into sweet surrender once more.
“It’s from the Girl-Poweese: the Girl-Poweese have witten to one!” Victoria” repeated, loud enough for Acanda to hear this time.
“What do the Girl-Police want this time, Vicky?” Acanda responded distractedly, in a tone suggesting the matter must be trivial: such as yet another ponygirl parking misdemeanour. She, of course, knew that Victoria could wallpaper a banquet suite with the parking tickets slapped on her ponygirls’ thighs during this year alone.
“One was supposed to hev been in court wast week!” Victoria responded, with a hint as much of annoyance as of surprise in her voice.
A few moments later, as Victoria still sat, the still dripping-wet Acanda was leaning over Victoria’s shoulder, with her touchingly beautiful bare right breast touching its firmly erect nipple on Victoria’s shoulder blade, bare barely beneath Victoria’s white silk blouse.
As she glanced the date on the letter Victoria held: before snuggling into her towelling bathrobe: “Oh Vicky darling, just look at the date on that letter! And just how long have you had Clits’ statement for goodness’ sake!” Acanda cried in a voice of resigned loving despair.
“One hesn’t weally wooked. The maids keep bwinging one the same wetters evewy day. One caan’t be expected to spar tame for such borwing twivia”, Victoria responded, but not entirely with her usual degree of detached confidence.
“May I have a read?” Acanda enquired.
In response, as she reached over her desk again, Victoria gave another flash of her daringly tiny, pristine white g-string, and the bipod that emboldened it so enticingly, and then passed Acanda a series of velum sheets.
“No darling, your bank statement is entirely your affair, I was meaning, could I have a closer look at the letter from the Girl-Police”.
Then, Victoria had not even resumed her seat before Acanda audibly muttered: “Good gracious Vicky, it really wasn’t two weeks ago that you were supposed to have shown up in court, it was two months ago. Clits and Co have taken you to court for non-repayment of debt. You are five times over your overdraft, and have been for five years, darling.”
“They have given up on getting you to repay, and want you punished under the ‘Girls - Irrecoverable Debt Act’. Good G, Vicky, sweetheart, we need to get you a lawyer!”
“Oh don’t wet us wowwy about thet. Thet’s a waw intwoduced for the wower orders, Arcaanda. One will speak to one’s momma. One is sure the countess will soon sort out this wickle nonsense.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that Vicky. Your momma voted in favour of the law. She made a much praised speech in support of it in the upper house of parliament. Her speech in the House of Ladies swung her a post in the government. Your momma is the Home Affairs Secretary darling. She is responsible for upholding the Girl-Laws, and that particular law not least among them!”, Acanda reminded.
“But, Arcaanda, momma will not want to be embawwassed by seeing her daughter on twial. I caan’t imegine momma patting her government post to thet wisk. Jest think of the scarndal”, Victoria relaxedly outlined. And then, as with her pretty fingers she put quotation marks at both ends of her projected headline, Victoria recited her imagined: ‘Beaumont-Fortain Daughter in Debt Twial Scarndal- Heome Affarrs Secwetawy Forced to Wesign!’”.
“You’d defend one in court wouldn’t you Arcaanda. At least you would give one a good charwacter weferwence?”, Victoria enquired with an appealing giggle, apparently now as suddenly relaxed about the threat of court, as Acanda was increasingly concerned about it
“Runkett and Runkett Attorneys at Law at your service, if you insist upon it Vicky”, Acanda replied, distractedly.
“But it had better not be me who defends you in court: I have only ever been a sleeping partner in that august institution”.
“And which of those darwing wickle wedheads did you sweep with: Wunkett or Wunkett, or Wunkett and Wunkett?!” Victoria smiled as she giggled goldenly.
“Oh wets not wowwy about it Arcaanda. One will defend oneself....”, she then added, with an authoritative tone, conveying finality.
.....................
The mixed-race wonder of Victoria’s stunning negress-white beauty was shown off at its best by the ‘little black number’ that she had chosen to wear for her court appearance. And that descriptive definition did not apply to her panties alone.
As she waited for her case to be called, Victoria was rather enjoying having her legs admired by the pink-uniformed Girl-Police officer in charge of the waiting area.
Ordinarily, Victoria would have complained to the superiors of one of ‘the lower orders’ such as this policegirl; but the policegirl was rather pretty, and Victoria bored after an hour on a straight-backed uncomfortably firm chair.
There was a lot of exposed leg for the young constable to be distracted by, and they were incredibly shapely.
Victoria’s dress only paid lip service to touching its rear hem on the seat of her chair. Accordingly, through the silk of her tiny handmaid-made panties, her lick-lips serviced the seat, and were transferring a very erotic scent there.
The short, white, seamed, shear nylon stockings Victoria wore, with their broad tops just above her knees as she sat, left an enormous expanse of bare milk-chocolate-brown thigh on display.
The quarter-cups of her cantilevered bra, made her bosom ‘encountered on counter’, with the curved neckline of her dress allowing the fact that she was wonderfully well, twice over and twinly, blessed, to be extensively openly evident.
The poor girl left on guard over this, the last ‘case’ of the morning, hardly knew where to look. The gently rise and fall of Victoria’s bosom as she breathed, her long slim bare arms, the beautiful legs she kept crossing and re-crossing, at the visible risk of the challenge to her clearly displayed suspenders, being over-extended; or the stunning face with the brunette dreadlocks, the astonishing dark-brown eyes, and the irresistibly kiss posed kissable lips of the little round mouth, below her haughtily flared pretty nose.
“Call Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain!” came a distant cry.
“Call Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain!” came the same cry in a different voice echoing off court corridor walls, and thus getting closer.
“Call Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain!” said the policegirl’s duty companion, as she popped her pretty face around the waiting room door.
Victoria was not about to let herself be instructed by these common ‘oiks’ in the jumped-up authority of Girl-Police uniform, so, without their bidding, of her own volition, she rose to the three-inch stiletto heels of her patent leather slingbacks, and began to glide her way to the court room.
But she had not even made the waiting room door, which was being held open for her, before the policegirl who had been trying to avoid ogling her, quietly but firmly insisted: “The panties please”.
“What doo you mean?!” Victoria responded testily.
“The accused is not allowed to enter the Girl-Court wearing panties: it’s disrespectful”, the policegirl answered, in a whisper that would have won a world award for its polite discretion.
“Do you want help with your suspenders?” the same charming girl then enquired.
“No one does not, thenk you!”, Victoria replied.
As Victoria reached up and demonstrated that she wore her panties outside her suspenders, the policegirl looked away out of consideration.
A moment later, after they were handed to her, the policegirl felt their miniscule shining softness and fresh warmth in her fingers, and knew she must, but must, resist scenting Victoria’s musk in their gusset.
“Hoity toity little tart ain’t she?” the room-watch policegirl heard her companion say, as they both watched Victoria’s divine rear undulate wildly, while she swung her hips to the courtroom.
“No. She’s nice she is: she’s nice really”, the guard copette opined, even though she had no evidence bar Victoria’s evident beauty to guide her.
“She can’t ‘elp ‘aving bin born a toff can she?”, she then added.
“Dare you goes agen, Natana. Any girl wiv a knockout face, huge tits, a great bum, and gorgeous legs, and you’re a bleedin’ gonna: ‘ead over ‘eels in lurve!” her companion mocked, gently.
“All I’m sayin’ is that I fink she’s nice really. I wouldn’t mind bein’ ‘er maid: dat’s for sure. Bet she’s really nice to ‘er maids an all....”
“Stuff dat! Me, I ain’t bein’ nobody’s bleedin’ maid!” her companion responded, before prompting: “’Ere...let’s ‘ave a sniff of dem panties, an’ see wot a toff’s cunny smells like”.
.....................
As Victoria entered the court, she found herself pulling down her dress’ hem with her lovely hands, because it was decidedly brief, and she with no briefs, and no ‘brief’ – the latter being British slang for a defending attorney – and thus feeling triply vulnerable.
A curly-haired auburn beauty sat on the judge’s bench. An ethnically Asian Indian girl was the usher and court clerk. The latter led Victoria to the raised pedestal on which she must stand before the judge.
“You must stand with your feet two-feet apart, one foot on each of the marks”, the raven-haired pretty Indian girl confirmed.
“But....” Victoria exclaimed quietly.
“No ‘buts’ I’m afraid”, the Indian girl whisper-instructed, as she smiled. And Victoria knew she must comply, even though she could feel her blush rising in parallel with the threat of increasing cheekiness in the rear view of her, as the hem of her micro-dress threatened to slide up her smooth buttocks and display her pouch’s gasping groove.
From the rustling and whispers she could hear from behind her, Victoria was very aware that the view she was near to giving of the heaven between her heavenly legs, was exciting overwhelming interest among the women and girls on the public benches.
“Give the court your name, address, and age please”, the flame-haired judge, a woman in her late thirties, and a model of model’s looks, instructed.
“One is Wictorwia Cecile Wocasta Wady Beaumont-Fortain. One wesides at the Eld Hanting Lordge in the wiwage of Barnmouth-Megnar, cleose to the Ceounty Teown of Barnmouth, and one is twenty-one”, Victoria responded, with crisp monotone confidence.
“Lady Victoria Cecile Jocasta Beaumont-Fortain...”, the gloriously golden-tressed judge began, before the disdainful, Victoria interrupted and corrected her.
“One is not ‘Wady Wictorwia Cecile Wocasta Beaumont-Fortain’, the cowect form of addwess is ‘Wictorwia Cecile Wocasta, Wady Beaumont-Fortain’.”
“In short, one is Wady Beaumont-Fortain, not Wady Wictorwia.”
“Wady Beaumont-Fortain is the courtesy title of the eldest daughter of the Countesses Beaumont-Fortain: the daughter that will inhewit the title of ‘Countess Beaumont-Fortain’ under the waws of female-pwimogeniture.”
“One’s dear momma is the pwesent countess, and has inhewited a title first awarded one’s famiwy, by Nell Quim, the mistwess and, later, wife of Queen Chawotte the Second, in sixteen forty fwee.”
Attracted by Victoria’s horny contralto voice, and very appealing short-tongued pronunciation, the lovely judge allowed this to pass, she even corrected herself: “Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, at this stage I have to enquire if you wish to plead guilty as charged, or if you must be tortured until you do so. Which shall it be?” she asked, with a tone suggesting she was doing her duty despite it being more than a little disagreeable to her.
Taken aback, Victoria speculated as she expostulated: “But surely one hes the wite to pwead nort guiltay, and to defend oneself in a twial!”
“I am afraid not. Not where, under the Girls - Irrecoverable Debt Act, the debt exceeds established income savings and investments to the degree it does with yourself and Clits the bankers. I am surprised that a defending counsel has not apprised you of that fact.”
“One is defending oneself”, Victoria responded.
“But surely, you took advice before coming to court!” the judge asked, with evident concern.
“Well, no: ectually one didn’t”
“That is most unfortunate. But you are a fortunate young lady in one respect, in that your mother has agreed to repay your debt.”
The look of relief that brightened Victoria’s gorgeous face was almost accompanied by her drawing her legs closed, so that she might walk out of the court. Of course she already knew that the countess had repaid her debt, and the interest on it; but to hear it confirmed in, and therefore acknowledged by the Girl-Court was still an immense relief.
But, then again, she had caught in the judge’s tone, an indication that the sentence she had just heard from the chair was preliminary and introductory. Her relief was therefore short-lived. She soon discovered she had not been wrong in deducing the meaning of the intonation.
“However, that does not mean that you are free to go”, the judge added: “Have you anything you wish to say in your defence?”
“Well, ectually, no one hesn’t” Victoria responded, with a surprising hint of nervousness in her tone: surprising that is, because she was normally very self-assured.
The judge looked at Victoria with sadness at the duty she had to perform next.
“Then I am afraid that: Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, this court finds you guilty of wilful negligence of an unsustainable debt acquired in contradiction with the Girls - Irrecoverable Debt Act of 2051, and thus with the Girl-Laws. Accordingly, and allowing that the debt has been repaid by a third-party, it is the sentence of this court that, to make an example of you, and teach you an obviously necessary lesson, considering your huge debt and the more than considerable time for which it has been outstanding, you be taken prisoner, and thereafter hence from the prison, and tribicated for twenty-four hours.”
“You caan’t do thet to one! Thet is a punishment weserved for the wower orders. One is of the wuling cwass. One is a wady, not a cormon wabourwer!...” Victoria found herself protesting in reflex.
“I will not stand for any descent young lady. I therefore hereby add to your sentence that, the preliminary treatment before you are tribicated, will last double the time I had original decided upon. And if you even breathe the wrong way in response to that, I will double it again. Now: is here anything else you wish to say?”
In the wise silence that followed, the judge scribbled and then passed a note down to the clerk of the court, before announcing from her high-backed high-up chair:
“This court will recess until approximately 16.00 hours, when, as per our unfortunate duty, I, and the clerk of the court, must witness justice being carried out. By that time the young lady in the dock will, I trust, have already begun to learn the respect due to the Girl-Courts, and that the Girl-Laws apply to every female in this land, regardless of class background.”
.....................
Victoria turned her head in blushing shame. She was now in an anteroom of the court proper, and being prepared for her ‘preliminary’. She had already suffered the indignity for her, of being girlhandled by the two Girl-Police copettes, whose duty it was to girlacle her and take her from the court to face and take the judge’s choice of punishment as the ‘preliminary’ to the rest of the tribication procedures.
“Do you want the dress right off, in case there’s some blood?”
“I weawwy don’t carr wewy much, one way or the otharr” Victoria replied bravely.
“You’ll care right enough in a moment my darlin’. Still, ‘av it your own way.”
“Lower the dress to ‘er waist and get her bleedin’ bra off Trisha. She ‘as to be fixed wiv ‘er back on the wall, so she can’t back off none. Bind ‘er at the shoulders standin’ to attention wiv dem pretty arms of ‘ers by ‘er side.”
“Use the wall ‘oops, iver side ‘er neck, so ‘er ‘ead is ‘eld up, den at ‘er armpits, elbows and ‘er wrists, and also use a bit of imagination for a change eh. We’ll mek a good whipperette out of you yet my girl. Gord knows you’ve bin a bleedin’ apprentice for long enough by now!”
These words were from Mandy Pierpont, the Barnmouth Civil and Criminal Girl-Court Torturette in Ordinary. Each Girl-Court had such an appointment.
The strong forty-year-old, handsome woman, with brunette frisky-ponytailed hair and light blue eyes that sparkled with humour and apparent gentleness, knew, only too well, that there was fierce competition for such posts.
Her place was up for its annual re-bidding in thirty days. She was probably only likely to keep her job by accepting yet another cut in pay.
Meanwhile, making a good impression on the judges was important, as there were not many jobs in the outside world she could turn to. The judges, after all, were the electors. She managed to scrape a living this way. She’d been elected to the Barnmouth Girl-Courts five years running now, having been at Hondon Central for five years before.
But Mandy had a sneaky feeling that her apprentice, Patricia Darnell, was going to compete the election against her. That was what competition was about of course. She had to train Trish, but in doing so, was metaphorically cutting her own throat. She, Mandy, knew the tricks of the trade, things the twenty-year-old Trisha never looked like learning. Where was the justice in that? Having your job under constant threat from a youngster, who was still wet behind the ears?
Trisha was a looker with a great pair of legs though, and that went down fantastically with the judges come election time.
Take the judge on the bench today. Justice Camalata Dupre. What a gorgeous redhead! There she sits dispensing moral judgements, and yet, if the rumours were true, she had slept with half the girls in the court. The officials that is, not the accused; at least not unless.... After all, word was that she liked to be groped by strangers, and that she’d been seen hanging around some notorious public lavatories, hoping some of the girls using them would ask her for a feel. She’d been let off though, because the first girl she’d gone into a cubicle with, had turned out to be a fellow judgette from another county: at least, that was the gossip.
This posh girl was the fifth to get this treatment this morning. Not the fifth posh girl, she was unique in that regard, just as her particular beauty: the wonderful beauty of a mixed-race girl, was also, unfortunately, far too rare. And this one was to go on to be tribicated: the first for a while.
“Oh for gord’s sake Trisha, she needs a strap round ‘er tummy and ‘er ankles and ‘er knees fixed to some ‘oops as well. And, while you’re at it, get a cushion behind ‘er back, so as to get ‘er pushing those gorgeous tits out for us... That’s the nicest pair of melons as I’ve ever seen. Just look at the nips on dem. Dark chocolate nipples eh: fuckin’ ‘ell! She’s quite a beauty ain’t she.... quite a beauty?” Mandy continued.
Victoria was bound to wall embedded hoops by silk ropes, with her back to the cold white tiles. She was stripped to her waist, with her expensive dress unzipped to hip level, and then taken off her shoulders and pulled down nearly to the top of her lovely bottom. She still wore her suspenders, stockings and three-inch heels.
Her brassiere hung on a hook on the opposite wall. It and her panties were forfeit as trophies. Mandy and Trisha had the right to collect their choice of one trophy apiece, and sell them on O-Bey. They would be readily snapped up.
The cost of Victoria’s punishment, including Mandy’s and Trisha’s wages, would be partly recouped by the exclusive movie rights that would be auctioned on O-Bey.
Her mother knew, but Victoria herself was blissfully unaware of the network of fibre-optic cable ‘spy-holes’ through which her lovely face and body were being filmed from a vast multitude of angles, including the angle from which her cunt was being filmed up her skirt just now.
Her mother was aware of the shame that the O-Bey sale would bring on the family; but her chances of the prime ministership depended upon showing she was without fear or favour in her present post of Home Affairs secretary, even with her own daughter. Justice must be done; unfortunately too for the countess and her daughter, it must also be seen to be done.
Her chief torturer approached Victoria.
“Well, now den Victoria....”, Mandy began.
“One is Wady Beaumont–Fortain, if you don’t mind!” Victoria demanded, in a quite whisper, a near croak indicating her fear.
“Well, now den ‘Lady Beaumont–Fortain’, if that’s how you wanna be called like....”, Mandy re-began.
“Looks to me like you rubbed der judge up der wrong way, my little darlin’. She’s written ‘ere, as ‘ow you is to get an hour’s worf. Most of der prisoners only gets ‘alf dat normally.”
“Let’s see now. At one every fifteen seconds, that’s four a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, means, two ‘undred an’ forty; an’ double dat, is near enough five ‘undred, which is pretty bleedin’ cruel if your asks me; but I’m afraid I ‘as me job to do sweetheart.”
“Pwease don’t addwess one as ‘sweeheart’” Victoria responded bravely, with a definite tear of fear in her voice.
“Sorry darlin’”, Mandy responded, innocent of the equal insult that Victoria heard in that form of address also.
“What are you going to do to one?” Victoria’s dry throated voice quavered.
“You is to be preliminaried darlin’” Mandy replied “You’re a nice big girl”, she then added, as if that were an explanation.
“Look. Don’t tek dis der wrong way like, but, if you want me too, I can get you goin’ a bit darlin’. You know. I mean I can touch you up so as you gets a wet on. Dat way it don’t ‘urt so much see, or so der uvver girls tell me dat is”, Mandy offered in an offhand way.
“Pwease don’t!” Victoria commanded, though her voice voiced fear instead of her usual confident superiority.
“Suit yerself darlin’”, Mandy responded, indifferently.
“It’s dem paddles! For gord’s sake Trish, we’ve bin using der same ones all bleedin’ week’! It’s this friggin’ judge’s favourite preliminary for big girls like thisun”
“No, not der long ones. Dem wot looks like table tennis bats”, Mandy now called over to her apprentice, who thus brought two ripple-rubber coated ‘bats’ over, from a rack of equally evil looking equipment.
“Now den Trish. Let’s go over dis yet agen. Dis ‘ere is your actual bat for dis particular job, see. You puts the little string ‘oop round your wrist, so as you can’t drop it. Do dat, and den weigh it in your ‘and. Like I said afore, it’s a bit ‘eavier than a bleedin’ table tennis bat cos it’s lignum or some such: ‘eavy wood to you an’ me...”
“Now den. See. Goin’ over it yet agen, so as maybe you’ll learn summat abart it dis time. Dare’s nobbly rubber coating, same iver side. ‘Ow do your use it? Simple. You ‘its ‘er tit right on der nipple and smack it back into ‘er chest, so she looks like a boy for a millitick; den, when her lovely tit springs up and springs right out straight, like it will, you swing your bat up under it real ‘ard, and slap it up so bleedin’ ‘igh it goes over ‘er fuckin’ shoulder, or else it ‘its ‘er in der face.”
“Poor little bitch ‘as got an hour’s worf to come.”
“We’re boff right ‘anded, but I know wot I’m doin’, so you tek ‘er right tit like you ‘ave bin doin’ wiv der uvver girls afore now, and I’ll still do the leftun.”
“Remember: turn and turn about is wot it’s all about. Minimum is, four times a minute each tit. An’ don’t ‘old back none. Judge ses she’s gotta ‘ave ‘er tits slapped about good an’ fuckin’ proper. You and me, our job is to slap ‘er fuckin’ tits right off of ‘er”.
Lost in the world of repeated detailed guidance to her obtuse and rather hopeless apprentice, Mandy did not notice the tears that ran down Victoria’s lovely face as she listened to the terrible torture she faced.
When Mandy did register Victoria crying, she realised tender feelings had not entirely left her, and tried to comfort the poor girl about to have her breasts ‘preliminaried’.
“Sorry darlin’ but it’s got to be done: court order see”, she said, gently.
“Will you make wuv to one first....?”
“.....One means, will you wub one ap first, wike you said you would pwease..... ....Pwease!”, Victoria beg-whispered amid her tears.
“You mean, stroke you and get a wet on for you?” Mandy asked, in order to be sure.
“Pwease”, Victoria sobbed shame voiced.
“I’m so sorry darlin’ we only got just the hour left now see, so we ‘aven’t got no more time left for dat anymore now....” Mandy answered sweetly, in apology.
Mandy then proffered a round rubber strip at Victoria’s profoundly beautiful lips.
“Put dis atween your teef darlin’. It’ll give you summat to bite on, and ‘elp tek the pain away a bit. Us don’t want you screaming so as you end up biting your tongue now do us?” Mandy coaxed.
.....................
Word that a girl was to be tribicated always created a sensation in Barnmouth.
It had even become a recent years’ tradition, for some of the final-year girls at the local school to take time off without permission, and go and watch. Their favourite ruse was to claim time in their dormitory for examination revision. When gathered there, they would draw lots for the two or three that would sneak out the tradesgirls’ entrance at the rear of the school. Those who remained would cover for the escapees.
It was unlikely that their lecturers would check. They would be busy teaching class and keeping discipline with the other girls. But arrangements with matron, in which a few dollars crossed hands, ensured a phone call from the dormitory would secure her confirmation that: “Sure, the poor wee darlings are in the sick bay, here wi’ me. It’s running a wee fever that they are now. I strongly suspect that overexcitement from too much naughty thinking is behind it as usual. So as to keep their heat down, I hay got them all bare, and lying doon on their bellies and titties in a bath of cold water each. And to keep an eye on their temperatures, I hay gi’en each o’ them a thermometer apiece in their pretty wee bummies”.
The risk the staff would visit the sick bay was thought minimal. It had never happened before. Matron was revered by the staff for her pure Scot’s honesty. Surely it would not happen now that the staff would check. At least so the escaped schoolgirls must hope.
The girls who absconded risked being caned if found out of course. But an afternoon’s escape from the severe discipline of St Saviour’s was a joy.
.....................
So terrible had been the pain, Victoria had bitten through the bar of rubber she had clenched in her teeth. The offered mercy of the gag to bite on, had lasted only four slaps of the heavy paddles, slaps that had smacked her magnificent mammaries into her face so that her gorgeous negress’ lips, so that those lovely lips, could have kissed them by turn, the slaps had been so savagely severe.
The bitten-through gag had fallen from her mouth with her horrendous screams as her breasts had been smacked and thrashed as if indeed they were to be smashed off her body.
No mercy had been shown. Her screams and screeches and pleas had echoed from the tiled walls of the cold torture room, and her cries of: “Pwease have mercy! Oh pwease, pwease, pwease stop!! Oh my bweasts! My bweasts! My bweasts!! Oh pwease!!! Oh pwease!!!!!” had had to be ignored if justice was to be served as severely as the court had ordered and therefore expected it to be.
Her beautiful breasts were now two completely deep-purple and coal-black bruises. Blood seeped out of the milk-ducts of her nipples: that blood, the milk of inhumane unkindness. More blood was abundantly evident where the bats had been swung up to smash her tits toward the heaven from which such a beautiful girl and such a wonderful bosom must come, as if offering them up as gravity-defying sacrifices to the goddess who makes all girls, not only in heaven, but from pure heaven, and thus heaven’s presence on earth.
As her torturers untied her, Victoria was a shivering sobbing wretch, and had to be held from falling to the floor, to which her two tormentors actually now let her slide, since Victoria’s lovely legs gave way.
“Don’t forget, you mustn’t show ‘em any kindness Trish, no matter ‘ow you feels about it!” Mandy reminded her apprentice.
“Give us dat bucket ‘ere will yer?” Mandy then requested, before lifting the receptacle in question, and dashing Victoria, with a single douche of its ice-cold contents over the mesmerising dreadlocks that coiled siren gorgon on her head, leaving the poor girl gasping like a landed fish with the chilling shock.
Droplets from this sudden sousing splashed onto Victoria’s thighs, bare above her stocking tops, milk-chocolate-brown soft and supremely smooth: Mandy could not help but feel aroused by the little diamonded pearls that turned to tributaries like tears contributory to worshipping the wonder of Victoria’s superb legs.
Mandy’s erotic arousal must have an outlet, and came in anger: “Get ‘er stripped right off now. Sod der bleedin’ dress. She ‘ad ‘er chance to ‘ave it saved. Use a fuckin’ knife to get all of ‘er close off on ‘er. Judge wants to witness der start of ‘er bein’ tribicated come 4.00 o’ clock dis afternoon. Musn’t be late, else it’ll be you an’ me boaf outofa a fuckin’ job...”, Mandy directed.
“Bring dem dare clogs ‘ere”, she then instructed.
The dazed Victoria knew what was coming this time. Till just now, and being on the receiving end of an endless-hour of its horrible violence, she had been ignorant of the choice of what her preliminary punishment was to be. Ignorance had therefore been, to a degree, comparative bliss. But she too had gone to St Saviour’s Girls’ Academy, and she too had sneaked out to witness a tribication with her fellow eighteen-year-old virgin school chums.
As she rose, now completely naked, to her feet and was obviously about to run anywhere she could to escape, the quick-witted Mandy, grabbed a blacksnake, and whipped the screaming Victoria back to the ground again, with three savage strokes on her back, which curved into a beautifully arched bow to try and escape the brutal blows, before the poor girl fell and slithered over the still wet white tiles of the floor on the perfect soft smooth complexion of her right thigh, and then lay in a foetal-curled heap, sobbing with the fire-fierce pain from the furious lashes.
“Sorry abart dat, little lady, but we can’t ‘ave you trying to escape none; as if you could any’ow!”
“If you is lookin’ to get some fresh air doe, dare’ll be plenty for you when we got you clogged up like you ‘as to be,” Mandy speculated, with a hint of cruel enjoyment at the fate she must bring to bear on this lovely creature.
“Now den, we wanna make you look a treat for all dem girls out dare waiting to see you. You ‘as got a great pair of legs, darlin’. We’ll get you clogged up and see what day looks like den, eh”.
It was to the apprentice Trisha that the duty of fitting the tribication clogs was to fall. She had to learn how to do it. This would be her first as a practitioner of tribication, but she had witnessed three in the last six months.
The economy was in recession. You could always tell. When the banks were feeling the pinch, the number of girls tribicated, as a warning to others not to get in a position where they were unable to repay debt, went up. When the number of girls being tribicated for debt reached its peak: that was the time to buy shares.
The second Wall Street crash, the one in 2029, had seen girls being tribicated at a rate of over ten a month. Victoria’s grand-momma had been among those wise enough to snatch up shares in the 2030s, and, when the economy subsequently recovered, found she had doubled the Beaumont-Fortain fortunes by so doing.
For her namesake, the present Victoria, misfortune lay immediately ahead.
The clogs were crude. Each consisted essentially of two heavy blocks of wood. The blocks on which the victim had her feet initially placed, were shorter than the blocks that would fit over the top of her feet. The latter had two central and a dozen small edge-located pre-drilled holes in them.
Victoria sat on her flawless bottom on the lucky floor, with her right ankle held in the very strong grip that a woman as fit as Mandy could bring to bear. Her right foot was squarely placed on one of the shorter blocks.
Of rough hewn wood, replete with its own supply of splinters, the lower block was some six inches square in cross-section. Her big toe was at the end but not over the end of this block. She wiggled and curled her toes in anticipatory fear.
“Pwease don’t do this to one. One can make you beoth wewy wich if you let one geow!” Victoria tried, her intonation already signifying she knew the plea was hopeless.
“Make us both rich if we lets you go, darlin’? An’ where is you to get der money from den? Ain’t you bein’ tribicated fer debt, or ‘as we got der wrong girl yet agen, eh?!” Mandy mocked, finding sexual excitement in the power she had over this stunning beauty, and yet also needing to be brutal to overcome her passing desire: that desire being to let Victoria free for free.
The top side of the clog had been crudely hollowed to cover over the victim’s – in this case Victoria’s hallowed - foot. Other than for that scooping out, it was of the same six by six cross-section of the lower clog half. Trisha located it so that Victoria’s big toe was beyond its end, in contrast to the lower half, where the end of Victoria’s big toe coincided with the end edge of the block.
The upper half of the clog went up as far as a bootie would cover on Victoria’s slender ankles and shins. Indeed, the hollow that had been crudely scooped in it allowed it to half-wrap her ankle and shin.
Victoria’s heart-rending screams echoed from the cold cruel virgin white tiles of the non-acoustic walls. And that was only from the driving in of the first nail.
The top half of the clogs would be initially nailed to the lower with two nails, one through each of the main central pre-drilled holes in the tops: those holes being just forward of the ankle, and just aft of the toes. Victoria’s tears and incoherent pleas from her agony as the nails were hammered right through her pretty little feet may, perhaps, therefore be understood.
Experience had shown that the nails through the feet alone could not be trusted. More nails were therefore driven in, along the side edges of the upper, as if hammering down a coffin lid over Victoria’s dainty foot, to thus keep the tortured foot securely sandwiched.
Despite her feelings of sympathy deriving from the magical beauty of this particular girl: the sensational loveliness of her half-cast negress-white features, and divine brown complexion, and her queenly spirit, Mandy found her usual sexual arousal in the nailing being completed on Victoria’s left foot, and knew it would overcome her conscience when Victoria was made to stand.
“Stand up you fuckin’ whore!” she commanded through her gritted teeth.
It was not that Victoria would not obey that command. She reflexed to obey, but found she could not.
“Get the bleedin’ whip Trish. This little slag seems to fink she’s still der one in charge ‘ere.” Mandy sneered.
Her terror of more pain from the blacksnake spurred poor Victoria, who struggled first to kneel, and then to put one foot, or rather, one set of toes on the ground.
Her squeals of agony as she made herself rise on that one brutally nailed foot, her left foot, that one set of toes, her left big toe primarily, were only exceeded by those she emitted when she put more weight on those toes, that one big toe, in order to rise on her right foot also.
Now she stood and her torture was complete. Her pretty feet, her feet nailed into her clogs, pointed straight down as if heaven were to be found under the ground, and her toes were curved under the top wooden blocks, now become the front blocks of her nailed-on clogs.
Not only did she stand putting all her weight on the nails driven through her feet, and on the viciously bent forward big toes of her twice nailed feet, but she did so with those toes being pressed down upon and crushed by the front block of her clogs. Meanwhile, the rear clog block, provided a heel that kept her erect, and the extra length of the front clog block, some small distance up her shins, aided that. The result was that Victoria’s superb legs were shaped as only heaven could provide. They were heaven’s own transport transported to heavenly shape by this brutal torture.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell Trish, just look at the fuckin’ legs on ‘er! Even the bleedin’ pope ‘erself ud wank ‘erself off if she saw dem legs!”
“Dis un‘ll break all der records on O-Bey: you mark my words. No wonner dey gev it exclusive rights like. At a fousand dollars each friggin’ download, nice little earner all round the bleedin’ world dat is, I shouldn’t wonder.....” Mandy speculated, as Victoria’s helpless tears flowed.
“’Ere: tell you what. Let’s mek it last longer eh. Let's give the bitch a fuckin ‘obble” Mandy decided, as her honey flowed into her knickers at her enjoyment of Victoria’s stupendously shapely legs, and of the agony she was inflicting on the beauty, the beauty standing in the clogs nailed to her lovely feet.
“Dat’s a bit cruel innit Mandy?” Trisha dared to intervene.
“You ain’t der one in charge ‘ere yet me gel. And dissun ‘ere certainly ain’t in charge o’ nobody no more. So I’ll ‘old ‘er and you put this ‘ere on ‘er big toes.
Toe cuffs dey is, wiv a chain atween der cuffs. Wiv dem on, an’ allowing fer der width of ‘er clogs, she’ll ‘ave der equal of a one-inch ‘obble chain. Dat’ll slow der little slag down a bit woan’it? Spect it’ll tek ‘er a bleedin’ week to walk to the town square wiv dem on ‘er”.
It would take poor Victoria almost as long as that to walk, to stumble, to stagger, to nearly tumble, crushing her big toes with every agonising step in her nailed on torture clogs, to the huge log that already awaited her convenience, and her as its means of conveyance.
That log, comprised a ten foot long rough hewn tree trunk, with a downward-running round, broom-handle-broad, T-forming upright. It had been readied earlier by Mandy and Trish. It had taken the full strength of both those women to put it between the Y-topped telescopic upright supports that presently held it at the ready.
Just because the pretty little half-negress licked her gorgeous lips to moisten them, it did not mean she wanted to be a walking kiss: but she was. As she made the miniscule steps her toe-hobble would permit, Mandy and Trisha were mesmerised by her legs, her incredibly strong incredibly shapely legs.
When, at long last, Victoria reached the log, in order to go just beyond it, she need only bow her head in a nod. That was all she had to do, and thus all she did.
Then Mandy aligned Victoria in front of the log, so that the ‘broom-handle’ upright ran down between Victoria’s shoulder blades. And Victoria must bow submissively once more, as Mandy bade her back up so that she was bent with the huge tree trunk across her delicate feminine shoulders, with her gorgeous dark brown eyes staring their terror at the floor.
Mandy now tied Victoria’s right wrist with a silk rope, took the slender arm out parallel along the underside of the log, passed the rope around the log, and then tied the loose end of the rope to Victoria’s right wrist again, preparing this first of Victoria’s lovely arms, as if she were being crucified. Preparing little Victoria to bear on her shoulders the cruel reality of a burden proportionately greater than the mythical Atlas herself had borne up.
As she tied Victoria’s equally slender left arm at the wrist to the log, and Trisha ensured Victoria’s curls would not get caught up, Mandy continued her enjoyment of her job, by taunting Victoria, who was now readied to carry her truly massive burden across her slim shoulders.
“You know what comes next doncha darlin’?”
“Oh pwease doen’t do this to one! One will never ever wift such a big twunk. One is only a wickle girl. One is not swong enough to wift it! One will never be able to cawwy a whole twee wike wiss....”
But these words, in Victoria’s erotic short-tongued contralto, were punctuated with a period full stop when Victoria moaned at the tightness Mandy imparted to the final knot at her left wrist.
Within her sight so that she must know the alternative, both Mandy and Trisha each grasped a multiply-knotted-lash: a rough-rope cat o’ three tails apiece.
Each of the six equidistant knots on all three of the tails of these particular whips, each tail of which ended in such a knot, glinted, as each and every knot had had a steel nail twisted in it. Each of these nails was bent around on itself, so that it could not escape the knot, and bent around on itself such that, the point that would do duty if the nail were used to hammer into wood, was available to kiss Victoria’s bare flesh if she were unlucky in the blows the brutal device would impart.
“Lift it! Lift it you fuckin’ whore!!” Mandy hissed through gritted teeth, as she readied her whip for the gentle Victoria.
The perspiration that ran down lovely Victoria’s troubled temple testified that the poor little girl was trying.
“Not good enough bitch! Lift it you fuckin’ slag, or I’ll whip your gorgeous bum”
“Pwease wet one twy again. One is twying: one weally is twying wewy hard!!” Victoria begged.
“Lift it you filthy piece of shit!!!”
With superfeminine effort, in response to Mandy’s inhuman and inhumane threats, Victoria just managed to lift the log a millimetre’s millimetre off the supports, and found that, in that very instant, those same supports clanged and clattered as they were kicked to the ground, and she left bearing her unbearably cruel load standing on her crushed big toes in the crude wooden clogs nailed to her dainty feet.
She staggered but managed to stay upright on her beautiful beautifully-stretched legs, screaming with the pain of the additional weight bearing down on her nailed feet and her big toes: her toes already crushed by her own magical one-hundred-pounds of pure girl.
“Oh....... pwease!!....One is too wickle to cawwy such a big twee!!! One is only a wickle girl!!”, she gasped almost inaudibly, knowing it would make no difference.
“Get used to it whore. It’s a mile to the town centre and that’s precisely where you is goin’, tree an’ all! So get fuckin’ walking, you filthy turd of shit!!”
...........................
At that very moment, the judge that had sentenced Victoria, happened in.
Concerned that Justice Camalata Dupre may have overheard, and with her, Mandy’s own, re-election chances in mind, Mandy apologised: “Excuse me ma’am. I didn’t realise as ‘ow you was dare, see. Sorry about dem words just now, but sometimes it be necessary to urge the prisoners on a bit.”
“Oh that’s quite alright Pierpont. I was getting a little concerned, because there is quite a crowd waiting out there. You’ve never been late before. It’s only a few minutes though, and I can see that you have done your usual excellent job with the prisoner.”
“Looks like her breasts took quite a paddling in the hour I instructed she endure: quite a paddling indeed.”
“It were ‘bout five-hundred ma’am”, Mandy informed.
“Each?” the judge enquired, seemingly casually.
“Oh no ma’am, it were around two-fifty on each tit”
“Oh”, the judge responded, with an intonation indicative of decided disappointment.
“I’ll get out of your way now then Pierpont. But how long till she’s in the square would you imagine?”
“I’d fink ‘bout an ‘our ‘an an ‘alf to two hours or so ma’am”
“As long as that?”
“Oh yes ma’am. She tried to escape so we put an ‘obble atween ‘er big toes like”
“I see...........”
“.........I’ve booked dinner at 7.00 tonight with my wife. It’s our wedding anniversary, so I do so hope I can witness the tribi in good time for my ponygirl to still get me home to Barnmouth-Magna for a quick shower and change?”, the judge mused.
“We’ll make sure der little bitch don’t slack none ma’am”, Mandy assured.
Suitably reassured that she could escape from duty for the day, early, as intended, and having, as intended by her visit, urged haste, Justice Camalata Dupre remarked, as she graced out of the torture chamber: “It’s a terribly hot afternoon for her. Still, the Girl-Laws are the Girl-Laws, and she has been a very naughty girl.....I’ll see you at the square in a couple of hours at most then...”
...........................
While this conversation took place, Victoria had already begun her walk under Trisha’s order. She knew her fate. She had begun her walk: that, after all, was what her beautiful legs were for. But you could hardly call the agonising shuffle at a tortured snail’s crawl a walk, even though it was the best she could do.
Her body glistened with perspiration from the strain of the unbearable weight she bore on her shoulders, on her nailed feet, and on her crushed toes, which were already bruised and bleeding from this horrible torture.
“You is gonna ‘ave to go faster dan dat you fuckin’ slag!” Mandy cursed, as she nodded to Trisha to be ready to whip Victoria if Victoria dared to slack.
...........................
The uniform of St Saviour’s Academy was all white, even, of course, down to the girls’ knickers. The three little angels who had sneaked out of school to witness Victoria’s tribication, would have stood out in the crowd for that fact alone: the white uniform that is, not, of course, their well hidden school-issue knickers.
Factors that would also have distinguished these schoolgirls from the other women and girls gathered to enjoy the spectacle Victoria would provide over the next twenty-four hours, were their very exceptional prettiness, and that one was honey-blonde, another a brunette negress, and the third a gorgeous redhead.
You would, of course, be right to remark that there is nothing unusual about those points in a world blessed with the presence of many pretty girls. But the reason it is remarked, is that, in their uniform, you would never have known which was which. For each St Saviour’s girl wore a head-to-toes white cotton burkha, and saw the world through blue, brown, and green eyes, respectively, entirely without you or they being able to even know that they were so coloured, when seeing them in uniform, for even their pretty eyes were covered over by the muslin gauze through which they gazed at the world via the thus covered letterbox-slot sized gap in their head cowls.
As if this were not enough to protect their perfect complexions: to shade themselves from the sun, in their white gloved hands, each held aloft an opened white parasol.
Even with holding their parasols aloft though, their arms were not revealed as the gloves they wore went up to their armpits inside the long sleeves of their all enveloping gowns.
On the very tips of their toes in heelless white ballet shoes beneath their gowns, in order to train their legs; to protect their virtue, and keep their lovely legs demurely together, they wore a two-inch hobble-chain at both their ankles and, in the form of leather garters, just above their pretty knees.
Each and all were there to enjoy their escape from the school, five minutes wiggle from where they now stood, and, of course, Victoria’s suffering. But each and all knew that they could not afford to get excited, as their panties would be inspected at bedtime, before they were chained in their beds for the night. And, if there was the slightest evidence that they had oozed any ‘naughty-cream’, as these girls would call it among themselves, it guaranteed a severe spanking from the head girl, on the bare bottom.
As close companion schoolgirls will, they chatted as if the world belonged to them, and there was nobody else around.
“I’ve heard that it’s Vicky Beaumont-Fortain. I was in love with her when she was in the sixth, and I told her so as well!”, a girl called Bethesda announced, with bright confidence.
“Did I tell you that I saw her nude in the bath once?!” she then added.
“Oh Bethesda Morton-Fortesque, you are a little fibber!” Nelanima Foston-Palmer challenged.
“Cross my heart and hope to die if it isn’t true! She’s got gorgeous tits”, Bethesda replied.
“I always say, that where tits are concerned, anything more than a handful is a waste”, the third girl, Penelope Dupre, opined.
And all three immaculately intact virgins giggled, because all three were covering for the fact that, they had never touched, or ever been touched by another girl, except in the sense of their hearts and schoolgirl crushes, and would certainly never ever have dared to touch themselves in any naughty way.
Then, Bethesda looked up and pointed: “Oh golly! Oh gosh! She’s coming. Oh they’re whipping her! Look! Over there! Oh how horrible. How can she be expected to carry that huge tree trunk on her shoulders like that? Oh, I can’t watch, I can’t watch, they’re whipping her and whipping her. It’s too cruel!”
“You can hear her screams! Oh the poor girl! She’s running with blood and they keep whipping her and whipping her whipping her and whipping her!”
“Oh look at her back! What have they done to her back? Oh it’s so cruel. She can hardly walk with that huge log on her shoulders and they keep whipping her and whipping her. She can’t go any faster! Must they keep whipping her and whipping her so hard?”
“Oh the poor girl.. the poor poor girl. Oh god just look at the whips they are using on her! Oh her back!! Oh I can’t look! Oh can you see her back?! They’ve whipped the skin off her back! And still they keep whipping her and whipping her and whipping her and whipping her and whipping her and whipping her...”
Bethesda’s eager commentary was as accurate as it was unnecessary, because Victoria was being whipped past the very spot where the three schoolgirls stood.
“Keep moving!!” Mandy cursed for the umpteenth time before she again flogged Victoria’s already completely raw back, followed by Trisha lashing her in turn.
“Give her one for me!” Bethesda then called, belying in an instant all the sympathy she had seemed to show before: before, that is, she had creamed blushmakingly copiously in her knickers.
“Whip her thighs! Whip her thighs!” she then added, flushing English Rose pink beneath her burkha at the same instant as she creamed some more at ogling the fit strong shapely beauty of Victoria’s legs.
The sight of poor Victoria’s slow struggle under her immense burden had whetted all three girls, and dampened the gussets of all three’s knickers.
It was just after Victoria had struggled past, that Bethesda’s eyes were drawn to her own gown, and, even through the gauze through which her sparkling blue eyes must gaze at the world, noticed that its pure crisp white had been spattered with spots of Victoria’s blood.
“Oh golly! I’m for it now. When the head girl sees this I’ll get my bummy caned for sure!”
“Get a fuckin’ move on you filthy slut!!!”, Mandy was heard to shout as she whipped Victoria yet again.
As Victoria struggled along to the town square, with the huge tree trunk across her shoulders bearing down on her nailed feet and her crushed big toes as she made her one-inch steps in her cruel hobble, the full brutality of her whipping showed.
Her back was indeed raw, her buttocks close to being flogged to red meat, and her legs, her wonderful thighs and legs, ran with the trickles of blood that caressed their perfect shapely curvy contours. Her screams of pain as they flogged her and flogged her and flogged her, were now hoarse, and blood also trickled from her lovely lips, because, amidst her total agony, she had bitten her tongue.
“Get a fuckin’ move on you fuckin’ slag!!!”, Mandy was heard to shout again as she whipped Victoria yet again.
And amidst that sight of savage cruelty, an innocent schoolgirl’s voice was heard to ask:
“Did you hear that language? Did you hear that language?! Did you hear what that woman with the whip was saying, so that anyone could hear? I’m going to find out her name and report her. She’s only a public servant. She ought to be fired. It’s completely horrible to hear words like that being used in public. I will tell my momma about this!” Penelope Dupre, the daughter of Justice Camalata Dupre, insisted firmly, accompanied by a tiny stomp of her en-pointe pretty right foot.
“I’m with you on that!” Bethesda agreed emphatically, then she turned to feast on the spectacle of Victoria’s punishment.
“Oh their spitting on her! Those horrible girls in the crowd are spitting on her. Oh that’s just so gross?”
“Oh! Oh my gosh! Oh golly gosh! She’s peeing herself! Oh look! Look!! She’s peeing all down her legs. Look the wind has caught it and she is doing a peepee down those gorgeous lovely legs, both legs!”
“Oh how gross. I think she deserves what she’s getting if she’s like that. It’s disgusting! Oh the shame of it! The shame of it! And to think she was once a pupil at the Acad’!!!”
“Oh do stop prattling so Bethesda. We need to hurry down to the square if we are to see her getting tribid and you know how long it takes us to walk in our chastity hobbles!”
At this reminder from Nelanima Foston-Palmer, the trio of delightful maidens began their tiptoe trot, their parasols aloft to further protect complexions already protected by their burkhas.
And under their all-enveloping burkhas, as none would ever admit to the other, all three still wore their pure white standard school issue knickers of course, but pure white knickers now sporting significantly saturated gussets....
.............................
Victoria nearly fell. On the edge of the concrete slabs of Barmouth Town’s market square, Victoria nearly fell. It was four in the afternoon. She had been whipped every step of the way to where she now stood, every step with her nailed feet on her crushed big toes in her tribication clogs for two whole hours and one long mile she had been flogged.
Her huge burden forced her head down. A few in the crowd took a further chance to spit on her. Many of these had been Victoria’s servants at some time.
“Pwease may one hev a dwink? One is tewiby wursty” she begged
“Not unless you got any piss left in you, after you pissed yersen just now. Ain’t gonna waste good water on you, dats for certain sure!” Mandy answered.
Victoria nearly fell. Victoria nearly fell again. Mandy and Trisha had untied Victoria’s wrists. Further helpers, further torturers had taken the huge log off her shoulders, and carried it over to where it would be raised as the crossbar on two eight to nine feet high tree trunk uprights, eight or so feet apart, already and permanently concreted into the town square centre.
At the relief from her agony, Victoria moved to squat on her haunches and rub the pain from the torn muscles in her pretty arms.
“Geddup you fuckin’ whore! Nobody said as ‘ow you could tek a bleedin’ rest did dey?! Mandy cursed.
“Sowwy” Victoria whispered sweetly, rising and raising her sweet head, only to have someone in the crowd press forward, and spit on her lovely negress’ lips.
“Not ‘arf as sorry as what you will be in a bit from na” Mandy gloated.
“Ready!” came the call from the region of the uprights, and the dazed Victoria looked at her fate. The log she had carried had been lifted by a crane, and was now across the two uprights, resting in grooves made in the uprights for that purpose.
Down from the centre of the horizontal log, the round wooden ‘broom handle’ that had been between Victoria’s shoulder blades as she bore her huge burden, now pointed down like the up-stroke of a capital letter ‘T’.
As Victoria’s terrified eyes looked lower, she saw two more ‘broom handle’ diameter rods. These pointed up from the ground in the middle under the long ‘broom handle’ that hung down from her log.
These ground-upwards rods, mounted in the concrete in the manner of the tree trunk uprights, leaned-in toward each other. Victoria’s eyes closed to take away the horror of what she saw next. But, still there when she opened them again, was the fact that each of the round ‘broom handle’ uprights, were ringed horizontally, twenty-four inches below from their rounded tops, with a ‘necklace’ of six one-inch long shining steel spikes, like a wicked choker around them.
“Pwease don’t do this to one! Pwease! Pwease!! Pwease!!” Victoria begged, but she could see that the white silk rope harness had already been tossed over the crossbar, and was only too aware, that Mandy and Trisha were tying her arms doubled: that is, tying her with her wrists fixed to their respective upper arms.
Long ends of loose white silk rope trailed like the train of a virgin bride from these ties, and the ties themselves, the ties holding Victoria’s slender wrists just above her sweet biceps, were like chocolate box bows, their long ends being the means of slipping these bows open at some time: perhaps to present the delicious confection that was the light chocolate brown Victoria it seemed.
Now, on her right wrist, nearer her hand than the ropes tying her arms folded double, Mandy clipped one cuff of a handcuff set, leaving the other open: the open cuff being of an enormous size compared with Victoria’s femininely fine wrists. She then used another set for Victoria’s left wrist, leaving the far larger cuff at one end open in like manner.
“Come on den, you little horny whore. We mustn’t keep your lovin’ audience waitin’ must we? For hexample, in’t dat your girlfriend over dare?”
“Come to watch an’ enjoy it she ‘as! You fuckin’ bet she ‘as!! Bet she’s as big an whore as what you is, you filthy slag!” Mandy taunted, driven by sexual heat inflamed by Victoria’s beautiful body and Mandy’s enjoyment of torture.
Mandy had spotted the clearly distressed Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas readily. Mandy hated her. She knew her by sight, because Acanda had had some involvement with a law firm, Runkett and Runkett. She, Mandy, had been interviewed for a security job at their Hondon headquarters, and been rejected by the haughty but very lovely St John-Fortesque-Thomas. Mandy’s hatred of ‘hoity toity toffs’ had only increased from then and there onwards.
At mention of the name, Victoria’s lovely head turned to find Acanda in the crowd. The helpless Acanda watched weeping silently at a distance.
Unable to see Acanda, Victoria assumed her torturer was just being cruel. But the hope that Acanda was organising an appeal against completion of her sentence momentarily crossed Victoria’s mind, before she realised that it was, of course, impossible, and therefore a ridiculous thought.
Victoria was being dragged toward her fate on her nailed and bleeding feet.
When she was under the crossbar, Mandy cut the chain between the cuffs hobbling Victoria by her big toes.
“Pwease! I beg you! Pwease deon’t do this to one!” Victoria pleaded.
“Save your bref darlin’. You is gonna need it!” Mandy sneered spurred on by the pulsing of her clitoris.
A confusion of organised ropes hung from the crossbar. The first seemed the most terrible. They comprised a noose: two nooses: two nooses being necessary, for this was a noose-bra.
Mandy’s enthusiasm matched the loving care with which she helped each of Victoria’s wonderfully huge breasts through its individual noose. She then took ropes attached to each outer side of each noose, and fixed them behind, in the middle of Victoria’s brutally whipped back, by inserting a wooden peg into the two steel rings these ropettes ended with, so the ropettes joined as one, in the manner of a brassiere strap.
She then checked the short ropettes that connected the two nooses at the front: the two ropettes in Victoria’s cleavage between the insides of the nooses: these ropettes also being fastened together by the insertion of a wooden peg in their end rings.
The holding pegs, front and back, had a steel ring in their tops. Mandy inspected the security of these pegs, to be sure they would not slip out unbidden. And then she made sure the loose nooses of the bra were lightly gripping the bases of Victoria’s beautiful bosom.
The long ropes that rose from the top of these nooses were already slung over the crossbar, and trailed back down to the ground behind Victoria. The long loose ends presently waved and wandered a little in a cooling breeze from the town’s harbour area.
As two long ladders were being placed against the crossbar, front and back of this soccer-goal style gallows, and checked for safety, Mandy and Trisha slipped another rope, separate and independent from the noose ropes, around Victoria’s soft shapely middle, tying it at her back like a slip knot lasso.
The loose end of this white silk rope was also pre-slung over the log that poor Victoria had been forced to carry under the lash, and, like the noose-bra ropes, dangled behind where, truly terrified and petrified, Victoria now stood.
Although many in the crowd had witnessed a girl being tribicated before, this confusion of ropes and rods still amazed them.
The prospect for confusion also concerned Mandy, who was to operate with the non-too-bright Trisha on the ground, while two other torturettes went up the ladders to do their part, and two more were ready near the upright inward leaning ‘broom handle’ spitefully spike-necklaced rods.
“Just make fuckin’ sure your pullin’ on der right bleedin’ rope Trish, or we’ll fuck der ‘ole fing up! Mandy reminded her companion.
Mandy left the loose end of the rope tied around Victoria’s magically slim middle and pre-slung over the crossbar, in Trisha’s safekeeping while she went to Victoria to taunt her for the last time.
Victoria was now standing under the ‘broom handle’, that formed the upright of the ‘T’ with the log she had borne as its cross-member. Indeed, this ‘broom handle’ was right in front of her pretty nose and could have touched her chin. She was also standing between the two inward facing spiked-collar uprights.
“Okay sweetheart: get your fuckin’ gorgeous mouf aroun’ dat!” Mandy ordered, indicating the down-hanging wooden rod.
Victoria made a last plea with her soulful dark-brown eyes.
“Get that fuckin’ pole in your fuckin’ mouf, or I’ll slap your friggin’ face till it looks like your fuckin’ back!!
The terrified Victoria bent her head back, and took the wooden broom handle rod into her mouth, and gagged when it touched the back of her throat.
The gloating crowd, hitherto a murmuring distracted mass, now focused its attention. Seeing that there was now some action, they jeered.
“’Ere darlin’ you can get your tonsils round my clit like that any time yer like!” came a ribald call, followed by loud laughter.
Victoria’s lovely eyes now looked up to heaven, and she felt the rope around her belly tightening as it was being pulled, by Mandy and Trisha in combination.
“Hup she goes!” came the same mocking voice.
“Hey darlin’ you can teach me all abart fellatio after dis!!” and more laughter followed.
But poor Victoria was oblivious to the laughter because she was being hauled aloft by the rope around her soft belly, and the rod that had just been in her mouth as far as the back of her tongue, was now going slowly down her throat. And she was gagging choking coughing and struggling for air, as they hauled her higher and higher and her throat took more and more of the rod down toward her stomach, as her lovely nostrils flared in her fight for air.
The sound of Victoria retching as the rod went further and further and further down her thus raped throat, turned Mandy on. She was enjoying this. She loved tribication. She loved girls with big tits. She wondered what they fed the girls on at St Saviour’s Academy. All the girls seemed to come out of there with huge tits. Maybe it was that total abstinence – “absti wotsit” as Mandy would call it. ‘Never even kissed, none of dem’. Tribication was a punishment reserved for girls with big tits. So, since the girls coming out of St Saviour’s all had massive tits, it must follow that many of them would end up like this little slag.
Mandy now recalled herself. “She high enough yet!” she called to the girls on the ladders, only to be answered by being able to see for herself that the girls in question were clipping the hitherto open ends of the cuffs, already on Victoria’s wrists, around and over the tree trunk crossbar.
Those same girls then slung the chain of another set of cuffs over the crossbar, and clipped their hitherto opened ends, to the metal hoops in the tops of the peg in Victoria’s cleavage, and the one joining her ‘bra-strap’ in the middle of her back.
Mandy was thus assured and watched the girls slide down the ladders and take the ladders away.
She therefore now turned to the girls on the ground struggling to arrange the two upright broom handle rods: the two wooden rods with the spiked collars two-feet down from their top ends.
“Up a bit more please Mandy!” the rear girl called, and Mandy and Trisha hauled Victoria higher and more rod went deeper down Victoria’s choking gagging retching throat, tearing her guts, as her pretty tongue fellated this brutal intruder in a helpless fight to stop her throat being further raped.
“Get your fuckin’ legs apart you filthy whore! Mandy cursed at Victoria, who obeyed, to a loud cheer from the crowd, watching with glee, as the upward pointing broom handle rods were arranged and entered into Victoria’s anus and cunt.
“That’s it done!” came the call from the rear ground girl. “Lower her a bit so she’s got a taste of four-inches or so.”
As she was duly lowered so that she was penetrated less down her throat, but now had four or five inches apiece of rod up her bum and cunt, the unlubricated Victoria let out a gargle of pain.
“She’s got fucking beautiful legs. Do you always choose them for their legs Mandy?” the ground girl asked as she walked over to Mandy and Trisha.
“Never mind ‘er fuckin’ legs just na Nilana. You and Clitoria get ready to tie off dem tit-noose rope ends, after me an’ Trisha ‘ave lowered the slag, and see ‘ow much ‘er cunt and bum swallow afore we gets to where der pegs might get pulled out by der slung-over chain...... ‘Old ‘em tight. We only wants another couple of inches up ’er, and we can tie dem off ready for der slag’s final drop.
A minute later, the tit-noose ropes were duly tied off at the ground as if the peg-ropes of a marquee. Mandy and Trisha then let the belly-tied-haul rope slowly slacken, and listened to Victoria’s gargled gurgling scream, as her weight was now taken by the tit-noose ropes, and her body slowly lowered and her nooses tightened and strangled her tits, and four or five more inches of ground fixed rod went up her cunt, and four or five more up her bum, and her body was threatening to pull the pegs out of her noose-bra.
The chain slung over the crossbar, the chain that was attached either end to the pegs in the noose-bra, front and back, was now very tightly braced. Victoria grabbed the chains of her handcuffs, feeling the burning agony from her arms tied bent: her arms tied with bows at her wrists.
“Fuckin’ perfick! Fuckin’ perfick dat is!”
To be sure it was so, Mandy walked under the suspended Victoria and inspected her penetrations. She then looked up and admired the huge bulbous mounds formed by Victoria’s already strangled tits.
“Fuckin’ perfick! Fuckin’ perfick!” Mandy repeated, before she called over to Trisha to cast aside the haul rope that ran over the crossbar and around Victoria’s tummy, thus leaving the thrice penetrated Victoria hanging only by her strangled breasts in the noose-bra, her beautiful sweat-bathed body shining in the hot sun, as her pretty hands clung to the chains of her wrist cuffs: cuffs she gripped for comfort that they prevented her falling further.
The three times penetrated tit hung Victoria: the nearly tribicated Victoria, moaned and choked and retched as she struggled to breath, with the downward facing shaft in her mouth, still hideously pushing down and distending the lower lining of her stomach, it was so very far down her throat.
The pain from her breasts was agonising. So too was the pain from the steel cuffs cutting into her slender wrists, and the ropes tying those wrists to her upper arms at the top of her feminine biceps.
The steel cuffs at the wrists of her bent arms: the cuffs were locked around the crossbar, and the sweet one-hundred pounds of her pretty body was the mass that was already strangling her tits, and would further do so, but for the fact her gentle grip on the crossbar hung cuffs counterbalanced her.
“Well, suppose we gotta offer der last bit to der fuckin’ crowd as usual”, Mandy declared, her voice showing her disappointment she was not allowed to finish the job herself.
“Please may we have that honour madam?” a sweet schoolgirls voice, that of Bethesda Morton-Fortesque, suddenly enquired though the hood of her school uniform.
“And if I may have the honour also......Mandy isn’t it? If I may also have the honour Mandy..... My momma is a judge, and I promise I’ll put in a good word for you Mandy”, Penelope Dupre added for her part.
“You sweet little things don’t wanna get mixed up in sommat like dis, do yers?” Mandy asked, her voice reflecting her enjoyment of knowing the lovely creatures in the burkhas were complete innocents, even though they looked from their height that they must be at least seventeen or eighteen.
“Oh yes we do” Penelope responded brightly. “She must have been very naughty indeed for them to tribi her. The Girl-Laws are very strict, but equally fair. If she has been that naughty she deserves all she is getting: that’s what I say.
“Are you going to whip her some more, and can we watch from close to please? Bethesda suddenly asked, even to her own surprise.
“Well: no little lady. You see we don’t wanna be cruel to ‘er does us?” Mandy responded, and could not understand why the two schoolgirls began to giggle uncontrollably.
Bethesda then giggled, struggling to get the exclamation out, even when she had managed to catch her breath: “Not cruel?!. No: of course not!” she added, before the two girls giggled uncontrollably once more.
“Gerronwifit!!” came an older woman’s voice from the crowd.
“Yea!” came another girl’s call: “I’ve got to get home to get my wife’s dinner ready. Dat fuckin’ tart up dare ud ‘ave a bleedin’ maid to do dat for ‘er! I ain’t never ‘ad one o’ dem!”
Mandy recognised the prospects for the scene getting ugly, and noticed several Girl-Police constables on their radios, perhaps seeking to deploy reinforcements.
“Okay, little ladies, you can ‘ave the ‘onour of startin’ the naughty girl’s twenty-four ‘ours”, Mandy conceded.
The two sweet schoolgirls passed the gruff Mandy their dainty parasols to hold the while.
Mandy blushed with embarrassment, but continued her duties.
“You see dese two ropes ‘ere. Each of dem leads up to der bows tying the little bitch’s – oh sorry bart dat – Er.....I means der naughty girl’s wrists to her upper arms. See how she’s grasping der chains what is ‘anging darn from der crossbar like, well just watch what ‘appens when you undoes dem bows”
“When you does dat, she better ‘old on tight, cos when you tugs the two bows undone, ‘er arms will unfold, and she’ll ‘ave two choices: ‘old ‘erself up, or let ‘erself slide down, tek the rods up ‘er cunt and her bum, and ‘ave ‘er tits hung good and proper, cos the tit ropes ‘ave got plenty of stretch left in dem, believe me”.
“’Er arms is very pretty, but not very strong: so I don’t reckon she’ll be able to ‘ang on very long.”
“My bet is she end up wid der spikes up ‘er front and back in less dan a minute.”
“And will you whip her after that?” asked the ever-eager Bethesda.
“Well, we might in der mornin’ if she seems to be enjoyin’ ‘erself”, Mandy assured, still puzzled by this schoolgirl’s enthusiasm for flogging.
From the sound of Victoria’s retching, Mandy knew there was a possibility Victoria might pass out, so she gave each schoolgirl a wrist-bind rope-end apiece, and reminded them that they must pull at one and the same time, before adding:
“Be sure you don’t ‘urt your pretty little ‘ands now”
The ropes pulled, Victoria’s arms were suddenly free for their full length, and she as suddenly fell, and the two up-from-ground rods rushed up her cunt and bum.
“’Aul yerself up darlin’ if yer don’t wanna get double what for!” came another crude shout from the crowd.
The terrified Victoria was only too aware of the double penetration and her lovely dark-brown eyes still looked to heaven with the third penetration down her throat.
With her pretty arms she desperately pulled on the cuff chains she was grasping.
As she fought not to let herself be ripped on the spikes she knew awaited her, her tongue eagerly fellated the unyielding lover down her throat, tasting the salt of her own blood where they had whipped her with this rod part of the huge burden on her shoulders.
In her terror she gripped the chains as hard as she could in her pretty little hands and tried to stop her weight taking her down on her other two unyielding lovers: the uprights.
As the crowd jeered and cheered and whooped and slow-handclapped, Victoria fought to haul herself up and kicked her gorgeous legs to get herself off her cunt and bum penetrations.
But her lovely arms were not strong enough and her body weakened by her brutal whipping, and the penetrations were already too far up her, for her to kick her beautiful legs and lift herself free from them.
The inevitable happened within the minute that Mandy had predicted.
Exhausted by her struggles, and weakened by her flogging, Victoria gave way to her fate, and, to the loudest cheer yet from the crowd, she slid down onto the poles, up her cunt and up her bum, and screamed as the spikes entered her and ripped her till they caught up enough of her torn flesh to stop her slide, and her arms were at full stretch.
In the same instant as the mass of her shapely body began to fall to test the stretch available in the anchored noose-bra ropes, her fall caused the slung-over chain to rip the pegs out of the front cleavage and rear ‘bra-strap’ ropettes of her noose-bra, and the nooses were now free to fully throttle her breasts.
In consequence by the time her arms stopped her fall, she had fully strangled her breasts, and felt the agony as her teats opened, and the blood that her paddling had beaten out of her before, now trickling once again, like red milk from the nipples of her brutalised bosom.
Victoria was now fully tribicated. She was three times penetrated and hanging by her tits. Thus she must stay now for twenty-four hours, her slightest move, even her gentle breath, ripping her cunt and anus more.
To relieve her agony, she would struggle to haul herself up by her wrist cuffs, knowing all the while that she could not hold herself up for long, and gargle and scream as she had to let herself go, and the spikes around her rigid-lovers, front and rear, ripped her anew, even while her mouth and throat were still being deep-fucked by the rod hanging down from the middle of her gallows’ crossbar.
.......................
The spectacle of Victoria’s final rape being over, the chill of dusk and the dampness of dew began to fill the air. The delinquent schoolgirls had long since crept back to their dormitory. The housewives had gone home to greet their tired wives when they returned from their toil in factory and office.
Victoria’s former servants, those she had fired, and that had been among the first to spit on her as she walked on her nailed feet, were now in the shadows of the doorways in the pink-light district, offering their bodies to the dozen-strong gangs of wealthy girls starting out for a night on the town, and intending to end up at the 96 Club, where they hoped to pick up one of the pretty chicks that could be found there, and share her between them in some all-night bedroom wrestling.
.......................
In a corner tower of St Saviour’s Academy, a white clad figure made its stealthy way to the window it knew looked out over the town’s market square.
She was not disappointed at the view.
Her nerves highly tensed, she ducked aside when she saw the lone Girl-Police officer, left to keep vigil over Victoria’s suffering, seeming to look her way. Then she told herself not to be so silly, ‘as if that policegirl can see me all the way over here’.
The girl: the tribicated girl was beautiful. Her legs were lovely. The girl sneaking a distant look at the hour-glass shape of the tribicated Victoria, slowly disappearing into the post sunset dusk, was not going to admit to herself that it was the torture that excited her.
She had never done this before, and knew it was terribly naughty.
How good it had been of matron to cover for her. Now she was actually here though, the excitement at the thought of doing it, had gone, and the longed-for chance of doing it, for the very first time she had ever dared, even when she had had a chance to, made her so nervous she was sure she would not enjoy it after all.
But these punishments did not happen that often in modern times. The crush she had had on Victoria, when Victoria had been at the academy then came back to her mind. And Victoria’s cruel laughter when she had declared how much she loved Victoria, also came back to memory.
And, suddenly, the sight of the site of Victoria’s savage torture, became the sight of the site of Victoria getting what she deserved for spurning her. And the girl’s excitement came back at the thought of that. And that excitement grew as she decided that she would enjoy Victoria suffering for her rejection in its fullest way.
And her hand, with its glove removed, had already raised the hem of her burkha, and was daringly in the top-front elastic of her knickers, and touching the soft curls she found there; before a cool voice from behind made the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stand up on end.
“Morton-Fortesque, what are you doing?!”
“Nothing head girl: nothing Fraser: really and truly nothing!” Bethesda answered, her voice giving away the lie.
“I hope not Morton-Fortesque. I sincerely hope not.”
“We’ll let it go this time. But next time, I’ll have you punished and expelled, do you understand?”
“Yes Fraser. Thank you Fraser”, Bethesda answered, and wiggle-trotted quickly out of the room.
The head girl listened to Bethesda’s rapid en-pointe steps as the would-be naughty girl made her way back to the elevator. She then moved to look out of the window herself.
So that was Victoria Beaumont-Fortain getting what the haughty bitch deserved, for stealing Acanda St John-Fortesque-Thomas, when Acanda, Victoria and Emily had been at the Academy together.
Emily Fraser, the St Saviour’s head girl was going to enjoy this, to its full. She had already taken off her knickers before coming to the tower.
She would take her time with her enjoyment of Victoria’s torture.
That time and enjoyment began with the sensuously slow rolling off of the long glove on Emily’s lovely slim delicately freckled ghost white long right arm....
.......................
Till the equally red orb of the rising sun turned to its warming yellow, and dawn broke, with Victoria half through her twenty-four hours of agony’s agony, the infrared cameras overcame the darkness, to record her torture for O-Bey.
The breeze that had tugged at the glory of her dark-brown dreadlocks intermittently all the long cold night, had dried the sweet sweat with which her beautiful body had shone with a reflecting halo till dusk the previous day.
The cold night: a night that had threatened the delirium of hyperthermia as further punishment, had taken due toll on her.
To go to bed naked was Victoria’s norm, but this night this delightfully dusky maid had only worn her dried perspiration from dusk to dawn, instead of her usual thousand-dollar an ounce Denel ‘No 69 Parfum’.
An early to rise, and thus duly wise fly, landed on her lovely face.
Its lowly little mass had been more speedily warmed by the rising sun, than would be Victoria’s wonderful one-hundred pounds of total femininity.
It had scented the dried blood from her multiple upon multiple lashes. It paused for a moment as if to decide whether left or right was the more beautiful: a completely impossible choice, because there was no choice between such wonders; and decided it would go to the left nipple, to which it then flew and settled.
But it was as if in that pause, it had contacted headquarters, because, one by one, its more lazy hitherto bedbound companions joined it, and Victoria’s body once more became a seething mass of buzzing crawling flies, on her nipples, her breasts, in her cleavage, on her raw back, her savagely whipped bottom, in and out of her cunt, and enjoying, not least, the welts on her stupendous thighs.
All night long, Victoria had never closed her eyes. Her exhaustion was only outmatched by her thirst, and her wonderful dark-brown soul lanterns looked up to heaven for some solace and succour, knowing she would get none and none.
Her body, her wonderful body, her wonderful nut-brown body, could not help but be the epitome of eroticism, whether stationary or as she moved, as she did now, in order to try and find a less agonising position within the minimality of choices she did not even really have, with her three love orifices filled with two-foot deep penetrations.
She was, of course, well able to hear. In her mind’s ears she could still recall the whistle of the whips as they had driven her to where she now hung, tribicated in accordance with the Girl-Laws.
Her own cries of pain when those whips had bitten into her bare flesh, had seemed like they were emitted by someone else; but the evidence that they had indeed been hers, were her raw back, and her as nearly red-meat-matching buttocks, over all of which the flies now crawled, and the blood from her nipples, where dozens of the flys’ snouts sucked, and thus suckled on her gentle, brutally strangled, breasts.
The peaceful sounds of the dawn over Barnmouth were lost to her. The tinkle of their neck-bells as the girloxen were driven to the barns for their tits to be milked, the eager pitter-patter of the hand and knee pads of the pet bitches being taken for their morning exercise by their mistress’ maids, the sound of the siren that signalled the end of nightshift for the girls whose lovely legs pedalled dynamos to keep electricity provided, the clip-clop of a ponygirl’s hooves, and her sigh as the single shaft of the cart she was to pull, was pushed up her cunt to shackle her and start her day, and the clang of the churns full of fresh girlpee from the factory-farming sheds where the bacchanalia-girls were constantly hopper-fed with grapes and drips of distilled water; all these familiar sounds were lost to her.
The commonplace sounds of the dawn in the town all around the square where she suffered, were lost to the pretty ears of the incredibly pretty Victoria.
So too, was the dawn chorus of the waking birds. So too also therefore, the more raucous cries of the seagulls that patrolled the cliffs above the shingle shore of this seaside town, and flew ‘combat patrol’ over the blue waters as the fishing girls pushed out their boats to take their nets to sea once more.
The gulls marked the town, and were such a part of its history, that they even featured on the Barnmouth coat of arms.
That coat of arms, comprised a shield supported at its sides by two naked girls: one a curly-haired white redhead, the other a tight-curl headed Nubian negress. The head of a blonde beauty peeked prettily centrally over the shield’s top.
The shield itself depicted, on a sand-gold ground, a single gull representing the sea, standing proudly, with a fish in its beak to represent the town’s fishing industry, on the middle of the back of a naked negress, who crawled on all fours, to represent the bitch kennels, with her tear-drop breasts dripping two pear-shaped droplets of milk, to represent dairy farming, while she read a book on the ground before her pretty face, to represent education, and St Saviour’s Academy, the historic and world-famous girls’ school in particular, as she knelt over a wavy blue band below her, representing the navigable River Barn, with a small sailing ship depicting the town’s cargo port, the port where surplus English girls were exported to work in mines, or as ponygirls on foreign farms.
As if mistress of all she surveyed, one of these gulls, as she flew up the river, spied Victoria’s station, and decided it was an ideal high-cliff-akin place to land, in order to consider how to start her day.
Her webbed feet thus soon took perch at the midpoint of the cross-bar of Victoria’s tribication scaffold, but only briefly.
She had spotted the sparkle from a fish’s gills in the warming morning sun, and thus she rose and flew off toward the sea and food, aided aloft by a soft zephyr, which also toyed with Victoria’s curls.
But in rising, she, the gull, defecated, and the globule of her white and green guano, caught by the same soft comfortingly warm morning’s dawning’s breeze, landed, as if with intended accuracy, on the rod being fellated by Victoria’s tongue, the rod deep down her throat, and then slowly slid, and then more rapidly dropped, directly into Victoria’s mouth, and just as directly onto the middle of her hungry and thirsty tongue......
......Immediately following the very instance of that very incident, as she tasted the seagull’s shit on her tongue, the still savagely tribicated Victoria Cecile Jocasta Lady Beaumont-Fortain, minimally minutely orgasmed, and then began to cry for despair of true deliverance....
Episodes
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis –
Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....
Episodes
by Eve Adorer
Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch heeled pinnacle platforms. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. She would perform her final surgery relying on the contents of the black bag she took on visits to patients’ homes, the pad of prescription forms she had just taken from that receptacle, and the gold ballpoint pen she had been given at graduation.
The speculation over whether or not the twenty-five-year-old blonde temptress wore panties, was the unspoken conversation in her waiting room. Just to watch her tiptoe in and smilingly enquire who was next for her to see, was almost a cure in itself. The thought that she probably shaved it to immaculate pre-puberty was a decided tonic.
The gorgeous deep dark brown eyes of the stunningly pretty Cerisa sparkled with her high intelligence and sweet gentleness. The curl-coiled warm-gold hair shone, fresh showered shampooed and scented as she was. The voice, the velvet voice of the beautiful Cerisa seemed to come from deep within her chest. She was wonderfully endowed: twice and twinly.
Her breasts had been such an embarrassment when she had been at school. That had not been for their size, it had been for their non-existence.
At fourteen, she had been the proverbial bean-pole. And then she had begun to demonstrate how wonderful the meaning of the phrase ‘late developer’ could be, and it had been as if her development would never stop. 40DD had been a point, two points, superbly passed into the past before, her voice gone sensual contralto as if her breasts were her lungs, it was so deep and they so magnificent, she had finally got to the need for tailoress-made brassieres.
But Cerisa was a sexual girl. She preferred to defer to baring all under. She adored the looks she got from the other girls as her chest flowed within her blouse to wave gravity’s greatest efforts to haul them down, sprightly prancing goodbyes, as they nodded and waved their refusal, dancing in like manner to heads nodding assent to dissent.
They had blossomed like flowers; but no floribunda could match such wonderful abundance, and no mere rose out-beauty the colour of the pinpoint peaks performed mid the discs of her divine two-inch diameter dark-pink areola.
.......................
Moments before, their giggles had angeled the air; but now the two whispering girls fell silent. Their conspiratorial corridor conclave was disrupted. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain had never felt so lonely.
.......................
Abrisha Gnomen PhD (Hale), headmistress of Barnmouth’s world renowned St Saviours Academy for Girls, assured the grieving daughter, the recent inheritor of the Countess Beaumont-Fortain title, the new Countess Beaumont-Fortain:
“We would be honoured to have your stepdaughter here at St Saviours, Countess. The loss of your dear momma, Victoria Countess Beaumont-Fortain, a pillar of the community both here in Barnmouth - on her estates at Barnmouth Magna - and as a stalwart of the House of Ladies in the Hondon parliament, is a blow to the nation let alone this humble backwater”.
“But we must begin, I fear, with teaching your stepdaughter not to cross her pretty legs like that. It is so vulgar!!”
“A girl should always be availably vulnerable. To cross the legs is to be aggressive, or, at the very least defensive. When she leaves these hallowed halls and becomes a debutant in the marriage market, those very pretty legs will turn the other girls’ heads without a doubt. But unless prospective wives see that she sits herself properly, and unless they perceive that she is accessible: that the petals that guard her pink are not in themselves guarded, no worthwhile marital prospect will ever come even remotely near her.”
At the scolding look cast her way by the headmistress: particularly evidently at her, Cerisa’s, crossed-thighed one leg swinging, to her own surprise, Cerisa, a headstrong girl in anyone’s estimation, uncrossed her long shapely limbs, and put her pretty hands together in the lap of her minimal-mini-skirt, blushing with embarrassment.
“Here at St Saviours we have, as I am sure you recall Countess, an unparalleled reputation for ‘harnessing the inner girl’. Our motto is: ‘Noli ludere cum sacris lucra causa’ – ‘Do not trifle with sacred things for the sake of gain’.”
“Speaking of the very essence of which, one trusts your delightful stepdaughter is indeed wholly and wholesomely whole, and that she has not acquired the execrable disgrace of exploring herself: in the manner of, the er..... what is sometimes called the, er...…the.... ‘Parisian pursuit’?” Dr Gnomen enquired, with a tone redolent of one holding a rotting rat by its tail at arm’s length, with the handler’s nose pegged by fingers to ward of the stench.
“My dear Dr Gnomen, though it was long before your time, I, as you well know, was also a St Saviours girl myself. I am therefore as fully steeped in St Saviours mores and morals as you are, if, pardon me for saying so, not indeed more so. Accordingly, you can rest assured that Cerisa is as pure as the first dawn”, Racanata Countess Beaumont-Fortain responded, in a voice questioning why such a doubt was considered remotely appropriate.
“It was only my recently ended sojourn abroad as England’s Ambassadoress to the United States that prevented Cerisa attending St Saviours before now.”
“I wished to pay specific attention directly to her moral needs whilst we were away. Accordingly, I appointed a six-girl rota of St Saviours approved governesses: all of whom had my written permission to spank her for even the slightest misdemeanour. There has been no looseness of any kind for my little girl, or her half-sister Victoria, who is now my heir apparent, and especially not, indeed absolutely not, anything of the ‘Parisian pursuit’, as you put it, of that I can absolutely assure you”, the countess continued
“I do beg your pardon countess; but in this modern age, these young girls run ahead of their years, with a different tart in their beds every night as well as playing with their naughty parts as often as they may....” Dr Gnomen’s voice tailed off at the dismissive look this caused on the countess’ imperious countenance.
“Cerisa is absolutely pure: you have my word for that”, Cerisa’s step-mother asserted in a voice that excluded any further challenge on the subject.
This particularly delicate part of the conversation being over, Dr Gnomen nodded to Cerisa’s personal lecturer, and the protective headphones, that for Cerisa’s pretty ears, had replaced the preceding conversational proceedings with the beauty of J S Bach’s music, were removed.
“Welcome to St Saviours Academy for Girl’s Cerisa”, Dr Gnomen gushed.
“For the formal record, let me enter your full name in our register of pupils”.
“One is Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain”, Cerisa responded in a sweet lisp, with her beautiful negress inheritance lips.
“Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain”, Dr Gnomen repeated as slowly as she wrote it in the school register with the goose-feather quill she wielded to essay her perfect copperplate script.
“Now Cerisa, Miss Manners will introduce you to the uniform that you will, I just know, honour for the four years till you graduate from this historic institution.”
“The Academy has, as your dear momma has no doubt informed you, a 100% success rate in admissions to Camford. You may therefore rest assured, that your future is entirely golden”.
“With the uniform go a number of little peripheries that may arouse your curiosity. You may not know what they are for. Suffice it to say that they are entirely in your best interest. They are to guard you from going astray as you mature. I am sure that a pretty girl like you harbours the dream of marrying a rich girl, one of your own class? Well, abide with our little peccadilloes, little lady, and you will, by default, be trained to be the perfect wife.”
...............................
Moments before, their giggles had angeled the air; but now the two whispering girls fell silent. Their conspiratorial corridor conclave was disrupted. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain had never felt so lonely.
Cerisa’s pretty legs ached. This was the last day, the seventh, of her first week at the school. She was still, even yet, unused to having to stand and walk all day, en-pointe in squared-toed heelless ballet shoes.
She had been told it was to shape her legs, but what was the use of shaping her legs when, like all the other girls at the school, she spent all day shrouded from head to floor, and therefore beyond her tiptop-tiptoed feet, in a white cotton burkha shroud, or, at dinner, a floor-draping skirt, or in bed a burkha nightgown?
Lessons were conducted with the girls standing on tiptoes, and that meant standing thus for twelve hours a day. Cerisa had had it explained to her that, because a chair seat might exact pressure where it should never ever be allowed, for a girl to sit when it was not really necessary, was a risk to her morals; but the fourteen-year-old innocent didn’t understand.
The tinkling stainless-steel-chain hobbles she wore between her anklets and, just above her knees, between silk-lined leather garters on her thighs, restricted her to a two-inch tiptop-tiptoe step. These, she had been told, were as much to keep her legs apart as they were to keep them together, and that too was a baffling statement to the exceptionally pretty fourteen-year-old Cerisa.
A warning against touching herself ‘down there’ had followed, and a further one followed banning any wiping herself after she had urinated or defecated.
The chances for the latter were non-existent. There were no wipes or tissues in the lavatory cubicles. There were also no trips to the lavatory that were not overseen by one of the teaching staff. And there was no activity, be it urination or defecation, that did not have to be followed by sitting over the ice-cold jets upthrust by the stainless-steel bidet. And wet knickers when pulled back up over the dripping posterior and anterior’s interior, thereafter.
Cerisa’s daytime view of the world was restricted by the uniform burkha, which included a cowl completely covering her head and her glorious glow of impossible whirling curls, with a narrow slit at eye level: that slit being covered over with two layers of muslin through which she saw the world as best she could.
Her lovely slim arms bore white mitten gloves up to her armpits. Only her gloved hands came beyond the sleeves of her burkha.
Computers were considered unfeminine, and were therefore banned from the academy. Ballpoint and roller-ball pens were forbidden also as: appallingly slovenly implements. Fountain pens were adjudged to be shaped such as to be too redolent of the erect male part, and therefore particularly prohibited. Accordingly, Cerisa must learn to wield a quill in her mitten-clad right hand. And woe-betide her if she got ink on her glove or burkha.
Around her waist there ran a stainless- steel chain. That chain included a larger link in the middle of her back. Through that first chain ran another which included wrist-cuffs. The chain with the handcuffs was only long enough for Cerisa to advance one arm at a time. Accordingly, she must stand and write with her left arm held behind her back.
The stricture of the chain did not apply to the older girls, yet, Cerisa noticed, its rein over them when they had been younger, still showed by the way they held one arm behind their backs when they wrote.
Cerisa longed for the evening, when she was allowed to change into a uniform, comprising a loose white thick-muslin blouse and floor-length grey cotton skirt. With the donning of this evening attire, came the chance for ‘free-association’ over the vegetarian meal and citrus fruit that was served at dinner, along, of course, with a refreshing glass of chilled non-alcoholic girl-pee.
Yet, even after lessons, discipline was all, and the all-female teaching staff ensured the schoolgirls kept their distance from one another. “Head down girl!” and “No talking!” were constantly barked as the girls wiggled between classes or to their individual dormitory cubicles.
At meals, each girl sat side by side in a long row at an equally long table: sat that is, inside individual stalls with high wooden walls that stopped them seeing each other. Opposite them sat the teaching staff, with their brief to keep up standards at all times.
Admonitions constantly heard during meals, were such as:
“Princess Nefania, the blouse is always buttoned all the way up to the neck, and we decidedly do not tuck its hem into the waistband of our skirts. We are not here to try and reveal the shape and size of our top bits, young lady! Go out of the room with Miss Unction right now, and come back after you have adjusted your clothing to correctness. And if, as I suspect, you are wearing a brassiere, you will surrender it immediately so that it can be confiscated and burned young lady! And just think yourself lucky that you don’t get your top bits smacked!!!”
“Jefedzda Ngola, you are almost as untidily dressed as your sister Nefania. Straighten your necktie this very instant!”
“Apalatia Morton-Palmer, the rubber ring on the seats of all the dining room chairs is for a purpose. We must not risk putting pressure on our naughty parts now must we? So sit yourself upright, or I will have you sent to your bed!”
Bed was another torture to Cerisa. Every girl had a separate cubicle in the dormitory. In that cubicle was a desk for their evening studies: a desk at which they must stand en-pointe and work till midnight each night, seven nights a week.
Along with this was a dressing table with a chair, and the inevitable virtue-protecting rubber ring on its seat for her to sit upon. The mirror for the act of blow-drying, brushing and combing hair, was only uncovered, briefly, after the morning shower.
The bed itself was a coir mat over a coil-spring frame. After a shower and cleaning her teeth, each girl must don her shapeless grey itchy woollen night-burkha complete with the inevitable head-enveloping cowl, and lie face-up on the mat, submitting, for the sake of her morals, to sleeping with her wrists and ankles making an ‘X’.
Unable to move over much, because chained at ankles and wrists to the bed, sleeping was a challenge, especially in the winter. The Academy was never heated. Artificial heating was viewed as not conducive to strengthening a girl’s character.
Immediately after waking, once unlocked, Cerisa must take a cold soap-fuelled-water shower, walk on into the clear-water rinse shower, which was also cold water only, and finally pass through the warm air that would blow-dry the darling diamonds of water that sparkled on her soft skin. She must never ever touch herself. She would be expelled if caught doing so.
The morning shower also gave the girls the first chance to relieve their bladders and / or defecate after their sleep. Any girl who wet her bed, as some did, because they were bound to them immovably, would be made to wear rubber knickers for twenty-four hours, and not allowed to remove them till the time was up, even though they would, by then of course, be filled with her pee and shit.
After the shower, on return to her bed cubicle, Cerisa ate an apple or pear for breakfast, cleaned her teeth, and then dressed in fresh knickers and a clean burkha for the day: clipping on her own hobble-chains on trust.
Miss Manners, or whoever was on duty that day, oversaw that only one girl entered each of the row of twenty separated showers at a time. So that no girl would see another naked, they must walk with their heads down looking at their feet still in their night burkhas, and not undress until in the individual cubicle. A fresh towelling burkha must be donned before returning from the shower to her dormitory cubicle. Any girl caught looking other than at the ground would be given ‘six of the best’ with a cane across her bare bummy.
After Cerisa emerged from the shower passage, breakfasted, and had duly dressed in her head-to-toes school-uniform burkha, Miss Manners, her moral guardian, checked she wore her hobbles, and locked her in her wrist cuffs, before Cerisa exited the dormitory to wiggle, unavoidably excitingly enticingly, to her classes.
.......................
The growing Cerisa was finding life at school very confusing.
The isolation within her cruel uniform was one thing. But, the strange feeling she got in her tummy, when standing at her desk during one particular lesson, had begun when Mademoiselle Cocksure (pronounced, of course, ‘Co-shore” with a silent middle ‘K’) had walked into the room, and bid the assembled fragrance of girls:
“Bonjour Mademoiselles!”
To which the girls made their expected, but, in Miss Cocksure’s case very decidedly enthusiastic response, of: “Bonjour Mademoiselle Cocksure”
And, at the very first instant of this, her very first formal French lesson, Cerisa had known just how “bon” a “jour” could be. For Miss Cocksure, Mademoiselle Cocksure, a kitten with a Parisian meow to her meowing-purr pronunciation of sweetly broken English, personified passion.
There was no girl in her classes that did not have a crush on la belle Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure. Cerisa was, for sure, no exception.
The strict rules that left Mademoiselle Cocksure facing a sea of girls dressed as if they were babushkas or skittle-pins from a ten-pin bowling alley: all draped over with white cotton cowls with the cruel narrow slits for them to see through, the all-enveloping hoods covering their faces, and a muslin mask guarding even the sight of their eyes: those strict rules did not apply to the teaching staff.
Mademoiselle Cocksure’s five-six tall body spoke of her dedication to exercise. She had taken particular pains to sculpt her limbs. Her arms were deliciously feminine, but had clearly evident biceps and triceps. Her legs were unquestionably those of a girl who had trained, and was still training, to dance ballet. Her belly was supremely flat; her waist completely without waste.
Her feminine charms, frontally, were no affront: she was a delightfully big girl. They were exquisitely firm and stood challengingly boldly without the aid of a brassiere.
Her bottom demimondes were devilish in swinging their thing and undulated as she paraded fit to excite any girl to ululate in celebration of a site and a sight fit to incite even the singularly celibate.
But what fascinated even more, were her incredible nipples. Even without them being excited, they gave such promising prominence in the proud way the central pinnacle of her teats depicted their pronounced presence, punctuating and almost puncturing the sky-blue tee-shirt she wore, that the longed-for confirmation of the secret passed on between the girls in the school, that Mademoiselle Cocksure never wore panties, was almost a side interest.
Katsumi Cocksure’s face showed she had Japanese blood in her vivacious veins. Her nose was slightly flat and delectably flared. Her eyes were a simply sumptuous brown, as was the soft skilfully-untidy tousled shoulder-length tresses. Her mouth was small with an imperious upper lip. Her closed lips a burgeoning rosebud.
Katsumi was careless with her clothing. As a girl of twenty-six working among girls, she paid little heed to the prospect that her bending forward to talk to an individual pupil might have that pupil gasping at her gaping cleavage and desperately trying not to imagine caressing her breasts. Nor did she seem to hear the collective sigh when she reached to point out, in passing, the parsing of a sentence on the further corner of the whiteboard, while more than coincidentally flashing the bare flesh of her strong thighs.
But despite even the briefest of briefness of her hem, it constantly disappointed the promise to reveal confirmation of the rumour that even the women in the teachers’ staff room longed to know the truth about, and whether it went with the also much speculated upon complete hygienic depilation.
The totally innocent Cerisa was devastated by this horny young woman. The fourteen-year-old had never felt such feelings as had overwhelmed her when Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure had first walked into the classroom in her five-inch stiletto slingbacks, and straight-seamed azure stockings. This, Cerisa was sure, was love.
And, even within the first few seconds of Cerisa setting eyes on the unsettlingly sexy beauty of Katsumi, she – Cerisa – was already dreaming and scheming that she would write her a note to tell her that she adored her.
And then Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure had come close to Cerisa’s desk, and Katsumi’s lovely eyes had sparkled, and Cerisa had breathed in the sensual scent of this woman: this woman who had an indisputable natural erotic aroma around the centre of her. Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure carried a powerful musk. Cerisa could smell Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure’s subtly fragrant fresh washed cunt.
And even as la belle Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure merely came near, Cerisa felt the strangest sensations in her own nipples, and a twitching in her other mouth, and was terrified that she had ruined her school issue knickers, their crotch was so suddenly damp.
.......................
Moments before, their giggles had angeled the air; but now the two whispering girls fell silent. Their conspiratorial corridor conclave was disrupted. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain had never felt so lonely.
“Who are you?” a voice muffled by a burkha’s cowl enquired.
“Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain”, Cerisa responded, a little despondently.
“Oh that’s okay then. One can’t be sure in these bloody burkhas. You’re the same height as that bitch Emily Fraser!”
“I ask you: Fraser! Of all the sows - head girl at fourteen! And it’s well known that her mummy is in trade! Jumped up little tart! A shopkeeper’s daughter for god’s sake! What is the Acad doing letting such trash in in the first place, let alone appointing them to lady it over us?”
With all three girls draped in their burkha shrouds, Cerisa was none too sure who was talking to her, but thought it was one of the twins, either Princess Nefania Ngola, or Jefedzda Ngola. Still an innocent, she could not recognise Emily Fraser’s voice for sure, and wondered if she was being tested by a deception being practised by the head girl.
“Oh god, of course you don’t recognise us. This is my kid sister Jefedzda. You’ll have to take our word for it Cerisa.”
“We were just talking about it; but have you heard about Nigella Bown? Poor darling! Her momma has been ratting on the Acad’s fees. Word is Nigella’s lost her inheritance through her momma marrying for love. There’s to be an announcement at the assy!” Princess Nefania confided, as the three girls wiggled along, side by side, with their two-inch-restricted steps on their tiptoes in their ballet shoes, making their bottoms swing all the more enticingly.
Suddenly: “You three there! Stop talking this very instant!!” came the oft repeated order from behind them. “You will not walk together like that! Break it up right now!” “And get your eyes down on the floor, you wicked creatures!!”
.......................
The morning assembly - ‘the assy’ – as the girls called it among themselves, preceded lessons. Lessons began at 07.00. The assembly began at 06.00. All the girls at the Academy stood shrouded in their pure white cotton burkha’s to listen to the headmistress’ announcements.
This particular morning began in the usual way, with Dr Abrisha Gnomen seeking to boost morale.
The success rate in admissions to Camford for the Michaelmas term was repeated. More exciting news than even that followed, in the headmistress’ decidedly horny contralto:
“The unparalleled benefit of the regime that this school imposes upon its pupils has been illustrated in the wonderful headlines we have all heard this morning.”
“I too was a St Saviours pupil. I too knew the strictness of the strictures that you girls are forced to abide by. The rules and regulations of this institution, steeped as it is in five-hundred years of history from its foundation as a nunnery, are not a matter of whim. Harsh though they may seem they serve a purpose. That purpose is to fit you, all of you, without exception, firstly for tertiary education, and secondly, that step completed, as wives for the lucky girls I have no doubt you will one day meet, fall in love with, and marry.”
“And today’s news is both illustrative and amplifying of the point I make, this day and every day, about the benefits of the Academy’s regime.”
“Let us all now give three cheers, for Christiania Lennox and Clytemnestra Mainwaring, who, in their gap year, between attending the Academy and going up to college, and no doubt taking brilliant degrees at dear old Camford, have brought literally the highest honour to be bestowed on this school, by becoming the first girls to climb to the pinnacle of Mount Everest, completely naked!”
“Hip-Hip!” called the headmistress, three successive times, and wild cheers in alto, soprano, and contralto, were interspersed between first and second, and second and third, with the longest cheer and glove-muffled applause following the third and last of her rallying calls.
The headmistress now signalled for calm, before she continued:-
“Nobility comes in many forms, young ladies. As you will already have heard, for their magnificent achievement, her majesty Queen Elspeth of England, has awarded Christiania and Clytemnestra, a Girlhood. Therefore, henceforth they will have the honour of being addressed by us all, as: ‘Girl Christiania Lennox’ and ‘Girl Clytemnestra Mainwaring’.”
“But, proud as I am of the achievements and the honour gained by Girl Christiania and Girl Clytemnestra, I am equally proud, if not indeed completely humbled by what I have to announce to you all next.”
“This noble academy has, as you know, for some years now, adopted an annual charity. Such an arrangement was introduced by my predecessor as headmistress, and I am only too welcoming of the opportunity to continue with it, in the hope that, in time, it too will become another tradition.”
“The Academy is, of course, itself a charity. As such, therefore, it is unable to exist without the fees your mommas faithfully contribute, additional contributions they gift to us in their lifetimes or, sadly, in their wills, and the sums thus accrued in the St Saviours Trust, held in the reassuringly safe hands of Clits and Co, our bankers.”
“I know that heartfelt sympathy will be felt by all of us, the teaching staff and I, and you warm hearted young ladies not least, that one among us is unable to stay the course. I speak of course, of Nigella Bown. Nigella is seventeen now and so close, yet so far away from completing her Academy education.”
“It is not for us to criticise Nigella’s momma’s decision to live with a man. Some regard such a surprising choice as a perversion. By most it is viewed as, at the very least, unwholesomely unnatural. Indeed: our parliament, in its wisdom, has seen fit to make it impossible for men and women to officially marry. It is, of course, highly unusual for there to be such unions these days. But I for one, do not agree with the gutter press calling Nigella’s momma a ‘gay’ or a ‘queer’!”
“However, the nobility of the daughter is to be seen in her volunteering to leave the school, thus to avoid the scandal potentially attendant upon the discovery by the media that she is a pupil here. We simply cannot have the Academy’s name besmirched on television in the press and on the internet.”
“If I had the power, I would award Nigella a Girlhood myself for her sacrifice in leaving us, and thus taking away the risk of taint.”
“But, typically for a St Saviours girl, good will come out of the bad.”
“As you know from the notice boards, this year’s adopted charity is: ‘AfraAid’. Our dearest wish as a nation has, for many years, been that Africa, as a continent, would be visited by greater fortune and less pestilence. And, indeed, the economies in a number of its constituent states have, of late, taken off and shown phenomenal growth.”
“But that still leaves the wreckage of such long-misruled countries as Xambabwia. And it is to Xambabwia that our darling little Nigella has agreed to be sent. And a family that I myself had a hand in choosing, a family of ten orphaned teenage girls, in a village devastated by the collapse of the local mining economy: the gold mines in which they were once so happily employed, will be rescued from starvation, when Nigella goes out there to be their slave”.
“I would ask for three more cheers at this juncture; but sometimes silence is more eloquent.”
“And sometimes actions are better not taken. Is that not so Princess Nefania?!”
A gasp filled the silence: an intake of breath caused by the headmistress’ sudden change of tone. One among the fragrance of schoolgirls standing on tiptoes in ordered ranks in their pure white burkhas, showed her evident agitation. Princess Nefania stepped forward, as if she was about to run, as if she could run in her ankle and thigh hobbles, and then staggered back into ordered line.
“Did you imagine for one moment that the kiss would go unnoticed? Just because you were on vacation, does not mean that the school rules are relaxed Princess. You were seen kissing your sister, Jefedzda at Camford railway station!”
“You thought you would get away with it didn’t you? You thought that nobody would see you indulging in an act of such despicable depravity. ‘A peck on the cheek’ in so called ‘chaste greeting’ it may be considered to be by the outside world; but you, Princess Nefania have let this Academy down unforgivably shamefully. You have wilfully taken the first step in the never ending downward spiral that leads inexorably to hell! No Academy girl ever kisses until her wedding night. Accordingly, she is as wholesome and pure, as you, Princess Nefania, are now sullied and irrecoverably filthy!!”
“You will, of course, be expelled.”
......................
St Saviours girls were forbidden from communication with each other. Therefore silence between the girls was only broken in sneaked snaps of conversation in corridor corners; but even that ceased with the sentence hanging over poor Princess Nefania.
On the day of Princess Nefania’s condemnation, the headmistress had concluded the morning gathering with instruction that the whole school must muster in the assembly hall after dinner to witness the formal expelling of their fellow pupil.
On departure from the hall that dawn, the girls lowered their heads to study the ground they blessed with their ballet-tiptoed-toes as they wiggled away to their lessons for the day.
That same evening, in the assembly hall, serried ranks of scented girls stood en-pointe on shapely legs, their firm young bottoms dimple-sided by their stance, their pert-firm-soft bosoms outthrust, their pretty faces earnest and anxious for little Princess Nefania; but none of this showed below the snow-white, the crisp-white, the virgin-white, of their all-enveloping head to floor cowls.
Some coughed nervously soprano. One sobbed: Jefedzda Ngola, Nefania’s younger sister.
Dr Abrisha Gnomen stood on the raised stage from which she had addressed the school at the morning assembly. Once satisfied that all were present, she ordered: “Bring the little traitor in!”
The five-five figure of Nefania was duly marched in from the wings of the stage, by the sexy Katsumi Cocksure. Nefania was in school uniform, but seemed to tiptoe in her ballet shoes more freely than the girls in the assembled fragrance could, as if she, unlike they, no longer had her legs shackled at ankle and above pretty dimpled knees.
The order that Princess Nefania be stripped, the lovely body of the little Asian-Indian angel: dark brown eyes and raven black straight hair that tickled her delectable bottom: the making her kneel and the binding of her ankles to her thighs at her crotch, and hands behind her back: and the hauling of her from the stage up by nooses under each armpit so she swung free as an imprisoned bird five feet off the ground: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of Nefania’s lovely thighs with the spiked-steel-ball ended platted leather four-foot long blacksnake that kissed her thighs with such horrendous slaps: the dancing and the shimmering light from the girl’s glimmering sweaty thighs as she fought to avoid the kiss of the lash: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs to make her part them and show her shaming pink as she must if she was not to endure the unendurable: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs: and the cries of Nefania’s pain: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs again and again: the glow of the spotlights reflecting on the beauty of Nefania’s sweaty whip-striped thighs: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of those thighs until Nefania opened them wide and was whipped by Miss Cocksure inside her sweet innocence and clapped her thighs shut with a loud sweat-wet slap, and danced them with the pain: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs till she must open them wide again: and the lash that caught her in her opened pink and cauterised her with the fire of a lightening strike: and the gasp of joy from the swinging girl as the whip had kissed her clitoral pearl to remind her that she was a girl: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her thighs to make Nefania open them aside again wide: and the whipping and the whipping and the whipping by Miss Cocksure of her sweaty dancing thighs: and the sighs from Nefania that were redolent of joy as the whip kissed her in her opened pink wound, and found her praetorian ring with the wicked cutting ball, and then pretty Nefania slapping her shimmering thighs shut with a resounding sweaty smack echoing off the hall’s walls, and a scream that chilled, so great was her pain: and a slow trickle of brilliant red running onto to the divine cheek of her bottom and then dripping on the stage, as Princess Nefania was a virgin and a St Saviours schoolgirl no more, her chances of marriage gone, a maid unmade with the whips kiss, with the evidence of her deflowering pooling scarlet on the floor, showing she was ruined for evermore.
Cerisa could recall all this now, as well as the innocence with which she thought that she had peed her knickers, they had become so wet as she watched.
.......................
Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch stiletto-heeled sandals. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. It would be a while longer before official opening time. It would be a while longer before she called in her first and last patients from the waiting room.
At college Cerisa’s studies had become sublimation.
She had taken a triple-starred double-first and become a Spinster of Medicine with the highest mark the university had ever conferred. ‘Cerisa Kissheart MS’ was proudly etched into the brass plate beside the entry door of the former rectory she had subsequently made her surgery, here in quiet Barnmouth.
At college Cerisa had been hiding, the strain that her marriage had been under. Aileen Kissheart, her wife, had been a childhood friend. Pre-St Saviours, the two girls had grown up together, and the assumption, unspoken by their parents and siblings, and even between the girls themselves, had always been that Aileen and she would marry.
After St Innocents for Cerisa, they had met up again, and a whirlwind marriage had followed its namesake romance.
They had had a white wedding. They had only been eighteen. Cerisa had yet to go to medical college. Aileen was yet to find a goal in life.
Cerisa had been unable to say ‘no’ after that wonderful evening at Bidet’s restaurant.
But four subsequent years at St Gynos College Camford had matured Cerisa. Four years of Cerisa’s absence from Barnmouth, other than at college vacations, seemed to have driven a wedge between the couple.
Truth told, Aileen was hopelessly unimaginative in bed. Cerisa had fought off other would-be lovers wearing her wedding ring with pride and as a shield to ward off the many girls at college who longed to bed her.
That day in the college refectory, in her third year at St Gynos, had been its dawn. Cerisa had got quite used to the three younger students joining her at breakfast.
Cerisa was hiding, always hiding. She would never be so daring as to wear clothing so as to reveal cleavage. She knew how much it teased and pleased that her nipples’ provokingly poked pinnacles in a blouse or summer dress, she also knew how much more revealing it was that she revealed so little. To have dared and bared cleavage would have been to get glances. To bear her bosom bare-under without underwear, was to earn prolonged admiring and astonished stares from swiftly turned heads.
It had begun with Ellen’s, the pretty redhead’s sweet lisped: “Do you mind if we join you...you see we’re new here, and you have such a friendly face....”
From then onwards for a month and more the girls had assembled at the same table, so often, that none of the other students bothered to occupy it until they had come and gone.
Cerisa had bathed in the younger girls’ admiration of her face and physical charms. She had an eye for a pretty girl herself, and none of her three companions was less than exceptional, even at a university stocked with lovely young women.
So routine had it eventually become, that Cerisa had begun to join them at breakfast rather than them joining her. They were, all three, veterinarians, or at least veterinarians to be when they took their degrees. They were only in St Gynos for a term to learn something about the human animal to take back to their own specialist studies.
They admired Cerisa’s wedding ring: the gold wedding ring Cerisa wore through the pierced septum of her nose, and giggled over the girls they had kissed, and the girls back home that they missed, but swore they would never marry.
It had come into the flow of conversation out of nowhere. The redhead had come out with it as naturally as if she had been enquiring which lectures Cerisa recommended from the day’s timetable, or which choices from that evening’s dinner menu.
“When are you next due your bleed?” Ellen had asked matter-of-factly.
As she had tried to recover from the shock of being asked so personal a question so directly, Cerisa had nearly blushed the colour of her own nipples. She had stumbled over her words and continued talking about the subject that had been in the air just before the astounding enquiry.
Then, as suddenly, and still blushing English Rose, she reposted, shyly, eyes down, with a sweet whispered, a deeply curious nervously giggled: “Why?”
“Oh, because Suzie, Alana, and I, want to whip you”, Ellen answered matter-of-factly.
“No?” Cerisa had responded loudly, unintentionally phrasing it with the intonation of a question, before saying it again as a supremely sensuous soft negative, even as the gusset of her panties was answering with positive curiosity.
......................
Cerisa could not recall how precisely she had got out of that predicament. She could only recall that she skipped breakfast for the next week, and that when she returned to her routine, the three younger girls were no longer to be seen. Accordingly, Cerisa assumed they had gone back to the veterinarian college.
Here and now, Cerisa had become bored with general practise. She was still young. She wanted to give something to the world. The misfortunes of others in the poorer countries of the globe were, she was determined, to be more than just a headline or picture she quickly turned the page of the newspaper to escape.
AfraAid’s leaflet had been at the train station that day: the day she had, of necessity, been in a long dress to cover herself up after.
AfraAid’s website defined its mission as that of providing a unique opportunity for the individual to help a village out of starvation. They were particularly seeking girls to volunteer to go to remote areas of Xambabwia where, despite or perhaps because of the recent overthrow of a vile dictator, the peoples were struggling.
The plight of the villagers of the Handangwe district was particularly pointed up. With the local mines exhausted, these villages had been deserted by the husband-girls who had abandoned the wives to live and work in gold mines hundreds of miles away. Of course the husband-girls remitted money home. But they were paid only a pittance and the women in the villages unable to cope. As always seemed to happen, a draught had come next, and the farms on which the villagers relied had been duly devastated.
Cerisa recalled from school, the day, now ten-years since, that the headmistress had announced that Nigella Bown was to do service out there for this very same charity. Cerisa had found that event so inspiring. How much might she, now she was a qualified and experienced medical doctor, be of more help than a mere schoolgirl.
Cerisa wanted to do something positive with her life. Nigella Bown had missed out on the full benefit and opportunities opened out by a St Saviours education. She herself had not. She could return to England later. She would give AfraAid her full CV and see what happened. She had tapped out her application online that very day.
...................
Going back to then: tee-shirt and jeans had been her choice for the day.
As she walked across the quadrangle, her breasts seemed particularly frolicsome, and Cerisa wondered if she should have looked out a bra. Her cowgirl boots beat a nervous tattoo on the paving as she swung her bottom in her tight jeans toward her destination.
The next fingerboard read ‘Equestrian and Canine’. Cerisa wondered if the sign might have been twisted round to point the wrong way though. The younger students did that kind of thing after they’d downed a few strong girl-pees on a Friday night: perhaps she’d go back to her dormitory and do some revision after all.
It was a warm afternoon. Ellen was on her own. Her door stood ajar. Cerisa tapped nervously. The pretty redhead turned and smiled lovingly:
“Cerisa hi!! It’s so lovely to see you! Do come in. I was just boiling the kettle for a drink. Do you like Indian or would you prefer Chinese? Suzie and Alana are coming round here in a mo....”
“May I just have some water?” Cerisa asked nervously.
“Of course you may sweetheart. Help yourself from the fridge. There’s bottles been cooling there for days, and ice in the freezer compartment if you want to add some. Then take a seat. Suzie and Alana will be here before long”, Ellen smiled bewitchingly.
“You look absolutely knock-dead gorgeous by the way”, she added, as Cerisa dropped her golden curled head and blushed.
“We, Suzie Alana and me, had to get back to college...this college...so we’ve skipped breakfast over your side. Too far to go, even to see a lovely girl like you. How’s it been with you?” Ellen enquired sweetly as she lifted the kettle off the stove, and poured its boiling contents into a silver teapot.
“I’m on my red”, Cerisa answered, determined to get it out before she lost her nerve, and then embarrassed at having blurted it out, and then further embarrassed at the thought she might not have been understood.
“I thought you must be. You’re still looking a little tired under the eyes sweetheart. It only makes you look even more beautiful you know”, Ellen answered, tidying some china cups and saucers on a cheap plastic tray, without turning to look at Cerisa.
“Are you using a tampon?” she then added.
“Yes” Cerisa answered with a quaver to her voice.
“That’s good. We’ll take you to the stables of course”, Ellen affirmed.
As she put the tray with teapot and china on the table, Suzie and Alana wiggled in, calling “Hi” and kissing Cerisa on her soft hot face in greeting.
Then, while the two newcomers poured themselves some hot girl-pee-tea, and asked Cerisa if she would like some, Ellen busied herself in her bedroom.
A few moments later, she came back with three whips.
“I’ve got two ringed bulls and a special”, she informed Suzie and Alana, “We’ll draw lots for the special”, she then giggled.
Cerisa’s mouth went dry when she looked over the two six-foot long bullwhips: both with tight metal rings squeezing their tapering length at six inch intervals, and ending in a ring. They were horrifying. Cerisa fought the feeling of movement in her bowels, but still could not avoid parting with a fart from fear.
The three girls smiled at this.
Blushing with her embarrassment, Cerisa’s gorgeous dark brown eyes were now on the third implement. It comprised a foot-long wooden handle with a loop at its end to go around the wrist of the girl who would wield it, and, at its ‘business end’, a single quarter-inch-thick leather strap, about one-and-a-half feet long. Along the entire length of the business strap, front and back, were frequent metal studs. These were round headed for the most part, but three-quarters-up changed to a close ring of spiked studs: studs with quarter-inch-long vicious needle points.
The other three girls were talking about their studies and a gorgeous new lecturer: a French girl called Katsumi Cocksure who had come up from being a teacher at St Innocents, and hardly heard Cerisa’s dry-mouthed enquiry: “What is that one?”
“Sorry Cerisa: which one?”: “Oh that one: yea: that’s a tit-tamer. It’s used to teach a girl’s tits how to behave? The spiked studs are to punish the nipples for being nipples of course....”, Ellen responded dismissively.
“Oh please heaven, you’re not going to use that one on me are you?!” Cerisa begged.
“Cerisa: you have two very fine examples of the very problem that such an implement is designed to deal with. If ever a pair of breasts were in need of discipline....!They are wild and wilful. They wander around completely irresponsibly. They need rounding up and teaching their place. You’re to blame. You should have corralled then in a brassiere. They have gone feral. They spend all their days idly teasing the eyes of other girls. They constantly provoke sexual desire. They need to be tamed. You’re going to have them whipped whether you wish it or not. It is for their own good! And anyway, you’ll find the entry door to this apartment is now locked”, Ellen answered with genuine severity in her voice.
At this dirty talk, Suzie and Alana giggled, and Cerisa began to realise her isolation from the circle of gathered girls.
“Go into the bedroom and strip off”, Ellen instructed, “You’ll find a pair of heelless ballet shoes in there. You will put those on so that you’re superb legs are looking their best.”
“And while you are in there, don’t under any circumstances tell your tits what is coming: we don’t want them trying to run away do we?” Ellen then mocked, and all three younger girls instantly fell about in uncontrollable guffaws of golden giggles with unconstrainable tears of mirth trickling from their sparkling eyes.
Lonely: Cerisa rose and went into the bedroom, found the ballet shoes and obeyed the instructions she had been given.
After a while, Ellen came in and fastened Cerisa’s slender wrists in girlacles behind her back, while whispering....
“A girl as beautiful as you needs to be whipped. You were made to be whipped. It is the only way in which love should ever be made to such a beauty as you possess: such a beauty as you are. You must be given over to the pleasure of the never-cum: the ever belief that the next lash will service you, together with the torment of knowing it must always be just one more stroke and yet more pain until you cum, and then just one more stroke and yet more pain again, and then the ever-conclusion that maybe you’ll cum when you are next flogged, when you next have your bleed.”
“You will never ever know other than frustration unless you surrender to such kisses as only a whip can deliver. And then you will know the joy of frustration as we flog you with our whips until you can take no more, but still want more because you cannot believe that you cannot cum, because even as you are flogged until it is not just your cunt that is bleeding, you will want it never to stop.....”
As she uttered this sensuous whisper in Cerisa’s lovely ears, she clipped a dog leash to the wedding ring through Cerisa’s pretty nose, and led the naked beauty out into the main room and then out of the students’ accommodation and along to the stables where the zoology department kept the zebragirls and giraffegirls, as well as the tamed and trained ponygirls.
As Ellen led the tiptop-tiptoeing Cerisa, who was wiggling wickedly wonderfully, along by the ring through her nose, Suzie and Alana carried their bullwhips coiled, but coolly cruelly ready to use on her if Cerisa showed any sign of resistance.
Wolf-whistles and jeers met Cerisa along with cries of: “Give her one for me!” as she wiggled submissively along, the dangling draw-strings of her only clothing fluttered between her wonderful thighs. And, as she wiggled, her fifty-inch-chest proved the very point: the very points that Ellen had been putting across earlier, about it being high time her tits were taught a lesson in proper behaviour.
“You’ve got a real cracker there: what’s she in for?” Cerisa’s lecturess called, as Cerisa was wiggled by on her tip-top-tiptoes in her ballet shoes on her superb legs.
“Tit taming!” Ellen answered.
“Yea” Cerisa’s chief lectureress responded: “And it’s not before time either. It’s long overdue if you ask me. Can I come and watch?”
“Yea: sure, we can do it in the yard ‘stead of indoors. I reckon there’ll be quite an audience for this one” Ellen assured.
Tied by her wrists, her wrists girlackled behind her back and touching her bare bum: tied to an upright post in the cobbled yard outside the university’s zoological stables, dressed only in her ballet shoes and her saturated tampon, Cerisa prepared herself: prepared her tits to face front, and take what was coming to them like a girl.
It was then that Ellen pressed the button to set off the fire alarm which sounded out a hideous clanging, summoning the whole university to leave what they were doing and come to witness the stunningly gorgeous Cerisa being whipped. The ringing was deafening and seemed to be getting ever louder....
...................
....Cerisa reached out a pretty arm and dainty fingers to stop her alarm sounding, and her wet-dream ended.
She drowsily turned back to go to sleep once more and: oh god, what was this mess on the sheet? Goodness knew that that was not the only wet-dream she had ever had; but there was a vast patch of now chill dampness.
“Oh my god; I must have squirted”, she murmured.
Bleary-eyed she rose and headed for the shower, pulling the saturated under-sheet off her bed and throwing it in the collection readied for the college laundry slavegirls as she went.
It was then she saw how her orgasm-squirt had also soaked her duvet and was even now trickling down the curvaceous muscularity of her inner calves, and onto the carpet.
“Oh god what a mess!” she moaned as she threw up her pretty hands in abandonment of clearing up after herself for now.
As was her lovely way of walking barefoot, she glided, dancing on the balls of her pretty feet to the shower cubicle.
After the shower, awake and smiling beautifully because of the relief from her cum in the wet-dream, Cerisa cuddled in her towelling bathrobe and hugged in her delectable fingers, the cup of hot rich morning girl-pee-tea she was sipping.
Her thoughts were on her lectures for the day, but she noticed the date she had ringed in appropriate red on her wall calendar: the date of the first day of the week in which she was next due on: the date a week hence, alongside which she had written Ellen’s phone number, to remind herself to make contact in order to talk about being whipped.
...................
Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch heeled pinnacle platforms. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. It would be a while longer before official opening time. It would be a while longer before she called in her first and last patients from the waiting room.
..................
White was the colour for funerals. The untimely death of Cerisa’s husband-girl, Aileen Kissheart, in a motorcycle accident, had seen the grieving widow parade behind the cortege in the now time-honoured fashion.
Sexual purdah was required of Cerisa after the funeral. During the parade though, she was expected to show what the world would be missing when she continued to be married but without a living wife.
Beneath the saucily slanted white top-hat with the sprig of spring flowers woven into the white bow-tied ribbon of the band: the ribbon, the tails of which fluttered in the gentle breeze beyond the hat’s brim rear: beneath the saucily slanted white top-hat, her golden curls tumbled tumultuously to her swinging buttocks, swept as they were, her curls were, back from the gorgeous face with the sad brown eyes holding back the tears, as her wedding ring, the ring through her nose, sparkled her unavailability forever under the sun moon and stars: starting with the sun for now.
Beneath the tight white micro-dress the pure white quarter-cup bra uplifted her magnificent enormity to two outthrust smooth soft-firm wonders that its low round neckline swooped to avoid hiding, suffusing Cerisa’s lovely cheeks with a constant blush of shame and embarrassment to have her fifty-inch bosom so crudely paraded, with both of her nipples showing top quarters like two suns rising to greet the dawning of the first morning of her mourning.
A polo-neck choker was formed by the halter-neck topping out the back of the white silk dress and was the only means, apart from its caress of her every wonderful contour, by which that garment was prevented from sliding down her perfect smoothness, to reveal all her physical charms.
Her hands and arms wore white silk gloves that reached all the way to her armpits, and she carried, held at her belly, a single sunflower head, itself lowered in the sadness of her loss.
The shoes were square-toed soft white leather heelless ballet, with long long white leather laces that traced the shapely calves of her wonderful legs, in criss-cross lattice, till tied in neat bows, the dimpled knees just below.
Otherwise, the legs were bare, and was that a beauty spot there, as if it could be anything other, on the thigh, high on the thigh, the left thigh on which she wore, three-quarters up its powerful potency, the black band as an erotic garter: the black velvet band of mourning for her lost love and lover?
The hem of Cerisa’s white mourning dress flared out to reveal the orgasmically bi-lip-pouched white thong panties, and revealed she bore her bold bottom boldly bare so that the fascination of its natural undulation as she paraded in perambulation, showed in its superb firm live animation: deep-scoop-side-dimpled as it was by her tiptoed stance as she wiggle-walked.
The wolf whistles from the passing schoolgirls were posies scattered on the path of passion on which Cerisa paraded her sadness behind the hearse in which her dead wife’s coffin lay. The wolf whistles from the passing schoolgirls merely pointing up the poignancy of the loss of this perfect petal to purdah: to Cerisa’s sentence of an eternity of marriage to a vacated vacuum’s vacuum: the wolf whistles from the passing schoolgirls being therefore more painful than red hot lashes.
........................
The wonderfully attractive girl was dressed in funeral white: the beauty spot on the unblemished flesh of the left of her huge bare thighs: the black thighband marking her mourning for the wife in the casket on the hearse drawn by two six-foot-six-tall Nubian ponygirls: the hearse behind which she paraded alone: the peach: the two peaches of the sexy bare bottom flashing mourning in Morse: her mourning for never being allowed to marry again: her mourning for being now married to an eternity of emptiness.
To the passing housewife, this lovely girl in the black garter marking new widowhood, brought back a memory of loves young dream.
That poor girl parading her wares so publicly must be Aileen Kissheart’s wife. She’s lucky. Though widowed husband-girls had always been free to remarry, at one time it had been expected that a wife be buried alive in the same coffin as her dead partner. But, the housewife supposed, maybe even that was better than being alive and married to complete celibacy for the rest of your days such as: yes, that was her: young Dr Kissheart: what a lovely girl she was: what a lovely girl she is: paraded that way she might almost as well be naked, and all those girls leering at her, and giving her wolf-calls, knowing she will never know love again: but she’s a human being: those schoolgirls just see her dressed like that, like she was just three love-holes walking in formation: mind you, she’s got terrific legs, and a wicked bum on her: it was her in that restaurant: open air it was where they were sat: her and Aileen: we was out celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary, me and my wife Mandy: couldn’t afford to eat at Bidet’s normally, but it was a special treat: they was in the open air on those wicked wicker chairs no cushions and all that lattice work what would leave a pattern on your bum: the lattice work was all made into heart shapes somehow, and the courting couples: well, they liked to get their bums marked up, so as to show their girlfriends: Bidet’s got customers that way especially on Valentine’s Day: saucy when you think about it: you could tell who was going to be the husband-girl, what with Aileen in her motorcycle leathers and her, Dr Kissheart: Cerisa!, that was it! that was her name! Cerisa: pretty name: so feminine: pretty girl mind you: she wasn’t yet a doctor then: she’d be not long out of school: it nearly didn’t last: her maid said college drove them apart: but they was meant for each other really, you could see it in her eyes: Cerisa’s eyes: lovely big dark brown eyes: they glowed: they really glowed like the saying says: she was so in love with Aileen: but it was really so naughty of her, Cerisa, with that skirt she’d almost got on: I say ‘almost’ because it was so short: glad I sat Mandy where she had her back to them: they was outside on Bidet’s patio next to the lake with the swans?: we was just inside the open doors: summer too, so long nights: and that leather skirt she’d almost....: and I mean with no panties!: well I ask you: asking for it that is: and then again why shouldn’t she be ‘asking for it’ as they say?, though it’s against the law to even touch till you’re married: she was at St Innocents too: just imagine that: she’d be a complete virgin: completely innocent: suppose it’s why they call the place that, now I come to think about it: that’s so sweet: wonder if she lost it later when she was at college: they married after she graduated I reckon; or was it before?: you hear about them there clubs they have there: pretty girl like her must have had offers: wonder if she let herself be flogged?: never fancied that myself: but just look at the bum on her and those legs: bet she was asked all the time with her being a virgin if they hadn’t married yet and all that: with no other kind of relief it being illegal to master-whatsit: you know: play with yourself and that: anyway there they was looking into each other’s eyes with their girl-pee untouched in their glasses: French it was too: heard Aileen do the ordering: showing off!: ordering two bottles when one would have been plenty enough!: in the ice bucket with the moisture running after the sommelier had tasted it and: what was it she said: “parfait” or some such: the cork nearly hit a chandelier: think she was new: she couldn’t handle girl-pee-champagne and that brand is five-hundred dollars a bottle: foaming on the carpet like that till she caught the glass under it: I mean the real stuff from girls who live on grapes: that must be good for your figure: maybe I’ll try that: anyway her in no panties and I reckon she must have had a wet on: when you’ve got all that beautiful equipment you is just made for love and they was young and her thingy all virgin fresh and all that: gives me goose-bumps to think about it: and the bee: there was several in the end: she must have felt it but she never let it show: they were only eyes for each other: I couldn’t believe it: I mean just look at her now at her wife’s funeral, paraded for the world to see what she’ll be missing forever from now onwards: she’s such a big girl up front: they must be natural too: wonder if that runs in the family?: and that lovely complexion and that gorgeous mouth there must have been a negress-beauty in there somewhere: all the really beautiful girl are black: but half-casts are even more gorgeous like she is: and it found its way through the lattice and I was going to warn her, what with her lovely legs apart like that because they teach them never to cross their legs: I hear tell many a girl has been spanked at St Innocents for that: I don’t reckon there was any hem on the chair: but when you’ve got legs like hers why wouldn’t you want to show them off?: It was too short to be decent though, I mean that skirt: leather too: wonder how much she paid for it, apart from too much what with it being so tiny, almost as short as the mourning dress she’s tumbling out of over there today: but she wasn’t filling a thong like heaven as she is on this funeral parade: stark naked she was under her skirt back then: and I reckon she was all juicy-melon like young girls are when they just look at their lover: and the bee went up one of the holes in the seat of the chair right where it would be: I couldn’t believe it!: I mean with the lattice holes of the cane chairs and no cushions: and the waiter came and asked Mandy and me what we wanted for our first course; but even Mandy turned her head when she heard the sexy sigh: and I’m sure I saw the bee fly off to its hive after: but another three had come and were hovering under Cerisa’s wicker chair: and I ordered prawn cocktail for starters: and Mandy said I should try something different because I always have prawn cocktail she said: and I like my prawn cocktails and I told Mandy as much and I knew they’d be special at Bidet’s because my friend Clare said she’d served them at Lady Barnmouth’s place: and I couldn’t help looking again and it was like they was queuing up under her chair flying in circles and taking turns, and I’m sure I saw one fly up through the lattice right where it would be as she sat: and another come down from between her thighs after it had been in it: and her big brown eyes were closed and her pretty mouth was open as if she was being surprised by a wonderful feeling: and the prawn cocktails came and I teased Mandy for teasing me, because she’d had prawn cocktail as well: and it was spring and all the flowers were open: and the next sigh was more like a squeak: and Mandy said they ought to do something about these insects: bees they looked like: they were flying about everywhere she said: and that she couldn’t see what could possibly be attracting them: and we ordered our main course: and I couldn’t, I really couldn’t help glancing over and there was a host of bees now and two flew up through the lattice-work of her chair seat, even as Cerisa was sipping her sparkling girl-pee: and then one settled on her mouth as if it was kissing her to thank her, and I’ve never seen a girl blush so divinely: and the bees below her chair were a regular swarm by then: we ordered our sweet course and Mandy complained about the bees and the waitress was very nice, and she said how sorry she was for the disturbance, but that the pretty young lady had left now: and Mandy looked at me as if to say ‘what on earth is this waitress on about?!’ and as if Bidet’s were employing loonies: and we’d had a really lovely three-course dinner and after a half-bottle of the house girl-pee I was quite squiffy: ‘nectar is nectar’ I said, and Mandy just threw up her hands looking totally baffled, and I leaned over and kissed her: and it was the lovliest anniversary: and we flew out to see our daughter in Australia that same year: and a bee flew right past my nose and then flew back again like it was looking for a perfect pink flower with petals lightly opened: petals blessed by soft curly blonde hair between two stupendous thighs: but I looked and saw that Cerisa had indeed left the restaurant by then: and I bet they’d been sipping from her heaven’s wedding ring, what with her being intact and all that.
...................
The night was young, and so was Cerisa. Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals. The white tube-top she emboldened with her braless fulsome frontal frolicking, went with the tiny white leather skirt she blessed, and the latter only just disguised that she wore no panties. The honey-blonde angel was excited, and it was wet, and she giggling at the wonderful feeling between her thighs. Even the dusk’s chill could not cool its moistness. Her pretty presence was accompanied by the love of her life, the girl to whom she longed to become wife: Adele Kissheart.
The two girls had known each other since the dawn of time. Adele’s family were related to the 17th century founders of Clits and Co, the exclusive Hondon bankers. Cerisa was the stepdaughter of Racanata Countess Beaumont-Fortain, who, along with Lady Barnmouth, was one of the two centres of power in the southern English port and resort of Barnmouth. Both girls were made for each other, and their friendship, which had grown to love, had parental approval on both the Kissheart and Beaumont-Fortain sides.
Not only was the night young and innocent as the sweet curls that crowned the queenly head of the adorable Cerisa; but so was Cerisa. She had just turned eighteen. This was therefore her first week since leaving school.
Cerisa’s last four years had been spent in the closely-cloistered high-walled St Innocents Academy for Girls: a world-renowned finishing school for young women from ages fourteen to eighteen, located near the centre of Barnmouth.
She had therefore only just shed the shroud. For four years, as she matured from early puberty to full-girlhood, she had had to wear the St Innocents uniform: an all enveloping white shroud draping and dragging the floor she had flawlessly blessed in tiptoe-walk-heelless ballet shoes under it: a shroud so completely covering, it included a cowl hiding her head and face, which even had muslin sewn over the narrow slit through which her stunning dark brown eyes would otherwise have shone her adorable vivacity as she fought to see.
Even her hands had not been allowed to be exposed. She had worn gloves up to her armpits under the long sleeves of her school-issue burkha. Sleep was spent in a burkha nightgown. Trips to and from the morning and evening showers were shrouded. In the morning, the burkha nightgown could only be discarded after entry of the solo shower cubicle, and a towelling burkha must be donned before exiting. The evening routine was the same with the cowl donned immediately after dinner, discarded for a burkha nightgown after the shower.
The principle concern behind these rules was that a girl’s body is too exciting to be exposed, and complete covering twenty-four hours a day would equate to complete concentration on lessons, away from the devastating distraction of matters of the flesh, such as a pair of handsome thighs.
Like most St Innocents girls, Cerisa came from a wealthy and privileged background. Her momma could afford to ensure that, prior to going to that institution, she had been strictly overseen by a team of nannies, mostly French au pairs, with written permission to spank her if she showed the slightest sign of being sexually naughty. She was thus saved and intact, and completely innocent of the ways of girls in the wider world.
For Cerisa and Adele, now they were both eighteen, this was their first night together without their respective teams of chaperones. But the two girls were yet to touch. Even holding hands was illegal before a girl married.
It had been rumoured that the Girl-Control officers patrolling the streets of all English towns, had discretion to overlook hand-touching if both girls were wearing gloves; but that had been disproved by the recent public flogging in Hondon, of two Irish colleens who had dared to indulge that perversion, and been promptly arrested by the Girl-Police. After one-hundred lashes each, both girls had been exiled, and neither would ever be permitted to know where the other had been ordered to go and live.
The night was young, and innocent and Cerisa bowled over by the confident Adele.
Adele had been tutored at home privately. She had never lacked self assurance. Why should she when she was guaranteed the million-dollars-a-year post of head of foreign exchange at Clits and Co? From there, she would continue to be groomed for the Clits and Co boardroom too, and become president of the bank when her momma decided to retire.
Meanwhile, she had money to indulge in what pleased her, and what pleased her most was pretty girls.
Cerisa’s assumption that Adele had been totally faithful to her during her four-years at St Innocent’s, was part of Cerisa’s charm. Adele had been faithful in her fashion, but that fashion had included regular drunken ‘quickies’ in the pink-light district of Camford, the university town just up the road north from Barnmouth.
For the past two years and more, she had had a favourite among the whores at Madame Cumstock‘s emporium. Nefania Ngola was still calling herself ‘Princess’, even though the real title had been taken from her and transferred to her twin sister Jefedzda, after Nefania Ngola had been expelled from St Innocents. Poor Nefania though, thought it added a touch of class that raised her above the gutter in which she had been metaphorically thrown by her expulsion from the Academy, and consequent exclusion from the marriage market.
For Adele, over the four years of their parting, neither girl seeing the other except during school vacations, Cerisa had been reduced to the status of ‘a good catch’. She would be a great ‘trophy wife’, bringing the Beaumont-Fortain influence and high society connections with her. Clits and Co were bankers to the English royal family of course, but at least two Beaumont-Fortain women were at the Court of St Janes, and one a lady-in-waiting for Queen Elspeth herself.
Adele had, in those same four years, learned to have a ‘good time’. She was a close companion of Cerisa’s slightly older half-sister, Victoria Beaumont-Fortain, and regularly rabble roused and caroused, cruising around Hondon in a wildly driven ponygirl chariot. Of late she had burnt the candle at both ends playing poker with slave girls as human chips.
The night was young and Cerisa swept off her feet. Adele was minded to propose marriage. It was a chore, but she had to get it out of the way.
The meal at Bidets Restaurant had been superb. Cerisa, as she sat with it scenting her seat, had been impressed by Adele’s world-wise maturity and melted like a spoonful of the girl-milk sorbet with which dinner had concluded.
That is to say that Adele had been minded to propose marriage, but an over-indulgence in the French girl-pee champagne she had ordered to celebrate Cerisa’s anticipated ‘yes’, had precluded the putting of the question, and minded Adele instead to indulge a particular delight she had found, and was sure was an even better preliminary to going on one knee to beg Cerisa to marry her, than even a tete-a-tete dinner at Bidets.
Cerisa herself had not wanted to leave Bidets. As she sat, sans panties, on the notorious wickerwork chairs on the open lattice love-heart pattern with which their seats were interweaved, the pressure was adorning her bare bottom impressively, as she sighed, with her wonderful wilful unconstrained twins rising and falling in her tautly challenged top.
Unharnessed, they usually knew their own minds and were disobedient and playful like roaming romping rolling ruffians, but the sigh had found them in unusual unison with the girl they adorned, for her sigh was from surprise, and they wanted to join in her joy.
The late May day was still light when Cerisa and the love of her life had alighted and taken seat at table outside the restaurant beside the magically illuminated lake, with the black swans as much a couple as they, but without the love that Cerisa felt in her golden way.
Cerisa knew of the Valentine seats and wanted to sit herself bare bottomed to impress her love with her love by the love hearts her one-hundred-and-ten pounds of pure girl would earn by sitting there. And the lovers sat with their champagne in an ice bucket, awaiting their crème-de-la-femme coffee.
It was on the seat too of course as she sat with her lovely long legs bare and tanned, her knees almost pressed together to defend against the overlapping of superb thighs, a single crossing of which would have double-crossed four years where there had been hobble anklets to constrain against it, and a St Innocents training under which to cross one’s legs would earn a girl a severe bummy caning: it was on the seat too of course and it was spring and the flowers in the gardens by the lake at the rear of Bidets Restaurant were fresh and fragrant too: and it was fresh and fragrant as a rose; if not so flagrant: it was on the seat too of course as they busied themselves with the roses, soporifically sounding their short sojourn between each flower on display, before tasting its entree, and then burrowing in to borrow the nectar for the honey it would provide tomorrow: it was on the seat too of course, the heart and soul of a girl as young as Cerisa: its petals new knew that it was spring too, and her sitting parted them prettily, partly to petition that her pink included an orchid in rendition: it was on the seat too of course and its positioning more redolent of the clam than even the oysters with which Adele’s meal had began: and within each oyster there could be a pearl; but that ‘could be’ is a ‘would be’ when it comes to a girl: it was on the seat too of course, and silent but for its scent and that scent’s source and sauce the secretions of a girl wet with abandoned wanton and wanting for her love to pleasure her aroused treasure: it was on the seat too of course and an orchid more attractive than a rose: did she indulge it with a wider parting?: she was ripe and her sap singularly sweet: and the busy buzzing rose through the gap in her seat flying toward heaven with its entry gates agape, revealing the pink of the outer clam’s inner orchid: but first the dangling pearl within the hood, it checked and kissed before it flew out the clam again and below the chair and down and up into the orchid itself to find the ring was there: and did she indulge it?: she knew it was there under her chair and her succulence making it curious: and once it was in it, she was Venus flytrap as well as rose if she chose to close it: but its gentle kiss tickled her where no girl had ever been nor even her: and her flow flourished as it crawled within to kiss her where she was unsullied by sin, her ring of devotion protecting her within, and signalling her marriage to heaven: and her pretty mouth fell agape as the bee made its escape and three more took turns in the same place to lap up the nectar pooled behind her unsullied hymen, and take it to hive wherein to feed the queen bee within with the wages of Cerisa’s innocent sin: it was on the seat too of course: and the noise of the restaurant drowned out their wings, but not Cerisa’s innocent siren sigh at the sounding of which, all conversation stopped for a momentous moment, and did not begun again without the customers smiling at each other and the single soft signally surprised sound with its sensuous sexiness.
Was Adele jealous? She watched the bees with fascination as they grew in number and knew where they were going. It was on the open lattice wickerwork seat and no doubt providing an open invitation.
Adele found the sigh incredibly erotic. The squeak of near orgasmic pleasure that followed later from the bees continuing invasion of it, to sip on Cerisa’s nectar, either unnerved Adele and filled her with concern; or made her green with envy that the bees were enjoying what Adele herself would not be allowed to taste, until Cerisa and she enjoyed their wedding night.
“I think we better move on darling, before you get stung” Adele whispered.
Cerisa touched by her love’s concern for her, waited till the latest bee had flown out of it, before she stood and thereby covered her orchid by closing her clam. And as she waited to stand she sipped her champagne, only for a bee to seemingly kiss her gorgeous mouth and thank her for her nectar before she left.
...................
The night was young, and so was Cerisa. Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals. The honey-blonde angel was excited, and it was wet, and she giggling at the wonderful feeling between her thighs. Even the dusk’s chill could not cool its moistness where the bees had so recently entered her secret harbour.
University awaited the bewitching Cerisa. She had won a place at St Gynos College Camford, where she would shortly begin to study medicine. A highly intelligent girl, she was equally highly principled, and her loving caring ways had determined her to spend at least some of her life helping the less fortunate in a third world nation. But first she must work hard to become at least a Spinster of Medicine.
Xambabwia was much in the news and had been much in Cerisa’s mind since her earliest days at St Innocents, when one of her fellow schoolgirls, Nigella Bown, had volunteered to go out there.
Nigella had volunteered to go to Xambabwia so as not to bring shame on the Academy; news being about to break that her momma had married a man: an indulgence that was now, strictly speaking, illegal.
Cerisa wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong tanned legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals, her love walking by her side from Bidets Restaurant into the very heart and centre of Barnmouth, the historic cobblestone-paved ‘Girl Market Square’.
In the doorway of Merod’s, the world renowned girl-pee vintners, a shapely shadow moved and Cerisa shuddered, longing that she was allowed to cling onto Adele for comfort: Adele who seemed impervious to the event.
The shapely shadow then took form and came toward the couple.
“Care for a feel: she’s completely shaved?”, a sad voice fought to say with the sexiness its fear would not let it convey.
“Only a dollar to slide your finger in and have a taste of her”, the girl continued.
Then she started with fright, and slipped startled into the dawning night.
Her fear was from the recognition of Adele, that much was clear. She knew Cerisa too. But she only knew Cerisa when Cerisa had been in Academy uniform, and therefore looked like every other girl at St Innocents. But Cerisa had recognised Princess Nefania Ngola, as Nefania had then been, and heartfelt horror for the poor girl and what she had been reduced to, since she was stripped naked before the whole school and whipped into her expulsion.
Despite her fright at this sight in the yawning night, Cerisa arousal from the visitation of the bees was still so strong that it overcame even her compassion; and she was only aroused the more when she recalled Nefania’s brutal deflowering and realised the highly treasured prize that she, sweet Cerisa, still bore intact in her inner sanctum.
“Did you know that girl?” she glowed with a laughing glower at Adele.
“Who? Oh the hooker. No”, Adele lied, before adding as insurance to guide if her answer needed to be amended or qualified: “Why?”
“It’s nothing darling: only she seemed to know you”, Cerisa smiled.
“Well, I’m such a horny chick I expect it’s more like that she wished she knew me!” Adele joked weakly, only to be reassured by the innocent Cerisa’s golden giggle, that no damage was done and all was well and she would not have to confess or tell of Madame Cumstock‘s supply of such girls.
“Let’s go to the Lawyer’s Briefs shall we?” Adele then added. “You wouldn’t believe the pretty honeys they have serving there..... oh, and the midnight entertainment, when it’s on”, Adele added.
The night was young, and so was Cerisa. Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain wiggled her five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her six-inch heeled strappy sandals. She wanted this night to never end. Adele had been so right about Bidets Restaurant; she would surely be as right about the bar she proposed they go to next and, in Cerisa’s sexy near nakedness of dress the chill air was a little cooling of any desire to linger in the streets.
“Take me there right now darling!” Cerisa smiled, and giggled divinely shyly as Adele blew her a kiss in response.
...................
“A finger of Scots on the rocks: that ‘Dawn-Mist-Miss-Piss’ over there’ll hit the spot: on second thoughts, make that a double”, Adele instructed the bar-girl.
“And what will you have sweetheart?” she then enquired of Cerisa as the gorgeous barmaid waited, smiling prettily at Adele’s lovely girlfriend.
“Oh may I try one of those?” Cerisa responded.
“It’ll blow your head off if you’re not used to it!” Adele warned: “Pour her a single with water and ice please Natasha, and we’ll find a table if we can. This place is heaving with humanity: you got a show on later?”
“I dunno. I’ve just come on duty Adele. But I’ll ask about and let you know. Hey: there’s an alcove freeing up over there, with those two chicks just leaving, grab it quick and I’ll get a waitress to bring your drinks over”, Natasha answered as she asked with a smile of her light blue eyes what the next girls waiting at the busy bar would like served.
No bra beneath the crisp white blouse with three top buttons undone to show the delightful site and sight of cleavage, was clearly part of uniform at the Lawyer’s Briefs. Natasha behind the bar had worn one and so did the lovely waitresses who scurried in hurry everywhere.
Name badges above left breasts told of a ‘Tixie’; a ‘Belana’; a ‘Penni’; and of Natasha herself, as four among many more serving wenches.
As she was partly hidden behind the bar, it could only be assumed that Natasha too wore the green-tartan mini-kilt, and the tight white school-issue-style knickers that flashed seductively when these waitresses bent forward to tempt and attempt to put the contents of their trays on the customers’ tables among a tangled tentacle of hands eager to take hold of theirs.
Their shapely legs were adorned by white seamed-stockings with crisp white saucy suspenders on open display below the hems of their mini-kilts. On the very tip-top-tops of their big-toes in soft black leather ballet shoes they traipsed a tapestry of dance as they wiggled and swerved to serve around the floor.
As they weaved their winsome way between the crowd of happy drinkers, they combined the skill of not spilling the drinks on their trays, with entirely interrelated expertise in avoiding having their bottoms patted or pinched.
Their smiles and giggles were genuine: they were pure honey honeys.
“Aren’t they pretty? No wonder you wanted to come here Adele”, Cerisa teased, “Where does Natasha find them?”
“Find who? Oh the tarts. Yea: most of them were at St Innocents. Earlier years than when you were there sweetheart. Natasha was there too. They graduated Camford some of them: all of them I reckon, now I come to think about it. They go for this gap year thing to make some cash before going on to do a Mistress of Science degree or whatever”, Adele informed.
“They’re all specials”, she then added without explanation, “Many of them are in the market for a good marriage, and showing off their wears here is a good intro to the rich businessgirls who come over from Hondon for a boozy weekend”, she then concluded.
As they moved to the leather upholstered bench behind a table, Cerisa’s tiny leather skirt slipped up her supreme smoothness to ensure that, when she sat in the alcove, it was kissing the seat again.
Then Adele suddenly looked up with the words ‘wow and how!!’ spoken by her eyes, as a divine little girl, no more than five-four to totally adore, came over with her silver tray and the two ‘Dawn-Mist-Miss-Piss’ on the rocks that Adele had ordered.
Blushing prettily she showed delicious divide as she bent forward and her breasts followed gravity’s gentle guidance within her blouse. She was blonde with her hair cropped raggedly short and frizzed up with jell like she’d had a cartoon electric shock: it included an irregular peek-a-boo fringe over her light grey eyes. She was pretty, very pretty: her face only marginally short of whatever mystery it is that takes a girl the one further step to beautiful.
She was exquisitely pretty and she was shy. She was a peach among the honeys, with a figure that made a number eight look out of shape, and legs that showed she was befittingly fit, with calves that had benefitted from four years on constant tiptoe during her time at St Innocents, and thighs that spoke of tennis and skating since she’d gone up to college.
She was exquisitely pretty and she was shy. She had been devastating all the girls in the bar all night. Her face was constantly blushing. Of course she loved the fact she was causing such distraction because of her attraction, but, once in a while, she blew sweet zephyrs up at her forehead with her tiny bold-lipped mouth to cover for embarrassment, by pretending she was trying to get her fringe out of her eyes while her lovely expressive hands were too preoccupied by her tray.
As she tiptop-tiptoe-wiggled toward Adele and Cerisa, she knew she was being mentally undressed by Adele’s appreciative eyes.
Now she was close up, Cerisa noticed that her two top front teeth were longer than usual and that she had the look of an absolutely darling rabbit. Her mouth closed, her top teeth pressed gently on her constantly wet lips, still showed her smile. She was adorable.
When she put down the tray and took off the drinks on their paper coasters, she bent forward straight-legged and flashed her knickers to the lucky girls at the table behind.
Her eyes cast shyly down, she spoke with a smile as she whispered: “Your two Scots”. And, as she took the glasses off her tray, her hands were so dainty dexterous and decorous that you could have fallen in love with her for her hands alone.
Her name badge said she was an ‘Angel’ and her name badge was not wrong.
“Would you like to buy a ticket for the vote show?” she quietly enquired as she slid the drinks toward Cerisa and Adele, “I’ve forgotten my pen, but I’ll run and get you one if you want....there’s space for your choice right there”. She pointed with a pretty finger as she offered up a cheque book type document, more stubs than pages, talking as if she didn’t really expect a positive response, before returning it to her tray and beginning to move away.
“Sure I’ll buy one: two in fact, if it’s tonight”, Adele answered.
“They’re two-fifty dollars each; but one-hundred goes to AfraAid? It’s all for charity really you see”, Angel whispered in her soft sweet tones with a touch of polite concern about the expense.
“I got a pen thank you Angel”, Adele replied as she took the book, wrote a single name on two stubs, tore out the two hitherto attached tickets, one each for Cerisa and herself, and tossed a crisp five-hundred-blue on Angel’s tray along with the now empty ticket book.
“Thank you ma’am. They count the votes at 11.30 and mark the choice just after. Anyone without a ticket has to leave before midnight, when the doors are locked....”, Angel advised.
“Thanks Angel: but I’ve been here before”, Adele assured, to save the pretty bunny-toothed moist-lipped doll her sweet lisping breath, “What’s the theme?”
“Oh gosh!” Angel shot a pretty hand over her mouth in sweet apology, “Oh I’m so sorry. I forgot. I think its schoolgirl? I’ll go and find out for you for certain sure if you like....” she gabble-giggled as she blushed divinely.
“That’s alright: I’ll take a chance; and no need to apologise, you’re doing us all a power of good just by looking so great!” Adele complimented.
Angel didn’t respond, except by blushing deeply, lowering her eyes sweetly, and turning to try and dash away: “Thank you”, she whispered as she began to wiggle wonderfully.
As the waitress tried to escape, still blushing: “Angel! Sweetheart!!” Adele called above the noise in the bar, and instantly the lovely little girl turned around again. Bring us two more Scots please – a single and a double with ice in both, and 50:50 water in the single; and a cigar for when the show is go”, Adele ordered, as she threw a one-hundred red on top of the five hundred already on Angel’s tray, and added: “If you’re allowed tips, then keep the change honey....”
By Adele’s side, Cerisa was now pretending to clear her throat to remind Adele that there was another girl for her to pay attention to, besides the devastating distraction in the tiny kilt.
“Well you can’t blame me!” Adele laughed as she registered Cerisa’s teasing.
“I don’t. She’s an absolutely doll”, Cerisa responded before taking a sip of her Scots and being instantly bathed in Adele’s loving laughter, as the strength of it took Cerisa completely by surprise, and she began to cough and splutter and had to use a napkin to dab the sudden tears from the corners of her eyes.
...................
A short while later, the arrival in the bar of la belle Mademoiselle Katsumi Cocksure, Cerisa’s former French lecturer when she, Cerisa, had been at St Innocents, was spotted by Cerisa, who, though sat at a considerable distance, suddenly felt guilty for being so simply-skimpily dressed.
Adele spotted Cerisa’s look and her shuffling in her seat as if to try and get her microskirt’s hem to cover it.
“What’s the matter sweetheart?” Adele quizzed.
“The dark haired woman over there? She used to teach class at St Innocents. She taught me French” Cerisa replied guiltily.
“You’re no longer at school now Cerisa, and anyway just look at the way she’s dressed by way of an example!” Adele answered reassuringly.
Cerisa looked at the tattered jeans and the chequered shirt, which Katsumi seemed to have taken from the wash without the trouble of ironing, before filling them with her fulsome womanly charms, and the fresh washed unkempt brunette locks that caressed Katsumi’s shoulder-blades as she stood at the bar, and had to agree that her former teacher was no example of tidiness.
“Will you take me home now please Adele, I’m feeling so yawny?!” Cerisa begged dopily.
“It’s that sip of Scots Miss Piss, sweetheart, it’s gone straight to your pretty head. You can’t go without seeing the cabaret....!” Adele quietly insisted.
“No. I suppose not”, Cerisa replied, desperate not to spoil her love’s evening.
....................
“Oh great! You made it, Katsumi!” Natasha’s voice was heard to call distantly but distinctly from the opposite end of the bar, when she spotted the gorgeous French girl.
Immediately after that, Cerisa grew curiously awake as she heard cheers and wolf whistles.
A gorgeous negress waitress now came over with her tray to Cerisa and Adele’s table.
“Your two Scots on the rocks, a cigar, and a table-lighter”, she smiled.
“What’s all the whistling for?” sweet Cerisa asked the new waitress.
“Oh, that’s little Angel. She was selected by the draw tickets? Not as if anyone was surprised there! She’s dressed up as a St Innocents schoolgirl right now: all authentic kit even down to the gloves and hobbled ankles and thighs? I think the wolf whistles are what you might call irony, seeing as how she’s covered head to foot in a drape-shroud and windowed hood.
“Gee, I spent four whole years in that uniform: talk about claustrophobia: sheesh!” the waitress continued.
“You got tickets cos they’re sold out now and you gotta leave pretty soon please, if’n you ain’t ticketed up....” she then added as an afterthought.
“We got tickets okay, and we both voted for Angel”, Adele replied.
“Me too. Who wouldn’t eh”, the waitress responded as she began to move away with her empty tray.
Very few of the all-female clientele of the Lawyer’s Briefs had left by the bewitching hour.
The cat-calls and ironic wolf-whistles continued unabated as Angel tiptoe-totty-wiggled in her ballet shoes and two-inch chains hobbling her legs at ankles and thighs, saying: “Thank you for picking me” and “Thank you for your vote”, her soft whisper of a voice muffled behind her head cowl: a covering with only a muslin curtained slit for her to see through: a slit so devised that her gorgeous grey eyes were completely hidden from view.
“Where is that wicked schoolgirl?!” Katsumi Cocksure’s kittenish French accent now called in the manner of the bad actress she was.
“Where is that wicked schoolgirl?! Running away won’t stop you being expelled!!” she called next, making no attempt to in fact catch Angel who was clearly in view.
Two silk rope nooses now hung over the oak beam at the centre of the Lawyer’s Briefs bar.
“Can I ask you to take a seat please, ladies and ladies, so that we can all enjoy the action?” Natasha called from the bar.
“Where is that wicked schoolgirl?! Running away won’t stop you being expelled!!” Katsumi called again.
“Ah there you are. You have been wicked, very wicked and you are going to be expelled” Katsumi continued, as if she could think of nothing else to say.
“Natasha and Mo, will you strip this naughty schoolgirl for me?!” Katsumi commanded.
The whistles were continuous now, and must have been audible out in Girl Market Square. But for the door of the bar being locked and the blinds drawn, yet more passing girls and their girlfriends would have been drawn to the sound.
At the hauling off of the white St Innocents burkha, a loud cheer went up, and pretty Angel tried to cover her quivering breasts with her tiny sweet hands.
Under the all-enveloping burkha she wore authentic St Innocents gear: white school-issue knickers, white heelless tiptoe ballet shoes and hobble chains between her ankles, and between her thighs just above her knees.
“You have been wicked, very wicked and you are going to be expelled” Katsumi repeated.
As she sat scenting her seat, Cerisa began to take an interest in this very pretty girl. Something else also liked what it saw of Angel’s body and it was moist at the sight of her proudly pert breasts, her slim arms, her lovely hands, and her gorgeous legs.
For Cerisa this mocked-up scene brought back the memory of Princess Nefania Ngola’s expulsion, and she knew what was coming, and so did it, and it was anticipatorily wet.
“Tie the wicked creature up and haul her aloft!” Kasumi instructed with the voice of a sexy French version of a Victorian melodrama’s leading actress.
As Katsumi flogged the lovely girl without remorse, Adele picked up the cigar the negress waitress had brought on the tray, held it between forefinger and thumb, and rolled it at her ear, to assess it by the sound of the interfolded-leafs’ rustle. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel’s full firm sweat-lubricated thighs. The lace expressed veil and dress. “We can discretely measure and have them expanded. The Tsarina’s was exceptional small”. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. Angel rolled a cigar between her thighs. The noise from the hooves of the ponygirls as they arrived at Barnmouth Magna could not have, and the shouts from the audience at the Lawyer’s Briefs did not, drown out Angel’s screams of pain as her thighs were flogged and flogged to force her to open them, and let her sex be whipped, so as to break her as a schoolgirl is broken before expulsion. Why did Katsumi not whip the plums? “Oh they are so lovely! Please may I have them Adele: oh please! “Modom has exquisite taste”. “You will, of course, wear the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds”. The nooses went under the armpits before Angel’s wrists were tied behind her back. Then they strapped her ankles to her thighs next her crotch, and hauled her off the ground: thus readied for whipping. “We can expand them”. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. The dress was lace as white as unsullied snow. It was moistening the seat. The engagement ring had been so painful: now for the eternity. “Oh they are so lovely! Please may I have them Adele: oh please! “Modom has exquisite taste”. High sky white sky bright sky white peacock plumes bobbed on their heads as they proudly trotted. The plums fascinated Cerisa: she was not sleepy now. “We must prepare your pretty nose for the gold one my lady”. The pain of the engagement ring made her queasy. When she knelt, before they hauled her up by the under-armpit nooses, Angel was below Cerisa’s eye-line. Angel’s legs were really lovely. The ponygirls trotted on gold-tipped ballet shoes clip-clopping clitter-clatter clop-clip over the cobbles to the front of the manor, hauling the steel-tyred girl-gig by the shafts up their cunts. Her sister Victoria oversaw her makeup. Cerisa’s tummy felt empty but for an utter flutter of butterflies. “The engagement and the eternity ring for modom?” Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel rubbing her full firm sweaty thighs as Katsumi flogged her lovely legs without mercy. It was: they were: so tight! Lace worn in cascade as veil and dress combined held in place with a thousand-diamond tiara. “We have to insert these in your nipples my lady”. The black strap whip whistled and cracked its unmerciful slaps on Angel’s fabulous sweet-sweat-lubricated thighs. Then something red-tipped escaped. Innocent Cerisa gasped at the sight. Adele bit the tip off her cigar and spat the bitten off bit onto the floor. The smooth strong long muscular legs of the negress ponygirls reflected the September sun. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel dancing her sweaty thighs in her suspension to avoid the whip’s wanton licks. It was attached to the plums. It was: no: they were so tight but Cerisa was now formally engaged. “It will always be painful for modom, especially if modom gets a little frisky”. At the gracefully erotic ‘display legs’ in which the ponygirls slow-marched kicking their wonderfully womanly limbs up to the sky, after shaping them, leg folded calf on back of thigh toes down bye-and-bye, Cerisa hugged her stepmother, beside her in the open girl-gig, beside herself with love and joy. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel’s lovely legs as Katsumi flogged her full firm sweat-sheened thighs without relent. You could see Angel had lovely plums: what were they? Cerisa had never seen such curious things before. She was too shy to ask Adele. Then as Katsumi flogged her without let-up it shot up from between Angel’s thighs, and Cerisa gasped and held pretty fingers to her lovely mouth, as, between her legs, it gave her seat a big wet kiss. “Do you Adele Kissheart take this girl to be your lawful wedded?” Then it shot up from between Angel’s thighs as Katsumi flogged her without mercy and it bobbed and it throbbed as Angel tried to protect it, with her gorgeous thighs mirrored with sweat. The lace expressed veil and dress. “We can discretely measure and have them expanded. The Tsarina’s was exceptional small”. The ramrod was whipped again. Katsumi’s aim was unerring. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. Then, as Katsumi flogged her with full force, it shot up from between Angel’s thighs and all in the Lawyer’s Briefs let out the loudest cheer, bar Cerisa who squealed with surprise. It was so tight! “If you get frisky it will hurt modom; but that, of course, is to remind you that you are a girl”. Katsumi was trying to whip it and the girls in the Lawyer’s Briefs on their feet were urging her on, and Angel showed her plums as she fought to shelter it with her sweaty thighs. “Do you Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain take this girl to be your lawful wedded?” It was one: veil and dress: clasped by the thousand diamond tiara it flowed all round in multi-fold, revealing her mystery discretely for she was naked under, bar her ballets and the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds: the huge hollowed diamonds: the massive umbrella-hollow diamonds held by inserts forced into her nipple-ducts. Then, as Katsumi flogged her without cease, it shot up, red-tipped and throbbing, from between Angel’s thighs and all in the Lawyer’s Briefs let out the loudest cheer. They were so tight around her clitoris: engagement and eternity rings. Katsumi was trying to whip it and the girls in the Lawyer’s Briefs on their feet urging her on as Angel showed her plums as she fought to shelter it with her sweat-mirrored thighs. It was huge. Cerisa had never seen the like. “There modom: it is all done, and may I be the first to congratulate modom on her engagement”. Katsumi brought the whip up on the plums and Angel screamed and dropped her thunderous thighs to protect the lovely sack from the whip’s unmerciful crack. “Engagement and eternity for modom”. The wonderful legs of the ponygirls as they kicked them to the sky. “Oh they are so lovely! Please may I have them Adele: oh please! As Adele turned unaltered at the altar, the apparition in folds of pristine lace shyly smiling under the lace cape capable of veil and dress and trailing train, her everything glimpsed and the diamonds, the huge diamonds that covered and formed Cerisa’s new nipples, the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds inserted into her nipples, made electric-blue-sparks in her brown eyes as she smiled. Katsumi’s whip slapped the rod and everyone cheered. “Oh please don’t let me squirt!” “Once a Tsarina’s. They were created by Labiarge”. It stood up ramrod hard. Cerisa giggled. The wonderful legs of the ponygirls as they kicked them to the sky as the church was approached by the coach bye-and-bye. “Do you Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain promise to obey?” Her body was so beautiful. “I do”. The ramrod was whipped and Angel’s squeal took on a decidedly different appeal. It was fascinated. “Oh please don’t let me squirt!” The audience clapped and counted every time it was hit. It flicked: positively a metronome. And Angel loved it and hated it and loved it because she hated it. “You will wear the Beaumont-Fortain diamonds inserted into your nipples. She tiptoed on her incredibly supremely shapely legs tiptopped on her big toes in her white kid-leather heelless ballets, escorted by her stepmother, all her glory, all that made her that wonder of all wonderful wonders that is a girl, bare and barely veiled by the pristine lace that trailed where her toes had anointed paradise by their passing touch. “That won’t be necessary”. “As modom wishes”. “Oh please god don’t let me squirt!” “Do you Cerisa Lithana Innocenta Tolono Oragana Reginata Imphemia Sontonata Beaumont-Fortain promise to obey?” Angel had lowered her thighs now. “I do”. It was out just up from straight and Katsumi was trying to whip it down. Adele at the altar seemed only to stare at the bedazzling blue-sparks from Cerisa’s new nipples. Cerisa felt ashamed. “Have them expanded” Oh please god don’t let me squirt. It rebound from every wicked lash. “We can have them expanded if modom wishes”. “That won’t be necessary”. They hurt: they were so tight. “We must pierce the septum of your nose my lady: for the wedding ring?” Engagement and eternity both gripped her clitoris agonisingly tightly. “They will hurt terribly if you get frisky modom.” “Cerisa: we need to discuss what you can expect on your wedding night.” “Yes mummy”. Escorted by her stepmother, all her glory all that made her that wonder of all wonderful wonders that is a girl, bare and barely veiled by the pristine lace that trailed where her toes had anointed unsurpassable paradise by their passing touch as she heavened the aisle. The blue sparks from her temporary new diamond nipples dazzled in her lovely loving deep brown eyes, and she was so ashamed when she saw that Adele only had eyes for the diamonds. “You will bleed for a while my lady, but the hole is a clean and clear one”. “You may feel pain and bleed Cerisa. I am sure Adele will be gentle with you. But you may bloody the sheets when it is broken. “When what is broken mummy?” Engagement and eternity both gripped her clitoris agonisingly tightly. Through her dark brown eyes it took great interest in Angel rolling her cigar between her full firm thighs as Katsumi flogged her lovely legs without remorse. At the slow ‘display legs’ in which the ponygirls slow-marched kicking their wonderfully womanly limbs up to the sky, after shaping them leg folded calf on back of thigh toes down bye-and-bye, Cerisa hugged her stepmother beside her in the open carriage. “You may bleed when she first gives you joy. But you have no right to joy and should not expect to receive it.” “A good wife only gives. If you do not want to lose Adele, you must learn to give and not expect”. They hurt terribly. Engagement and eternity. Cerisa felt soiled as Adele’s eyes toiled over and along her long long long long long legs. Why did her love not look at her face? “You may bleed for a while”. Adele lit her cigar. The sparks of blue light glinted from the crystal table lighter: Cerisa’s maid inserted the huge Beaumont-Fortain diamonds in her nipples. Angel was shimmering with perspiration as it was whipped from side to side and down, and sprung up ever and ever and ever again as she moaned with joy and pain. The girls in the Lawyer’s Briefs shouted out the strokes: “One-hundred and two!” “One-hundred and three!” and giggled and guffawed with glee. When Adele and Cerisa emerged merged, outside the church, confetti from friends and family showered them. “I now pronounce you wife and wife” “Two-hundred and nine!” “Two-hundred and ten!” As Adele and Cerisa emerged merged, outside the church confetti was poured over them by family and friends. “Three-hundred and five!” “Three-hundred and six!” Angel jerked as she squirted what to Cerisa looked like: “Oh god: the poor girl, she’s bleeding!” That’s not blood darling, that’s cum. As Angel jerked and spasmed as if she were dying, her confetti squirted and spurted forming tears on her nipples. “You mean you’ve never heard of a cock-girl before?” “She’s beautiful!” “Is that what they call a penis?” Cerisa whispered. Her semen was joy for Angel, this far-more-girl than boy. And it was upright and uptight and ready again: “Three-hundred and seven!” “Three-hundred and eight!” “I now pronounce you wife and wife” And in the bar of the Lawyer’s Briefs, Adele looked down ashamed and blushing at the trickle on the floor, and the drips still dropping to plash the pool. “Oh god Cerisa, it hasn’t squirted has it darling? I’m not sure I could ever marry a girl who cum-squirts”. “I now pronounce you wife and wife” “Adele: you may whip the bride”.....
..................
Dr Cerisa Kissheart, the former Miss Cerisa Beaumont-Fortain, stood five-nine on incredibly long incredibly strong legs in her ten-inch stiletto-heeled pinnacle platforms. She had said her farewells and cleared her desk. It was now official opening time. It was time to call in her first and last patients from the waiting room.
..................
As the lovely Cerisa walked in in her microskirt, among several women and girls waiting, three particularly admired her full womanly figure, before noting the gold ring: the wedding ring: through the septum of her nose, and the black thighband on the bare leg telling of her widow status: the left leg, flawless in beauty, and adorned by an endorsing heart-shaped beauty spot. If they had had doubts before, they were now sure that this was her: that was the ID mark she had noted on the passport she’d scanned and emailed with her form.
“Who’s first?” Cerisa smiled, her wonderful brown eyes greeting the three Afro-English girls who rose to follow her into her surgery.
Once in there, as she turned and sat before her computer and asked, in her usual sweet way: “And what can I do for you?” one of the three girls put a coiled multi-ringed blacksnake on her desk.
Cerisa looked up in surprise. “AfraAid” came the whispered answer. “Your application? Let’s not have any trouble darlin’. Just get up and strip off and do it now: okay?”
“Ah.. Ah y’yes” Cerisa responded nervously. I..I’ve resigned from practise. This is my last surgery. I’ve packed just the essentials”. She waved a dainty hand indicating with a curvy finger toward a handbag-purse and suitcase-grips behind her, only to see another of these very attractive girls rifling her handbag.
“I’m an experienced doctor...” Cerisa continued... “I look forward to setting up surgery out there in Xambabwia and helping a village to....”
“What has you bein’ a doctor got to do wiv anyfing darlin’?” the leader among the girls responded with clear contempt.
“Fucking tampons!” the girl tipping out Cerisa’s handbag scoffed behind her. “Fucking tampons! Why she’d go and pack dem for?”
“I’m a...I’m a modern western girl of course... but I’m sure I could always wear whatever the native girls wear out there, if they can’t get tampons, or panty-liners....” Cerisa response tapered off with fear audible in her tone.
“Where you is goin’ darlin’ you’ll bleed open and natural and fink yerself lucky if the dogs lick it off of yer lovely fighs”, the lead girl: the girl who had put the whip on Cerisa’s desk answered.
......................
In the neighbouring waiting room, Cerisa’s other would-be patients sat and listened to what sounded a little as if a scuffle was going on in the doctor’s room. But like all well-mannered English girls, none spoke their thoughts, or thought to see if Dr Kissheart was okay.
The rule of library-like-silence was only broken when an exceptionally pretty schoolgirl giggled:
“I thought this was a doctor’s not a vets. I’m sure I can hear hooves in there!”
At that, the schoolgirl who had spoken, turned her head open mouthed and asked an unspoken but obvious question of the older woman next to her, for in through the doctor’s door came Dr Kissheart naked and trussed up in savage bondage.
Both of her pretty arms were bent up her back, and tied by black leather girlacles and harshly tensioned straps, to a black leather halter, buckled and padlocked around her slender neck. Her anxious hands were thus left making inoffensive desperate fists on her shoulder blades. Her mouth was opened very wide and had had a ring of steel inserted like a gum-shield over her teeth, a ring that was tied off by two black straps drawn to the back of her head, buckled and padlocked also, and thus holding her lovely moist lips whispering a constant orgasmic ‘O’. On her long strong extremely shapely legs: she walked on the very tips of the tips of her big toes, her big toes alone being inserted into wooden clogs: held there by ‘hose-grips’ that had been screwed down unmercifully tightly to fix-on the cloven-hoof-clogs she must now wear forever. She was being made to walk by the non-too-gentle pull of a crude rope inserted through the wedding ring in her nose. But for her bondage and hooves and wedding ring, she was naked bar, of course, the thighband: the black garter around her magnificent left thigh distinguishing her as a mourning widow.
The schoolgirl who had spoken, then turned her head open mouthed and asked an unspoken but obvious question of the older woman next to her, for in through the doctor’s door came Dr Kissheart naked and trussed up in savage bondage, her huge and wonderfully wonderful bosom bare, and wandering wildly wilfully, with her two sunflower-sized nipples fascinating the eye as her breasts danced divinely erotically, while she wiggled wantonly as she was being whisked away to the waiting trailer, parked outside the surgery, with two strong ponygirls harnessed to haul it.
“Ooh! Hasn’t she got super-big titties mummy?! Where are they taking Dr Kissheart?” the sweet schoolgirl asked.
As she calmly rose, realising that she would now have to take her pretty daughter elsewhere to have her hymen examined and certified intact: which had to be done and soon, as the girl would not be allowed into St Innocents Academy without it: “I’d heard she volunteered for AfraAid”, the girl’s mother replied.
“But where are they taking her right now: Africa?” the sweet vacation schoolgirl enquired.
“Well; not straightaway. They’ll have to put her to the girl-bulls first”
“What’s a girl-bull mummy?”
“It’s a girl with a boy’s lance, who can make Dr Kissheart with calf”.
“Is that why her mouth is tied open like that: for the bull-girl’s lance?” the innocent enquired a little mischievously, having heard the whisper from her fellow pupils at her present school, that that was how a girl got made pregnant.
“Well no: not quite darling: you see, it’s just that that way the girl-bulls will have all three options, especially if they choose to use her collectively”, the mother answered intriguingly.
“And after that, after the girl-bulls and all that kind of thing, will Dr Kissheart go to a poor African village to practise medicine there?” the insistently curious schoolgirl asked next.
“No darling. No. Not quite. You see it’s not like that in the real world sweetheart.”
“When Dr Kissheart is with calf.... though actually it’ll be controlled with pills so it’s only a ghost one, but still a transformative pregnancy......”.
“Isn’t that a divine beauty spot on Dr Kissheart’s left thigh mummy”, the distracted schoolgirl interrupted, musing rhetorically, with her panties wetting again at the memory of the vision she had just experienced, of the sexy Dr Kissheart’s superb body: “It looks just like a tiny love-heart!” she enthused, blushing an extremely attractive pink as she moistened the crotch of her innocent’s panties once more.
“It is very pretty indeed and very apt”, the mother agreed, before adding: “Yes: she’ll be fine out there as long as she continues to be useful....”
The fourteen-year-old schoolgirl’s curiosity was assuaged. But she had one last question.
“And will Dr Kissheart be in the AfraAid village forever then?”
“Not forever darling: nobody lives forever. When Dr Kissheart is with calf, her lovely titties will fill with milk. She’ll be able to feed a whole village then. And as long as they milk her daily, she’ll keep producing”, the mother replied.
Then, fearing she might give her daughter concern about Dr Kissheart’s longer-term fate, she added as an intended diversion: “But, I expect they’ll farm her for her hair too: they’ll probably use that to make those adorable teensy-weensy crocheted panties you can buy out there on the tourist trail.....”
Home on the Range
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis –
Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....
Home on the Range
by Eve Adorer
The tight blue light-blue denim skirt dinged bell on the belle as she glided, gilding the sidewalk with the swing of her hips and the tips of the tips of the big toes on which she solely trod; for her soles were as upright as her soul as she traipsed dance, sky-highed in ballet-shoes with no heel to seal her tiny touch on the pavement kissed to paradise parallel by her sweet steps.
Her emerald silk blouse was constantly in commotion as her forty-four-double-E-cup wonders, unconstrained and unrestricted, wilfully wandered, bounding bounteously free, but for obeying the biding bounds of her shirt’s pressingly tested and contested borders; with her nipples’ pert peaks near to puncturing as they twice punctuated the fabulously filled fabric with the word ‘girl’ and two full-stop poking periods.
The heart-shaped spectral face had shy dark brown eyes sparkling with the life and love that is a girl of eighteen summers: proud lips, moist mouth, swift soft warm smile, pepper of freckles and a look that shyly spoke: ‘I am unadulteratedly adorable, worship me’.
The legs were long shapely strong bare and albino white despite the summer sun that strove hopelessly to outglow the fall of autumnal copper curls that, when not lifted and dropped drape by the breeze’s loving seize and as sudden cease, cascaded wonderful wilderness waterfall down her arched back till bouncing softly on her devilling derriere as she strode.
The Asian-Indian angel in the pink shirt and matching micro-skirt watched and followed her with eyes that were drinking in the intoxicating beauty. An older girl with experience of the world she could not deny that her thoughts wandered and wondered if the russet hair found matching curls elsewhere on this bewitching girl. And her smile was appreciative combined with care when the girl hung her head with shame at her blushes when a building-site blonde called out to her in sexual song........
“You takin’ it for a walk den darlin’?”
....and the redhead the more hurried along.
....................
The very attractive Asian-Indian in uniform pink strolled tiptop-tiptoe-toed in her own ballets, heelless in pink, on her own beautiful legs. She had followed the stunning redhead before. The redhead was part of a new practise born from the protests and the consequent legislation. The dark-brown-haired dark-brown-eyed wonder replete complete in pink, was under instruction to keep an eye open to see that the closing of the factories didn’t lead to misconduct on the streets.
The factory closures had led to a deal of counter-protests. That was understandable. A lot of girls had been put out of work. They now drifted around town looking for employment, but even Barnmouth knew recession just now. Most of them were country girls of course, the legislation having obviously hit the peaceful pastoral paradises around towns harder than the towns themselves.
The gorgeous redhead turned onto Girl Market Square and wiggled past the closed ‘Lawyers Briefs’ bar.
Does anything look as mundane as a night-life-epicentre in daylight hours?
The ‘Lawyers Briefs’, an enticement to excitement in the glow of the gone-midnight street lights, now looked a tired old whore.
As she glided past, the pink caressed girl looked through the raised shutters of the closed public house and glimpsed that all the chairs had been stood on the tables while flawless barmaids were brushing cheroot cigar and cigarette stubs among broken glass off the floor. All these the signs that the now tawdry whore had been a good-time girl last night once again; and these sweet chicks were tidying up the post-dawn detritus.
The spectacularly spectral redhead now turned into Oxton Lane, a narrow alley off Girl Market Square: a Shakespearian street with Elizabethan overhangs and broad oak beam structure in its top-heavy houses and shops, and with its ancient cobbled paving maintained by the Barnmouth Town Council, such as to ensure it continued to match the picturesque portrait featuring on the town’s tourist-beckoning website.
The stunning redhead’s bare legs had to work the harder for Oxton Lane hill and its uneven cobbles, and the magical muscularity of her calves was all the more erotic for that.
Over the door of the shop she turned into, the sign read: ‘Sleigh and Daughters Est. 1864’ and the bell that donged its dangling ‘ding’ seemed as vintage as this long-established emporium within claimed to be.
Amalata Platel, the girl in the pink, followed behind into the shop, and did her ‘inconspicuous background’ performance to perfection, eyeing over from the inside of the shop, the goods that were displayed as they were, so as to be seen at their best through its bottle-bottom glazed multi-squared window from the outside.
The redhead turned her sunny face and noticed Amalata, but such a sight as Amalata was a commonplace, and the redhead instantly distracted by the owner of the place coming out of a back room.
“Hi breathtake: you here for your weekly?” This from an older woman, in a tracksuit with the words ‘Fitness Trainer’ uplifted by a magnificent chest emblazoned across her twice-thrusting breast, enquiring with a tone saying she knew the answer already.
“Yes please Sadie”, the redhead answered.
“Be with you in a mo, Autumn, I just gotta recall where I left the...Oh cripes, here it is, right where I last put it!”
“Now then, now then, Miss Autumn Fall, you can cut out the giggles”, Sadie ordered in mock seriousness, delighted by the gorgeous Autumn’s dancing chest as the redhead’s eyes sparkled with her natural loving humour at the forgetfulness she was so used to from Sadie.
In her right hand, Sadie now wielded a bar-mark reader, and Autumn helped her aside her, Autumn’s, soft fresh and fragrant golden curls to reveal an unflattering earring pierced through the lobe of Autumn’s tiny and very pretty left ear: a stainless-steel earring with a plastic tag hanging from it.
The ever-flashing red light of the reader soon found something to satisfy its constant curiosity, and ‘beeped’ with joy as it read the red tag. Sadie then took the reader to a laptop behind the counter of the shop, and plugged in its tail-end, so as to transfer the data the readers had stored, and get Autumn’s information up on the internet-linked screen.
“Yep: that’s how we left it last time”, Sadie mused. Then she picked up a fabric dressmaker’s tape-measure and came over to the stunning Autumn, who was already making a very sexy display of her lovely right leg. But it was the one on which Autumn still stood straight that Sadie took the measure around, just before where Autumn’s strong thighs became her rotundly firm buttocks, and marked off a number in her mind. Autumn then relaxed her left leg, standing tiptoed tall on her right, and Sadie measured the right thigh’s circumference. Sadie then ran the tape around Autumn at the middle of Autumn’s bottom, and went back to the laptop.
“You going to the Mayor’s Mansion House banquet this year then Sadie?” Autumn enquired, and then collapsed in peals of adorable giggles at the look on Sadie’s face: a look that said Autumn’s ploy had had the intended effect, and at least one of the numbers Sadie needed to tap into the laptop had been instantly forgotten by Sadie.
“Autumn Fall, you are a wicked girl, but it didn’t work this time little lady, so there!” Sadie responded, thumbing her nose in loving rebuke.
“Make yourself as useful as you are beautiful, and get ready for the scales will you”, Sadie then instructed, as she went through the pages on the website that she did not need to update, till she got to the next one that she did.
“Be with you in a mo”, Sadie then asided to Amalata, who smiled back that she was happy to wait.
Completely unselfconsciously, completely publicly, Autumn innocently unbuttoned her blouse to bare the two beauties she bore. Taking her blouse off her shoulders, she now wiggled forward, fascinated to see, as she approached it, her fabulous conical nipples reflected distorted in the trays of the mirror-polished copper balance that hung from one of the oak beams to the rear of the shop, behind its counter.
“Well: don’t just stand there, get onto it, and stop your giggling!”, Sadie ordered in a voice that said that she hoped Autumn’s adorable laughter would never ever end.
“I can’t reach!” Autumn teased, as her golden giggles made a high church of the lowly shop.
Sadie duly left her computer, eyed up her waiting customers, who now numbered two more in addition to Amalata Platel, to ensure their continued patience, and gently lifted Autumn’s perfect breasts onto the trays of the weighing balance scales: scales like the scales of justice, but not so blind as not to want to see such lovely breasts as these.
“Oooh its cold!” Autumn protested.
“Will you stop moving young lady!”
Autumn managed to restrain her delightful effervescence momentarily, while the short-sighted Sadie squinted at the two indicators on the mechanical scales.
One of them was an up-thrust needle-indicator above a graduated curved back plate. The needle there stood directly vertical, but would otherwise have indicated which breast, left or right, weighed more than the other. The second was indicating the stretch given to the spring on which the fulcrum of the balances was mounted, and it gave the total poundage of Autumn’s heavenly bosom.
As, to the disappointment of the now five waiting customers, Autumn did-up her blouse, she sweetly enquired: “Well: will I do?”
“You’ll do little lady”, Sadie assured. “You’re now spot-on on the tit-scales, but you still need a bit more girth on those thighs sweetheart. Up the stationary-cycling from 30 to 50 miles a day from now on. And next time we need to weigh you as a totality again.”
“Now I must get on and serve these customers as well, so you get out of here little Miss Mischief!....... And hey: look after yourself Autumn, please take care now”, Sadie dismissed as the blushing redhead stepped out to wiggle back down the cobblestones of Oxton Lane, back down to Girl Market Square once more.
.....................
Autumn somehow showed in her walking that she knew she had an admirer: did she put on an extra wiggle? She never turned to look at Amalata, but Amalata sensed that Autumn was pleased to be being ogled by her.
The morning had moved on, and the building site just off Girl Market Square was now crawling with girls carrying bricks and wood and tubular scaffolding, but not too busy it seemed, to neglect the duty of letting out a cacophony of wolf-whistles as Autumn tiptoed by.
“ ‘Ope you’re keepin’ it warm darlin’!” one strong blonde called, as she swept back her hard hat from her sweaty brow, the better to admire the view.
“Course she is!” another, a brunette, responded, “On a day like dis, it’ll be all ‘ot and sticky after she’s taken it for a walk round!”
“Better give it some exercise though, eh luv?! Wouldn’t want it to heal up now would we?” a third called, followed by guffaws.
“You got sweaty knickers den darlin’?!” the first blonde now shouted.
“She’s such a gorgeous chick, I bet dare always wet; but not wiv sweat!” the brunette countered.
“Yea: yea....’Spect they would be if she was wearin’ any!” the blonde concluded, and the laughter and wolf-whistles grew louder still, and Autumn was in full flush of blush and her tiny bright white thong-panties were indeed aromatically moist from all the crude attention she was getting.
Now Autumn daintied into ‘Fordbridge Street’.
180o from Oxton Lane, Fordbridge Street had benefited not one jot from the historic-site preservation orders that had saved Oxton Lane from the canker of modernisation. But the irony behind that, was that Fordbridge Street was an older thoroughfare than its geographically opposite number.
However, Fordbridge Street had one outlet with a history as old as its rival, and it was into Celsis Boots and Shoes ‘by appointment to Her Royal Highness Queen Mary’ that the sweet Autumn now tiptoed.
“Good morning young lady, and what may we have the honour of doing for you?”, the bowled-over manageress enquired, her eyes running the length of Autumn’s bare ghost-white legs, and thus away a long while before they looked into her soft brown eyes.
“Hello” Autumn whispered, “I’m newly marked and I need suitable footwear please”.
“Yes, of course Miss. Had you a particular girlufacturer in mind?”
“Well....I ....I thought perhaps ‘Clara’ or ‘Cornish’?” Autumn answered hesitantly, putting her trust in the older woman’s wisdom and experience via her sweet voice.
“You have commendable taste Miss, but, if I may venture to suggest, ‘Attwaters’ are generally acknowledged to be the very best?” the manageress prompted with a voice conveying kindness and that she was in no way seeking to embarrass Autumn, but also subtly confirming that the mass-products of ‘Clara’ and ‘Cornish’ had no place on the shelves of such an outlet as the one Autumn had just now entered.
“Well... then it better be ‘Attwaters’ I guess please”, Autumn smiled, with a look of relief and gratefulness for her mind having been made up for her.
“An excellent choice Miss. They, of course, only come in the finest of selected materials and are hand-crafted for an immediate fit for most young ladies’ feet”.
“Now, if you would care to take a seat Miss, one of our assistants will come over and serve you immediately.
From outside the shop, Amalata eyed the goods in the window, but did not fail to notice that Autumn took a seat where Amalata could see her.
A sly shy look up from Autumn to check if Amalata was watching her, was followed by Autumn’s heavenly blushes and suddenly lowered head, just after the eyes of the two girls had for a moment momentously met.
Autumn was necessarily sat with one shapely limb on a kick-stool while Gypsy, a pretty nut-brown negress assistant, undid Autumn’s ballet shoe and measured her left foot.
In consequence, Autumn’s skirt was failing in its duty to hide her underwear, and Autumn pleased to tease Gypsy by not seeking to hide her white thong with the visible curled strands of flame red hair nestling there.
The young assistant could not stop herself from looking at Autumn’s panties, and could hardly resist stroking her thighs.
But Autumn was also blushing, for she was being deliberately naughty in order to turn on the Asian-Indian girl in the pink outside, who was repeatedly running her eyes over Autumn’s legs.
The look of tenderness that moistened Gypsy’s eyes when she spotted the tattoo, if such it was, for it seemed to be more deeply impressed into the flesh than a tattoo would score, told of her gentle nature. But, even though she read it upside down correctly, her mind could not reach a conclusion as to what ‘P-C/F-R’ in the centre of its one-inch diameter circle with ‘021469’ immediately under it, fully stood for.
Autumn did not notice this sweet look. She was enjoying being waited upon foot and foot by the lovely black girl, who was now indeed measuring Autumn’s right foot.
“I’m certain we have the perfect fit for you madam”, Gypsy assured as she busied herself away to the stock room.
On her return, Gypsy carried a pair of pentagonal-splay ankle-booties. Autumn’s pretty feet slid into them and the padlocks that would keep them tightly fitted to her ankles were clipped closed with two irreversible-sounding slick ‘snicks’, before Gypsy pocketed the key.
“Would madam care to try walking in them?”
Autumn rose, a perfect rose in her new foot-ware, and paraded proudly on the lush carpet of the shop, though staggering a little in their unfamiliarity.
“’Attwaters’ always produce them with one side infinitesimally less deep than the other so as to enhance madam’s natural wiggle”, Gypsy informed, in the tone of a girl-to-girl confidence.
“They are just darling!” Autumn enthused, and Gypsy thought for one second that the gorgeous redhead was going to kiss her.
But, badly sadly, that heavenly pleasure did not occur, and she now waited for the customer to make payment.
Spotting why Gypsy was waiting with a patient smile, Autumn whispered a gentle reminder: “The style of the booties? You have the key to pass on through your manageress?”
“Of course madam: how silly of me. Do forgive!” Gypsy sincered.
Upset by her silly mistake and momentary forgetfulness, Gypsy almost tripped over in her golden ballet shoes in her haste to fetch the bar-mark reader from alongside the shop’s till.
Gypsy wanted to linger over the duty of recording the sale but, reluctantly, had to be duly efficient about using the reader on the bar-mark tag dangling from Autumn’s ear.
But even so, the scent of Autumn’s fresh-shampooed flame-red hair inflamed Gypsy’s nostrils, arousing the poor girl more potently than any aphrodisiac.
The bill would be charged, not to the shop, but to the central fund of course: that at least was the temporary arrangement during the switch-back period.
Outside the shop getting used to walking on tiptoe in her new booties, Autumn smiled at and then turned to walk in front of Amalata at such speed as to ensure that Amalata would soon catch her up, unless Amalata chose to stand still.
“I hope you have you been assigned especially to me constable!” Autumn teased. “A little girl like me is so comforted to have a pretty Girl-Control beat officer keeping an eye on her legs, just in case they try to run away from her!” she then giggled.
Then Autumn’s face took on a serious look. Amalata had taken out her palm-top notepad and stylus, as if she was about to book the redhead for being rude.
“I’m sorry officer....you see I thought....”, Autumn apologised, with her sweet face touchingly distressed.
“Right!”, Amalata began, in a tone suggesting that Autumn was indeed down for at least an on-the-spot spanking: “I want to know your name, your mobile’s number, and if I can take you out tonight”.
Autumn blushed exceptionally prettily. “I’m Autumn Fall, and you must have me on record since I’m marked”, she whispered.
“Sure!”, Amalata responded anxiously: anxious because she knew she was committing a disciplinary offence in trying to get a date with this wonderful girl while she, Amalata, was on duty and in Girl-Police uniform.
“And the date: meeting corner of Oxton Lane, Girl Market Square at eight tonight?” Amalata added.
“Sure!” answered Autumn, in a teasingly perfect imitation of Amalata’s own pronunciation of the word just before, and then she fell into a champagne of giggles and Amalata into love with her once more.
.........................
In the season of her name, there was something particularly magical about Autumn. The sweet girl stood in Girl Market Square, ready and waiting before the appointed time, for her date with Amalata. Her pretty smile turning into shy giggles as Amalata approached. And as Amalata approached Autumn, she was stunned into silence by the innocent’s face being suddenly surrounded by an iridescent angel’s halo from the passing caress of the setting sun’s glow from behind Autumn, on the radiant red of Autumn’s conflagrational coiled curls.
From the sublime to the real world was travelled in a microsecond though, when Amalata noticed that Autumn was standing just beyond the edge of an advertising hoarding shouting: ‘Perfect PoundageTM’, and giving the location of the nearest outlet at which that desire could be satisfied, as being ‘Sleigh and Daughters of Oxton Lane’, not two-minute’s walk from where the girls had chosen to meet: the very shop Autumn had been in that morning.
Then the sublime took over once more, when Amalata recalled Autumn’s visit to Sleigh and Daughters, and the woman fitness trainer, and the measuring and careful weighing of Autumn’s lovely body: ‘perfect poundage’ indeed!
And then Amalata arrived in heaven when she saw and admired, as the lovely Autumn longed for her to do, the way Autumn was dressed.
A crisp cool cotton shirt and microskirt, both of tennis court white, were simple and certain to demonstrate the devastating charms of the bewitching Autumn, whose muscular but very feminine legs were supremely shaped by her being in her new booties, and therefore standing on the tip tops of her big toes.
And the bubbling giggles grew louder as Amalata approached the angel, and saw for sure on her approach, but did not quite believe, that Autumn did indeed have her hands cuffed behind her back, and her ankles shackled with just a six-inch six-link chain between them.
As she got closer, the giggling Autumn did a tiny steppy chasse in a circle to show off her daring in adopting the very latest craze among the younger girls in England, and by coincidence showing off the lovely muscles of her very shapely legs: the flexing calf muscles and the flat backs of her thighs.
“Hi!” Autumn giggled, “Well what do you think?” she then laughed, and Amalata’s heart leapt.
“Autumn: you look divine! But the cuffs and ankle chains; aren’t they taking a risk here, I mean out on the streets like this....I know it’s the height of fashion right now but?....” Amalata concerned. And even as she spoke she could not take her eyes off something about Autumn, something so very beautiful that Amalata felt she should throw herself to the ground and kiss the heavenly girl’s feet.
“Oh please don’t be a spoilsport Amalata!” Autumn pouted, before she burst into giggles once more and added: “After all, this little girl has got her very own coppette to protect her”, and then she hung her head, blushing.
Autumn herself was totally unselfconscious about the glory she was, and the glory she had on display in the old gold glow of the slowly setting sun, now that it was so low as to shine solo between her heavenly thighs.
“Ooh it could get cold soon” Autumn teased unsubtly, with her eyes aglow with laughter, “I need a hot girl to take me the park, sit me on a bench and cuddle me! But I wonder where I might find one of those?” she teased.
“She can kiss me too if she wants to. But only if she really and truly wants to....” she added, with her head tipped coquettishly to one side, and her eyes shyly cast down, before suddenly raised into a demanding direct laser stare at and through Amalata’s own brown beauties.
“Okay then I’ll go home!” Autumn then pretended, and began the tiny wiggle steps that her self-applied bondage limited her to.
Amalata immediately caught Autumn by her left elbow and the angel swung around with her lips simmeringly shimmeringly wet waiting willing and wanting.
“Well, it looks like we’re heading for the park then young lady!” Amalata laughed, in love at, and with, the beguiling Autumn.
“Oh no I don’t want to go there!” Autumn suddenly retorted in a feminine one-eighty mind change, which turned into more giggles.
“I’ve heard that girls get kissed there. And I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be kissed!” and she tried to keep a serious face, and succeeded for a millisecond till her eyes laughed and she fell into bubbling giggles once again.
“You just don’t know how very much I want to kiss you Autumn!” Amalata whispered emotionally.
“Well then. Take me to the park, because I’ve changed my mind again, and I might let you kiss me: only ‘might’ mind you!” Autumn smiled.
“We’d get there quicker without the cuffs”, Amalata gently challenged.
“I’m in no hurry!” Autumn teased once more, but then she nodded to a pocket where Amalata would find a key, and the precise clicks of two ankle worn padlocks and two cuffs of handcuffs, told of Autumn’s release. And the key and cuffs were slid into the handbag-purse Amalata now tucked under her arm, as the two lovely girls held hands, and wiggled along longing to kiss each other to paradise.
As they tiptoe-trod their way to earthly heaven, Autumn enquired: “Oh: only I’m such a dizzy dit I discovered last min that I had no clean panties to put on.... so I hope you don’t mind the pubes ....”
Amalata glanced at the golden red curls that dangled down between Autumn’s legs, the luminous red impossibility of profuse curls that poured their passionate glory all the way down to Autumn’s ankles, and danced as she walked to tease, and shimmered in the sun to please, and fluttered in the cool kiss of the evening breeze, and took up Autumn’s hand to kiss its palm to show that she minded not one scintilla about the wild glory of Autumn’s dangling dazzling pubic hair.
And Autumn took the sweet kiss, but grew momentarily serious, submitting both her hands to be held by Amalata and looking her love into her love’s eyes:
“After the park....”, she began, then paused, took a deep breath, exhaled, looked up once more, and repeated: “After the park....Well, you know....I’m marked and all that....so....so I can’t let you.... you know....you can’t go all the way in....”
“I know sweetheart: I know that”, Amalata reassured, as Autumn’s lovely face took on a seriousness that Amalata had not seen before, but which just showed the concern Autumn had for her immaculate state.
And then Autumn’s eyes began to giggle once more, and as the girls walked hand-in-hand toward the promise of passion’s land, Autumn bubbled aloud:
“But after the park, I do need to shampoo my hair, and gave Amalata a mischievous sideways look, that caused the walk to stop again, and Amalata to swing Autumn round, and ask with her eyes for the angel to confirm the paradise she seemed to be offering.
“Nothing!” Autumn giggled, in answer to the enquiring look in Amalata’s eyes.
Then Autumn relented, and whispered: “Just a shampoo and a blow dry and a brushing and combing will do”, she whisper wheedled winsomely, as her eyes took Amalata’s own eyes down to where the redhead’s other curls coiled to her shapely ankles: to Autumn’s golden red pubic hair: her near three-foot-long tormenting tail of torrential titian pubic hair, fluttering and dancing in the soft warm evening breeze between her lovely legs.
...................
Bliss is a girl and girl kiss. Bliss’ blessing is a girl and girl kissing in ceaseless session. Never had Amalata known a girl as passionate as sweet Autumn. Amalata’s hand caressed a bare thigh and by and bye the cruelty of the circle impressed on Autumn’s left buttock and the impression enquiring fingers read as brail, the initials and the number that told and tolled a tale. And then a bare breast with a nipple put to the test and not found wanting in instantly responding to pulse and peak and be replete in apposite opposite of the embossment on Autumn’s sweet tail.
That evening flew, and new and often grew the meetings between the heaven and Shangri-La that were these two angels by far. And the kiss in greeting was now perfunctory, but all the more conveying of passion for being less passionate and more cool, as if the meniscus atop the voraciousness volcano’s fiery pool.
Autumn’s family background and her election for selection and marking was told of, and the gold this goal told would be won from for her poor family explained, and why she was so cool about being the mate of her chosen fate; for this girl had had such on her plate by way of poverty’s pain as to have made her the delicious dish she was now became.
A shopping spree in the rain with Autumn’s all, in transparent plastic raincoat with nothing under at all, for the world to see this stunning wonder as her golden hair was darkened to the colour of the fire of desire’s torment, but her magical pubic plume still a furious red adornment.
Giggles and kisses as they ran for the ponygirl-hauled omnibus amid a welter of wolf-whistles for the mackintoshed wonder stark naked under, as the two sexy lovelies wiggled to find shelter from Pluvius' pattering pelter. And the sadness momentary as the following Amalata noticed the curiously splayed display Autumn’s booties made in the wake of her springing gait, on the wet of the sidewalk shining with the rain’s soft satiation of dusty paving’s need of slake for cleanliness’ sake.
And on evenings alone in their own private zone, would Amalata bathe the beauty with care of Autumn’s autumnal tumble of golden hair, both head to bottom as she stood tall, and her wonderful pubic tail too withal, and with the sweet unguents their loving shopping trips sought and bought, to caress and make best Autumn’s glorious crest, and plunging nether plumage no less.
And the brushing and the kisses and the blushing and the kisses and the combing and the kisses and the roaming of fingers to where bliss is, and the static crackle from the brushes brisk brusque whisk amid the curls golden midst and the kisses and the comb and the kisses and the fingers’ roam and the brushing of the long tail that dawdled in erotic mingle and the kisses increased from singularly single, and the mouth with the smiling pink and the tongue seeking the shy clitoris and the cry of crisis from the innocent mouth as the joy of orgasm swept love through love’s heavenly body earthly and earthy in earthquake and tsunami’s wake as Autumn screamed without cease of measure of pleasure in being love loved for love’s sake and living through love’s ripple of ripping joy as through her body tore orgasm’s wake but not orgasm’s slake for she was orgasm for orgasm’s sake and this but aperitif to her constant state as kiss after kiss poured Amalata on the grace of Autumn’s joyously tear-kissed face and return after return would Autumn make to the highest state, and each return to a high-C scream as her body fulfilled its role as dream until at last Amalata’s tongue would lick the ring that was guardian as ever over the source and centre of Autumn’s orgasmic pleasure, and Autumn would yield for Amalata to rip her shield and take her ring of heaven’s betrothal in trust that her lover would respect her, and the increase in the power of her final orgasm with which Autumn’s clitoris would impart impact till her body seized in rapturous rapture and her thighs around Amalata’s face would wrap in crushing capture till Amalata was smothered in Autumn’s wet musk as her own crisis came and both girls in love’s wrestle tumbled in tumult till they must sigh in sweet satiation and Autumn’s golden hair would become a soft whisperingly scented sentient sensation: the pillow of love and love’s sleeping lair.
.........................
Was this love too powerful to last? Was it love or lust? Did the long hours and shift work that is the lot of a Girl-Control coppette make for the cooling of the mutual mating?
Time was when the sight of Autumn in her saucy Herrod’s waitress’ uniform would have been unalloyed joy to girl or boy, and to one girl in particular: Amalata.
The argument that had followed about Autumn’s “trivial” choice of employ had really been about something else: the coming time and the unstoppable tide of what Amalata knew inside. The inevitability that she must take some cause to break with this honey now, and be hurt for a while, as the relationship could have no future bar that Autumn had already had mapped out for her.
The tears at parting so nearly rekindled the flickering flame, as Autumn insisted again, that Amalata could take it if it was a barrier to the continuance of their love.
But both girls knew in truth that there was no choice and no treasure trove to be had from ‘with my body I thee betroth’ as compared with that promised Autumn on the path she trod as she had chose.
The beauties drifted and time meant that Autumn and Amalata cried themselves to sleep in their separate homes less as it byed.
Autumn had never realised her volunteering could cause her heart such searing pain. But her determination was renewed anew when she learned she was listed to be enlisted, and the where and the when, if not the precise what, was spelt out in the orders given her on her final visit to Sleigh and Daughters’ shop.
.........................
A month later at the annual gathering of the great and good of Barnmouth to celebrate in feasting the end of the financial year and corn harvest’s completion, Barnmouth Town Hall would be replete with the Mayor’s final major speech before next year’s elections would hope to choose another like her: another perfect peach.
“I’m sorry constable, but could I trouble you to ladle me some of that girl-pee-punch from the bowl over there: the aroma is so compelling, don’t you think?” one of the guests insisted, waving an empty glass at Amalata, as if the uniform Amalata wore, was that of a butleress, rather than a Girl-Police constable.
Amalata hated ‘toffs’ like this young woman. She must be a toff to be at this gathering. She seemed obviously born to the certainty of a high place in society. Okay she would probably never be a big shark in the national pool, but her mummy was most likely wealthy, and both she and her mother before her would have all but inherited places at St Innocents Academy for Girls here in Barnmouth. Wealth and the best education money could buy, were balloons that boosted a young woman to the top in anything they might condescend to turn to.
“With the deepest respect ma’am, I’m a Girl-Control coppette here on guard duty?”, Amalata answered politely, recalling that this young woman was one of those whose taxes paid the wages of the Girl-Police, and that there was therefore a risk that her mummy would turn out to be something influential.
If that did turn out to be so, if Amalata said the wrong thing, she could be dismissed from the police force on the spot.
Despite the obvious fact that Constable Amalata Platel and the insistent girl were some distance apart in class and background, the girl was clearly trying to get Amalata talking. Amalata had not been looking for the conversation. Her sergeantess had told her she could ‘take five’, but had to be sure to be ready for seven when the main flow of guests would start to arrive.
The persistent girl seemed to feel reassured by Amalata’s uniformed presence. A good judge of character, Amalata quickly assessed the girl as: ‘all talk and no steady girlfriend’, but she did have rather shapely legs. Contact lenses would show how pretty her face was. Too much book-worming had weakened her eyes, and the thick lenses of her eye-glasses did not flatter her at all.
“Phiona Smyth-Smythe”, the young woman suddenly announced, holding out a hand for Amalata to touch the tips of its fingers, as was the greeting between strangers, when the strangers were from the ruling and lower classes respectively.
Amalata dropped the obligatory curtsey, as she touched her soft finger-tips on those of her superior.
“One’s mummy is Aigneth Smyth-Smythe, the Mayor of Barnmouth don’t you know”, Phiona expanded, both to impress and to try and get Amalata’s interest.
Amalata had, of course, recognised the surname in the first instance. Consequently, she did indeed ‘know’, and, as a result, her beautiful legs had flexed in a particularly deep curtsy.
..........................
Amalata hated these occasions. But she had run out of luck this year. Her best friend at the station house had been genuinely shocked when she overheard the under-breath expletive Amalata had used when she had spotted her duty roster for the week.
“Hey now Amma! That’s not like you, angel!” Michelena had soothed.
“Sorry Mitchy, but just look at that! A whole evening wasted on stuck-up hoity-toity toffs and their wives and girlfriends”, Amalata had responded.
“But that’s a top-level affair Amma, and believe me you look incredible in your number ones. Expect it’s a ‘full medals do’ too, and you have every good reason to be proud angel. It’s usually a ‘medals do’ at that kind of level....” Michelina speculated as she searched her palm-top for the detail of the ‘Dress Code’ in the ‘Orders for the Day’ for that particular event.
..........................
In the present, at six-forty in the evening, Amalata was becoming alarmingly aware that Phiona was trying to date her, and was having to be as polite as she could whilst working hard to put Phiona off.
The uniform did that. The uniform was a babe magnet. There was just something about a coppette in uniform that turned the other girls on. Pink was also undoubtedly an ideal colour to show off the perfect brown of Amalata’s wonderful complexion.
For special occasions like this, the Mayor’s annual banquet, the Girl-police wore their number-one-dress uniform, thus Amalata was clothed ceremonially, rather than having on the more practical uniform she wore day-to-day. Standing orders for the evening, had indeed also commanded that medals be worn: number-one-dress went with medals; if the coppette had medals to wear of course.
Amalata’s tremendous endless brunette hair had been wound into a crown that adorned her head: thus meeting the regulation that all coppette’s wear their hair up above their necks when in uniform.
The pink blouse she wore, had its long sleeves buttoned at her wrists, and its collar buttoned at her neck, and its front two-fold emboldened by Amalata’s natural awards: her small but perfectly formed pert breasts.
And that and that alone was the uniform. The shirt had to perform the duties of blouse and skirt as it were. And, as it was, it barely covered Amalata’s sexy bottom.
Okay, she was upright alright, on her tiptoes in pink heelless ballet shoes, and since she was on ‘protection’ duty, there was a silver pistol in the holster attached to the elasticised pink garter around her beautiful right thigh, and true too there was a pink tie denoting her cleavage bye and bye, and on the wings of her collar was Amalata’s number – ‘6699’ - in the Barnmouth constabulary, but in the shirt cum dress, she was as undressed as dressed and so, so inspiring of another form of ‘cum’.
To Amalata’s relief, a pretty schoolgirl in a saucy French-maid’s outfit, one of the many waitresses on duty at this privileged event, recognised the message intended by Phiona still absent-mindedly waiving her empty glass, and dutifully poured punch into it, before flashing her virginal-white frilly panties as she curtsied.
Phiona’s eyes followed the blushing chick, but she soon turned her attention back to Amalata.
“Pretty little tart that!” Phiona observed. “Mummy put one in trust to organise the maidery for this year’s city hall banquet. But one had no problem with that little challenge, don’t you know. One just gave good old Herrod’s department store a tinkle, and ordered two-doz of their sexiest, and that was that really.”
At the mention of this, Amalata suddenly found interest in the conversation Phiona was insisting upon, that she had never felt till now. If the maids had been supplied by Herrods, and if she was still in their employ, Autumn could surely be somewhere around.
The thought of seeing Autumn again suddenly set Amalata’s heart pounding and she instantly found herself gasping, her pretty nostrils flaring as she took deeper breaths to control a feeling that she was about to faint.
But she took care not to show it, even if that care was not necessary, since Phiona did not seem to notice it.
Phiona would just not go away though. She was insistent on engaging with Amalata and Amalata thus no choice but to stay, for politeness and career safety’s sake, at least till duty and duty’s due time would excuse her.
“I say: I’ve just spotted that... that’s the Croix de Femme isn’t it?!” Phiona cried out when she spotted Amalata’s medal.
“Yes ma’am” Amalata answered with pride, even as her eyes scanned for some confirmation that her love, Autumn, was there somewhere among the maids and waitresses scurrying and hurrying about.
Amalata was right to be proud. The Croix de Femme was only awarded for the highest bravery, and there was indeed a pure gold Croix de Femme medal dangling on the smooth soft flesh of Amalata’s left leg, hanging on its mauve ribbon from the mauve garter around Amalata’s strong left thigh.
“Gosh! However did you win that?! You must have arrested some bank robbers or something!” Phiona enthused, with her attraction to Amalata all the more increased by this symbol of the highest courage worn by the Asian-Indian angel.
“Oh do tell! Please do tell!!”
“There’s nothing to tell really ma’am.....” Amalata began, as she blushed sweetly.
“I just don’t believe you constable. They don’t award Croix de Femmes without exceptional reason.” Phiona insisted.
“It was a rape case ma’am. A gang rape in Cunni Park?” Amalata began, as she reluctantly retold the story about a day three years ago now: “Thirty or forty unemployed farm girls had been ganging around town all day, downing bottles of girlpee like it was going out of style? When I happened on them during routine tiptoe patrol, they had gotten hold of a pretty little school-chick and were taking turns with her?”
“It was nothing brave I did. I was too late anyway. They had stripped her, but I saw the ankle hobble and the short chain between her thighs just above her knees to keep her legs together, and I instantly knew ‘St Innocents Academy’. When I looked up, her school-uniform burkha was over a tree branch, and I could see that her school-issue knickers had been cut off her and stuffed in her mouth to stop her squeals.....”
“How do you mean, you were too late?” Phiona insisted.
“Well ma’am, I knew in the instant she was St Innocents, and before that I’d heard this terrible scream of pain just when I came into the park, which must have been why they gagged her? And I saw her cunny was bleeding, so I knew she had lost her ring, I mean she was a woman now with her hymen ripped. She’d be expelled of course, from the academy, after that, even though it was not her fault....”
“And how did you save her: how did you get the highest medal in the land?!” Phiona gasped with excited awe.
“I offered a swap ma’am. I told them that if they let the schoolgirl go, they could have me. And they agreed, and they stripped me, whipped me with my Girl-Control Coppette’s cane, and then took turns to have me...”
“You’re Amalata Platel!” Phiona exclaimed, recalling the press headlines about this noble sacrifice.
“Oh my god, you’re Amalata Platel! Every girl I know wants to date Amalata Platel!! And I’m going to sleep with Amalata Platel!!” Phiona sibilantly sizzled in a stage whisper shout of gawping gasps.
“Date ma’am? I’m so sorry ma’am. I already have a girlfriend ma’am. Least I love her even if she’s shy of committing herself and even if we’ve drifted apart a whiles. Besides, I’m in uniform, and I’m not allowed to talk about dating when I’m in uniform.”
“And she’s probably here tonight ma’am, one of your maids from Herrods, somewhere around...” Amalata pleaded, knowing this influential young woman could insist on a date, indeed insist on Amalata going to bed with her, if she wanted to.
“Huh. One of the Herrods’ whores! I’d have imagined you had better taste than that! Which one, what’s her name? Tell me her name constable, or I’ll find out anyway, and make damned sure you’re both fired! Do you understand?!” Phiona, the epitome of the spoilt brat, hissed angrily through her gritted teeth.
“Autumn Fall ma’am, her name is Autumn Fall. And please, I beg you ma’am, please do her no harm!” Amalata pleaded.
That name rang a decided bell in Phiona’s mind, so she now busied herself on the palm-top she had taken from her purse. But she had duly noted Amalata’s plea, and the opportunity it afforded for bribery.
She found the list of names of the maids Herrod’s had supplied, but not an ‘Autumn Fall’ among them. She was therefore about to accuse Amalata of lying, but her thumb accidentally touched the palm top’s screen again, and the display flicked a page, and the bottom-of-list name: ‘Autumn Fall’ came up.
“Well that won’t be a problem will it constable?” Phiona gloried, enjoying her moment, the moment of victory.
Amalata’s querulous look told Phiona its tale, and so she added: “She’ll be in the kitchen right now.”
At this terrible and wonderful news, Amalata forgot her duties, forgot that she was a Girl-Police coppette on bodyguard patrol, forgot that if she disobeyed orders, she would be ceremonially stripped of the uniform her beautiful body graced, tied up naked, whipped severely, and have the Croix de Femme she had so bravely won and so proudly wore, ritually ripped away: but all this was nothing compared with her love for Autumn Fall.
Phiona knew. Phiona knew when she saw the look of the profoundest love in Amalata’s eyes, that Amalata was lost to her. She could blackmail Amalata into her bed, but Amalata’s love was a closed book, and Phiona’s life destined to continue to consist solely of the frustration of frigidity. And this insanely overindulged daughter of privilege wanted to destroy what she now knew she could not have in the way she wanted.
As Amalata wiggled to the kitchen to find the outstandingly lovely Autumn, and as the gathering guests turned stunned momentarily silent with shock, astounded at the shrill shriek Phiona’s sudden cruel bitterness reduced her to, as the spinster maid bawled after Amalata:
“There’s no need to run you fucking bitch! Autumn Fall’ll be going fucking nowhere in a hurry!
Hearing, as she could not help but, the foul shout from Phiona’s mouth, the Mayor, her mother, rushed over to Phiona now, and, such was the shallowness of the spoilt child that Aigneth Smyth-Smythe had made of her daughter, that Phiona pushed her away so that the Mayor fell on the floor, before Phiona herself let out a wail of keening sobs for being robbed of her demands, and then danced a tarantella tantrum stamping her toes, tiptoe-stood as she was in her ballet shoes, gritting her teeth in a fit of uncontrollable fury.
.................
In the catacomb complex of corridors that were the arteries of the palatial Barnmouth Town Hall, there must be kitchens somewhere. Amalata tried to recall the floor plans spread out at the Girl-Police’s briefing. But she just could not recall the one, two to the right of the one she was ordered to study and memorise. She’d had no need to know which floor the kitchens were on; it was not part of her patrol. Now she was desperate to locate them and shouted at all who passed her: “The kitchens?! Where are the kitchens?!”
Amalata was inspired by love.
And so was Mademoiselle Centime Blanche by whom Autumn Gold was being put to good use in the city hall kitchens, where the feat of preparing a feast for forty was the fate of the busy crew under Centime: this feted, surprisingly young but very accomplished chef.
Chaos can be equated with catastrophe. But under Mademoiselle Blanche’s direction, the chaos apparent in the steam and heat and the bad tempered shouting, and the flames, and the bubbling-over saucepans, and the smells, and the perspiration and the panic of the busy kitchen, a detached person could have recognised that there was structured order. But, even if there was a need for it, there was little time for detachment.
Mademoiselle Blanche though, was in a brief peaceful lacuna. With her pretty hands, she was smearing her own secret blend of an aromatic butter and herbs concoction onto the meat course, while examining the fish course, and ordering the timing of the first course, and ensuring the vegetarians, of whom she was one, would not be disappointed.
This magician of the multi-task, checked that all was well with her immediate concern, pulled the close-clinging ‘string bag’ that would hold the tightly bound meat complete, over the meat, and tied the bag’s neck tight closed.
She then swung the turntable, hinged from the left, into the oven, and elbowed closed its glass-fronted door, hinged from the right. Next grasping a readied cloth, she wiped the remains of the butter and herb concoction off her hands, and looked around, both at progress and for the lovely redhead that Herrods had included among the maidery supplied for the kitchen.
The charming redhead was clearly more intelligent than the other maids, and was about to get temporarily promoted to a position of trust.
Mademoiselle Centime Blanche’s beckoning finger caught her eye, and she wiggled over willingly and enthusiastically to see what was wanted.
“Keep an eye on the meat for me will you?” Mademoiselle Blanche both asked and ordered sweetly.
The freckle-kissed angel smiled, and Mademoiselle Blanche blushed. This girl was exceptionally attractive. The autumnal gold of her glorious hair was devastatingly beautiful. Her brown eyes sparkled with her joy: the joy of being the utmost-wonderful of all god’s creations: a girl.
But this was no time for distraction, Mademoiselle Blanche recalled the weight of the joint in the oven, turned a timing dial with decisive precision, and then pressed a button, and the turntable within the oven began to rotate slowly.
As she kept dutiful guard as instructed, in the microseconds it took for the intelligent redhead to see it, she read on the rump of the rotating meat, the legend ‘P-C/F-R’ and recalled, as if she didn’t know already, that she was admiring a ‘Pretty-Chick’: a Free-Range ‘Pretty-Chick’, a girl selected and bred for her meat, and allowed to live free-range in society, as was the way Pretty-Chick’s were now farmed, since the production lines of the forced-factory farms had been abolished by a controversial act of the House of Ladies in the Hondon parliament.
Kneeling on the turntable within the string sack that would hold her meat together when she was thoroughly cooked through, she, the Pretty-Chick, had been shaven bald: both head and minge, bar an upright Mohegan head crest of her hair.
Mademoiselle Blanche’s last instruction until she could return to this corner of the kitchen, was for the stunning redhead to: “Watch out for a squirt of blood from the cunt. When the cunt is cooked the hymen is tensioned till it snaps. She’ll be cooked to perfection when that happens.”
The redhead nodded her understanding, and poured all her sweet attention into and onto doing the very best job she could, proud to have won this honour and trust from the world-famous Mademoiselle Blanche.
The titian temptress knew all about free-range ‘Pretty-Chicks’, she was one herself. She was another Perfect PoundageTM Pretty-Chick, being farmed in the community by Sleigh and Daughters of Oxton Lane here in Barnmouth, suppliers to the world famous Herrods, or more precisely to that department store’s food halls.
Only, as she had screamed her bitten bleeding tongue from her head in piteous pleading, she had been labelled ‘P-C/F-R’ and ‘021468’ by the sizzling burn of the branding irons on her beautiful bottom. But the girl being cooked alive in the oven, the Perfect PoundageTM Pretty-Chick promising full natural flavour from her being raised fully free-range and not factory forced; the girl whose screeches of beyond absolute agony were gagged by the huge apple forced into her mouth, the apple baking with her in the oven; the girl being cooked alive to ensure she was full-flavoured as well as natural flavoured from being farmed free-range, the herb buttered girl in the microwave oven, was ‘021469’, Autumn Fall, Summer Fall’s kid sister.
The Librarian
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis –
Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....
The Librarian
by Eve Adorer
Desiree never let it show.
Brown eyes kept aware.
Her walk was an event. Girls gathered to watch and admire. Desiree knew the twitching curtains hid ogling eyes as she byed.
The book-lending library in Barnmouth’s Girl Market Square opened at 10.00. By then, the hairdressers had been opened for an hour. By the split between then and then, girls gathered to watch Desiree’s pretty parade; many pretending they just happened to be looking up.
What would the lovely librarian be wearing today?
The summer sun sizzled, but she was both cool and hot as she tiptoed tip-top top-tipped daintily stepping permanently provocatively en-pointe in her heelless sun-yellow-leather ballet shoes.
It was a microskirt today: one zipped over the half-moon mounds of her mesmerising bottom with its concave side-dimpled hemispherical tease and please, from her sky-high-toed strides, and her demisphere’s fixatingly fascinating alternating fall and rise and combined coordinated swing side-to side.
It was a microskirt today in chamois fawn: one with a saucy front vent at the left high, revealing the flawless bare flesh of her superb thigh, and inviting the eyes down her bare tanned legs’ creditably incredible contours.
Her crisp cotton shirt was unbuttoned to flirt with the eyes seeking to eye-over her bosom. The tails of her shirt she had tied in a bow to let her recessed button show as she bare-belly-danced to entrance so, while she wiggled her beguiling way down the cobbled paving of Oxton Lane, past ‘Sleigh and Daughters’ shop.
Conspicuously un-captured and uncontrolled and thus full of frolic in freedom, almost gone feral, Desiree’s 38DD chest was never at rest, and her breasts jiggered and joggered promising to burst her buttons with every step she took, and disappointing only in never quite succeeding in so doing.
Desiree’s shyness told in her lowered eyes, and the startling glances with which those grey glories pierced the souls of those she gave the grace of the gaze from the golden ringlets surrounding her delightfully lightly freckled face.
A smile from her generous lips went with the glow of her pristine teeth and her soprano-voiced “Good morning”, that made the day of those upon whom it was bestowed, as her hand smoothed her impossibly of intricately interlocking natural whirls to counter the breeze’s tease, and onwards strode.
Today she wore gloss lipstick, and the mimic moistness it gave her kiss was redolent and reflective of the readiness of her other mouth: her clammed oyster with pearl and sheath sans tongue and teeth: her centre and soul: the contrarian control over her sweet and loving mind.
Snuggled as it was within her teensy-weensy virginally-bright-white thong panties, its lips smiled too. Today it was, as ever, as she kept it so, shaven in delicate detail, and intricately intimately ointmented wholly free of even the hint of any augmentation. She was indeed almost more completely smooth there than she had been before the wonder of her transformation from innocence to passion via acquisition of conspicuous curves and conspiratorial nether curls, from passing through pubescence’s stormy weather and becoming a grown-up girl.
.............................
At the end of her pleasing teasing morning traipse from her three-room bachelor-girl’s apartment atop Oxton Lane’s long hill climb, to the front entrance of Barnmouth Town Library, the wolf-whistles from the girls running the market stalls in Girl Market Square made Desiree blush. She turned and answered them with a multi-directional kiss blown like confetti from the palm of a pretty hand. She knew them all. They had made sure of that.
Her pretty fingers and impractically long nails now tapped into the security keypad ‘382236’, a numerical sequence easy for the matching Desiree to memorise, and the library’s doors slid aside and would have bowed to her beauty had they been able to oblige.
With her en-pointe ballet-shoed steps inside on her lovely legs, the lighting reacted to her movements and flooded the room (the better to see her?), till reflective highlights rang in Desiree’s rippling ringlets.
She now made entrance behind the customers’ exit and entrance barrier, and entered her computer with her daily pouted kiss, and it leapt to life, with an unemotionally flat female program-voiced meaningless: “Good morning Desiree, and how are you today?”
As she checked the bar-mark readers used for recording the loaned books and DVDs in and out, and looked around to see if the overnight cleaning had been satisfactory, with a guile-free whisper Desiree answered, in an absent-minded tone, as she did every day she was on duty this way alone: “I’m just wonderful Libris!”
And to her blushing astonishment, Desiree’s computer responded with a mechanically monotoned: “You certainly are”.
After a girly gasp of pleased and blushing surprise, laughter filled Desiree’s glowing grey eyes, and she wiped away a tear from her giggles with the heel of her palm as she told her computer off with sweetly wagging forefinger and a: “That was so sweet: thank you Libris! But just wait till I get hold of the cheeky little brunette who tweaked you yesterday!”
......................
Desiree never let it show.
Desiree had a busy morning. Did custom increase because of her charm and charms? Desiree never minded the women and girls who seemed to come in with love on their minds.
“Excuse me Miss”, a pretty housewife regular enquired: “Can I see if you have ‘The Gateway to Conception’? It’s for my daughter you see....” she blushed as she white-lied.
“Of course you can: I’m not sure I’ve got what you are looking for. But we can look and see”, Desiree answered, even though she was right to suspect that this particular reader came each week with her mind on higher things.
As Desiree wiggled to the rear of the library and slid the bookcase mounted ladder aside along its rail, so she could climb to where the saucier publications were shelved, the housewife’s appreciative eyes followed Desiree’s every tiptoed stride.
“I’ll hold the ladder steady for you Miss”, the housewife insisted, even though she too had heard its safety catch click locked.
Desiree knew, of course she knew how lovely her tensioned calves were. Desiree knew, of course she knew that her knees were locked back and dimpled. Desiree knew, of course she knew how strong her thighs were. Desiree knew, of course she knew that her skirt was skimpy.
Desiree knew, of course she knew that her panties were tiny. Desiree knew, of course she knew, that the housewife was longing to see if she could see it, for with Desiree climbing the ladder, tip-topped on her big toes on every rung to which her dainty toes clung, everything was looking up where the housewife was concerned.
Desiree climbed the steps of the ladder tiptoe in her ballet shoes not trying for display in any way, and the housewife ogled Desiree’s bottom, bare from her wearing a skimpy thong, and the length and strength of Desiree’s shapely legs, and there in between the site where it nestled hidden, passionately kissing the insides of Desiree’s gusset.
“I’m awfully sorry, ‘The Gateway to Conception’ can’t be seen, even when I’m up here”, Desiree’s sweet voice called down from her temporary eyrie. I’ve got ‘Heaven’s Doorway’. It’s a divided volume. While I am still up here, would you like me to take them down so you can see it? As you can probably spot from down there, it’s in a soft cover........ I mean it’s a paperback. I can soon pull them down if you want me to....” Desiree called, blushing more hopelessly helplessly prettily the more she realised what she was saying, in what she was saying, too late for her to stop herself saying it.
The housewife declined, and Desiree de-climbed the sliding ladder, her pretty face a confusion of shy blushes and her lovely eyes behind the reading spectacles that made her look as intelligent as she truly was, unable to look the housewife in her attractive face.
“You have been very helpful”, the housewife whispered.
“Thank you”, Desiree replied gently, “Sorry we couldn’t see what you hoped to do, but perhaps that copy of ‘The Maiden’s Tulips” you ordered will come in next week. The summer vacation is nearly over. The schoolgirls bring a lot of books back before they go off to their alma maters.”
“If you pop back in at about this time on the same weekday, be sure to look me up again”, Desiree added innocently, before blushing once more when she realised what she had just said again.
.........................
Desiree never let it show.
Closing the library while she went for her luncheon, she grasped her parasol for the noonday sun, for the late-summer sun bore down without and without mercy.
Unfolding its white protection of her perfect complexion with freckles to adore to the very fore, she had mock moistened her sweet lips with renewed gloss before stepping out, with it kissing her thong, to wander along to her favourite sandwich bar.
“Hi Desiree, you’re looking great! How are you keeping sweetheart?”
Rose pink swept Desiree’s face as she coloured-up at the compliment from Layanara, whom she saw every day, and whom she knew had the hots for her in her, Layanara’s, openly saucy way.
“I’m fine thank you Layanara”, Desiree answered, still blushing, with her eyes tellingly aglow: telling that is, that she loved the compliments she so deserved, no matter how routine they were.
“Specially for you today, since you’re my favourite customer bar none, Desiree, I’ve got a cream filled éclair!”
“I bet you’ve got one of those as well eh?!” Layanara teased to make Desiree blush, for Desiree was in no misunderstanding of what Layanara was talking about, and it, the topic of Layanara’s inferences was even now damp with perspiration in Desiree’s tight white bright white thong.
“Ain’t I wicked now angel?!” Layanara teased, pleased to have put the pretty Desiree out of countenance. “It such a blisteringly hot day though, so I hope you powdered it this morning”, she added, to stop Desiree recovering her composure.
Of course Desiree had powdered it. On hot days like this, pre-panties, she patted, cool talcum round it daily as part of her toilette.
After the careful gentle daily morning visit of her safety razor in her bathroom, and having rinsed it afterwards, she adored the feel of a warm soft towel on it, as she gently dabbed it dry, and would often hold the hot towel there so it could enjoy it.
Then, in her bedroom, she pampered it with powder before putting on her panties, loving the contrasting coolness of the powder’s touch on it after the towel, and the sweetness of her favourite talcum, the vastly expensive Denel No 69 she had been given at Christmas.
And did she sometimes afterwards bend over, straight-legged pre-panties, and look behind her to admire it in her full-length mirror? Of course she did. And did she sometimes afterwards bend over and look behind her to admire it in the mirror, and blow it a kiss? Of course she did. And did she sometimes afterwards bend over and look behind her to admire it in the mirror, and blow it a kiss, and then giggle at her sweet silliness? Of course she did. Of course she did.
As the teased Desiree blushed to please, shyly flattered by Layanara’s blatant admiration, Layanara busied herself with preparing Desiree’s favourite fresh baked French-baguette roll with:
“Extra cucumber today, sweetheart, since it’s a ‘fry-day’ as well as a Friday!” Layanara joked, referring to the sizzling heat, and not the sizzling hot Desiree for a change.
“Hey, and if you’re going into the park for your lunch, do me a favour will you Desiree: keep your gorgeous eyes peeled for little Fritzina.” Layanara requested, referring to her pet dachshund: “She slipped her leash this morning, and I called and called. Salomé and Naomi are on the case, so I expect Frizina’s already found; but another pair of peepers on the lookout would be a comfort. I can’t leave the stall you see. As you can imagine, lunchtime is crunch-time for my profits.....”
“Oh my goodness! How long is it since she ran off?” Desiree sympathised.
“....It’d be about the time you were walking into your work I reckon. It was almost as if Fritzina particularly wanted to say hello to you this morning.... Last I saw her, after she’d escaped me, she was sitting outside the library, just after you’d gone in, but the doors had slid shut before she could catch up with you. And she then ran off further before I could get to her.....”
“I didn’t see either of you....”, Desiree apologised.
“Well no. You wouldn’t have. We were in Cunni Park as you passed the entrance, and little Fritzina was on her leash up on her hind legs with her nose twitching like she was about to sneeze. I had the devil’s job to hold her.”
“She’s like that whenever she spots someone she knows. I need to get a better collar for her. You wouldn’t think that the pets stall is only just a yard or two over yonder would you...?”
“Of course I’ll look out for her”, Desiree promised with the sweetest of concerned looks on her face.
“Don’t worry yourself too much about her though sweetheart. She’ll come back soon enough if Salomé or Naomi spot her, or she spots them. I just mentioned it in case she’s chasing at the ankles of the ponygirls again. I expect truth told, it’s too damned hot even for that, and she has found her way home, same as she did about a month back....You know: the last time I told myself to get her a new collar?!”
As she wiggled away from Girl Market Square and Layanara’s stall there, to enter Cunni Park, where she would today find shade rather than seek to tan her arms and legs in her habitual way, sweet Desiree felt Layanara’s admiring eyes on her swinging bottom.
In the park, as she perched on the bench of her choice, even the heat in that shaded corner had been such that, when the backs of Desiree’s bare thighs felt it, she was prompted to stand again, and try to ensure the hem of her minuscule skirt was more under her.
As she stood, she also managed to arrange her parasol between the slats of the bench so as to add to the leaves on the overhanging trees, the further benefit of its open shelter.
Now she sat again, with her hem ridden high by the act of her sitting and thus revealing near the full length of her magnificent thighs. Thighs she kept closed so as to demurely hide it as it kissed the lucky bench behind her thong’s gusset. Thighs held together in a parallel of unparalleled magnificence. Because, as she sat so, so her thighs took on an eye-transfixing massiveness; though, in truth they were in perfect proportionality with the rest of her wholly feminine construction.
Two tiny pecks of her luncheon were enough to feed her, before she tore up the remains of her baguette to feed it to the birds thereafter, and then found her place in Eve Adorer’s curate’s egg of a story collection: ‘Disconnections’, to read on further.
No birds came. The summer heat was intense. Their absence therefore made sense, as did the other silence with no dogs barking, and no children larking. Only the clip-clop of ponygirl hooves echoed around, as the cabs and omnibuses, wagons and private carriages they hauled, had to cover the ground heat or no, sun or snow.
But one dog was an exception. She suddenly caught Desiree’s eyes in a near-distant shaded thicket.
And Desiree was about to call out to Salomé and Naomi whose feet the tethered panting Fritzina crouched at, to point out the obvious, as if it needed to be, when she realised she was seeing what it was not intended anyone should see.
Had the silence of even the bees in the searing heat of the mid-August English summer sun made these girls think there was no one around? Should Desiree put her head down and concentrate on her book? Would Desiree’s movement not only disturb the moment, but betray to the exceptionally pretty fourteen-year-old redhead schoolgirl school-friends that Desiree had seen what Desiree now wished she hadn’t; but was so fascinated by that she would never forget or regret that she had?
Brown eyes kept aware.
Desiree knew in the instant, the instant she had been spotted by Salomé. Though Naomi seemingly continued to be unaware of Desiree’s open-eyed stare, and Salomé carried on as if it were in answer to a dare as well as a prayer, to respond to a fellow-girl’s needs, hidden under the cool shading trees.
A look that could not be mistook as Naomi’s breast was bared, and the unbearably wonderful sight of Salomé kissing the site of the nipple and Naomi’s eyes raised to heaven before they closed to better enjoy Salomé’s nuzzling and sucking and suckling on her virgin pap, before Salomé up covered it back, and the girls’ lips conjoined in unalloyed passion, with tongues deployed without intense-intent’s lacking.
A break and two foreheads and two noses touched touchingly tenderly, as pairs of exceptionally exquisite dark brown eyes glowed love from one girl to the other and smiles flickered on loved lips.
Brown eyes kept aware in normalcy, and Salomé knew they were spotted. But so locked where these lovely creations in the experience of the expenditure of the expression of their pent-up passion, that their lovely orbs looked solely soul to soul, sold on the kiss that miss longed to give miss and prolong forever and beyond as their tongues once more parted their opposite’s lips, and their kiss was renewed so the world once more stood suspended and upended into heaven, as the lovers expressed god’s will, and their mouths mingled moist, as their lips told of the love that has no choice, and hands held heads of golden curls as beautiful girl kissed beautiful girl, each gently pressing the other’s head toward the other.
“Are you all wet like I am?” Naomi wheedled with an aroused purr evident in her vocal innocence.
Her only answer was Salomé’s sweet giggles as both girls tangled in a half-octopus of slim pretty arms to reach each other’s panties down.
“Let’s swap panties so our juices can mingle!” Salomé whispered even as they executed the deed: her naughtiness integral to the mention so that her words should draw Desiree’s watching attention to the intention.
But the girls had got no further than half thigh with their opposite’s panties when, bye and bye, eyes cried with unspoken clarity: ‘Kiss my breast again Salomé. Please kiss my breast again!’ And next an angelic voice lisped a cry as fingers were wetted by the seeping slits they slithered along, now each was bare of their covering thong.
And the innocent cunts of the girls, sleek and as immaculately smooth as their unsullied state and status, with tight in-turning lips minimal guard over the moist medallions within their weeping sheaths, confirmatory that they were pristine beneath, and still bequeathed the rings they must not wrong, till wedding day’s longed-for nuptial-night would see them ripped ripe amid the pain and the blood of a virgin’s beauty as she sacrifices herself in matrimonial duty.
Then a sigh rose high and a sweet hand with drying juices on its middle digit, felt a virgin-firm breast where it nestled, its bareness barely covered, and pressed and compressed it till its wonder was uncovered again as it was crushed in the caress and its compressed excess squeezed from the side of Naomi’s tee-vest.
And then there was an undressing with eyes that longed as Naomi fingered above the top of Salomé’s half-thigh-mast crisp-white thong, and slid up her longest finger where it forever longed to belong.
But this was so wrong, so very wrong.... this was surely sin!
Salomé and Naomi were kissing.
But Salomé and Naomi were sisters twin!!
Desiree was horrified even as it could not be denied that the daughters of Layanara were so pretty that this passion could surely be granted compassion.
As if the lovely lovers realised that time had meaning once more, they pulled up their panties: that is their sister’s panties, and then held hands.
“Do you really love me Salomé? I mean do you really and truly love me?” Naomi begged, till sister saw answer in sister’s eyes, and the two wonders wrapped themselves enraptured, in a slow burning kiss once more, as their mouths adorned the one and twin they adored, while passions juices into each other’s panties poured, and twin clits tingled, as their crème éclair in their soaked panties intermingled.
Then they parted ready to depart and Desiree admired Salomé’s pretty legs as Salomé squatted on her haunches in her micro-miniskirt and her sister’s very damp panties, to take the leash she had temporarily tethered Fritzina by, and awake the snoozing hound with a giggle and a kiss and a sigh, so that they could walk the dog back to their mother, its third mistress, bye and bye.
As Salomé and Naomi came out of the trees and undergrowth Naomi at least still assumed had hidden them, Desiree deserved an Oscar for her performed pretence that she had only just arrived, and had that moment accidently dropped her luncheon on the ground at a park bench near, just as she fixed her parasol there: a bench on which she intended to park and perch her rock-and-roll rear.
The two all too delectable redheads held hands as they emerged from their love nest with the darling Frizina padding and waggling faithfully along at Naomi’s gentle persuasion with the dog’s leash long.
Brown eyes kept aware as Salomé’s dainty fingers moved a wisp of curly hair from the lips of her sweet mouth, before she joyfully greeted Desiree, joined in that joy by her sister.
“I see you caught up with Frizina then?” thus Desiree made lame ploy to disguise from Naomi at least that she had been watching with her lovely grey eyes: “Your mummy was quite frantic about her.” She exaggerated to the near spoiling of her cover that she was trying to cover for what Salomé at least knew no reason why anyone should try, as that one of the twins at least was aware they had been discovered on fire in the briar.
“Oh yes Miss”, Naomi answered, “She hadn’t got far. Salomé and me knew we’d find her around the ponygirl stables cos ‘you wuv chasing ponygirls don’t you, you naughty naughty darling!’: Naomi concluded as she flashed her thighs when she squatted to ruffle the ears of the rescued dachshund, whose eagerness to free itself from its leash the better to sniff at Desiree’s crutch, in time-honoured doggy fashion, was thus arrested, as it attested to its love of the twins by licking Naomi’s face with abandoned unbounded enthusiasm in tongue and tail.
As Naomi rose, Frizina returned to testing her leash as she reared up on her hind legs, restrained by the struggling Naomi: Frizina full of doggy desire to have this third gorgeous girl, Desiree, show her love by petting the twins’ pet.
Desiree was about to stroke the over-enthusiastic Frizina, when Naomi managed to get Fritzina back on all four paws, and took the chance to lead her the way of the twins’ home, via their mother’s stall so as to show Frizina was back of course.
As the lovely redheads wiggled away with their would-be stray in tow, it was Salomé who looked back over her shoulder and gave a nervous smile a glow.
.............................
Desiree now decided she was wise to get back indoors, just as the weathergirl on TV that morning had warned and implored, as she made repeat of her concern about the heat.
With opened-out parasol replete, Desiree rose to her tiptoed feet, and deployed her legs in their other duty; other that is than displaying their erotic beauty.
Desiree glided along lost in thought. Her mind mulled on the twins and the disappointment it would be to poor Layanara, if her daughters failed the entrance examination for either St Saviours or St Innocents academy for girls: the destination to which Desiree knew they were heading for four years from next month: September, if they passed the test.
Layanara had given up a university professorship to take up the market stall and make the money a college tutor could never earn in a lifetime: the fees needed for Academy admission: both fees doubled of course, since both girls would obviously go to whichever of the academies they were signed up for in tandem, being twins.
The other fee would be for the twins’ private examination. The examination they must pass to get a doctor to rate them for their chances of a doctorate. On their backs they would be like stranded beetles, with their legs wide and their feet in stirrups while a finger would enquire inside it and feel, and ought to reveal that they were intact, or else they would be refused by the academies with no right of appeal on any basis of fact.
Desiree came out of her reverie and smiled as the captivating Salomé came back toward her. It was only as the redhead drew close that Desiree saw the anxiety on Salomé’s face, and realised just how bad her pretence had been, when the hand-holding girls had come out of the undergrowth’s green.
“You won’t tell Miss, will you? Please say you won’t tell!” Salomé pleaded in a soft whisper.
“Tell about what?” Desiree responded with a comforting smile and phrasing confirming she knew what the ‘what’ was.
“Oh thank you Miss! Thank you!” Salomé almost squealed as she kicked up, bent with toes outstretched horizontally, one thus made particularly shapely leg, when she pecked a kiss on Desiree’s soft face beside Desiree’s lovely lips: a chaste kiss, a sweet innocent’s kiss Desiree would never ever forget.
Desiree never let anyone know. Desiree never let it show.
.............................
Brown eyes kept aware.
“Where d’yer wannit luv?”
The evidently fit smoothly muscular, visibly muscular courier, had turned Desiree’s head even before this enquiry. This was now back in the library and the middle of the same day’s afternoon.
The girl had delivered once before, but Desiree had not got to talk to her that time. She had wanted to. The delivery girl’s job, carrying heavy loads, certainly kept her in trim, as did, to judge by her biceps and triceps and calves, regular sessions in the gym.
Desiree’s pupils had gone wide in an instant when she had last seen her, and a pearl inside her intimate insides had taken a growing interest in this obviously fit dream.
Her face though attractive enough, had a tiny scar distorting her top lip, making her look tough. Although Desiree would never admit it, in the time honoured phrase, she ‘fancied a bit of rough’, and the greasy-looking unkempt lank locks of the brunette burden-bearing girl, so in contrast with Desiree’s softly curled burnished gold, set her soul awhirl.
Desiree’s mind was not conscious of her eyes and heart seeing the kind of girl she longed would bed her, and saddle her softer more swervy curves, to ride her to perdition, licking her across the winning line with her tongue in it, tonguing it till her clit made her buck in rhythm and rhyme and time with it, as labia lapping licks made for one oncoming, and then coming some, and then closer coming, and ever closer coming, and then a coming and a coming and a coming to a come cum chick.
To greet this second visitation, Desiree walked over with an extra swing to her gait, putting one tiptop-tiptoed foot directly before the other to draw attention to her legs by her mode of motion.
The delivery girl held the clearly heavy box patiently, and apparently lightly, in her arms and blushed. The honey coming toward her was a walking wet-dream, just the kind of chick the courier and her friends talked about over their sixth cans of ‘Buttwiser-Blonde’ girl-pee on lonely Saturday nights.
Desiree smiled, and the delivery girl blushed crimson. Desiree’s desire now turned to a need to please by tease. She did not need words to tell her that she had wowed the gymnasium-babe who had strolled in with the box of new books.
The delivery driver watched as Desiree’s lovely grey eyes smiled at her over the spectacles she, Desiree, slid down with a ‘come-over-and-kiss-me’ beckoning index finger, to perch at the end of her freckle-peppered nose.
“Would you pop the box down on the low table just over there for me please? And, before you take the empty, do you mind waiting a while, while I check the contents as I unload it?”
“Yes Miss... I mean no Miss”, the blushing driver stammered as she felt the gentle touch of Desiree’s fingers accidentally-on-purpose brushing the powerful parabola of her bare bicep when she asked this.
“Thank you, Geraldina”, Desiree whispered as the box was next sat where she wished it, the delivery driver’s name tag having undergone the attention closer proximity allowed Desiree’s grey mesmerisers.
“I wonder if ‘My Dream Love’ has arrived”, Desiree mused aloud, in order to keep Geraldina flushed and flummoxed.
“You’re very pretty Miss”, Geraldina suddenly blurted, and then dropped her head in expectation of being rejected and an ejection from the library by an objection to her forwardness.
Now it was Desiree’s turn to blush, and her gorgeous face turned instantly the colour of rosé wine.
“Sorry Miss: I wan’t bein’ rude”, Geraldina now muttered.
“No: you weren’t” Desiree gently assured.
“’Weren’t’ then Miss....” Geraldina responded.
“No: I wasn’t correcting your English”, Desiree whispered sweetly, “It was very nice of you to tell me you think I am pretty. I am very flattered.”
The spell was broken, not by the words Geraldina had spoken, but by the obvious inexperience behind them. If Desiree had thought she had seen a vision of the girl she longed would yank her over her knee and spank her, that vision did not include for the shyness and inexperience Geraldina was evidencing.
Even though to be fumbled inexpertly and left high and dry and unsatisfied, was another of Desiree’s subliminal fantasies, that sexy disservice service went hand in hand, or rather with an imagined finger in it, without knowing what to do with it now it was in it, from a younger girl, a schoolgirl such as Salomé or Naomi, preferably the more knowing Salomé, or better still Salomé and Naomi; but did not fit with this ‘rough trade’ type of girl.
However, though Desiree would have liked her now to go, Geraldina wanted to stay with the girl by whom she had just been slain, and there was an emptied out container to wait for after all.
Thank you for the compliment”, Desiree added, before she turned and busied herself burrowing in the box, bent over straight legged, unknowingly with her skirt’s hem clear of her thighs and so high as not to hide the bright white thong sling, slung between her legs: the virgin-white hammock in which it patently nestled, its bifurcation apparently blatantly delineated.
Despite her desire to look, one glimpse of Desiree’s orbital bottom, bare where her thong did not cover, and of the centrally-creased pouch it made in her panties’ gusset, and Geraldina bit her lower lip and looked hard at the floor. But brown eyes kept aware.
“What do you think of it?” Desiree enquired, in a tone confirming her distraction, as she used the computer of her excellent memory to tick the hits and misses the books in the box scored, against the ones she recalled as having been ordered, while she unloaded the contents and placed them in associated stacks on the table.
“I think there’s a lot to be said for it myself: don’t you?” Desiree enquired, perfunctorily as she bent over a little further and raised one of her exceptionally shapely legs up to counterbalance herself, innocent of the fact she had just shown all of her panties, the visibly pert pouch it made in them not least, and was thus perturbing and disturbing Geraldina’s besotted big brown eyes.
“It’s rather tiny with not much room inside. Everything is squeezed in it very tightly”, Desiree added as she bent right over to put two books on the floor, and her skirt’s rear hem flicked up and got caught up to stay where gravity had stolen it, and where Geraldina must steel herself not to steal a look to see if it revealed it.
“I’d love for it to be divided in a completely different way..... For instance, there’s lots of things that could be put in it..... There seems to be no appetite for new approaches to it though.....Just dive in and give it a go, that’s what I say..... I’ve been used to it being very damp on occasions before now”, Desiree mused, her hem still caught up so that her tiny tight white thong and the central emboldening where it nestled, were unintentionally still on display.
“Do you think white is the right colour? It’s very bright and rather distracting don’t you reckon? And it’s suggestive of some kind of church-like purity that could put people off visiting it... Well what do you think of it? Does it get your vote?”, Desiree concluded, finishing her sentence slowly as the realisation dawdlingly dawned, of what she was showing, and that her becoming blush was rushing to enrose her gorgeous freckle-kissed visage, even as her hands made butterflies in flummoxed flutter to put her hem down back from riding high above her bottom’s semipheres, back all round down around her lovely thighs, where it should belong.
“Oh god.... I was meaning the new library....it’s so tiny compared with where you delivered last time....but it’s air conditioned now...no damp patches any more... and they’ve painted it so brightly...” Desiree tailed off as she slowly sunk her head with increasing embarrassment.
“You looks just like a rose Miss, a really pretty rose”, Geraldina whispered as she picked up the emptied-out courier-carton, and walked out to take the reins of her ponygirl-pulled delivery-cart once more; turning before she left to add: “And I promise what I won’t tell me mates inda gym and da bar wot I saw your knickers never...”
Desiree’s lovely eyes conveyed her silent thanks, before her sweet nature made her hide her flushed face once more.
.............................
Desiree never let it show.
Brown eyes kept aware.
Her walk was an event. Girls gathered to watch and admire. Desiree knew the passers-by ogled her lovely legs as she tiptoed by.
The book-lending library in Barnmouth’s Girl Market Square closed on Fridays at 4.00 pm.
By then, the building-site workers had sweated for nine hours. But by when she passed, they broke from their labours and whistled and cheered the beauty as she lowered her mid-back-tress-blest gold ringlet dressed head shyly, as the blonde foregirl would bawl out for all to hear and her buddies to cheer:
“Do you shave it darlin’?”
“Is it smooth as a baby’s bum?”
“Did yer girlfriend kiss it this mornin’?”
“Do yer squeal when yer cum?”
What was the lovely librarian still wearing at the end of this long humid day?
The summer sun sizzled, and she was both hot and hot as she tiptoed tip-top-top-tipped dainty stepping in her heelless sun-yellow-leather ballet shoes carrying her unfurled parasol to shade her lovely complexion.
It had been a microskirt again today: one zipped over the mesmerising mounds of her wiggling behind with its come-on tease and sublime subliminal ‘spank me’ pleas.
It had been a microskirt again today in chamois fawn: one with a saucy front vent at the left high, revealing the flawless bare flesh of her strong tanned thigh, and inviting the tired eyes up and down her beautiful legs’ wonderful contours, and extreme shapeliness.
Her by now crumpled cotton shirt was unbuttoned to flirt with the spies seeking to eye-over her 38DD bosom. They were bare under her shirt and full of frolic and play as she entranced so, while she tiptoed her seductive dance, going up the cobbled paving of Oxton Lane, past ‘Sleigh and Daughters’ shop to her bachelor-girl’s apartment.
Desiree’s shyness told in her lowered eyes, and the startling glances with which those grey glories pierced the souls of those she gave the grace of the gaze from the golden ringlets surrounding her freckle peppered face.
Snuggled as it was within her teasingly-weensy virginally-bright-white thong panties, it smiled too. Today it was, as ever, as she kept it so, shaven in delicate detail, and intimately intricately ointmented wholly free of even the hint of any would-be curly augmentation.
But today all day Desiree’s clammed oyster with pearl and sheath sans tongue and teeth: her centre and soul: the contrarian control over her sweet and loving mind, had been bleeding its monthly into fresh panty-liners.
She was on her bleed, and so, supremely feminine indeed. And as she waved at the teasing building girls who cat-called to tell her she stunned them, there was no one there among them who would know that Desiree was on her scarlet flow, for Desiree never let it show.
The blistering heat of the sizzling sun beat down on the beauty as she wiggled her bum, on her way from a day so hot that it had made remark that no bird had sung and even the dogs in the park had apparently been too wearied to bark.
.............................
Only twenty, Desiree was far too young to recall when air conditioning had been affordable by girls in her station in society. But she had experienced its benefits in the library where she worked of course, and the homes of wealthy friends, and longed for it in her tiny apartment now. Power was of course so limited these days, with no oil left bar at the price of a handsome ransom.
The TV muttered in the background. Desiree ears heard the sound without listening to the end of news plot conveyed by the jokey tone, of the pretty readerette in her studio alone, as she sexily intoned ‘the mystery of the missing pooches’ and how so many dogs could have gone astray, when it was such a hot day, that the last thing on their doggy minds could surely not be play.....and why the song birds had ceased to have their twittering say’.
Fit chick though she was, Desiree had found the day-long tiptoe-top-topped, totty-trotting, traipsing teasing trip on her big-toe-top-tips in her ballet shoes, tiring; and how her curvy calves ached!
Her lovely legs looked so wonderful tautly tensioned that way, but a girl needs to kick off her shoes and walk around in other than constant ballet display for some part of her day. Even so, like all girls these days, Desiree was more used to walking in pirouette display.
Though only in ballet shoes could she be raised to the very tips of her big toes alone, so used to it was she, that she would find herself right up on the tops of her toes at home, even when barefoot all day, unless she made a conscious effort to avoid walking around that way.
Today, after the heat and humidity of the long late summer sun’s power, she felt soiled, and longed to get into her bedroom’s cubicle shower.
Choosing to forego a brassiere in order to help keep cool, had caused her to perspire under where her heavenly breasts nestled on her chest, and the resulting lubrication had left them never at rest, with the inevitable outcome that her nipples were decidedly distended by the consequent constant rub on the insides of her pointedly appointed blouse, and tingled ecstatically with the electrical charge resulting from them electing to be anything but static: friction having excited them to being decidedly aroused.
Meanwhile, between her handsome thighs, it continued to seep her monthly into the pad lining her panties insides. And, although the modern panty-liners Desiree wore during the day, were very reliable and efficient that way, she was having a particularly heavy bleed, and longed to freshen it up, and don a heavy duty sanitary towel for it in it to drip its monthly crimson need.
On edge with her period as she was at the end of her tiring day in the heat, Desiree was pale and nervous and far from her usual celebration of the wonder of her sheer femininity. Even the high-tension charge she felt in her nipples could not arouse her as it would have done between her bleeds infinitely.
So she can perhaps be forgiven in such a crime-concerned era, for going into her apartment and picking up her doormat dropped mail, with a bend of her body flashing her gusset, while forgetting to shut-closed the entrance door to her home, as she entranced entrancingly distractedly, lips pert and pouting a kiss, looking through the letters and bills that the post-girl had delivered in that morning’s midst.
Then, as she put down her mail on a table, the corner of one of Desiree’s devastating grey eyes caught the slow opening of her apartment door, and the loving heart leapt in her one-ten poundage as she turned and wiggled to make it belatedly secure.
But it opened more, and a ghost seemed behind its inward motion, till a darling Dachshund, Layanara’s little pet Fritzina, trotted in to calm Desiree’s nervous commotion.
Fritzina was all tail wag and appealing features, and Desiree’s heart went out to the sweet little creature, and she bent, straight shapely legged, to hold it in her possession, thus flashing the panties in which it nestled, still patterning her pad with the potent passion of her monthly session.
And as she knelt down to meet her: “Ooh Fritzina: you naughty girl! Have you run away from your mummy again?!” Desiree whispered to the mischievous creature.
Carrying and stroking the head of the run-away dachshund in her kitchenette to take her, Desiree wondered if to make her eat vegetarian since Desiree did not eat meat, was likely to make Fritzina replete, or if anything else would the perceived need meet.
Putting her down to find food for the hound led only to apology that nothing suitable could be found anywhere, in either larder or Frigidaire. But at least there was water on tap for Fritzina to lap from a bowl on the ground, if a suitable receptacle could be found.
As Desiree reached up to an old bowl on a shelf to take it down and use it as such, Fritzina rose too, two hind legged, to smell at her crutch, and the touch of the damp nose of the dog on her bare thighs made Desiree squeak sexily with its cold surprise.
Desiree must have known that Fritzina only wanted to sniff at it, but such a thing is not what a nice girl would ever admit, or her conscious even dream, her mind affirming there was but one animal in this scene, and all other thoughts unthought by her, because completely obscene.
But on such a hot day as this, even a girl as fit as this lovely miss was, in the humid air, only too aware that she was perspiring; and the now licking dog was surely really only to taste the salt of her sweat, there where she was bare, aspiring.
But then her thigh its tongue met, and slid along long, till it touched near her crutch and thong, and that was too much for the sweet angel, who altered her availability, by standing the legs that drew constant mention, to a strict upright attention, as she filled the bowl part whole, after washing it out first, with water Fritzina ought to want to slake her thirst.
Now kneeling to put down the bowl for the eager Fritzina to lap, Desiree recalled she had left open her apartment door’s latch, and made moves to put right that fact, before phoning to arrange for Layanara or her daughters to take their dog back.
It was as Desiree was raising her gorgeous thighs from making a heavenly lap, to stand and put the licked-empty bowl back ready to wash, that poor little Fritzina let out a pained yap, as if Desiree’s dainty foot had on her poor paw stepped back to squash.
Though that was not so, there was no way for sweet Desiree to know, as she swept up the doggy to beg its forgiveness, and kiss and pet it, to heal and nurse as she could at best, while the scheming Fritzina tried to nuzzle her breasts as if to put whether Desiree was lactating to test.
At this apparent naughtiness Desiree giggled and blushed, but the dogs tongue found her right nipple within her unbuttoned shirt, and nibbled and licked it till it depicted arousal’s flirt.
And despite that it hurt the lovely girl’s mind, to be so unkind, she stopped Fritzina from licking her sweat-salty breast, wiping freed fingers over its spittle, surprised at the pleasure she felt in her nipple by having had an overgrown puppy’s love mistake it for its mother’s dug.
Overwhelmed by her love, for the little distraction, Desiree had swept up the darling hound and petted her with a kiss, not realising she had been duped by the little bitch miss.
And, so Desiree returned, holding Fritzina, to her lounge suite, only to find the room replete with a mass gathering sitting around, silent of sound, as if waiting for Desiree to come in from the kitchenette with the traitorous dachshund.
Brown eyes had kept aware. Sensitive noses had scented the air.
All day the public had wondered at the total dog lack. Now, suddenly surrounded by the whole town’s pack, sniffing the air and scenting she was in season, Desiree nervously bent to put the Dachshund down back, with terror suddenly supplanting her reason.
And, amid the fearsome snarling sounds to control her, it was the teeth of two Alsatians that got to roll her tiny panties down along her long legs. Legs so shapely and smooth, that her panties slid and dropped her curvy calves around, letting her blood soaked menstrual pad fall-leaf to the ground: her thong next tangling her shapely ankles, as if they were by it bound.
Then as her saturated pad was being licked by a Pekinese, a hind-legs-risen St Bernard pushed her down to her knees before two Chihuahua bitches tore her blouse to bits, to nip at her nipples and savage her tits, while amid her cries and terrified pleas as their tongues sought out its deepest nook, it was the Great Danes who were first to lick it out, while she suddenly sighed and wantonly bucked, before lovely librarian, Desiree Mountjoy, got it endlessly, repeatedly, and repeatedly endlessly, fucked.
Payback
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis –
Barnmouth was a typical English mid-21st century town.....
Payback
by Eve Adorer
It had all happened so quickly.
Lovina was an international star.
The 365/365 grind of the full-circus circuit had bored her into semi-retirement. But she had kept in training, and such was her popularity with the public and the cameras, both television and paparazzi, that she could now pick and choose her appearances.
Till, as part of a full round-robin, she had won all the majors in the one year six years running, and then elected to be more selective of where she would play, she had squared the world’s circle so many times, that the moon and back might have seen a shorter distance covered.
Now oil was costlier per ounce than gold, flying was as exclusive as Lovina Hart was famous. And Lovina was as famous as Croesus was wealthy, and wealthier than Croesus and Midas combined.
She could afford Concorde. In order to use up some small change, on a whim, and with just a flash of her kryptonite Amex, she had bought two from museums, and had them brought back into service and modernised to her personal taste and requirements.
Affording the fuel was also within her financial grasp. So there would be no more crowding into the communal-circuit jumbo-jets for her and her intimate entourage.
Over here in England, she had just been given a wildcard for Nippledon.
Over in Paris a week since now, she had taken Solange Darros by storm, defeating the statuesque ice-blue-eyed Siberian blonde Teresina Semenova, 6-0, 6-0 on court; and a slitheringly sweaty 6-9 on the floor of the changing-room showers afterwards.
Lovina would habitually warm-up and take practice on grass before Nippledon, at the Barnmouth Open. And, as in recent prior years, she had just flown in to stay with Lady Barnmouth before and during that high-quality contest.
Kendra Lady Barnmouth, Kendra Hendridge-Draegona, was an old friend, if ‘old’ friends are possible when, like Lovina, one is still only twenty-five, and Lady Barnmouth only recently nineteen.
‘Barnmouth International Airport’ was a pretentious title for what was, or rather had been before the oil wells dried up, a glorified freight-depot. But Lovina’s pretty pilotess had landed ‘Grand-Slam 1’, on its deteriorating runway with all her usual precision, and Lovina had then taken a ponygirl-cab out to Barnmouth House.
It had happened during a shopping spree.
Had she been so minded, Lovina could have bought Barnmouth let alone Celsis shoe emporium. As it happened though, she only had her mind made up for a dozen pairs of new trainers to slop around in at her Monte Carlo tax-haven retreat. For these, Lady Barnmouth had sung the praises of Herrods: newly opened in Barnmouth, and Celsis: established in Barnmouth for longer than history itself it seemed.
Lady Barnmouth had been busy with overseeing the branding of a dozen new slave-girls, selectively bought for her estates from the leaving-age pupils at local schools. But she had agreed to join Lovina for luncheon, at noon in Bidets, a restaurant by the lake in Cunni Park. So the morning had been Lovina’s own.
To keep prying eyes from recognising her, Lovina had worn mirror shades and an oak-leaf-green slouch-beanie hat, with spider-spun veil.
A simple mini-dress in crème de menthe glided over her fabulously fit curves: its fashion-house haute couture origins evident in the intricate complexity of its apparent simplicity.
Underneath she wore only a classic cream coloured thong from the very select Vaginas of New York. Her twelve-inch heeled platform mules from RocketRip of Queens’ Road Chelsea, were Milanese of manufacture, and displayed her bare legs to the perfection of perfection that they were. Her turnout was of the highest class, as was she.
The astonished stare from the stunned serving-girl at Celcis had come as no surprise to Lovina.
The unspoken question that filled the silence springing from her unquestionable recognition was answered by Lovina in her usual sweet way. She raised a lovely index finger to the unfurling-rose-bud formed by her negress’ lips, and kissed a shush followed by a genuinely loving smile at the stunned girl.
The girl had then giggled her embarrassment and understanding, and been discretion personified, as she eagerly dashed hither and yon to wait upon this world-famous tennis star foot and foot.
..................
The cameras constantly flashed, a clack of clicks and whirs and white-lightening flicks of which the TV audience would not fail to be aware when this was shown later on the sports-news broadcasts.
“What are your chances at Nippledon this year Lovina? Who do you reckon your main opposition will be?”
Press-conferences followed Lovina everywhere. Better they were organised like this had been by Lovina’s PA though, than the street hijacks by paparazzi, pre and post nightclub nights that happened so often in Lovina’s high-speed high-life.
Lovina was daydreaming in recall of Barnmouth Airport’s VIP lounge the previous day.
“I’d thought: I’d thought always thought of late, that my main opponent would be myself”, Lovina had begun, “And I reckon it would indeed have been so, save that the ankle hasn’t recurred. As we all know, it saw me through Paris, and now I can’t wait to get on centre-court over in Hondon SW1. Sure grass isn’t my favourite surface, and, on such a high-speed track, with her serve on song, Teresina has got to be a major threat....”
“So, is it Semenova’s serve that is your main concern Lovina, or is it her curves?”
Lovina had giggled, and her audience had joined in her lovely loving laughter.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!” Lovina teased, but the girl from the EBC sports desk was as new as she was pretty, and she had been pretty insistent too.
“Word is that you were jealous when Semenova won the ‘Legs Eleven’ contest this year, after it had been yours five years running.....”, Lovina’s interviewer, using a provocative intonation, had continued.
“.....Please let me stop you there”, Lovina had interrupted gently; “Teresina is a classic Russian beauty. She’s six-foot tall goddarnit, and undeniably has wonderfully long legs. But the Legs Eleven thing is just a fun money-raising charity affair.”
“I know for a fact that Teresina gave her $11 thou’ prize money to a charity for girls who cannot afford sufficient clothing to wear. You must have seen them pictured on calendars in every repair garage you’ve ever been into: lovely young chicks with hardly a stitch to cover their bodies?”
“Sure, those calendars, sponsored by the various companies selling cart-tyres, and wheel-spokes, and that kind of thing, raise lots of money to buy hand-me-down rags for those pretty honeys. And those calendars do a great public service by showing those poor girls before they could afford a dress that would cover them properly, let alone a brassiere, or even basic panties in some cases. So they remind us all how hard-up some poor girls still are in this world....”
Polite applause had interrupted this. Lovina’s tireless work for the charity ‘Calendar Girls’ Clothing Relief’ was widely acknowledged, and had been praised as an example of selflessness by Secretary-General Wan Key Lune in her annual address to the United Girls, at the UG’s New Edingow headquarters.
“Besides...”, Lovina had then added shyly, “I think I’ve got two pretty darn good arguments in favour of my getting the Legs Eleven golden parallels back on my dressing table once again this year....”
“Ms Hart, you must have heard that the rumour is going around that you and Ms Semenova have been playing a very intimate form of doubles since sometime last year. You know the world wishes you two would become an item. And the gossip includes that you’ve got wedding plans so advanced, that you’ve already pre-sold the pictures exclusively to ‘Hi’ magazine. Have you anything you like to tell us?”
“Er, let me see now....Mmm..well now...er....No: I don’t think so!” Lovina giggled as her gorgeous brown eyes shone. And her teasing answer won more loving laughter and applause from the assembled press and adoring public.
...................
Lovina had assumed the pink-clad Girl-Police officers at the rear of her yesterday’s press conference had been there to ensure security for her, and safety for her fans and the press.
When the same two constables had walked into Celsis shoe shop, where Lovina was waiting to be served, she had risen to greet them, raised her veil and taken off her sun glasses, to smile and offer a hand to shake.
But the hand was ignored.
“Can we have a quiet word ma’am”, a lovely pink-caressed Asian-Indian angel asked.
“Of course, sergeant: how can I help?”
“That press interview yesterday, would have been your first in England for some time, wouldn’t it ma’am?”
“Well: yes. I’ve not been over here in Europe till Paris..... After Flashing Meadow I stayed stateside for the fall and winter; then I flew down-under for the Nellie-Cup in Melbourne?”
“Just so ma’am, just so..., so you may not have been aware that there’s been a tightening up over here....”
“What do you mean please sergeant: where is this conversation heading?
“Well ma’am. We’ve had to confiscate the videos. The stills will probably be okayed after vetting. But, my colleague and I have to ask you formally, if you were wearing a brassiere at the news conference you gave at Barnmouth International Airport just before noon yesterday?”
“To cut straight to the chase ma’am, you’re...you’re quite a big girl on top?”
Lovina gasped prettily: sweetly embarrassed as she lowered her gorgeous dark-brown eyes.
“I’m just a thirty-eight”, she whispered in her deep blush, before looking her natural loveliness at the two constables once more.
“We’ll take that as a ‘no’ then ma’am....re the bra that is ma’am.”
“That would be right sergeant. I’m very sorry if I offended anyone....”
“....I’m afraid ma’am, that given the video evidence, and your effective admission here in front of the constable and myself, I have to arrest you for lewd behaviour in a public place: to wit the conference at Barnmouth International Airport’s VIP lounge which started at 11.35 GMT yesterday morning, in which you participated in a sexually provocative state of semi-undress.”
“Do you wish to say anything: that is anything in explanation of your breasts’ deeply provocative and completely sexual behaviour under your blouse yesterday, and, I am distressed to have to say, even now today as we speak?”
“Surely, this is some kind of joke?” Lovina astonished.
“No ma’am. It’s no laughing matter.”
“Constable Gentle and I have to take you to the station house. I have here a restraining order from a magistrate. It has been properly signed and witnessed. If you wish to examine it; that is your right and privilege.....”
“Well no: no thank you sergeant. I am more than prepared to take your word thank you. Let’s indeed go to the police station, where I’m sure we can sort this little misunderstanding out.”
“Perhaps so ma’am...perhaps so... The restraining order ma’am?”
“Yes sergeant....I’m happy to comply of course. What exactly does it require of me?”
“Nothing ma’am... That is to say, nothing of you as such ma’am...”
“I’m afraid this conversation is losing me sergeant. I’m not understanding what you are telling me. I’m sorry, but....”
“The restraining order requires that your breasts be brought under control ma’am: it is a restraining order on your breasts, and therefore, the constable and I have to arrest your breasts, in a manner of speaking....”
But that she saw how serious the lovely sergeant was, Lovina would have giggled at this.
“I’m afraid I have to ask you to undress sufficiently to allow your breasts to be arrested ma’am”.
By this time, the shocked shop-assistant had returned, and she signalled where Lovina might undress herself.
Thus a cubicle behind the counter of Celcis Boots & Shoes, was soon crowded with the lovely Lovina, the Girl-Police sergeant and the constable.
“Would you be so kind as to lower the zip at the middle-back of my dress please constable? If you can start it off.....I can take it from there...”
“That’ll be alright constable. I’ll do that for the lady. You get the cuffs ready please.”
The stunning negress, Lovina, lowered her lovely eyes as she lowered the top of her dress to bare her bountiful double-D breasts, with their magnificent coal-black nipples.
And the pretty sergeant tried not to admire Lovina’s significant soft-firm heavy charms, as she requested: “If you’d be so good as to take your arms out of your dress’ sleeves and cup your breasts up for me....”
Sweet tears cornered Lovina’s eyes, she was so embarrassed, but, even as she watched the sergeant take what looked like a mobile phone from her belt, she obliged.
“I’m sorry ma’am. I realise how unpleasant this must be for you, but the constable and I have to do our duty....”
Watched by the bewitchingly gorgeous negress, the sergeant busied herself with dextrous fingers with the mobile, until she found a number in its directory, pressed ‘Go’ so it was dialled, and put the phone to her pretty ear, while the intended contact rang out at the far end somewhere.
A moment later, connection made, she pressed ‘N’ and then ‘P’ on the keypad, then ‘Go’ and listened to a different dial-tone.
When that dial tone ended with an audible click, a machine-originated voice could be overheard, apparently giving the sergeant instructions, which she listened to carefully, before pressing ‘L’ on the keypad, and then holding the phone with its text window pressed firmly onto Lovina’s left nipple. Then the sergeant pressed a button and a flash lit the locality of the lens’ erotic target.
The police-girl then pressed ‘Go’...listened to more tinny-voiced guidance.... pressed ‘R’ on the keypad, and pushed her phone on Lovina’s right nipple, to flatten it and take its photo in its turn.
As they metaphorically tapped their feet in waiting, none of the girls looked at each other, but poor Lovina continued to show her deep shame at being treated the way she was being.
Two loud beeps from the sergeant’s mobile now caused her to hold it so she could read its screen.
“She’s got a record!”, the sergeant mumble-mused in thinking-aloud mode, as she read the full text of the response so as to digest it.
“Your full name is ‘Lovina Lesbiana Hart’, isn’t it?
“Yes sergeant”, Lovina responded with a nervous edge to her voice.
“You’ve got a criminal record”, the sergeant observed as a statement of fact.
“There must be some mistake sergeant. Are you sure you’ve got the right person?” Lovina answered, as if the sergeant had been asking rather than stating.
“So, you don’t recall having your nipple-prints taken, back when you were fifteen ma’am?”
“There’s no mistake, the prints on file match up with the ones I’ve just sent in. But there is a full-scale nipple-scanner at the precinct....”
Lovina hung her head, ashamed at her desperate attempt to deceive. But the sergeant mistook this action as further denial on Lovina’s part.
“Says here that your headmistress found you and another girl behind the ponygirl stables at your school. It was red-handed.”
“You were both caught with your skirts hitched up into their waistbands, and your knickers down around your ankles it says here. The headmistress thought you’d been fingering each other, but then she saw that your friend had a cigarette in her lips, and that you had smoke seeping out of yours.”
Lovina gasped: “I was too ashamed to admit it. I’m so sorry. That was the first and last cigarette I ever smoked.”
“I knew it was against school rules, and that I was under the legal age for smoking...”
“....I never ever put a cigarette in my pussy again.....”
“....Constable: put the cuffs on her...”, the sergeant ordered.
Constable Gentle now produced a pair of adjustable circular handcuffs, save that they had a longer linking chain than ordinary, and the cuffs proper were larger than the pretty wrists of the tennis star: way too large to have ever restrained her hands.
But the chain linking the cuffs was centred over Lovina’s scented neck, as if she was about to be awarded an English mayor’s chain of office, then her left tit was surrounded by one cuff and her right by the other, before they were closed around the base of her breasts.
And the cuffs were then closed down tighter in turn, by pressing them shut to the sound of the slick ‘snick’ clicks of their one-way ratchets, till Lovina’s breasts were swollen obscenely bulbously, with her jade-black nipples standing peaked out as if they were in the highest state of arousal.
And yet and despite their horrendous tightness, still the ratchets were pressed closed to grasp Lovina’s lovely breasts in the cold steel grip of the unmerciful maws of the tit-cuff’s jaws, till she cried out with the pain, and tears ran from her gorgeous brown eyes.
A short rod was then linked in Lovina’s cleavage between the inner sides of the tit-cuffs, and a chain was hooked to each outer side of the cuffs to form the equal of a bra-strap, so that Lovina’s breasts were finally held up and out in obscene rigidity; almost as grotesquely as if she had implants.
Lovina’s dress was now put loosely on her: her arms through its sleeves once more, and its full-length rear zip pulled up to mid her shoulder blades.
Then her wrists were cuffed behind her.
Moments later, in the street amid a welter of flash bulbs under which the gorgeous negress wished she could die of shame, if from which she could not find shelter...
“Lovina?!” cried the smartly-dressed pretty press and TV girls as one, collectively and yet individually, as the cameras whirred.
“Lovina?!
“Over here Lovina!”
“Lovina?! Look this way if you would please Lovina!”
“Lovina: do you wish to make a statement?!”
“Over this way Lovina!
“Lovina?! Shapelia Bristols from EBC Sports Hour? Have you anything to tell our viewers?”
“Lovina! Would you hold your head up for the cameras please Lovina!”
“Lovina?! Will you be playing in the Barnmouth Open next week?”
“Lovina! Does Teresina Semenova know you’ve been arrested?”
“Lovina?! If you have to miss the Barnmouth Open, can you possibly be match-fit for Nippledon at the end of June?!”
“Lovina?! Your fans are saying that you’ve been arrested for letting your breasts misbehave in a public place! Is that true?!
At this, the sergeant let the constable take Lovina to the pink-painted Girl-Police patrol vehicle headed by two attractive blonde ponygirls, while she held up a hand to signal she needed some semblance of silence so she could make a statement.
“Ladies and ladies!.....”
“Ladies!....if I could have your attention for one moment please ladies....”
The hubbub abated to a rolling soprano mumble indicating the nearest to silence the sergeant was going to get, before the questions would be fired at Lovina once more, as she crouched on the floor of the Girl-Police cart displaying an immense expanse of very shapely, very strong, very beautiful, dark-brown thigh.
“Ladies and ladies! Ms Lovina Hart has agreed to cooperate with Girl-Control’s enquiries into an accusation of lewd behaviour in a public place...”
“Shapelia Bristols from EBC Sports Hour, sergeant. Is Lovina under arrest?”
“Technically no ma’am. Ms Lovina Hart is not under arrest in the eyes of the law.....”
“What do you mean by ‘technically’ sergeant?”
The hubbub’s volume increased after that question.
“However..... I was about to say!....”
“However.....!!! the sergeant was forced to shout.
However, Ms Lovina Hart’ breasts are under arrest, and will be helping the Girl-Police with enquiries into accusations of their lewd behaviour.”
“Will she be free in time for the Barnmouth Open?”
“What about Nippledon sergeant: will Lovina get to play?”
“That is all that can be said at this time. A further statement is unlikely before midday tomorrow at the earliest....” the pretty sergeant, hoarse by now, tried to say above the resumed rising din.
Where the media was concerned, the sergeant’s statement was unsatisfactory and incomplete, so the press girls began to wiggle their fragrant bodies behind the departing Girl-Police patrol cart, calling to the distressed tennis queen:-
“Lovina?!
“Lovina?!
“One more question Lovina!”
.................
The judge was a lady of some eighty years. She had clearly once been an astonishing beauty. Her full lips and her imperious cheek-bones evidenced that still. But to her increasing forgetfulness had this day been added that her two, all two and all too badly needed hearing aids, had been left forgotten at home.
The judge was a ‘legs-girl’. She delighted in ogling a pair of ‘well-turned gams’. And the finely feminine supremely strong smoothly muscular endless and endlessly dark brown legs of the gamene Lovina had won yet another admirer.
“And just whom is this delateful cweature?”
“She is Ms Lovina Lesbiana Hart me’lady”, Lovina’s Asian-Indian beauty among Girl-Police police girls advised the presiding magistrate.
The judge eyed Lovina head to toes and then her lovely legs over and over again, and continued to enunciate at the volume that is seen by the deaf as hardly heard, but heard by the herd in every loud word. The judge herself considered she was speaking in a mere whisper, but, as such ‘whispers’ go, it went into the corridors behind the closed doors of the courthouse, let alone merely to the back of the courtroom itself.
“One assumes thet she is to go before a jaudge to pwoov something eother thaen the twuth of the saying that ‘bweck is bootiful’. She is an exquisite exemplar of thet twuism. No jaudge could pessiblay not find her facial and physical charms guiltay of prowoking Coopid”
Lovina hung her head of dizzying-dreadlock-curls in a sweet blush, and then raised it with pride, her daemon-dark brown eyes blazing the verity of her soul as Venus’ local focal locale.
“’Lowina Hart’ you say? Thet name wings a bell with one, yet one cannot quate pwace it”, the judge’s deaf whisper shouted.
“Ms Hart is a lawn tennis player of some fame, with several major championships to her credit me’lady”, the gorgeous brunette coppette shouted to ensure the judge would hear.
“Eoh yeas; of course. She’s the dewicious young wady who is to go before a court for wude behaviour in pubwic. At least, I’m sure one wed thet in ‘The Tames’ this morning. Wasn’t she before those dwetted television chemawa thingies without a bwassiere orn under her dwess?”
Then the judge speculated in what was intended as a conspiratorial conclave with the coppette sergeant: “One mast say, she hes a wewy hendsome bosoom. But, her bweasts doo wook awfwee stiff. Are they weal or hes she hed some opewation type how d’ya do on them, mmmm?”
“Ms Hart is in cuffs me’lady”
“Caffs?! How d’ya mean caffs?!! Heow could being in caffs heve anything to doo with anything about the wigidity of her bweasts mmmm?!!! Came the brusque enquiry.
“Breast-cuffs me’lady?”
“Bweast-caffs?!”
“I believe they are colloquially referred to as ‘tit-cuffs’ me’lady. Ms Hart has her miscreant breasts in controlling chains ma’am”
“Ah! Ah yeas. One sees. Mmmm. End is she to go before a jaudge in bweast-caffs?”
“She is before a judge now me’lady”
“She is?!”
“Yes me’lady. She has been brought before you to judge her me’lady”
“Eoh. One sees. One didn’t quate wealise....”
“And orv what is she guiltay mmmm?”
“’Accused’ me’lady”, the pretty sergeant politely dared to correct.
“Eoh don’t be widiculous sergeant. Heow carn anyone be guiltay of ‘accoused’ there is neow such cwime in the book as ‘accoused’, at least not as far as one is awar, and one is, efter all, a jaudge don’t ya know, mmmm?!”
“With respect me’lady she is not at this stage ‘guilty’. She is merely ‘the accused’ until a judge finds her guilty or not guilty”.
“Ah. Yeas. A jaudge. Well, shall one arrange for her to be taken before a jaudge?”
“You are the judge me’lady. She is before a judge now”, the Girl-Police sergeant repeated, trying not to burst into giggles.
“Eoh so she is indeed guiltay then?”
“If you say she is guilty, she is indeed guilty me’lady”
“Well then, thet’s thet dan and dasted is it not mmmm?”
“But, with the deepest respect me’lady, if you are declaring her guilty, you also need to say what she is guilty of and what her sentence... what her punishment is to be”
“Eoh, must one weally? Heow wewy tedious.”
“Well thean, what is this dewightful cweature guiltay orv?”
“But me’lady, that is for you to say me’lady, not I”
“Eoh what a confounded nuisance! I mean she must be guiltay of some wickle cwime or eother, or else there would not be all this talk about taking her before a jaudge, don’t ya think mmmm?...... What would you suggest mmmm?”
“With respect me’lady...perhaps she could be found guilty of lewd behaviour in a public place me’lady?”
“Well..yeas... yeas I waather lake thet. Seo shell one geow for thet then mmmm? Jest to get it over with and all thet kaind of thing eh?..”
“And her sentence me’lady?”
“Ah yes. I’m sure the jaudge will give her a harsh sentence for thet cwime.”
“But what sentence would you give her me’lady?”, the frustrated sergeant pressed.
“Eoh; I’d give her ‘the usual’ I think. Yes ‘the usual’ would be just fine...”
“But me’lady there are several choices and the judge has to say which punishment she chooses...”
“And, young lady, I am wewy sure that when she kneows what a dweadfull cwime this wovely neegwess has committed, the jaudge will sentence her. So why hasn’t she been sent to a jaudge?! I appear to be surwounded by compweat incompetence... compweat end atter incompetence!!!”
“If I may make so bold me’lady: if I were the judge, I would sentence Ms Hart to twenty-four hours on the new ‘Payback’ programme, the ‘Social Leper’ programme?”
“Thet is arn excellent ideaa. Why dean’t you suggest it to the jaudge?”
“But I am suggesting it to the judge me’lady. You are the judge for this case me’lady”
“Well, for goodness sake get it dan then!.....”
“.......I just deoan’t kneow what is going orn! There seems to be total confwooszion around haar!! I weon’t hev my court in total confwooszion: do you haar me!!!: mmmm?!”
.................
The sergeant and constable escorting Lovina, turned their pretty faces to hide their uncontrollable giggles at the behaviour of the incompetent magistrate. But what was unintended comedy for them was tragedy for poor Lovina.
.................
“Is you a virgin darlin’?”
Only we ‘as to fit yer wiv a scourer, ‘cept we let ‘em off if they is a virgin see”
“What is to be done with me?” Lovina begged nervously of the court’s torturette.
The torturette was a girl younger than Lovina herself, yet so world-weary, perhaps from being too worldly-wise, at least within the confines of the cruel circle in which her type were forced to survive.
Her face, framed by soft brunette unkempt lack-lustre lank locks, was very pretty; but her naturally long eyelashes, eyelashes many a girl would die for, only drew attention to saucer-sized cobalt-blue eyes that seemed extinct of all intelligibly intelligent life.
“Judge ‘as said as ‘ow you is to be treated as a ‘Social Leper’. Dat means you gets da uniform and wot gos wiv it. And wot goes wiv it includes: nine-inch injectors, twelve-inch narrower, and a scourer: all to teach you ow to dress proper and not flash yer tits about in public like wot you ‘as bin doin’ accordin’ to wot the judge ses: alright?!
The question was clearly rhetorical.
“Now: is you gonna tell me if you is a virgin, or do I ‘ave to tek a look fer mysell?”
“I’m no longer intact”, Lovina confessed with a blush from wholly inappropriate shame: shame at having to say what was apt, but not at the fact she and Teresina Semenova had given each other their respective hymens in unison in union as betrothal after their secret wedding during their first post vows love act.
“So: we is beginnin’ to unerstand each uvver. Get yerself stripped right off. I mean everyfin; everyfin ceptin the tit-cuffs: I got a key for da tit-cuffs.
“’An by da way darlin’, I ‘ope you shaves it, cos if yer don’t, I gotta shave it for yer, and my fuckin’ razors gone blunt and I don’t got none of yer wax and dat kindda fing niver see, and I don’t got any shavin’ foam or soap or nuffin: know wot I mean?!”
“Yea: better you got it shaved already, else my razors so fuckin’ blunt I’d ‘ave ter pluck it!”
The dispiriting cruelty of the vicious girl was not lost on Lovina, to whose lovely brown eyes tears came, till the Girl-Police sergeant showed her human warmth by secretly taking Lovina’s pretty hand and giving it a quick comforting squeeze.
As the torturette was busy and with her back turned, sweet breath whispered in Lovina’s ear: “You must be brave Ms Hart, and take it like a girl!”
Then the torturette turned and: “Please may I go to the bathroom?” Lovina begged as the torturette undid her imprisoning tit-cuffs.
“No!” came the answer Lovina should have known, and indeed did know, she was likely to get.
.................
All Lovina’s cries and pleadings were for nought. Thirty-minutes later she stood in the full uniform of a girl undergoing treatment as a Social Leper, the punishment decreed for this stunning negress not wearing a brassiere when out in public.
The fluorescent-orange of her uniform was chosen to make her stand out for reasons of safety; yet could a more wonderful colour have been chosen to contrast and thus compliment her flawless soft dark brown skin?
The uniform was a mistresspiece of simple durable design in pliable plastic.
Lovina was in pain, and no wonder.
Her breasts, her beautiful breasts, with their huge raven black nipples, had been forced into orange plastic cones. These cones were chosen, from the rising range of choice, to match her generous size.
But the larger the size, the longer the cruel steel needles that were forced into the wearer’s milk ducts as the cones were forced onto her tits. Thus seven-inches of vicious steel ‘hypodermic’ needle had been forced through the milk-hole in each of Lovina’s nipples and deep into her gentle breasts.
The cones were sliced off at their peaks. The hollow needles now in Lovina’s tits: the needles forced through her nipples, were mounted in the middle of a bridge that gripped either side of each sliced-off cone tip. So, Lovina’s breasts were encased in the cones, spiked through by seven-inches of the all-told one-foot-long needles, and now poked through the cones’ tips to block the end of the cones.
Then a cuirass had been fitted. This breast-plate had holes where the tit-cones would go through. Once on, it would grip the lips at the bases of the tit-cones and thus hold them to her chest, and therefore horizontally upright and outthrust.
The cuirass had a ‘polo-neck’ arrangement. It opened, and this bib to go over Lovina’s biblical body, was first clipped and padlocked at the back of her neck under her dreadlocks, so the polo-neck had been fastened around her swan’s glory to look from the front like a clerical collar.
Now the cuirass bib was pulled back onto Lovina’s chest, with care taken to ensure the cones were through the holes made in it for them, and the rubber seals that formed a ring around the base of each cone, were pressed and compressed against her rib-cage.
To further secure the reflective-orange bib to her, leather straps were buckled tightly under each of Lovina’s armpits, and these shorter straps pulled tight to each other by a further longer strap across her shoulders at the base of the back of her neck.
Now the seeming impossible had to be performed, for the cuirass narrowed down in a V shape at Lovina’s navel, and a strong stainless-steel strap was at the deepest hollow of her curvy twenty-three-inch waist.
It had taken all three girls, Lovina’s torturette, the sergeant of Girl-Police, and the coppette constable, to turn the steel rod inserted through the ropes fixed to the hoops provided in the gaping ends of the four-inch-deep stainless-steel waist-strap: the rope being twisted like a tourniquet, to pull the two steel ends together, so that they not only met, but mated.
And it had taken five attempts to hold the steel strap’s ends mated long enough for the torturette to insert the stainless-steel pin that held the steel strap wrapped and wrapping Lovina’s divine waist in its merciless grip. For once that pin was in, and the rope, its purpose served, cut and taken away, Lovina’s hitherto twenty-three-inch waist, was compressed to an unbearably incredible twelve inches.
Now attention was paid to her pretty feet, and they were forced into stainless-steel arching ‘double-heels’.
Each pretty foot was inserted in turn into shoes the toe-ends of which treated all bar her big toes as if they were irrelevant to any cause other than that of putting her in great pain. Her big toes came through the orifice provided for their emergence. Her remaining toes stayed contained and thus, to the extent they supported her potently pulchritudinous poundage, were horrendously bent kinked and crushed.
Yet, as they reached down to try and touch the ground, her big toes did not escape suffering, for the sole connection each shoe had with the ground at its so-named sole-end, one and the same as its toe-end, was solely akin to a golf-ball tee. Each such ‘tee’ integral with the shoe and no more than two-inches before the rear heels’ raw roar. Her big toes were struggling to grip inside the ‘bowls’ atop the two tees, and the two tungsten tees tapered to needle-tips arriving at infinity where she would desire connectivity with the ground her graceful beauty kissed.
And to tip her on tiptoe forward on her brutally arched feet, the stainless-steel shoes were complete and replete, two-inches behind her tapering toe-tees, with needle-heels of finite variety also in the strength of tungsten, and of twelve-inch length, from the broad cups that contained the heels of her foot proper, one-foot, both feet from, therefrom downwards tapering to the diameter of a knitting to a bodkin to a sewing and then to the tip of the tip of the tip of a needles’ needle-tip, the knowing designer knew had such infinitesimality at the end of its trip as to defy the universe’s combined computers to show the zeros after the decimal point that defined such non-existent ground-grip.
“Oh dear god I cannot... I.. I... I...cannot... I just cannot stand in these shoes!” Lovina winced through teeth gritted to try and relieve her pain.
“Ooz asking yer to stand in ‘em darlin’? It weren’t nuffink I sed I ‘ope. Cos you ain’t gonna stand in em, so don’t worry yersel’ abart it sweet’art. Na. Don’t worry yer pretty little ‘ead abart it none atall..”
“’Stand in em’! Just ‘ark at the stupid bitch. As if we was asking yer to stand in ‘em! You ain’t gonna stand in ‘em. Not stand in ‘em. Yer gonna fuckin’ walk in ‘em! Dat’s what yer fuckin’ well gonna do, yer fuckin’ slag!!” her torturette taunted.
Now she dealt with Lovina’s protruding nipples.
Lovina’s nipples were to be girlnipulated to work them up the spike to a two-inch stretch, and force them to stay thus distended and extended, by pulling the sensitive flesh over the four-compass pointing grip-spikes further up the needles running into her tits through her milk-holes.
Shamed by the eager readiness of her supremely feminine body to betray her by becoming turned-on despite the will of her mind, Lovina’s nipples cooperated enthusiastically. The torturette soon had them aroused and worked them and pulled them between finger and thumb pinching them hard, till they were stretched the remaining two-inches along the needles through Lovina’s milk-ducts and pinned through by the sharp hooks to hold them in throbbingly painful place: a place and grip assuredly ensured, by binding her nipples to the spiked area of the hypodermic needles with thin wire.
Lastly had come the fitting of her scourer. The scourer was a one-foot long dildo with straight sides covered throughout nine-inches of its top-end length, with razor-sharp needles. In nature in would have found its twin in a desert cactus.
This horribly cruel device thrust up from a florescent orange codpiece, which also included a transparent plastic tube, and some kind of seesaw rocker device.
First, the tube was inserted into Lovina’s urethra – her pissy-hole - and pushed well up her as she squealed. And well might she squeal, for the tube at that end was armed with amorous armour: out-jutting needless-to-say needle-sharp spikes. To grip inside her urethra and to guard such of the free length of this tube that would remain outside her pissy-hole and still inside her pink.
But those squeaks were as nothing compared with the agonised howl her lovely negress lips uttered, as the cactus-spiked scourer was forced up her sheath, as, in parallel, the plastic codpiece was twisted and pushed up between her thighs to fit inside her labia majora and keep them wide, whilst covering over the pink delicacies inside.
Thereafter the fluorescent-orange codpiece, embraced by her outer love lips, was strapped in place to hoops provided for that very purpose in the oh so lucky stainless-steel band that embraced Lovina’s waist into a twelve-inch wasp’s wish for such breathtaking trimness.
The codpiece in place, the long end of the clear tube forced up Lovina’s urethra stood up through the codpiece’s top end, and then dangled down toward the ground.
But before it so emerged its teeth, the teeth of the two-end-pointed needles pushed trough it for its bottom-end protection, had her clitoris-hood found.
Studied, the initial single state of the tube emerging from the codpiece divided, as akin with a doctor’s stethoscope.
It was now taken up, and both ends of the equal of a stethoscope’s earpieces fitted with rubber glands to form a seal. Then each gland was forced over the protruding spare ends of the foot-long needles that penetrated Lovina’s stretched nipples by two inches, and then seven-inches deeper into her tits. Hollow needles these, with one-way valves at the ends to which the ‘earpieces’ of the ‘stethoscope’ had just been fitted.
Once the ‘stethoscope’ was in place, running from Lovina’s urethra to her nipples, a pump was used on one-way valves, at the junction where the one tube became two, to suck the air out. This was so as to create a vacuum in the tube, before it was clipped neatly at intervals to the centre of the florescent-orange cuirass.
Lovina moaned as she felt the suction through the hollow needles in her tits and through the end of the tube forced up her little miss’ piss-hole.
The tube from Lovina’s urethra to her tits was not the only protrusion from the bottom of her tight codpiece. Three-inches of the end of the foot-long ‘cactus’ also stuck out. The cactus could half-rotate round and back, and to encourage it to do just that, a strap of flexible fluorescent orange plastic was riveted at its middle back where its end hung out below the codpiece.
Both, and therefore each, end of this necessarily long plastic strap, was now taken around the circumference Lovina’s massively strong gorgeous thighs, and fed and pulled through holes in each end of the strap that enabled in to be used as if it were two, though in fact comprising only one long double-ended cable-tie.
Lovina thus wore this double-ended cable-tie as two bright-orange garters at the height where her lovely thighs were just beginning to become the dimple-scoop-sided monuments to bold beauty of her lovely bare bum.
The cable tie was tight-enough to embrace the lovely flesh of her thighs, but trailed in a bend forming an ‘S’ for ‘sex’ between her legs, with the slack it allowed sufficient to provide for the scissor motion of her walking strides.
Also from the out-jutting cactus forced up her vagina - the end of the scourer that hung proud from the crotch of her codpiece - there swung a ‘nodding-donkey’.
This comprised in depiction, the barbells commonly struggled aloft by every cartoon weightlifter. It had a straight steel bar with a steel ball at each end. The centre of the bar was mounted on an axle in the cactus dildo, just below where the cable-tie was riveted to that same device.
Inside the codpiece, the cactus dildo was mounted through a rocker, a see-saw that would rise and fall in the same direction as the steel-barbell nodding-donkey.
The nodding-donkey protruded fore and aft of Lovina’s monumental thighs.
As Lovina merely stood, the donkey nodded - front down back up, back down front up – and she felt it work the scourer backwards and forwards within her vagina up which it had been forced. And also, when the ‘donkey’ nodded up at the front, it worked the seesaw in the codpiece, and the seesaw-rocker pressed the tube running from her urethra to her tits and the needles in that tube could bite; and so they bit.
The rocker within the codpiece, the seesaw operated by the nodding-donkey, pushed the spitefully spiked end of urethra tube within the codpiece onto her clitoris hood and the supersensitive love-bud her little pink hiding hood would hide safe inside.
Therefore when the nodding-donkey swung up at the front, it operated the see-saw-rocker, which compressed the ‘stethoscope’ pee-hole penetrating tube, which in turn pressed its needle-spikes, which in turn kissed Lovina’s clitoris hood with its sharp teeth.
To make her finally ready, Lovina’s pretty arms were taken up and crossed behind her neck, where they were girlackled helplessly by her sweetly-slender wrists to the neck-band of her fluorescent cuirasse.
The unsurpassable negress wonder stood perspiring inspiringly in her cruel punishment clothing. Her tongue was licking the glorious seductive beauty of the god-only-given-beauty of her negress’ lips: lips bold in their reposed pose of a proposed kiss, or the bud of an exquisite fresh rose.
Her bonds and her shoes were checked. She was secure and secured ready.
For letting her bare breasts cavort beneath her dress at an airport interview, Lovina Hart, tennis champion extraordinaire, had been sentenced to twenty-four hours on the Social Leper programme.
She wore the bright fluorescent safety-cuirass of a girl on ‘Payback’.
Her tits were on ‘Payback’ for their lewd behaviour in a public place.
She was on Payback, and therefore she was a ‘Social Leper Undergoing Training’.
And thus above the conical breast-cones containing and controlling and taming her beautiful bosom, in large bold black initials, her cuirass was emblazoned with the initials of the Payback programme Lovina was on.
And thus on the bright orange safety cuirass above her tortured tits were the unmistakeable initials: ‘S.L.U.T.’
...............
“This’ll teach-yer not to forget yer bra in public again woanit darling?”
“You like showin’ yersel’ off to da uvver girls dontcha eh?”
“Well den, cos yer’ve bin showin’ yersel’ off too fuckin’ much, like the filthy whore what you is, yer gonna show yersel’ off even more: cos dat’s what da law ‘as decided, yer see darlin’?!”
‘An in case yer didn’t see it, dem initials on your vest reads ‘S.L.U.T’. Dat stands fer Social Leper Under Trainin’, but it also reads ‘slut’ dunnit, so I’m gonna call you ‘slut’, except when I wanna be nice to yer; then I’ll call yer ‘fuckin’ slut’ okay?!”
“Oh an’ in case you is wondering why yer back and yer bum and yer fighs is bare: well dats so I can whip yer darlin’ and I’m gonna whip yer, and I’m gonna fuckin’ enjoy whippin’ yer!”
“Yer gonna be whipped roun’ da town you is darlin’; whipped roun’ da town so all da girls can see what a fuckin slut you is.”
...............
“You is a tennis player ain’t yer darlin’? Well den, p’raps after I’ve done whippin’ yer like, yer can give me some tips abart ‘ow to improve me fore’and or me back’and eh?!”
Lovina’s gorgeous brown eyes glimpsed hell as she watched the torturette slip around her right wrist, the loop at the end of a foot-long wooden handle, the wooden handle from which there trailed a three-foot-long single strand of barbed-wire, the barbed-wire that was the flagellum of the whip with which Lovina was to be driven into the shame of parading herself as a S.L.U.T. around Barnmouth.
“’Ere, I better ‘ad put me protective-gloves on ant I? Don’t want nobody getting ‘urt by dis ‘ere barbed-wire whip now do we eh?! The torturette taunted.
Hell began with the whip’s whistle and its vicious kiss on the flawless flesh of Lovina’s bare bottom. And it bit. Every barbed-wire spike bit and cut and ripped and her soft flesh was torn and she howled banshee her pain as she began her walk in her needle tipped twelve-inch heels on the bent bare toes of her feet as she tried so to be fleet of feet to escape the ripping rake rape of the terrible whip.
And as she deployed her lovely lithe legs in her twelve-inch needle-heeled stride, it knew the meaning of hell inside, as her step pulled on the garters just under her bum, and rotated the ‘cactus’ thrust up her like an intimate thumb, thus ripping the lining of her sheath as it was scraped by the unyielding spike teeth of the needles with which this unmerciful dildo was filled so.
And the nodding-donkey rose and fell, and as it rose, the wicked barbell worked the rocker inside her codpiece and pressed on the pipe, and then the tube’s wicked protective spikes like thorns were driven into her clitoris hood and bit through her clitoris as she knew they would, and then the donkey nodded again and again and Lovina’s clitoris was bloodied with pain as the spikes on the tube bit through it insanely as her cries for mercy were answered with pain as the donkey also levered back and forth the rotating cactus scouring her sheath with its plethora of needle teeth.
As she walked her beautiful whipped bum swung massively side to side, for her pinched wasped waist caused her womanly whiles to wiggle wider than the widest wide and she could not help but wag her bum as if an on-come.
And on-come came as her torturette whipped her bum again and she screamed with the terrible pain and tears flowed from the heavenly cups of her gorgeous eyes as blood flowed from the devilish cuts in her bum’s hallow-hollowed sides in her high-heeled stance in her slow lonely walking strides.
“Get a move on yer fuckin slag! An’ yer shouldn’t ‘ave such a lovely bum if yer don’t wannit whipped till kingdom come!”
“Oh please I cannot take this pain!”
“Get dose gorgeous legs walkin’, or I’ll whip yer fuckin’ bum if yer don’t stop talkin’!”
“Oh please let me use the bathroom before you make me walk through the town!”
“What d’yer fink I am? I’m not yer servant to pull yer knickers down! ‘Sides, dat ain’t der way yer takes a piss when yer in the S.L.U.T. kit. Dat’s why yer got dat tube fit!”
Lovina wiggled her lovely brown rear and the whip whistled through the air that could not slow its wicked mission to lash and slash her without remission.
And now the beauty was outside and the fragrant misses of the press gathered at her from far and wide.
“Lovina is it true they are going to whip you through the town?”
“Lovina, what does ‘S.L.U.T.’ mean on your vest where it’s written down?”
“Over here Lovina! Look at the camera please!”
“No over here Lovina! Did she nearly buckle at the knees?”
“Can you get the camera on her bum, so the viewers can see where the blood is coming from!”
“Shapelia Bristols from EBC Sports is over there? Can you whip Lovina just as we go on air?”
“Lovina are you in terrible pain?”
“Lovina will you ever go braless in public again?”
Lovina strode on with her glorious legs, as the whip whistled and tore her back now instead. And her cry of pain burst through the barriers of the microphones and earphones of the press-girls who continued to harry her. And the blood from her bum’s cuts flowed the erotic curves of her shapely legs to her human heels, and then down the twelve-inches of needle-pointed stiletto-steel which formed each of her shoes ground touch and infinitesimally minimal feel.
And her stride worked the garters that made the cactus rip her sheath, and the nodding-donkey continued its ride, and inside her codpiece the tubes protective sheath did not miss the chance to impale themselves through her clitoris with their needle-teeth.
“Lovina may I have your autograph in my book if you’d be so kind? I don’t mind waiting till your wrists they unbind. I think you’re the greatest player in the world, and it’s horrible to punish you like this just for being a natural girl!”
This was from a fifteen-year-old so sweet and pure she did not even realise her own compelling allure, or that her beauty and total freedom would increase Lovina’s pain as the torturette whipped her bum again and the barbed wire cut her flesh and fresh blood ran down her thighs and calves without arrest.
“Why do you whip her so hard? Can’t you see that she’s in pain?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon likkle lady but I gotta whip ‘er again, cos she’s only just started on ‘er rounds, and she gotta yet be whipped right raand da town.”
And with that the torturette barb-wire whipped Lovina’s gorgeous brown bum yet again.
“Oh god please stop: I cannot take this pain!!”
“Keep fuckin’ walkin’ or I’ll whip yer again, but den yer’ve probably guessed by now, dat I’m gonna fuckin’ whip yer any’ow, so get them gorgeous legs working you horny fuckin’ cow!!”
And the ‘cable-tie’ garters rotated the scourer in Lovina’s cunt, and the nodding donkey pressed the seesaw and squeezed the urethra tube and pushed its teeth through her hood and clit without interlude, and the torturette whipped Lovina’s lovely bare bum harder still, so the blood flew as she screamed and it flecked the expensive dress of a pretty EBC reporterette.
“Oh god just look at what that stupid bitch has done! These spots of blood came straight from her bum! I’ll never get this clean again now till kingdom-come. The cow deserves everything she gets. Doesn’t she realise I’m an EBC reporterette? I not only have to be fragrant I have to look smart, so as to burn love of my looks into every viewer’s heart. And I can never wear this dress again, and I still have to report on the stupid slag that has brought such disrepute to a wonderful sport!”
Lovely Lovina had been whipped for a mile on show, but still had five more to go.
Bound in her bib of orange glow, with her tits in cones on her chest and her nipples stretched to extreme of test, her codpiece implements tortured her without rest. And as she with the ground her lovely feet blessed, the torturette her bare bum with the barbed-wire whip far from caressed and her screams found her tongue never at rest as her tears flowed like the blood down her gloriously beautiful legs only marginally less.
And yet and yet was her body betraying her? Was she being flogged round the town on open display getting hornier at every tip-toed step of her wonder wander wiggle way?!
“Is that Lovina Hart being treated as an ‘S.L.U.T.’ for Payback? I’ve always wanted to straddle her back. The way they have squeezed her waist down that far, confirms she could take a saddle for sure. She’ll never play championship tennis after this strife. But she’ll have to do something with her life. If she hadn’t loads of money galore, she’d make the perfect ponygirl whore. Saddle her up and put reins on each titty, and you could proudly ride her around any city. With legs like hers trained by years of tennis, you could ride her solo at ponygirl polo; in fact I’ll ask her if that will be her next resort, since she’ll no longer be allowed on the tennis court, and at least it would keep her in the field of sport!”
Lovina overheard herself being discussed as if she were not there, by two reporterettes following where she was being so cruelly whipped at every step of her round-town enforced trip. And to be spoken of without parallel as if she were merely an equine animal, stirred her Eros’ flame as her torturette whipped her bum again, and her codpiece arrangements did their duty, the cactus to scrape out her cunt as her garters made it semi-rotate and the nodding-donkey to paddle her clitoris with the tube’s spikes at every nod it would take without let or hindrance let alone mistake.
But now as she could nearly take it no more, the torturette lashed her bum so hard the flawless angel nearly fell to the floor, and then she let her bladder go, in a manner that would not show and be thus rude, for she peed painfully into her urethra tube.
And now as she strode along the road in her twelve-inch heels with her swinging bum under the relentless whip, her nodding-donkey and spiked tube and scourer punished her sheath and clit, but yet to be punished were her tits.
And despite her will, the punishment of this S.L.U.T. doing payback began to thrill in a way poor Lovina died she could kill, but could not stop it growing still.
And the fragrant reporterettes at her side at her every wantonly wide wiggle stride could not believe what Lovina uttered with her unsurpassably beautiful negress’ lips as they heard her beg to be whipped.
And as the torturette barbed-wire-whipped her bare bum again, it was as if Lovina was waggling it to inflame, for the torturette redoubled her efforts and whipped Lovina’s bare bum with maximum force and still Lovina walked with her hyper-sexual wiggle a come-on as the barbed-wire whip tore the flesh once more on her bum and her blood flowed in inspirational spirals around her shapely legs as her negress mouth begged and said: “Whip me! “Oh god whip me! Oh please god whip me!!”
And the barbed-wire whip whistled down again and again as she repeated her begging refrain as it tore the flesh of her bloodied bum in vicious strikes that tore her skin with the barbed-wire’s spikes. And her sexual walk was as aroused and arousing as her hoarse talk of: “Whip me! “Oh god whip me! Oh please god whip me like a whore!! Teach me not to show my tits I you implore. Whip my bum as hard as you can, for I am such a filthy madam as to let my tits loose without a bra and for this I deserve what you have done to me so far, but I have five miles to walk still in this pain and I beg that you whip me without restraint, for I have been a slut and let my tits show when they should have been in a bra kept I knew and now know, except that I need this lesson, so whip me and whip me unmercifully hard at every step I wiggle, twice and more at every yard, until my bum is to ribbons cut and I learn the lesson from being a S.L.U.T.!”
Although these words unlike the whispered “whip me” were not spoken aloud by Lovina herself, but their like rather shouted by the crowd that crowed as she was flogged along her way a S.L.U.T. on display along the road, her debt to society to repay, they were in Lovina’s mind and showed in the way that her love juices now filled the codpiece cup but bid to run down her inner-thighs on their way to mingle with the blood from her whipped bum as she wiggled along being barbed-wire-whipped in the blistering sun.
And were Lovina’s cries now of pleasure as the torturette whipped her bum with the barbed-wire: the bum that wiggled as if in disdain of the lashes that brought her such terrible pain? Her wasped-waist set her bum meandering wide and yet there was no way its sexual signals she could hide and the inflamed infuriated torturette increased the barbed-wire lashes on Lovina’s torn and tortured hide, while the cactus ripped her and scoured her supposedly to cleaner thoughts inside her cunt, and the nodding donkey drove the needles that were far from blunt as they pierced her clitoris again and again, and her beautiful black thighs walked on in this reign of the most regal of girls on this earth being whipped without mercy for being a flirt, and as she walked she rotated the scourer back and forth and the nodding-donkey rose and fell and when it rose she could tell for agonising sure, from the spikes going through her hood and her clitoris once more.
But the nodding donkey had another function, and she was still pissing down the tube up her urethra. And with the pressure of her pissing and the pumping of the nodding-donkey, her piss had reached the junction where the tube divided into two bits, one tube each thereafter leading to one each of her tits. And as she walked and wiggled being barbed-wire whipped, the cactus-scourer rotated back-and forth by the garters on her thighs her cunt’s insides assuredly being ripped, and the nodding-donkey was causing the needles to savage her clit to rips.
And the nodding-donkey was also pressing the tube from her urethra. And as Lovina walk-wiggled provocatively while her bum was barbed-wire whipped, she was now with her piss injecting her tits!
Poor Lovina tried her bladder to control without delay. But this was her first major piss of the day, and her bladder determined it should go all the way. And all the way was her piss going for it filled the tube as its transparency was showing. And her walk with the barbed-wire whip slashing her bum was only part of the pain that was to come, for her punishment was to include something to fit the crime of leaving a bra off of her tits sublime and thus being lewd.
And the nodding donkey relentlessly see-sawed between her thighs at her every supremely feminine stride and pressed on the tube to drive the piss up to where the tube did divide, and then higher still to where each tube was attached to a needle driven seven-inches into tits judged needful of punishment they were about to get to teach this S.L.U.T. how to regret her display that day.
And Lovina’s peeing seemed as endless as the barbed-wire whipping of her bum, and she could not stop her piss from come as it would to relieve her bladder only to be pumped by the nodding-donkey up the ‘ladder’ comprised by the tube that led to the hollow-needles and one-way valves through her nipples and deep into her tits, and was there to ensure she injected and inflated her own breasts by her wicked-wiggle-wanton-walking filling each tit with her own piss mess.
And slowly but surely to the agony of her barbed-wire flogged bum, the acidic burning of the piss pumped into her tits was to come, and on top of that she was learning the pain of her tits so filled with her piss that they were yearning to burst the cones in which they were gripped, but could only swell to push out her nips closer to the end where the needles began their ride to her insides, so that now she had nine instead of seven inches of injectors doing their best to inject her piss into her chest as the donkey between her thighs nodded its silent ‘no’ and ‘yes’.
And her walk like her barbed-wire whipping would never be allowed to stop though she might try, and so her bladder was being pumped dry and her tits injected through the needles and one-way valves bye-and-bye, till she began to cry with the pain as her acidic piss burned her tits’ insides as relentlessly as the barbed-wire whip shredded her bum endlessly.
And now the S.L.U.T, was her true lesson learning from the agony of her tits swelling and burning as she continued to be barbed-wire whipped at every step of her sexy sexual walk listening to the crowd she did please, as their sopranos and contraltos continued their talk to taunt her and tell her she was a slag and a slut as they watched her lovely legs trickling constantly with her blood.
And yet four miles more must she be barbed-wire whipped for to cover her way, before she would be put on public display, for those who thought she had not suffered enough and wanted to gloat over her wounds and her blood and to ensure by their shouts that she understood that she was a S.L.U.T. and would never now be at rest till she donned a brassiere to cover her chest, so that she would never have her titties joggling and jiggling under her vest as she had that day and the airport which had led to the arrest that took her to trial and now this whipping as she walked the miles tortured by her scourer worked by her garters to rip inside her sheath, and by the nodding donkey working the tube that bit her shredded clitoris still with its protective needle-sharp teeth, and by that same nodding-donkey pumping her piss up to where the injectors shot it into her tits nine inches deep, her thus swollen tits burning inside with her acid as they barbed-wire whipped her bum on her endless trip.
Never-ending was the barbed-wire whipping of her bum, till the end of her town torture parade at last did come, and Lovina stood bloodied and all-but bare in Barnmouth’s famous Girl-Market Square, where she would spend the rest of the twenty-four hours as a S.L.U.T. on display allowed, to please the crowd.
She stood upright all night in her twelve-inch-needle-heeled shoes, her bum whipped with the barbed wire if ever she moved in any way with which her torturette disapproved.
Poor Lovina had not even a cum to lessen her pain. She longed to see her love, Teresina Semenova, but she never came.
...............
There were few there when the dawn arrived, but a crowd soon gathered to see if Lovina was still alive. And as they took off her codpiece the blood poured from her scoured cunt’s insides ripped by the cactus’ far from blunt semi-rotation by the garters on her thighs, and dripped from her clit, tattered and torn complete by the see-saw’s constantly pressing the tube onto it with its unmerciful needle teeth.
Lovina’s agony was replete with her tits swollen within the cones they would burst if only they could, pumped full of her piss as she was barbed-wire whipped on her walk. The acidic fire of her pee had burned inside her tits all night. And her moans of agony ignored despite her plight.
The conclusion of her torture was brusquely performed. Some members of the public had been forewarned, and girls galore came to watch with glee, to see what they would finally see, of the beautiful negress whipped round the town for the lewd behaviour of her tits in the VIP lounge.
They pulled out slowly the hollow needles nine-inches into her tits, but sealed off her nipples with biting teeth clips, to hold in the ‘milk’ formed by her burning piss, so as to continue its torture of the lovely negress miss.
Now the cuirass-bib with its message S.L.U.T. was unclasped from her twelve inch squeezed waist, so that her lovely natural twenty-three-inches usurped its supremely erotic place. Then they undid the padlock that fastened its collar to her neck, and took the whole bib away to leave her alone with her tits still contained in the obscene cones.
Lovina’s cry of pain as they slid the cones off, so her tits could take their natural form and shape, was accompanied by girly hands clapping to applaud their escape and to see the agony on Lovina’s gorgeous face.
They tied her with a back to a tree that rubbed on her barbed-wire whipped bum, to prepare her for the final torture that was to come. Her hands were tied aloft at her necks rear, and her ankles tied next at the tree trunk’s base near.
“Lovina Lesbiana Hart you have suffered much pain to ensure you never ever let you tits loose in public again, but always and always with a brassiere them restrain”, the pretty Girl-Police sergeant read from a script as she admired Lovina’s massively swollen tits.
“For being lewd in public your bum has been scourged, but that cannot be the final word, for according to the law, your tits were the miscreants and not the rest of your body, so your tits must pay the price of their stupidity and folly. Once that is over you will have completed Payback, and no more will you suffer on the S.L.U.T. rack.”
“As is usual on these occasions, straws have been drawn to decide on your final torturer on this fine summer’s morn, and the choice has fallen on Teresina Semenova, your challenger as tennis champion, who has declared she no longer wishes to be your companion, for she cannot live as she otherwise must, with a girl who has been condemned and punished as a Payback S.L.U.T.”
“Prepare yourself and stand tall against that log: prepare yourself bravely for your tits are to be flogged!”
Could it really take an hour for Semenova to flog her love with the four-foot-long flat strap that gave Lovina’s tits such savage slaps?!
Did Lovina’s tits get beaten hither and yon, and did she scream as her pain went beyond beyond, and did two brutal lashes burst the dam made by the clip that bit so cruelly into Lovina’s right nip?
And did the crowd applaud and jeer as piss poured out of poor Lovina’s right tit so hard, that the jet from her nipple showered the crowd across Girl Market Square yard?
And did the scream from her lovely negress lips tell of one relief as Semenova whipped her other still clamp-dammed tit, her damned dammed left tit, and did the other tit squirt bye-and-bye the acidic piss that had replaced the milk it should have contained, if only Lovina tits had not this punishment for lewd behaviour gained?
And did Lovina hang her lovely head in shame, as her piss still dribbled and dripped from her nipples, and she came, and came, and came, and came, and came, and came, and came, and came, and came, and came....... and came..... and came?
Eve Oveden
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis:- Answering the call of necessity, Eve Oveden doubles her efforts....
Eve Oveden
by Eve Adorer
She looked down at her feet in a daydream, but as if in shame.
First assumption was pulchritude with attitude: so pretty and so seemingly petulant. She stood on the station platform adorning the dawn, delivering girl: Darwinian development’s definitive destiny.
The simmering eyes glowed glimmering green. The petal-pink lips pouted proudly. Her adorable freckles delighted a face as white as a haunted ghost’s. Her abundant abandon of radiant red hair, a cornucopia of cupidic curls, tumbled its magnificence down to her trim ankles.
In the pretty fingers of her right hand she attractively distractedly twiddled a cute curl next her passionate mouth, as if she wished the curl straight as no one else would, nor she ever unbend its very nature could.
If cloud nine houses the angels, she was five-seven of number-nine-heaven.
Though she wore them as if she were more at home without them, she inspired her clothing with delectation.
Her mint-green all-encasing, all-embracing, almost industrial-strength rubber bikini top, bulged boldly, with her bountiful bosom’s divinely divided deep-cleaved twin poundage encased and controlled.
Her midriff, with inverted navel, depicted her fitness and the fulsomeness of her flowing curves.
She wore six-inch-heeled mint-green leather clog-mules with cork soles.
Her nettle-green nylon stockings displayed the darker rings of their tops caressing Thor’s thighs. The two tails of her mint-green rubber suspenders, showing below her skirt’s hem, were regimentally straight at the outsides of her upper legs. There they hauled her stocking tops up, as if they were miscreants caught in an attempt to escape the law, and imprisoned them tightly in golden clasps.
The belt of her suspenders hugged her hips where they commenced yielding to her middle’s concavity. This was high above the waistband of her skirt; for that was the current height of fashion.
The mint-green rubber skirt clung to the rotund firmness of her derriere’s domes, delighting with the enticement its minisculity minded to hide, the known yet unknown mystery that was inside its inside. Was she a curly girly or did she shave it? Was it scenting her knickers or wore she them not? Was it kissing a lucky crotch, or flagrantly fragranting the air with its magnificent musk?
As the radiant redhead awaited her train, she twiddled one curl distracted in thought, working her lovely right leg slowly back and forth over and again as she leaned her left into its shoe: a wet-dream in a daydream. And oh my longing she would lift her dimpled chin and notice me!
“Wot yer wavin’ yer leg like dat for den darlin’? ‘As it got an itch?”
“If yer wanna rub it to ease yer itch sweet’art, don’t let us stop yer.....as long as we can watch eh!”
“Den agen, wiv dat flaming gorgeous ‘air what you got, mebe it’s on fire eh. So shall us get the hextinguisher ready darlin’, soas to be sure it won’t burn an ‘ole in yer knickers?!”
The three girls in denim dungarees urged their cheeky chief spokesgirl on. They had been as regular on the platform as the angel was new. I knew they were headed for Camford, where their artisan’s skills were repairing the aging stonework of the university’s more ancient colleges, including St Annalisa’s where my wife once lectured.
The three looked conspiratorially at me, and I longed I were not so cowardly, and could stop their bating of the beauty. But I compensated myself as I watched the angel blush, by telling myself her tormentors meant no harm, as was indeed so.
“You takin’ it for a ride den darlin’?”
“Dontcha fink dat, instead of sittin’ on it, yer’d be better off takin’ it for a run so as to keep it workin’? I mean, we’d none of us wannit to ‘eal up now would we eh’?” the second builder contributed.
“Nah: she’s takin’ it on an ‘oliday ain’t she”, the third builder chimed in, as if she knew something the others didn’t. “’Spect it needs an ‘oliday. Bet she can’t keep her ‘ands off of it. Lucky bitch; her can ‘ave a feel of it whenever she wants!”
The angel looked up, her face suffused sweet rosé, her soft green eyes stinging with tears of embarrassment teetering to topple. Her sweet look devastated her teasers.
“Sorry darlin’, but you is such a fuckin’ gorgeous babe, ain’t yer?”
........................
The ankle-length flowing gloriously glowing hair, had been shorter back then: back when Eve Oveden and I had been at our all-girls school together.
Most of us lived-in at school. Eve was a day-pupil, and came and went daily from her Aunt Serina’s home in the nearby village.
Even when she was only fourteen, she had been such a big girl. We other girls had been so jealous of her early development, or rather, developments.
Memory probably tells me false now. But my recall is that she had needed a bra by when we were still struggling to grow breasts that would even challenge to compare with the size of her nipples.
It’s probably become exaggerated, but my recall says that when we had both been fifteen, she was over-straining the strength of under-wired 38D cups while my breasts would almost only have needed a couple of thimbles to contain them.
My friends and I were jealous because all the older girls were after Eve, or, rather, after it. We never got a look in, let alone a finger. Nor had they as it happened. Though it was not for want of trying, even the head girl never got a hand in Eve’s knickers.
“No please; please give them back!” she had squeal-whispered.
She was sweet. We all loved her. Eve could have been proud and aloof, but in fact was kind and gentle. Later on we discovered that we could trust her in spite of what we knew was going on.
We nudged one another that day. We knew Eve was in one of the shower cubicles. I don’t know what came over me. We nudged each other, my best friend Ravinia and me.
Eve had been working-out, as she did pre-schoolday each morning. Ravinia and I had watched her as we shared the gym, but left early and had already showered and re-dressed.
We all wore the uniform of steel-grey skirt and white shirt, plus the horrible bottle-green school-standard knickers. Eve was in the showers and her uniform en prise in the changing room.
I was not beyond mischief back then, nor a little bit of enterprise.
Ravinia put me up to it. But, truth told I needed little persuading.
We hid. The neighbouring laundry room was empty: empty of people that is; though stacked with sweaty clothing awaiting the wash-girls arriving for duty.
We went in there and pressed over each other, hardly daring to draw breath, as we leaned on the counter and peeped through the gap between the serving-hatch doors, narrowly opened inwards by me.
Wrapped in a towelling dressing gown robe, Eve came out of the shower in full view of us. Both Ravinia and I tried not to giggle and give our game away.
Eve towelled her exposed extremities and then reached first for the uniform white knee-socks, which she rolled up to put in turn over her pretty feet, and then unfurl slowly up her heavenly calves. Although it was not allowed, and we were supposed to turn the tops over, she wore her socks like the rest of we older girls, leaving them unfolded-over, and thus covering to just above her knees.
Shy as she was, even though she had no reason to know she was not alone in the gym’s outer rooms, Eve looked around before she disrobed. But when she removed her towelling gown, my eyes could not stop themselves roaming over and over her lovely body.
Eve had had her back to Ravinia and me at first, but had then turned briefly, and I saw it smiling, and I was absolutely astonished, till I realised.
I knew, of course I knew, that I had curls around mine. I had never seen a nude one before: not on a girl my own age that is. I had, as of then, been very innocent, and not realised that some girls shave theirs.
I was astonished and looked at Ravinia, to see if she shared my surprise. But Ravinia pretended it was nothing she hadn’t seen before, and so I fell in with that, scared to show my naivety.
But when Eve bent over to round up her breasts and cup them in her bra, it flashed between her thighs, and both Ravinia and I let out a gasp that we feared Eve must surely have heard.
But Eve was too distracted. She was looking for them. She was sure she had put some on before she had made the half-hour walk to school. But what could possibly have happened to them now?
She busied herself donning her white blouse and her pleated grey skirt, tying her school tie the while, then putting her feet into her slip-on flatty-shoes, as her mind raced and she began to doubt she had worn any.
Her training shorts and sweated-up tee, joined her trainers and towel in her holdall, while her sweet face still showed she was thinking over whether she had remembered to put some on.
Then, as if she had forgotten it all along, Eve had removed her shower-cap, and the glory of her golden curls slow-motioned erotically to her shoulders, and then her shoulder-blades, and then down her back to her bottom, bouncing and flouncing, with Eve shaking them casually into compliance with draping in unison down to the back of her knees, as she buttoned the cuffs of her blouse as if the totally tantalising titian torrent was of no significance.
Later, as she sat nervously in class, I had passed a note to tell all the other girls that it was bare, because I had Eve’s knickers, and that it was a dollar a sniff.
There were thirty girls in our class. With one flash of Eve’s knickers behind the teacher’s back, to show I was telling no lie, I made twenty-eight one-dollar promises in an instant.
I was of course first to scent the passion-du-femme with which it had blessed Eve’s knickers’ crotch. Mine was free. But, before I would pass the knickers on, I had insisted that even my thief-in-partnership, Ravinia, promise to pay for the pleasure.
When she realised I had hold of her knickers, Eve had blushed scarlet.
“No please; please give them back!” she had squeal-whispered, blushing beautifully as she watched the pleasure with which her most feminine aroma, its musk-poisson, was being enjoyed by her classmates.
Our teacher, Miss Strickland, turned in an instant at Eve’s whisper.
Fortunately, Magdalena Fortesque had the knickers well hidden at that point.
Or at least she thought she did. But Miss Strickland demonstrated that she was not known as ‘old hawkeyes’ for no reason.
“Let me see exactly what it is that you are holding under your desk Fortesque”, the crone-like middle-aged spinster croaked in her high-pitched voice.
“Come on girl. Don’t try to play games with me!”
Magdalena had no choice other than to show the bottle-green knickers, turned inside-out as they were, the better to smell where it had nestled.
“My goodness me: what disgusting things you girls get up to! To whom do those soiled pantaloons belong? Come on! Either one of you tells me, or you will all be made to stand up and prove you have your draws on!
“Please Miss. They’re mine Miss”, Eve had confessed, and we blessed her for her sacrifice in covering for us.
“Eve Oveden! I am surprised at you girl! You are the brightest pupil in the school, let alone this class....yet you apparently think it funny to sit in class with no underwear on, passing your bloomers around as if to prove you have taken the dare? And I see that money is changing hands. So, you not only took the dare, but you also intend to profit by it Oveden.”
“What shame this brings on you and your family”.
Miss Strickland now lifted the lid of her desk, and took out a calendar with which we were all familiar, for we were all named on it at regular intervals.
........................
Miss Strickland’s favourite punishment was to have girls caned in mid-period. She had had all us living-in-pupils tell her our cycles, and, even if nature was more flexible about the margins, she issued out our ration of sanitary towels in strict accordance with her desk calendar: her ‘Periodic Table’ as she called it. Even though Eve was a day-pupil, her name and the cycle of her bleeds had still been entered up by Miss Strickland.
The behaviour of the headmistress was not that predictable though. And the next I saw of the gorgeous Eve, she was clinging closer than a vine, staring adoringly into the headmistress’ eyes as they walked about the town.
We never saw her in class again.
It seemed as though Eve had not been caned. She had been sent to the headmistress for punishment, and ended up in her bed instead. After that, the only time we saw her, was when we glimpsed her about some domestic duty around the garden at the side of the school: the garden of the home she shared with the head.
Though she had become the headmistress’ mistress, Eve was too lovely to take advantage. The scope she had for telling tales about us, to get revenge for my stealing her knickers that day, was obviously immense. But the only pillow-talk she indulged, appears to have consisted solely of her orgasmic screams.
Thanks to her intimacy with the head, she also missed the end of school appointments.
I did too, but then I had matriculated. I had passed the entrance examination with flying colours and was headed for Camford University.
Eve, having not studied since she was fifteen and become the headmistress’ chosen bed companion; a perk allowed in the head’s terms of employment; could not possibly have gone on to college. But she also missed the sad sight of the other girls who had failed matric, being lined up and told of their future as if they were being insulted.
“Bitch; bitch; pony; bitch; pony; oinkgirl; pony; bitch...” the headmistress and Miss Strickland numbered them off. Half my class, half Miss Strickland’s class, were condemned to being trained into the roles that had long been decided for them if the failed matriculation; failed to make the list for a university place.
And believe me, when you have seen one of your fellow schoolgirls after she has been trained and forced into the straps that bind her legs to her thighs, with the pads on her hands and knees, bound so she has to crawl naked for her owner on collar and leash...when you have seen one of your former school-friends, bound as a bitch, being serially shagged in the park by Alsatians, while her wealthy owner gossips with her friends as if nothing extraordinary were occurring, as indeed nothing extraordinary is, given the world we now live in, where there are too many girls and too few jobs.... when you have seen such a sight, you are glad you made it to college.
........................
She had not noticed me on the platform. Eve had been too distracted by her tormentors. They, shame faced, sweetly let her step aboard the train in front of them, making exaggerated ‘gentlemen’-like low bows at which she giggled and blushed, pleased at their attention to her femininity.
They had an ulterior motive of course. So did I. So did I for holding back a while before boarding. Our thoughts were as one. Her skirt was so short, we wanted to see if she would flash when she stepped up onto the train.
At the very least we hoped to see signs of whether she was wearing any panties. But we had, of course, all noticed that she had no visible panty-line, and, if our luck was really in, and hers was not, and she wasn’t, she might. The best things in life are free, and we were hoping that it was.
But she knew the builders were watching and why, and both her pretty hands were deployed to anchor her hem, till she was aboard and could turn to give the teasing artisans a lovely blushing smile and blow them a kiss from her sweet palm, as if to say ‘you didn’t really think you were going to get to see it that easily did you?’.
And even though the smile was not from the lips they, we, had wanted to see it from, they wolf-whistled her thighs loudly.
....................
But my luck was in that day. She looked up nervously. She must have been concerned the artisans would follow her to her seat on the train, because they were sniffing after it of course.
Her eyes lit up when I sat opposite her. Her eyes lit up and her face glowed and I fell in love with the ghostly apparition with the curled golden mantle that draped its torrential titian twists to the seat either side of her.
And as I moved into my seat opposite her, I had seen how her skirt was so short that her strong bold round smooth thighs, were bare above her stockings’ tops and way beyond. And I knew, I just knew, that she wore no knickers, and was sitting with it blessing her seat.
“Oh, Dora, how lovely!” she cried and touched my hand in greeting, and I instantly dampened my panties and blushed.
And then it was as if she knew her devastating affect, and she withdrew her soft fingers, and flushed with embarrassment in turn, before turning her burning face into one gorgeous smile.
We were both twenty-five now. Having taken a first at Camford in pure and applied maths, I was in public health, and had been inspecting farms. Today I was headed for Market-Clitton. I had been travelling this way daily for a week now, hotelling in Spindon and taking the train out to the neighbouring villages: finishing my journey by hiring a ponygirl-cab where necessary: all on expenses of course.
“You were always the clever one”, Eve smiled, as if she could read my mind.
“And you are still the beautiful one”, I responded, “Your hair is so gorgeous...!” I continued, as if the hair alone, although it was absolutely stunning, were the only source and substance of Eve Oveden’s outstandingly exceptional beauty.
“Thank you Dora. That’s so lovely of you”, Eve responded.
“You’re terribly pretty yourself you know. I always fancied you dreadfully when we were at school. I could never understand why you and your friend, what was her name...”
“Ravinia?”, I prompted....
“Yes, of course it was...you and Ravinia... I don’t know why you hated me so.”
“We...I never hated you Eve. God no! I was head-over-heels for you...so was every girl in the class, every girl in the school I shouldn’t wonder...you were...you are just so damned gorgeous we... I never thought I had a chance with you”.
“But you... you in particular, Dora... you only had to ask....”, Eve assured me, now it was far too late.
She sat back in her seat, and I looked at the wondrous strength of her thighs: thighs her risen hem hardly troubled to cover. She had not crossed her legs, and so I tried not to think about it scenting her seat, though my eyes longed she would part her knees so that I might just be able to glimpse if it was still shaven.
As if she knew my compulsion, with long slim fingers, and impractically long fingernails, she arranged perfectly the already perfectly arranged top of her right stocking, before checking her side suspender, with her tempting mouth pursed in a sultry moist sulky kiss.
“I’ve been working on my legs in the gym” she then whispered, with a shy sideways look that said she knew I could just not take my eyes off her thighs, and a voice that said ‘please tell me they are pretty’.
“Yes” I said. “I heard those three girls whistling at them when you walked onto this train!”
Eve opened wide her innocent green eyes, and I instantly drowned in the dark pools of her pupils. It was a look that said ‘thank you for the compliment!’.
“Are you still with Miss Cumberbach?” I hurriedly enquired, referring to the headmistress to whom Eve had become a fifteen-year-old lover ten years since.
“No; Lesley and I split up last year. It was a mutual thing, but such a problem. I mean, I wish I had been clever like you and Ravinia. It was too late for me though. I became a housewife for Lesley, and had too much to do to carry on my schooling. Lesley couldn’t afford maids, not on a headmistress’ wage. So I had to do everything about the house and garden. Then, when we split up.... well... I had no career and no chance of one and no income. Thank goodness though that my Aunt Serina was willing to take me on at the farm, where she brought me up since my parents died all those years ago. She had a vacancy for a dairy manager, and that’s been me for most of the last...well...I reckon it must be fourteen months now rather than a year.”
“Of course we’ve had a hard time of it more lately, what with the customer demanding fair trade and free-range. And I’ve had to take a change of position, but I’m still in charge of the herd, even though Aunt Serina now organises the farm and markets the produce and all the things I used to do when I was manager for her.”
“And I have to acknowledge that the yield is up now we’ve gone free-range: there’s nothing like contentment among the herd it seems. The scientists were right. And so were the customers too of course. The customer is always queen they say. Though in our case of course, the first customer is, or was, the supermarkets, and they drive a very hard bargain, what with them being nearly a monopoly outlet.”
“It was their demands and the free-range decision that lost me my management role; the supervisory one Serina has taken on herself once more. I mean it had to happen or else we couldn’t compete on price. But Serina is so clever, and she has come up with a deal to supply the Royal Milton hotel chain direct.”
“It saves on some of the travelling for the herd you see. The individual hotels can provide a stall in their cellar or back yard somewhere, and Serina has come to an agreement over feed for the animals we loan out. And she’s got other marketing ideas too.”
“We’ve... I should really give her the full credit, because it’s been entirely Serina’s thinking and doing...she’s not done more than just the milk before. I mean we sold it to the supermarkets and made a living. Nothing too grand you understand. We couldn’t even afford a ponygirl, except for the working ones of course, and you can’t saddle them: though we had...she has a little two-seater cart, but the herd walks itself up from the station, so we...she doesn’t need to ride out and round them up or anything. Cattle are much more clever than people give credit. But Serina’s decided we’ll do cheese and that, and market it direct. That way we’ll.... she’ll cut out the supermarkets, and go to the famers’ markets held in the villages: even Spindon town’s market is within her thinking and range....”
I watched this stream of breathless-prose, mesmerised by Eve’s mouth and drifted into a dream as I listened to the dream. As her lovely lips kissed out her words, her beauty shone. She knew she had me smitten, and was thus relaxed and openly fully feminine. The charm with which she would occasionally sweep back her curls with her long fingers, fascinated: it was as if she were conducting the orchestra of love. Her fingers would also often emphasise a point by her touching my knee. As she leaned forward to do that, completely unselfconsciously, I just thought of the scented print it could be leaving on her seat as she pressed toward me.
“....so I’ve been on a two-week course, and everything’s fine and dandy, though my nose is still a bit sore, but I’m well over the silly little head-cold I had by now, and now I can contribute my share and it’ll start tomorrow, or rather it better had”, she concluded with a punctuating giggle, but in my dream and admiration of her wonderful presence, I had lost track of what the lead-in for this last point had been.
“So now you’ve done the course, you can do your new job, leading the herd like you said earlier, better?” I ventured, in hope I had picked the right theme.
“Exactly! Or rather, I’ll now be able to take the task up...” she breathed sexily, and then smiled so sweetly, I was as pleased as champagne that I had not upset her by not listening properly.
“And what are you doing these days?” Eve then whispered confidingly, as she innocently enthusiastically lightly touched my knee once more, to point out she was addressing me intimately personally as it were.
“Me? Oh I am so boring, compared with what you’ve been experiencing.... I married Ravinia five years ago...”
“Oh: you two married: how lovely!” Eve breathed, and her adorable face told no lie that she was telling no lie about her sweet sincerity.
“Yes. It’s the one good thing that has ever happened to me. Ravinia’s over in the States lecturing at Vale. I’m just the dowdy stay-at-home housewife now, but I do part time work at the Department of Agriculture. Thanks to Ravinia’s earning power, we’ve got a palatial home in Camford near St Annalisa’s College where Ravinia lectured before she took up an offer from Halvard, and moved on to Vale. I’m just out and about from the office at the mo, hotelling it while I health-check local farms...”
“I’ve got your Aunt’s place on my list to visit”, I added, “At least I think I have.”
I reached in my jacket pocket and pulled out my palm-top to find my checklist.
“Is Half-Yard Farm your Aunt’s place? I was never sure where you lived when we were at school... ‘cept I knew you walked all the way in from Market-Clitton of course...”
“That’s Aunt Serina’s place alright, and that’s where I’m heading right now; now I’ve finished my course....” Eve enthused....”..., she then suddenly nodded at the view out the window, a view I soon shared as the train passed the spot she was indicating: “Look there’s our old school”. I wonder if old Strickland is still having the girls spanked when they are on their bleed: the cruel bitch...”
That was the first unkind word I had heard Eve utter, and I wondered if I had been wrong after all, about her being caned over the time I stole her knickers. And the sudden mental picture of her bending over, and touching her toes with her fingertips, while getting six of the best with the cane on her bare bottom, naked other than for the sanitary towel between her legs, made me ooze momentarily.
“.....with me?”, Eve concluded suddenly.
“Sorry” I said..“I’m so sorry, Eve, I lost you for a moment”, I apologised.
“What were you thinking about?” she queried with a shy blush, and I flushed up in turn at the thought that she might know I had been day-dreaming about her being caned by Miss Cumberbach.
“I was asking if you could make my aunt’s place right now. We’ll have to be quick. We’re nearly at the station. Serina’s in Hondon signing the hotel deal; but I can show you around...and we can have a good chat about the old days?”
“It’s a bargain”, I answered.
As I let her go before me, she thanked me sweetly for paying honour to her higher, indeed her highest femininity.
And I watched her blush as we passed the artisans and one of them called out to her:
“Hey now! You look after it darlin’ d’yer hear me? Put some ice on it. That’ll cool it down for yer!”
Then, when one of the builders saw me following and assumed that Eve and I were together, she added under her breath:
“You lucky bitch! Give it the full five fingers for us eh!”
......................
As we stepped off the train, I had never seen a girl blush as wonderfully as the gorgeous Eve was doing. And the fact she had reddened up so readily and so beautifully, made me realise that the crude remarks from the builders had aroused her, and that it was probably wet”.
As the train we had just exited pulled out to journey on:
“Hello Miss Eve! You come to brighten us all up again have you? My, you do look so lovely...” the cheery station-mistress called, as she turned away from counting a row of tall galvanised-steel churns, to eye Eve over.
“D’you know, I’m sure there were a dozen this morning Miss, and there be only eleven now. Still, that be my problem don’t it? We’ll get a full twelve empties out your Aunty’s place this evening some’ow.”
“You on your own today? I ain’t seen a day you wasn’t bossing over them when you was about...Your Aunty took off for Hondon on the early train. You been away?”
“Mornin’ ma’am”, the smiling station-mistress then added, touching the peak of her cap in salute, when she, at last, noticed me and realised that Eve was not in fact alone.
“Wrong time of day for the herd coming back yet”, Eve smiled.
“O’ course it is! Course it is!” the station-mistress responded, “Spect they’ll be loaded on the special this evening as usual. ‘Ere, you’re trusting them a bit, letting them wander out there on their own aren’t you?”
“Free-range?” Eve reminded.
“Oh. I ain’t got no time for them new fangled old-fashioned notions. What if they goes a wandering off? You’ll stand to lose some Miss Eve. Not like when you had them in the sheds all the time... It’s a wonder you can keep account of them now, letting them wander around and mix like that. ‘Taint natural if you asks me....not these days it ain’t...”
“Hey they’ve all been asking ‘bout you down the Dolly Chick. ‘Where’s the gorgeous Miss Eve been this here last fortnight’ they keeps a saying. Fair stops me enjoying my pint of beer it do...”
“No they don’t ask any such thing!” Eve blushed, “You’re just teasing me”, she added with a loving smile, “And, since it’s really you that’s itching to know, I’ve been at the veterinarians taking a course, learning how to inoculate and such”, she concluded.
The station mistress smiled. “So the rumours were right then. You is going to head them up proper...”
“Yes: the rumour was right Dorothea...you can tell them down the Dolly Chick that I’m very happy about it too....Management was too big a role for me. Aunt Serina is far better at it, and better off without me messing up the stats for her...” Eve added, as she wiggled ahead of me toward her Aunt’s farm, and we left Market-Clitton Station’s platform behind.
......................
“Dorothea is so lovely, but she’s getting forgetful. She can’t be far off retiring now...” Eve confirmed as we walked out of earshot.
“That’s the road that takes you to our old school” she then pointed out.
“Half-an-hour’s walk each way each day it was for me. Even if there had been a station next to the school I couldn’t have afforded to take the train. Aunt Serina always said that, anyway, walking would ensure I had pretty legs”, she giggled, and I looked again as Eve intended I should, and Aunt Serina had not been wrong.
......................
It was a two-minute stroll to Half-Yard Farm, and, on our arrival, I had to try and hide that I was shocked at what I saw.
I instantly knew, or at least thought I knew, that I was going to have to mark this place down badly for the ministry, and maybe get its licence withdrawn.
Hygiene was top of the list for my assessment. This place was scruffy and run-down, and, as we walked into the main yard, I was already beginning to think I would have to recommend it be closed down, and that the herd of cattle would have to be taken in for sale; or slaughtered if there were no takers.
As if she could read my mind, Eve assured me, with a tone of complete confidence: “We have a gold star from all of them for our cream. All four supermarkets have assessed us. And we passed their other tests at either silver or, in one case, platinum....”
“The sheds you can see right now have been neglected, because we no longer force farm. We’ve still got five in battery cages. But that’s because they have been with us so long, they couldn’t face the free-range. But their produce is kept strictly separate. It’s all consumed on the farm. We’d lose our licence for free-range if we ever let their output into the main product.”
Eve spoke enthusiastically and knowledgeably, as if she were still her aunt’s dairy manager.
“Come into this one”, she beckoned. I followed and, in spite of its outer appearance, I was agreeably surprised at what was inside the shed she led me into.
As Eve turned on the lighting, I was dazzled by the spotlessly clean white tiles that covered floor and walls up to ceiling-height.
“We’ve converted this one completely. The standing cages used to be along the centre with the cattle facing inwards. The old conveyor belt, the type of thing with which you’ll be familiar, was running the feed into the troughs. It was always a problem getting the speed right so that the greedier cattle didn’t starve the ones at the end of the row though..... So we went for individual hopper-feeds in the end....But this shed never got converted to those..”
“Talking of cages, we were always on the humane side, with three-foot-square standers. Our neighbours, the Mourdens, were prosecuted for keeping their cattle in the old two-footers. When their cattle were let out by your ministry people, some of the poor creatures could hardly walk.”
“Over there are the showers. All the cattle go through the shower when they come in from grazing. Rinsers and then hot air dryers next. Then they find their way to their own bays.”
“You don’t half get some squabbling sometimes, when one of them gets forgetful about where to stand. But, now we’ve gone free-range and they get some exercise, rather than standing in the cages 24/7, they’re much more peaceable as a whole.”
“Mind you, the cattle-trains to take them out and about are an expense. Your ministry only subsidises one journey per day. That only pays for them going out or coming back of course. Mind you, we should be glad of the subsidy I know...”
“It’s all mechanical these days. Unfortunately, the hand-milking went out with the ark. That’s why each of them needs to know its own bay, after all, they are none of them quite the same height.”
“When you throw that switch over there, the collection pipe is on constant fluctuation-suction, so it milks each udder, turn-and-turn about throughout the milking session. There’s a two-way valve on the milkers in each of the bays. The cattle know where to stand in relation to the valves. On suction, the draw is powerful enough to hold their teats in, but it’s as well to go around and check the milkers are all on properly: after all, spillage is lost money.”
“The flow on the pipe can be reversed. So after each milking session, when the cattle are sleeping or out grazing again, we can blow boiling water through to clean the pipes and suction valves by scalding them out.”
“The milk collects in the tank outside. We’re still putting it into churns from there at the moment, but we’re hoping to get on the collection-tanker route when we can up production to a level that would justify the economics. We’re only farming two-hundred head at the moment.”
“We’ve still got the old straw-strewn sheds for overnighting the cattle. And there is plenty for them to graze on in there. It smells a bit of course. But the manure they produce by defecating and peeing in the straw there, though not in the quantities it was when they stood on straw in their standing-stalls, still gets custom. In fact the price is up now free-range farming has reduced its availability”.
“This is Aunty’s latest investment” Eve enthused, as she bent over straight legged, to open a locking-bolt at the bottom of a door and, forgetting how short her skirt was, gave me a fleeting glimpse of it in all its pristine smooth-shaven wonder.
In an instant, she realised what she had done, and rose up pulling down her skirt’s hem, with both her pretty hands fluttering like butterflies impaled alive by some cruel lepidopterist.
She was crimson with her embarrassment, and her lovely mouth was open and gasping as she tried to control her hot flushes, till she could manage to speak....
She then whispered, with her lovely eyes cast down in adorable shyness: “I hope you enjoyed that.....”
I longed to take her hand and kiss it. I sensed Eve was expecting as much if not more, and that, if I wanted to feel it she would not stop me. But I was a faithful wife.
“This is Aunty’s latest investment” Eve repeated, with her eyes showing that she was hurt by my not taking her and kissing her as I longed to do, and as she longed I should.
“I’m so sorry Eve”, I whispered.
“That’s alright Dora. I understand. What a lucky girl Ravinia is to have such a wife”, Eve assured me, with her lovely face depicting the absolute sincerity that was her essence.
“It’s all rather boring really....”
“Oh god!... I mean the machine!!” Eve stumbled out, apologising for saying something she thought might have been taken as a comment about myself and Ravinia and our marriage.
Her dainty hand flew to her mouth and a look of such apology was on her face.
“I knew that you meant the machine, Eve” I assured her, to calm her.
“Well, it’s just a churn”, Eve added a while later, opening a lid on the waist high device, as she continued to blush scarlet at what she had thought I thought she might have meant.
I had not seen such a device before. I mean I had, but not one with holes at the base of the barrel: holes that would let the fluid, as I thought, simply flow onto the floor. But a government employee, even a part-time one like me, has her pride. And I was not going to show ignorance and risk asking a question that would make me look stupid.
It was made from spotlessly clean stainless-steel. I looked more thoroughly over into the circular-barrel-like main body. Within it was an arrangement of four cleanly scrubbed wooden paddles or blades, fixed to a wheel at the bottom of the barrel.
The paddles looked for all the world like table tennis bats held vertically upright, with their handles mounted firmly onto that stainless-steel wheel at the barrel’s bottom.
The blades of these ‘bats’ were arranged such that four of their edges were aligned toward the centre of the barrel. So, seen from above, in the plan view, the ‘bats’ were aligned such that they would have made an ‘X’, if the inner edges of the upright blades had actually touched.
“The blades are removable for washing: for hygiene?” Eve explained, as she smiled in near giggles at the puzzled look on my face.
Then, as I watched, the blades began to move, as the wheel went 180 degrees one way, before going 180 the other, alternating direction, turn and turn about.
The wheel did the swift 180s, the rigid ‘bats’ therefore followed suit. The speed was quite brisk, but there was a pause too. The wheel did a brisk half-turn one way, paused for an equal time as that half-rotation had taken, and then did the reverse half-rotation after another pause.
“The pause is the clever bit of the design” Eve enthused “It enables advantage to be taken of the natural reverberations the blades obviously cause”, she added, to my complete puzzlement. “We found this design on a consumer survey and recommendations website. It scored 99 out of 100, and topped the list by a mile. Apparently, some models just flick away, with no allowance made for resettling before the next flick....”
I looked over at Eve, who switched the power back off again. And, as I looked further around this device, she explained its accoutrements.
At one side was a wooden block fixed upright at the level of the edge of the barrel and a little beyond. Opposite to that, on the ground, were a couple of wooden wedges, made like two opened bellows, with their pointed ends indicating straight down to the floor.
“Top and toe ends”, Eve smiled.
I was still quite mystified.
“The supporting legs of the barrel part can be adjusted for height. And the mettle strap that goes over the barrel when the lid is open, just click-locks into place on the side opposite its hinge. That is just for holding in place. That strap is very slick and quick”, Eve assured me, as if I understood.
“Bet you’d never guess we had to import it from Japan, unless I told you”, Eve giggled, as she put the lid back over the device once more.
“We tried so hard to support British industry, by buying from home. But the Japanese, and the Chinese come to that, are a billion miles ahead with the modern method of production. The knowledge they have gives them a monopoly for now. We’ve only just caught on to the new way here and over in the USA.”
“This one is the Nonda 573. It’s the newest on the market. The Chinese products are cheaper, but they’re playing catch-up with the Japanese. However, the Chinese make the Hanikia ‘Double-Flick’, the old Nonda 450 under licence, and it is reportedly still proving exceptionally reliable, even if the design is a bit old-hat now.”
“The British kit is stone-age by comparison. Would you believe they’re still making hand-cranked ones for the old method of production?! Though I suppose that may come back into fashion, what with environmental considerations and the cost of power going up. But our...my aunty’s calculations are that its efficiency means that, with this little machine, we’ll be well in profit despite the cost of power. We can use the overnight off-peak cheaper electricity to some extent you see... If this one produces the goods, we...she’ll maybe get a whole bank of them installed...” Eve enthused informatively.
“Well...that’s the grand tour done”, Eve now sighed. “The other sheds are being repaired and converted to the same as this one. Then the herd numbers can be upped.”
“Are you sure there is nothing I can tempt you to?” she then whispered in a tone that told me she was being sweet, and gently teasing me, knowing that, if she had something saucy in mind, which her gorgeous eyes said she did, ‘no’ would be my inevitable answer.
“I need to see the overnighting quarters please Eve”, I reminded her.
“Oh my god! Of course you do!” Eve exclaimed as she swept her gorgeous golden tresses up over one arm, to keep them from trailing on the floor of where we were headed.
“This way Dora, but we’ll both wish we had some boots on, and a clothes peg for our noses. We are overdue mucking the stalls out in there, and the smell is rather ripe to say the least!”
.....................
Eve must have known that I could not take my eyes of her legs. I could tell she knew because, as she strolled ahead of me, she stopped a moment in order to straighten a stocking-suspender that needed absolutely no attention.
I put no blame on her for her continuing attempts to seduce me. She was a driven girl. I knew that its tender beauty was exposed under the minimality of material that apologised for claiming to be her skirt.
She obviously now knew I knew. A considerable part of her loveliness was her drive to be desirable, and one way in which she achieved and maintained her desirability, was by dressing so skimpily and, outside of a beach bikini, never ever wearing panties.
It itself was, of course, very wilful and skilful at girlnipulating her mind. She was so incredibly attractive and so supremely feminine, because it completely ran her life for her.
Eve’s giggles when I was gasping in the ammonia-like stench from the urine-soaked straw gathered inside the unventilated cattle-overnighting shed, bought lovely tears of laughter to her beautiful eyes.
“As you can probably testify, Dora, we try to encourage them to pee and defecate away from their stalls, but some of them are just a bit lazy in that regard, so we have to ensure the straw in here is turned over daily, else we might get an outbreak of acid-rash.”
“We muck out and change the straw completely about once a month or six weeks, it depends. Remembering there are two-hundred head in here, they soil fresh straw pretty darn quickly. But they like us to hang on to it in the winter for the heat it gives off. And Aunty doesn’t mind, because that saves on power bills, and the market for manure goes down at that time of year anyway.”
“If you recall Moorhouse, the tomato people? Come the spring, they can’t get enough of the stuff for their glasshouses.”
“The only other problem a farmer gets with them, is their natural tendency to get a bit frisky with each other. Self-abuse was the problem when they were intensively farmed in the cages; but that was easily cured by binding their upper limbs behind them: I mean they had no use for them anyway.”
“But now we’ve...now Aunt Serina has gone free-range there’s a different problem. I mean the cattle that suck the milk from others in the herd. That’s a definite no no. You get an outbreak of that, and production and profits go down the pan in no time. I know the public don’t like the culling, but from the farmer’s viewpoint there really isn’t a choice. After all, the milk doesn’t belong to the cattle.”
“We...Aunty separates the milk-suckers from the herd, and feeds them up from their own udders for twelve-months. There’s still a bit of a market for milk-fed-yearling meat, provided the carcass is lissom.”
There had been a golden giggle in Eve’s soft voice throughout her informative lecture. She was watching my eyes smarting in the stench of the shed, and enjoying teasing me for my determination not to show that which I was totally failing to hide.
“Let’s go outside Dora. You look as if you need the air!” she giggled with her eyes aglow.
..........................
Once outside, I recovered but, from the tears in my eyes, Eve would not have known it.
My tears were now because I knew I had to say goodbye to this adorable creature, or else I was going to fall for her eternity-time.
As I sorted myself out and dabbed by eyes, pretending the stench had still got the better of me’ Eve huskily breathed: “Aunty won’t be back for hours yet.”
Eve understood my tears completely. She had been angling to seduce me. There was no sinfulness in that. It was just her natural way. She was, after all, a girl.
Her ghostly white face with the honey-sweet freckles came close to mine, and I could scent the soft freshness of her glorious hair, and the sweetness of her breath, as her holy eyes stared through to my very soul.
“There’s plenty of time. We can share a shower, and then you can shag me if you want to......”, she whispered, “No one will ever know Dora. I promise I will always be discreet”, she added.
I cast my eyes down and blushed as I dampened my panties.
“What: not even a kiss?” she giggled.
I reached my hand to brush my fingers on her heavenly cheek, and she instantly held me by that wrist, and blessed my hand with the glory of her lovely mouth, by a gentle kiss on its palm.
“Oh well, I need to get down to it before Aunt Serina returns. Can’t be wasting the expense she’s blown to send me for that course in Spindon. She’ll be wanting results, especially since she’s got the hotel deal in the bag....” Eve continued afterwards, with a note of hurt and disappointment in her sweet soft voice.
“May I.....may I see it?” I begged.
Eve blushed crimson, but her pretty hands reached down, and, with some struggle because her rubber skirt clung to her ample buttocks so intimately, she hitched her hem up, and I gazed at it, I gazed at its innocent nudeness, I gazed at it in worshipful wonder.
“You can hold my hand while you look at it, if you like”, she shyly whispered.
I took the sweet hand she proffered, turned it gently over, and kissed its palm with my lips, and she lowered her head with her blushes, and then raised it in pride at her unsurpassable beauty: including the unsurpassable beauty she had between her gorgeous legs.
.........................
The next day at breakfast at the Spindon Royal Milton, I ordered just toast as usual, and began to look at the rear headlines in my newspaper, which I always turned over to look at the sports pages first.
“Would modom wish for special fresh butter with modom’s toast today?” the pretty serving girl asked, to my slight surprise, since there were pre-packed pats of butter in a dish on the table ready to hand.
Before now, I had been quite content with plain toast, not even using the healthy cholesterol-reducing margarine also on offer, superior brand though it was in that excellent hotel chain.
I thought about my diet and my figure. Then I thought about the sinfulness of such an indulgence, and my curiosity got the better of me. What was so ‘fresh’ or, come to that, ‘special’ about what she was offering me I wondered: I mean as compared with that already near to hand?
So: “Yes please” I replied, and the maid clicked her fingers and I turned to see whom she was directing.
And I turned open mouthed with astonishment at seeing Eve Oveden being led toward my table by a shiny stainless-steel ring through her pretty nose.
She was naked but for cloven-hoofed booties in which her stupendous legs were raised as if she were in higher than the highest high heels. Her slim wrists were girlackled helplessly behind her back under the superlative curls of her glorious hair.
She was naked but for those hoof-booties and a pair of very-tight-clinging black rubber knickers, of standard school-issue design, with the elastic particularly tight around the tops of her thighs.
As she undulated in almost an ungulate ruminant’s way to my table, Eve’s massive bare breasts slowly swung in majestic heavenly heaviness and unison. And, as she came closer, I witnessed the tender translucent pinkness of her exquisite nipples, and the blueness of the filigree of gentle veins that the transparency of this wonderful redhead’s soft white complexion displayed in her breasts.
It all fell into place in my mind now. It was not an educational course she had meant when she spoke to me of it on the train. She had become one of the cattle at her own aunt’s farm. She had been on the usual course of injections. Nine-inch long needles through her nipples would have pumped her ducts full of ‘Lactomake’ twice per day for a fortnight, to bring on her milk.
She was reduced to being one of the two-hundred head of cattle her aunt farmed, just like the pretty girls that hang around Spindon town centre all day now, now free-range is the way of farming once more.
They have become a conspicuous but very attractive nuisance at the local MacDonuts, eating junk food and drinking cola and giggling and laughing lovingly as they eye up the other girl customers.
Pretty little creatures in their day-to-day clothes now they are free-range: day-to-day clothes but with the lines of their tee-shirts, or other choice of tops, disturbingly disrupted by the hugely strong conical-cup rubber brassieres they need to wear in order to contain and restrain their very heavy breasts.
Their obviously very generous chests mark them out, along with the steel controlling-rings through the septum of their cute little noses, and the cloven hoof booties on their dainty feet. The erotically musical tinkling sound of their giggles is another sign of them.
In the summer, they sun their legs in the parks, and chase each other at the funfairs. When they are not talking excitedly about their wished for and dreamed of choice of girlfriends, they love to watch the soap operas on TV, and gather at their parents’ homes to do that, so that they can swap notes at MacDonuts afterwards.
They are not shy of showing their knickers either. Often in their giggling chases, one catches sight of the school-issue-style rubber knickers they wear to gather their pee and faeces.
They are taken for granted now they are such a familiar sight. It is not always recognised that, at the end of each day, these girls walk or take the cattle-train back out to their base farm.
There they strip their sweetly sweating young bodies naked in the sluice trough, dropping their heavily soiled rubber knickers there where their contents will be washed out to form slurry for spraying farm fields prior to crop-sowing.
After that, they step up out of the trough, and enter the shower-cum-bidet and are washed clean by the soapy water from above and coming up from the floor.
Rinsing jets follow in the next-room showers. Then they are blow-dried in the last room.
Wiggles and giggles usually follow them, as they stroll very-heavy-chested to their appointed stalls in the dairy shed, where the milkmaid will remove the clips that guard against loss from the nipples through seepage, wipe their nipples with disinfectant, and then attach the nipples to the machine which milks each of their breasts alternately in constant rapid succession.
The girls waiting their turn to be milked, love to groom the hair of the girls who are in the process of being milked.
After milking, their nipples are re-clipped, and they drift, naked, to their overnight shed, where they will watch soap operas on TV or DVD till they fall asleep: contributing to the manure in the sleeping stalls when they need to pee or defecate.
The next morning, they are showered and dried, before being milked again, and before their lovely chatter and giggles fill the outer parlour, as, after being smeared with protective ointment, sun-block plus anti-acid-rash treatment, they put on fresh-washed rubber bras then their clean rubber knickers, then their choice of outer clothing for the day. Finally they don their cloven-hoof booties, and hold each other’s pretty hands, as they walk to the station to be taken out to graze and laze around the town once more.
These are the girls who have failed university entrance qualifications, but were sufficiently well-endowed by loving nature, to make it worth spending 200 dollars on a course of ‘Lactomake’ to bring them into useful production.
And, as the hotel servant pulled on the strap attached to her nose ring to haul Eve over to my table, I heard Eve gasp with pain.
And Eve’s glorious hair draped the floor as she glided toward me, hauled not a little cruelly by the ring in her nose, till her curls fell over her shoulder as she bent over my breakfast table, and her hair draped its wonder before my flared nostrils, and I breathed the sensual scent of her curls, as I ogled the massive breast she was proffering for me to milk.
Eve was dutiful and made no show that she knew me.
And the waitress pulled hard on Eve’s nose ring again to pull her down literally and spiritually, and Eve gasped with the pain and whispered a pleading: “Oh please....!” And I looked at this glorious creature and the wonder of her entirely natural forty-four-inch bosom, with her superb nipples distended by her being filled with milk, and then between her immensely strong thighs, where I could see the mound its supremely delicate beauty was making in her rubber knickers
And I recalled when I had seen it when we had been at school. And I remembered the wonderful passion-du-femme I had scented in her stolen knickers in class at school. And the memory of her bending over at the farm and flashing it, and how I saw that it was still shaven, and that it looked as innocent now as when she had been at school. And I knew that, although I could smell the lovely aroma of her freshly shampooed raging-red hair, where it was concerned, she would only ever tease and taunt me, just as she teased and taunted the builders on the train with it, just as she had purposely ensured I could see she was wearing no panties on the train, and had purposely sat with it bare on the seat to deliberately excite me with the thought of it, and just as she had purposely provocatively flashed it when she had bent over at the farm.... And I was sure that, despite her offer, she never really meant to let me have intercourse with her....
And I now realised fully why Eve had been travelling on the train, and what that strange machine at the farm was.
I was a bit of a clown not to have worked it out before. I am not particularly technically minded, but had heard talk of the existence of such devices, and that the far-east had them when there were none in the Britain as of then. The one at the farm run by Eve’s Aunt Serina, must have been one of very few in the country. Britain was still using hand-cranked machines, to produce the desired end-product from the fluid itself, fluid poured into the barrel that was then briskly rotated. The machine Aunt Serina had acquired was different from that entirely.
Poor Eve!
Poor Eve!
Poor Eve, must have been strapped all night over the churn, with her breasts dangling helplessly in the stainless-steel barrel, so that by the churn constantly paddling her clipped-closed breasts: threshing her breasts that were filled to bursting with her milk, relentlessly flicking each breast, with paddles slapping each breast, twice each way every other second, to batter them back and forth, and forth and back for endless hours upon hours upon hours, the churn would make butter inside her breasts: the churn’s paddles would make Eve’s milk into butter inside her beautiful breasts.
The Nonda 573 churn had been designed to make butter within a girl’s tits: making butter inside the girl, so that this morning, after a night with her breasts being constantly paddled in the girl-churn, poor Eve could have her breast squeezed, and fresh dairy butter would ooze from her nipple onto my toast.
And the waitress pulled hard on Eve’s nose ring again, and Eve gasped with the pain and whispered a pleading: “Oh god please....!”
“If modom would care to squeeze the whoreox’s breast for herself...onto her toast...”, the serving maid prompted, as she held Eve by the leather rein run to, and knotted through the ring in Eve’s nose...
And I looked at the supremely delicate, supremely lovely, almost transparent pink nipple...
And......... “Oh...No! No thank you!” I insisted, “I don’t want to indulge myself with that. Even girl-butter is soooh fattening, and one so has to watch one’s figure these days...” I explained, to justify my change of whim.
But the real justification was evident in the crotch of my panties, for as Eve Oveden was led away by the steel ring she had had forced through the septum of her nose, and I watched her lovely side-dimpled bottom in her rubber knickers swinging, and her beautiful hair trailing its flames of desire’s fires over her ghost-white skin, my panties were wet with the pleasure of getting my own back. Because I was wet with enjoying her suffering, and trying not to show that I was having an orgasm at the hotel’s breakfast table: an orgasm in revenge for Eve never letting me feel it, let alone finger it, let alone kiss it, when I had worshipped her, when I had worshipped it, back ten years since when we had been at school; and because I still did worship it, and she knew I could not feel it, let alone finger it, let alone kiss it, because I was married.
In my twisted mind of the moment, I hated Eve and wanted her to suffer being kept as a whoreox and milked, or having her beautiful milk-filled breasts paddled for endless hours in the girl-churn, because, in my lust-twisted mind, it was Eve Oveden’s fault that I was married and not married. I wanted Eve to suffer her living hell, because I had momentarily determined that it was Eve’s fault that I was not married to Eve.....
The Flotsam Dame
(a Charlotte Moans prequel)
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: - Another case for Charlotte Moans, and another prequel to ‘Dead Dames Don’t Lick’. (An earlier prequel ‘The Little Sister’ can be found here within ‘Disconnections’ as “Part 16” - ‘Dead Dames Don’t Lick’ itself, is published on this site in its own separate right).
This new Charlotte Moans story starts with PI Charlotte (“Charley”) Moans helping New Edingow’s finest with their enquiries.....
The Flotsam Dame
(a Charlotte Moans prequel)
by Eve Adorer
Lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski was cute and acute. But I’d been old school before the cliché became a cliché. Before I’d kicked cop and gone PI, I’d been ranks got ranked and risen hard way.
Kowalski was new school. She’d majored Ivy League and thought she knew it all double-twice over. She’d climbed ladder without touching rung, and landed high with ears you could still have sowed rice behind.
I was summer, she was spring. I’d guess she’d maybe seen twenty-two shortest summer shadows. In one way, you’d never know though. She was not the type to take a tan. Complexion wise she was ghost that could never toast. She was also sassy and giving me lip instead of using her mouth for the kissing god had made it for.
She now paraded room following behind two playful pups that were propping out her shirt like her nips and the rest of her figure-eight body must always be in different counties, and with her rear teaching a duck’s tail how to wag.
Kowalski was trying to be hard, but when you’ve got a spectral face with schoolgirl’s freckles, a sweet little snout, dark-brown eyes lit like demons diamonds, and succulently swollen lips, you got a problem looking as tough as your talk.
If you liked redheads, Adrienne Kowalski was a cute chick. If you didn’t like redheads, Adrienne Kowalski was still a cute chick. Either way she’d everything going for her, even if, in the skirts she wore, it was very difficult not to think of her legs apart.
This was the second day of my hotelling at the 14th precinct’s HQ, at Kowalski’s kinda kind invite. The cell stay was supposed to soften me up pre, and so she had purposely only just gotten round to giving me the third degree.
As she paced room, I relaxed cremating a cigarette, trying to lasso her wickedly wild ass with my smoke-rings.
Kowalski then sat her sweet butt corner desk and gave me stocking tops and a glimpse her thong singing midnight Paris. She had calves that could have danced the Bolshoi out of town and thighs to crush your skull if’n you didn’t lick her out the way that was wise: soas you’d better guess the way she wouldn’t despise.
As technique went, it was a mind-blower: torture, but from the fires of desire and not such as to make the likes of me squeak ‘n’ squawk.
“Oh come on Sam! You can do better than that”, Kowalski sopranoed for the umpteenth.
“To you, Kowalski, it’s ‘Ms Moans’ or ‘Charlotte’ if you must. You don’t got no licence to ‘Charley’ me in parley”, I reheated, but without the annoyance she was annoyed that her deliberate repeated use of the familiar angle on my nominal handle was not causing me.
“I’ve told you times now, I was shoreline when a water-lap moved a rock distance that turned out not a rock close. I was out on a fitness run and was heading that way anyway, so I gave it my full 20:20 when I got there.”
“She was butt naked. Your initial autop says she’d been slapped around, but I don’t know nothing about that. I’d never met the chick before in my life, and, even if I had, lessen she looked like she’d been fish-food for five days when she was alive, she’d be no match-up with what was in the bay.”
I had already learned that Kowalski had no stomach for the post mortem side of policing, and so I went easy on describing what I had found. I had my own suspicions about what had gone on. I was also pretty sure the Jane Doe was the honey her poor ma had hired me to find.
The state she was in, I had no means to tell who she wasn’t though, so it suited me fine to let the cops’ ident procedures finish my work for me. I was sure it was going to mean there would be terrible news for Pussy Purr’s ma. But I’d offer a deal. Her ma could have the fee for my failure back, or let me keep it for nailing the bitches I was sure had done her daughter down. I was also hatching a plan for the latter event, and Kowalski was co-conspirator if she wanted in; not that she knew that yet.
“You’ve been out yachting with some of New Edingow’s pin-ups Charley: the ones one-time front-on and profile in every station house in town. You can’t deny knowing their names and faces. You probably even recall the numbers on the boards they were peeking over when the flashbulbs went pop!” Kowalski tried to hiss, and missed, because she shook one side her radioactive redhead’s curls from rucked-up peek-a-boo eyeshade to behind shoulder behave.
“So, I happen to be acquainted with Lola and her girl, Bonito Clyde. Last I heard that ain’t no crime. Those posters are nexting mildew bottom drawer forgot now. Lola and Bonito done their time, but only for misdemeanours. You’d be best advised not to criminalise, Kowalski: Lola’s gotten lawyers ass-pocket even the Federal Reserve Board can’t afford.....”
.....But I decided to level. I’d hatched plan, and it wanted cop co-op.
“.....I was on a case. Normally a PI keeps it privy, but I sing that it was a missing-person wrap, and the ‘person’ was a chick about the age of the one in the bay; as far as a guess goes without the ident dentals.”
“She’d answered ad. She wanted Hollywood like they all do? Lola runs a yacht for the stars to relax aboard and floats it on a sea of champagne. If the honey in the wash-up turns out to be who I think it should be, I’ve found the poor kid who answered an ad for a cabin-boy on Lola’s ocean-going.”
“So, you admit to having your nose in police business then Charley! Lola and Bonito are fish for fry by the New Edingow Police Department. You’re stepping out of line with the NEPD! That’s fine by me, but just you wait till Captain Lipps gets to hear of this!”
“We think the Jane Doe was one of ours: Pussy Purr, a plain-clothes plant? A policegirl and Sunday-School teach from Hicksville Sticksville. She volunteered mission for a commission she’ll not now get, and a posthumous medal she’ll just possibly.”
“However it came about, if it was no accident, maybe we can’t screw you for accessory to the fact of the way and the where she ended up. At the very least you’ll cool your heels for a couple of days for wasting police time, or anything else I can think up”, Kowalski tried to threaten.
“How about booking me for kissing a cop on duty Kowalski? Cos if I do, I got extenuating circumstances to plead, lessen you got the paperwork to prove you ever won Miss Ugly Pug, like you never could.”
Kowalski blushed, stood her full five-seven, and showed how practical as well as how pretty her little hands were, by trying to get her skirt’s hem to hide the lucky stocking tops caressing her thunderous thighs.
While I had her on recoil, I leaped in with a counter-charge.
“You’ve had me two days, and I’ve been two days thinking.”
“I didn’t know my would-be trace was also your plant, but Captain Kismet Lipps and I go back to cop-college like she’s probably told you when you weren’t listening. So the surprise to me is, that she would let you waste police time, and state taxes, keeping me here under suspicion of what can only be a figment of whatever you keep between those pretty little shell-likes that side your sweet face Kowalski. Sure, you got me smitten like no girl could help, but you ain’t never gonna crack nut that don’t exist.”
“My bet is that Lipps don’t even know I’m here, and if she ever gets know, you’re sexy little ass will get the wupping it deserves, if, unfortunately, only metaphor-wise.”
“I don’t know what hunch you’ve been playing Police Medal or more over-promotion for Kowalski, and I don’t wanna know. But, in exchange for the pleasure of your company, and a chance to ease my sore eyes by looking you over close-to for this last two days, I’m willing to do a deal. You see, you’re just the girl we both need right now.”
“The deal is that you and I tell Captain Lipps, when she’s back off furlough, that you came up with the brilliant plan to suss-out Lola and Clyde, that I’ve just come up with.”
“Now, either you say ‘yes’ sight unseen, or I remind Kismet she owes me one, and you’re gone with career careering snowball in Sahara sun”, I quietly steamed.
“Would you call me ‘Adrienne’ and let me call you ‘Charley’?” Kowalski wheedled with a shy blush.
“Sure kid: sure Adrienne”, I melted, with a resigned sigh: a sigh acknowledging that girls like Adrienne only ever win.
“’Cept that when we’re onboard Lola’s float, you’re still Adrienne Kowalski, since no one has ever heard of you, and I’m the full Ms Moans as respect for my disguise as a high-rolling low ranking banker.”
“And for that, since my bluff could be called this second visit, I need Lipps to sign me out a dollar-roll that looks like a cashed banker’s bonus, and a honey-chick to apply for the post of cabin-boy aboard Lola’s yacht. We’re gonna have to trim those lovely red curls soas to meet the ads spec, and, if you don’t already, you’re gonna have to shave it: and I mean shave as in coot.”
I shot a glance at Adrienne, and her face’s burning flush and lowered eyes waxed me wise there was no need to strop a cutthroat ready on the latter account.
“When we’re out ocean, Lola takes it beyond the miles where land-laws and land lubbers prevent her gambling and indulging her other games. She loves games, that’s why, though you could never qualify this side of the billionth universe, you’d be a ‘cabin-boy’. Your role will probably be to look like love on lovely legs and serve drinks: do you think you could manage that?”
“Do you think I could ever look that attractive Charley?” Adrienne fished.
“Only all the time”, I honested.
“But don’t forget, we’re after all we can get on the poor chick in the bay, and how she got there that way, when I know she was aboard the ‘Shapely-Shark’ along the way.”
“It’s a risk Adrienne. Pussy Purr may have met an unpleasant end. My guess is that Lola sussed her as cop, and gave her ‘an accident’. The autop will never top and tail that out. Lola will have made sure, if there was anything likely to show, that it wouldn’t.”
“She’ll be on her guard all the more now. But a repeat show so quick after, could fool her. She could well conclude that even the cops wouldn’t be so dumb as to send another so soon after Pussy. That is, assuming it really wasn’t an accident with Pussy of course.”
“When aboard, we both listen out and make mental notes but don’t compare till we’re back ashore. It needs more than one, because one is hearsay: two is evidence. So we’ll work team. But if anything happens, whatever happens to you or me when we’re on board, neither of us can intervene or the game is up: do you savvy?”
“I think so Charley”, Adrienne answered, while looking for answering love with her lovely eyes.
“You’re gonna have to be tough out there kid. Lola’s not beyond slapping her maids about. She’s a bitch’s bitch when it comes to hard hearts and cruelty”, I warned.
Adrienne just smiled quietly: “As a national guard volunteer, I took anti-interrogation techniques? In real-experience-training, I was water-boarded two-hundred and forty-four times over forty-eight hours, and they never got the secret password or the safety-release-me word out of me....”, Adrienne assured, and her stock went up in my eyes. I strongly suspected Lola of causing Pussy’s end, and, if that was so, Kowalski was the girl with which I’d nail Lola for sure.
.............................
As I had assumed, apart from her concern for Adrienne’s welfare, Captain Kismet Lipps was all for my plan. She knew me well enough to trust me.
She’d stayed force whilst me and my eventual partner in detection and bed, Samantha Splayed, had gone PI, but Kismet and me had gotten off the same train first cop-school day, and learned together. She’d been a keen shoot back home. So she’d taught me gun, as well as showing me for my first time that 69 was a whole hell of a lot more than just a number.
The sad side, Kismet would do. A DNA match with Pussy Purr’s ma confirmed the chick in the harbour was the worst news poss. Because the cause of death could not be determined, and foul play therefore not ruled out, it had become a cop case now, and Kismet wanted use the intro to Lola I’d already gotten.
I told Kismet to offer Ma Purr back my fee and that I’d go pro bono. But Kismet reminded me I was business, and had found my missing person as per contract. It was no fault mine that the poor girl had become a buoy.
Arrangements soon had me with a back-history-back-up economics degree from some long-famed business-college, and a career as a high-flying investment banker at the New Edingow headquarters of Ursa-Bows. On file I had a management role and a bank bonus roll to match. At least as far as any records that might be poked into went, I did. And all of this supported the fly-line I’d already cast on Lola’s pond.
I’d already renewed contact with Lola. Lipps had hinted me that Lola was planning a bank-rob and saw me as a maybe insider. So I’d get to win-up on the roulette wheel to butter me for the lowdown on the entrée to Ursa-Bows’ online weaknesses: which my title role at the bank suggested I’d be know. Since the Inland Revenue Service would be funding my roulette chips, I could see that Lipps was glad of my predicted winning ways.
Then followed intensive rehearsal with Kowalski. We couldn’t afford a lip slip. By the time the play was due to be staged, we needed know our false selves better than our realities.
In my contact with Lola, I said I had a great kid in line for the ad she’d posted for a cabin-boy, and sent her a scan of Adrienne Kowalski’s mug-shot. In return, I got a parcel with a pretend cabin-boy’s outfit, and several clothes changes along similar lines. These I passed to Adrienne and agreed she’d meet me dockside at the date and time Lola had prompted.
..........................
And when that date and time and the dockyard coincided....
“Hi”, came a nervous sweet voice from my stern. It was Adrienne in her new and natural mode. The hard cop act had gone. She was a dame again, and, like all dames, she wanted appreciate.
And I turned, and I looked her over with my eyes out on stalks and with my tongue lolling the floor ready to lick. She was nuclear dynamite. She was dressed Popeye to pop eyes. She sure as hell was no Olive Oyl: you just couldn’t have straightened curves like that.
I could see enough to know that, before she’d topped herself out with a scarlet Yankee-sailor-boy’s soft round hat, she’d had her redhead’s hair cropped schoolboy, and that it was slicked down with mousse in a left-side parting.
Then she wore a white tee-shirt hooped in sky-blue on white by alternating stripe, short in sleeve to show her lovely arms, and ripped off just below her twin frontal peaks, with no bra and leaving her belly-button bare.
Without a bra to embolden their thrust, Adrienne’s breasts, the far side of thirty-eight DD-cup and bare under there, were in the loving hands of gravity, and their perfect, entirely natural soft-firmness, thus nestled closer to her chest. Their front undersides therefore showed like two all too seductive sickle-moons below the ripped-hem of her sawn-off tee-vest, and the ripped vest was only held in place over her, by the grip her nipples evidently pointedly applied, twice, to its insides.
Next, sans panties, she filled a pair of sky-blue shorts, so short and tight they got very cheeky twice behind. And to bottom-out her patriotic red white and blue rigout, she was skied-up in white leather booties with no heels, standing on squared-off steel toecaps, with legs you could die for, like she was a ballet-dancer doing a tiptoe 360 24/7 twirl.
“How do I look Charley?” she wheedled with honey in her husk, as she gave me the full schoolgirl innocent complete with freckles, with the pupils of her dark browns ready to swallow me all the way to a romp in the hay.
“If’n you don’t turn those eyes off, Lieutenant Kowalski, I’m gonna have to kiss you!” I warned.
“What if I’ve forgotten where the switch is hid Charley?” she giggled as she blushed shy eyed.
Then Adrienne saw her over my shoulder, and I was realise I should have warned her up some more: more than just about Lola’s love of erotic games playing. Lola was walking toward us. I knew it was Lola because I’d seen her before of course. But Kowalski hadn’t and that showed in her love-lights.
I shoulda warned Kowalski. I now realised too late that I shoulda forewarned Adrienne. After all, it’s not every day you meet a woman with the height, the shape, and the looks of the famous catwalk model she was moons since ago, but who is also an albino negress with hideously cruel pink eyes.
“Moans, you old devil you! You made it! Good to see ya again!”, Lola greeted me, taking both my hands in hers before kissing me on alternate cheeks whilst looking over my shoulder, totally unable to take her eyes of Adrienne.
“And I see you’ve gotten me the cabin-boy you promised. Say, he’s quite a handsome fella! Give me the old introducimento will ya Charley...”
“This is...a... Hadrian”, I white-lied to play my part in what I had learned to be Lola’s idea of sexy fun.
“Hi Hadrian!” Lola smiled, with lips pursed like a duelling scar.
“I run a tight ship Hadrian. I believe in discipline, discipline, and discipline. Those are the three Ds Hadrian and don’t you forget it: not that I’ll let ya...” Lola mused as she looked Kowalski over.
“Ma’am ‘discipline’ ma’am!!” Kowalski repeated, monotone smartly, eyes front: eyes levelled unseeing mid-distance, as she clicked her heels together so she stood at a very feminine version of upright attention on her goddess’ legs, on the tips of her toes, to show she had understood.
“Say, he’s got a high voice for a young-man”, Lola observed “.....And a lot of chest....”
“Misspent youth: couldn’t lay off the gym weights Lola. That’s all pectorals that is”, I quipped, without my heart really being in it.
My eyes were on Kowalski too. And, as I watched the fear in her sweet peepers when Lola ran an enquiring curled forefinger over her cheek and chin, my heart was in Adrienne’s’ lovely hands and in my throat at the same time.
“Say...this boy isn’t even old enough to shave!” Lola remarked, with a cruel tone, as she ran her finger down the peach-softness of Kowalski’s blushing visage to her chin once again.
“Just how old is he I wonder....” she then mused. And at that, she undid the clasp fronting Kowalski’s shorts, and slid down the zip to open out their flies. “Good G he hasn’t even gotten pubes!” Lola hissed, as she breathed her words like the vengeance of hell in poor Kowalski’s ear to terrify her.
“So?” I interrupted, trying to keep my voice calm, and to try and distract Lola from Adrienne’s excess of charms, “So he’s not yet a full-grown man? So he’s a kid that’s run away from home to go to sea. That’s romantic ain’t it? So, I reckon he ought to get what he’s looking for: a chance to be a sailor boy. So, will he do for you Lola, or will he do?”
“He’ll do fine. Least, once he gets to know his duties, he’ll do fine”, Lola answered, as Kowalski risked her shorts falling down by still standing to attention.
“Do yourself up boy!!” Lola commanded, “I won’t have my cabin-boys looking slovenly on parademento!” she hissed.
“Ma’am yes ma’am!” Kowalski responded, taking her part to the nth degree necessary for our mission.
“He’ll do fine Charley: just fine.”
“Good find Charley! Good find! Now let’s you, me, and the boy, board the ‘Shapely-Shark’ eh.”
“As you can see, the gang-plank I managed already. But I’m plum outta red carpet Charley, so you’ll just have to imagine that that’s part of the great welcome me and my girl, Bonito, extend to you and some famous faces you’ll recognise that are already on board.”
“Let’s get below deck Charley, and break open some champagne!” Lola mused, before shouting at Kowalski:-
“You boy! You walk ahead of us, cos me and by great friend Charley Moans here, we want to follow you and watch your wicked ass!”
.......................
Once aboard, I lost sight of Kowalski. Last I saw her was lip-read of Lola’s orders to her yacht’s captain, that they show ‘Hadrian’ his quarters and hammock, and let him stow his uniforms. Then he needed shown the layout of the boat, so he could find his way around. And then he must report to the mess-deck at 8.00 to serve cocktails.
The captain and crew of the Shapely-Shark, were, every girl Jill of them, beautiful negresses. The captain was a chick that musta faced outta magazine covers, if’n she hadn’t gotten salt water in her veins. She was maybe thirty, a tall Nubian with eyes and a mouth that made you think ‘bed’ every time you saw her. She musta said six feet bye-bye even before she’d put on her three-inch heels.
Like with Kowalski, the captain and crew had their curls cropped boyishly. Captain Lusciouoso Ngano was adorned in, or rather adorned out, a uniform of jacket over shirt and tie with a skirt just above the knees, in contrasting shades of powder-blue with peaked hat to match, all with gold braid Fort Knox musta been looking for to find where it had gotten to. The crew wore the same uniform as Kowalski, save that their hoop-striped tee-shirts were long enough to tuck into the waistbands of their sexy shorts or miniskirts.
“If I may, please ma’am” Captain Ngano enquired as Lola began to come back my way.
“Of course you may Captain”, Lola responded relaxedly.
“She’s all ready to sail ma’am. The forecast is for smooth seas for the next 24, then a gale tomorrow late, maybe. Permission to take the ‘Shapely-Shark’ to sea, and cruise her for you till you order the return to dock ma’am?”
“Permission granted Captain. Keep me update on that storm though”
“Thank you ma’am, and will do ma’am”, Captain Ngano concluded, before saluting smartly, and turning to make for the yacht’s bridge.
“Oh, and Captain!”
Captain Ngano turned and returned her attention to Lola.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Captain; I’ve a suspicion there may be a couple of stowaways on board: not among my guests, all of them I recognise, but please have a talk with the new cabin-boy, and order him to keep an eye open for stowaways for us all will you?”
“Yes ma’am: certainly ma’am?”
“He’s run away to sea himself you see, so he may have an idea how stowaways are likely to behave in order to deceive us and hide themselves and such.”
“Consider it already done Ma’am. Thank you ma’am.”
.......................
Then, a while later.....
“Where did you find him?” Lola quizzed me.
“Hadrian? Oh he’s a boring accountant in Accounts and a whore in bed. Or, rather, unfortunately for me, a whore in Accounts and a boring accountant in bed!” I quipped.
“He’s besotted with yours truly. I got him hanging by a thread though. I told him cooperate or get outta my life. You’ll have no trouble there. Long as he can be on the same boat as me everywhere lifesville, he can fool himself it’s love: the stupid bitch!” I answered, playing the game Lola clearly loved, while also aware of the doubts she was expressing in her tone.
“Just as long as he don’t arouse my suspiciomentos Charley; that’s all”
“Why? You had trouble before?” I casualled, thinking I’d got the intro to finding what had happened with poor Pussy Purr, and whether it had been cos she’d been a police plant who’d got her roots exposed.
“Trouble tends to find you in my line of business Charley: yesirimento it does....”
That was all I got. Lola re-introduced me to her wife, a truly gorgeous Chinese-American with hair that shimmered like a moonlit midnight waterfall. To look into Bonito Clyde’s almond shaped and likewise coloured eyes, was to see the kaleidoscopes used by a stage hypnotist, but that the trick with her eyes was to steal your heart and not your stash of cash. Bonito was as pure in beauty as she was in evil, and girls just don’t come more seductive than that.
Like I say, apart from that re-intro, Lola and Bonito were outta my reach and earshot most all the time.
Lola swung a cute little sixteen-year-old sailorgirl my way, hinting that an afternoon-long workout without my needing to get outta my bunk, was mine for the asking of the pretty, shy, very sweet little negress.
But in fact, I just got the sweetie to show me my cabin for this trip around the lighthouse, and planned take a shower, before intending to go try locate Kowalski, soas to be sure she was safe and sound.
At least that was the plan, till there was a tap on my door, and I opened it to find the cute little sailorgirl in her birthday uniform, and saw that her tits bore two pointed coffee-pink medals, and then found out she could do lips and tongue on what had been under my thong, endlessly lapping and sucking the juice from my lemon, unstoppably, insatiably.
.......................
I awoke in my bunk in my cabin around 7.00 of the same day’s evening, to find the little sailor honey with her arms around my waist, looking attentive love up into my eyes.
“I good bed?!” she asked me brightly.
I looked at her like a dumb cluck, not understanding the question, still sleep-dozy.
Her pretty face looked forlorn. Then she pouted, with her lovely soft brown eyes cast down: and began to cry, sobbing: “I no good bed: you spank me...”.
I kissed the honey and told her no more than truth, that she had been great shakes and licked me slaked.
She brightened like sunbeams after a summer shower and giggled: “I good bed: you spank me!”
I forwent the temptation to play tympani on her sweet little ass, and got her to sponge me down, between kisses, in the shower instead.
This little package of sweet mischief was devotion itself. Even though she was the chick, she fussed over me like a mother hen, fastening my suspender clasps and zipping me up in my choice of evening gown for the cocktails that would precede dinner and the gambling that would afterwards proceed and exceed excess.
“You like: Lickme?” she queried.
I looked at her astonished.
“Me ‘Lickme’. You like: Lickme?” she explained
“You’re a sweetheart Lickme” I assured her, and was rewarded by a smile that spoke unquestionably of unquestioning love.
“You go drinks now. Lickme warm bed you return when”, she twinkled, and I took her hand and kissed her sweet little fingers.
.......................
I felt no guilt from bedding Lickme till I got to the boats lounge, and saw Kowalski wiggling around on the top tip of tiptoes in her ballet booties, gliding on her beautiful legs around the passengers, with a tray full of drinks, she would curtsey like sex on legs, before she proffered offered and deferred to the rich bitches who had ordered them.
I looked up and down Kowalski’s legs and swerving curves, and decided whatever gym she used to keep that trim I was gonna buy an eternity’s membership.
Lola loved to surround herself with the famous from film-land, and they loved the frisson of being in the company of such notorious women as Lola, and Bonito Clyde.
Famous actresses mixed with upcoming starlets, and the buzz of tutored voices spoke lines that, for once, they’d had to think out for themselves.
Here these women could relax, and no one batted eyelid at seeing an old Hollywood lead leading a young Bollywood extra by her pretty hand, as they exchanged looks that said just lust.
“You’re a very efficient waiter”, the mature-beauty of the lead in my favourite weepy praised the attentive Kowalski in my mid-distant hearing. She was looking at the radiant red curls of Kowalski’s boy-cut with its left-side parting.
“Ma’am thank you ma’am”, Kowalski responded, with a very leggy swiftly bobbed curtsey, that her tits followed with their individual independent bobbing, just behind time.
“I just love the way you’ve done your hair: it looks so sweet: it really suits you”, the famous star added, as Kowalski blushed divinely.
“Ma’am thank you ma’am” Kowalski whispered, with her eyes cast down demurely.
“What’s your name sweetheart?” my celluloid flame dame now enquired.
“Ma’am I’m ‘Hadrian’ ma’am”, Kowalski obediently responded.
“’Adrianna’?” the star queried, puzzled.
“Ma’am no ma’am, ‘Hadrian’ ma’am, thank you ma’am”, Kowalski reaffirmed
“’Hadrian’? Well, sweetheart, I hope your dear momma won’t mind if I say that that is rather an odd name to give a girl.....”, my star of stars mused, with a perplexed look and a gentle voice.
“Ma’am, I’m the cabin-boy ma’am”, I heard Kowalski explain to the dumfounded queen of the best films and love scenes I had ever seen.
Our attention was then called to Lola, who tinkled a tiny crystal bell.
“Your attention please ladies!” she called.
“Thank you!” she then added, in order to silence some ongoing chatter.
“Ladies, I trust by now, that our handsome cabin-boy, Hadrian, has provided you with your choice of drink.”
“This is young Hadrian’s first voyage at sea. He wanted to be a sailor so very much, that he has run away from home, just so he can look as dishy as he does in that uniform!”
Several wolf-whistles then punctuated the air to join in the fun.
“With his good looks, when his voice breaks, he’s gonna break many a girls heart for sure”, Lola added, as the rest of the audience latched onto the theme, and ogled Kowalski with appreciation for her physical and facial charms, and their obvious contradiction with the erotic theme that Lola was playing out, and that they had now also caught onto, and were suddenly keen to join in with.
“Should we hold a raffle, to buy him a razor?” called a voice in mock serious tone.
“Has he dipped his wick yet?” called another, to a peel of following laughter.
“I don’t know why they call him Hadrian”, yet another called out, “You look at that bulge in his pants, and try to tell me that it ain’t King Dick himself coiled up in there ready to pounce!”
“Yea, come on Hadrian show us your cock!” shouted another voice.
“Oh look: the poor boy’s blushing!”
“Yea, wouldn’t you blush if you were the only boy among all these fabulous women?!” yet another teaser added, before enquiring.....
“Are you getting a hard-on Hadrian, among all these girls?”
Kowalski was pink with embarrassment.
“Please now ladies: one momenteroso” Lola called, “I only wanted to give you the chance to say ‘Hi’ to the handsome young man in our midst, and make him feel welcome, since this is his very first time at sea, and he is a long ways from home.”
“And I also want to ask you all to keep your eyes open for a couple of stowaways, hiding somewhere on this vessel!”
“Now, please be reassured! There is absolutely nothing for any of you to worry about. We are well out at sea now, and if those miscreantementos don’t want to find if they can swim home without knowing which way to go, they would hardly dare cause any of us any trouble. I mean, there’s fifty of us, a crew of twenty, and just two of them?! They wouldn’t have a chance. And nor will they have any chance if I get hold of them!” Lola concluded, emphatically.
The crew, including our cabin-boy, Hadrian here, are briefed to look out. But if you do happen to spot anything suspect: suspicious movements, two conspirators going around together like they was twins, that kind of thing, please let me or Bonito or one of the crew know. Thank you all...... Dinner will be served shortly....”
At that point, the wonderful Nubian captain walked in and excused herself to whisper in Lola’s ear.
Lola knew how to keep an audience and, despite the seeming conclusion to her just now announcements, we all stood around watching, somehow fascinated.
“Are you certain Captain?” Lola enquired, with a subliminal look to see for sure that she still had our attention.
“Ma’am yes ma’am”
“Ladies, it seems there has been a development.....”
“Are you quite certain Captain?”
The captain nodded politely.
“Ladies, it seems we have a fix on the stowaways, and that we have a traitor in our midst!” Lola announced.
On hearing the latter phrase, I bristled, panicked that Kowalski and I had been sussed, and were about to be thrown off the yacht without a call to the coastal command rescue service.
“It seems ladies, that our charming cabin-boy knows exactly where the stowaways are, because he, the traitorous little thug, has hidden them away, and is keeping them hidden! But my crew have found him out. Now I’m gonna flush the truth outta him, and we can round them up and dine in peace. Come here boy!!”
My instinct was intervene, but I knew true that if I whistle blew, I’d blow all chance of nailing Lola and Bonito as suspects for the snuffing of Pussy Purr. And so I told myself that Kowalski was a grown-up girl and that I would have to go along with whatever happened. I would be guided by her. If she showed or said she wanted out: we were out as soon as exit found.
“Come here Hadrian!” Lola repeated.
Kowalski wiggled toward the band stage on which Lola stood. Some sweet starlet was kind enough to take the empty tray from Kowalski’s pretty little hands. At Lola’s beckoning finger, with one small step for a girl: one gigantically leggy-leap for girlkind, Kowalski stepped her goddess’ body onto the stage.
“Are you hiding stowaways Hadrian?!” Lola demanded.
“Ma’am no ma’am, I know nothing about stowaways ma’am” Kowalski insisted with a tremor in her soprano from seeing the look in Lola’s cruel pink eyes.
“Oh yes you do, you lying young bastard. Turn around and face the ladies here boy, and woe betide you and the stowaways, if you continue to lie to me young man!!”
Kowalski turned, and I saw the utter fear on her face, and yet she was so brave she never betrayed me by calling for my help. And so I knew I must not interfere. If Kowalski made no signal, who was I to jump in and foul up all our planning.
“I’ll ask you once more, and once more only, Hadrian. Are you hiding stowaways Hadrian?!” Lola pressed with a low menacing tone.
Ma’am no ma’am, I honestly and truly know nothing about stowaways ma’am: honestly ma’am”, Kowalski continued to insist, amid the expectant total silence that had now cloaked the cocktail lounge.
Kowalski turned from her over-shoulder pleading and looked at us once more.
“Lift the front of your tee-shirt Hadrian”, Lola insisted.
“You heard me boy, lift the front of your fucking tee, and do it now!!” Lola shouted without raising her voice beyond menace mode.
Obedience found shaking hands as Kowalski, with a dazed look of total confusion on her sweet face, took the hem of her sawn-off tee, and lifted it, to reveal her supremely white, extremely beautiful breasts: breasts with exquisite semi-translucent delicate pink nipples: nipples with areola that that must have formed the last quarter of each breast.
“Ladies and ladies, we got them!” Lola announced, “We got the stowaways!”
“I’m surprised at you Hadrian. Just how long did you think you could keep them hidden boy? I put my trust in you. I took you on, a complete unknown, a runaway even... I took you on as cabin-boy, the first rung on a career at sea, and you betrayed me young man! Not only were you hiding them, but no doubt you were going to steal my food to feed them!”
“Captain: take the boy and the two girls he’s been hiding under his shirt: take all three of them up onto the main deck. I’ve decided to be lenient with the boy. I can hardly throw the girls overboard. So I’ll keep all three onboard, but only after the girls been given a lesson they won’t forget.”
Captain Ngano put her gentle black hands on the beauty of the ghost-white upper-arms of the lovely Kowalski, and we saw her led out.
“Now, after that little drama... now that’s sorted, shall we dine?” Lola invited.
A conversational buzz followed. I wanted hike to find Kowalski and try save her. I was minded excuse, such as a visit to the Jill to spend a cent, but we were being beckoned in to dine, and I got carried along with the sweet-scented tide.
Lola spread a sumptuous table, with the finest wine, and the produce of a team of three top-tier Parisian chefs in her yacht’s fully appointed galley.
She had sat me with my worshipped film-star on my left, and the prettiest little angel in the lowest cut neckline and highest uplift-bra on my right, so I was between one heaven and two.
Amid the chatter and the five courses, we all listened. While we were pretending not to do so, we all listened. It was happening on the deck on top of the dining room: the top deck in the outside world. We could hear every sound. Of course, it was intended we should. Lola was giving us entertainment while we dined.
I knew the bitter whistle of a bullwhip in full-flight at full-force when I heard it. I knew the sound of that vicious echoing slap when it kissed and cut a bare body, and the pause from the shock that precedes the terrible pain, and, when I heard it too, I knew the subsequent pitiful uncontrollable scream of a girl’s agony from being lashed, her soft skin cut with stripes of scorching fire.
There were long intervals between strokes, and the chatter and the wine made most of those gathered table seem to take no account of it. Lola and Bonito were all eyes for each other throughout. But they too noticed the tone of Kowalski’s cries turn tone and tune no more than three strokes in. Three stripes and she was out. Three stripes, three brutal lashes and Kowalski’s sighs and sobs could be heard in the silence that recognised the signs: the signs that she was in betrayal and in denial of that betrayal at one and the same time. And from then onwards her screams were surrender to gender. Shocked surrender first out, then astonished surrender, then a fight against surrender, then complete surrender, then a wanton longing to surrender more than more than completely and for evermore.
From the first three onwards, I counted forty-seven more lashes. Forty-seven more wicked wild wind whistles, of a whip winding wildly terrifyingly through air before the sound like a rifle shot of the poor girl taking impact like its target was a mile beyond her, and her soft sweet flesh had gotten in the way, the real target’s unpityingly painful price to pay.
All the sounds and signs said me, that Kowalski was getting an expertly executed brutal flogging, and I was traitor betraying, and not alone in that for sure: cos at the sound of Kowalski’s whipping and cries of horrendous pain, my panties were sopping soaked.
Then, after an hour we heard:
“Say ‘thank you’ boy!!” as the captain’s humiliating instruction to tell us and poor Kowalski that it was over.
“Ma’am, thank you ma’am”, Kowalski’s sweet trembling voice whispered, just loud enough to put a smile in Lola’s eyes and make her kiss Bonito Clyde in celebration.
For the rest of our leisurely dinner we listened Kowalski’s moans and sobs.
.............................
Only after coffee had arrived did I feel safe to go see if I could comfort Kowalski some.
Talk of the roulette wheel having been set up in the cocktail lounge, prompted remind that I had a role to play. But I had conscience too, and was realise now, as I should have been outset, just what I’d let poor Kowalski in for.
Gambling wasn’t compulsory, and a number of the stars from the Hollywood and Bollywood sets were talking of bed; and it might even have been for sleep.
As a show of my intentions, allaying suspicions if any, I fumbled purse to find my cigarettes and sloped out through the cocktail lounge to take the night air.
Once out, I wanted hurry; but knew stroll was better appearance.
Kowalski was tied mast. The ghostly whiteness of her naked redhead’s body glowed spiritually in the cast of cool moonlight. She was tied with her back to the wooden mast that ran decks down, with first port call its journey being middle the dining table I had just left.
She had her back to me. She was stood upright in just her tiptoe ballet booties, roped to the mast, around the individual ankles of her slightly parted feet, round her belly, and her neck, and with her arms pulled behind the mast with her slender wrists tied to hold them there.
As I approached, the golden down on her forearms sparkled in the moon-glow.
I walked slowly up to her, and hoped she too was realise we had to voce sotto lessen we be overheard.
And when I got front of her, I immediate lit cigarette soas to give me occupation and try not to show in my face what I saw with my eyes.
Kowalski had been whipped round from behind. The target had been her tits, and none of the strokes had missed.
Lessen there were two whippers, whoever had wielded the bull had been amphitheatrerous, or whatever you call it for using both hands equal strong, cos Kowalski had been whipped round from left and right.
Her tits had taken all fifty lashes: save that each had taken twenty-five apiece. The wicked tip of a bullwhip, the far end on the longest and fastest part of the whip’s lightening trip: the end she had dreaded in time terms and in terms of its tip’s termination, as she awaited finality of the bitter whistling-whir it cut in the air while it sliced its unstoppable path toward unspeakable pain, around from invisible inevitability behind her, again and again, to appearance: suddenly like a hell snake licking out its bifurcated tongue before it flashed lashed and slashed her innocent bare tit, strike striping stricken its soft firm gentleness with its white-heated fingers of furious flesh-flaying flames.
Her breasts were criss-crossed with livid red welts of burning pain: welts which bled and bled even more where the bullwhip had kissed a tit in the same spot twice or more and the welts crossed paths in consequence. Her nipples, both nipples, were split, and a trickle of blood was still running from her left nipple under that gentle breast, like scarlet milk: the milk of inhumane unkindness.
Yet she smiled as best she could when she saw me, and her eyes acknowledged my touching of my lips with an upright forefinger to warn quiet-speak wanted, else discover.
“They sure sorted out my charlies for me didn’t they Charley?” Kowalski whispered, with her tear-filled eyes striving to see her stripes, which she couldn’t because her head was held firm upright to the post by the silk rope around her slender neck.
As she spoke my eyes could not help but look at the insides of her thighs and note the cynical way her body had betrayed her. The evidence was drying, but the lava flow had been considerable and was down to her knees at least, at least as far as the moonlight would let me see.
“Say: you won’t believe it. I was so nearly orgasm Charley! Great god alive: they were whipping my tits off me and I damn nearly came?!” she then sobbed, her tortured mind confused, as was intended, as that was her ultimate torture.
“I wanted more Charley. Can you believe that?! I wanted more for crisakes!!”
“Take it easy kid: take it easy....”, I wised her.
“Will you finish me Charley?” she begged.
“I’m so there! I’m so almost there, and it just won’t happen Charley! It just won’t happen. Not like it would have for sure if they’d whipped me some more like I was begging them to when they stopped.”
“I was begging them Charley? Can you believe that? I wanted them to whip me some more Charley!!” Tears welled and then spilled from Kowalski’s gorgeous eyes as she told of her body’s betrayal of her mind.
“Please finish me Charley! Please!! Oh god I so want a cum Charley. I need a cum so help me: I’ve just got to be finished to a cum, please god. Give me a cum Charley, it’s eating me alive. I’m so cum, and I can’t cum Charley: it’s burning me to hell: jeese give me a cum!!!” she croaked with tears pouring from her gorgeous dark-browns.
“Sorry kid. I just can’t do that....”, I whispered.
I offered her my lit cigarette to calm her and try and sooth the precipice of sensated-unsated super-orgasm she had been deliberately whipped to and left at to make her torture complete.
“I don’t smoke”, she smiled and attempted joke in choke and croak of voice as more tears trickled in train down her peach soft cheeks.
To signal she should make an exception in her pain, I motioned a ‘come on’ message with the hand I held the cigarette with, and, as if in her bondage she had any other choice, she let me put it between her lips.
As the smoke soothed her a modicum’s miniature of a minor minuscule minimum, she raised her sweet eyes heavenwards. And, as she exhaled, I watched the smoke weave rise and spread from her lovely lips, before it dissipated; leaving only the fragrant aroma of the finest Virginia as the sign that it had filled a momentary passage in fleeting endless finite time.
“Do we carry on after this? Do we carry on with the case kid?”, I whispered urgently.
“Uh-hu” Kowalski muttered from side her closed lips as she smoked the cigarette, trying to nod her head to emphasise her ‘yes’.
After a whiles, the tobacco had worked to calm her a little, so I reached over and took it, and watched the blue-grey swirling of its smoke curl heavenwards from her heavenly lips in the mellow moonlight.
I was being selfish of course. While Kowalski had had my smoke, I had been missing the benefit of the nicotine myself. So I put it in my mouth once more to finish it, and could instantly taste, and deeply enjoyed, the confirmation on its filter tip that Kowalski had just now had that cigarette in her cunt.
“I gotta go Adrienne...” I told her, with a look and tone that repeated my question if she was sure we could carry on with our mission.
“I know Charley. I know”, she whispered and tried to smile.
To go quickly was necessary, elsen I’d have betrayed us both by trying to get Kowalski outta where I’d gotten her into, even if, mid-ocean like we were, I’d no idea how.
I was in no mood now for the roulette wheel, and went straight back to my cabin.
When I entered my cabin, Lickme came straight to me, and, not knowing that that was exactly where I had just been, urgently urged me not to go on deck.
“You no go top deck see”, she repeated, with a look of such sweet concern for me on her lovely face, that I wanted kiss her there and then.
“Why?” I responded, giving casual tone my best shot.
“Miss Charley no go top deck”, Lickme parroted.
“Why ever not?” I put her way, wondering what she had seen and what she knew about what she had seen, if anything.
“You no go top deck” Lickme concerned again, before adding: “Captain order Lickme whip naughty cabin-boy’s two naughty girls. He cry very much. But he bad boy!”
Once I had undressed and Lickme had joined me in a long shower, to let me kiss and fondle her lithe alive oh: her lithe alive oh so lovely body, and once we were both ready for bed, I took hold of Lickme, turned her over so she faced due south, and slapped her pretty butt till she cried too.
.............................
As she passed me a black coffee while I lay abed first thing next morning: “I still hurt spank”, Lickme pouted silly-sadly, and then smiled broadly.
“You got what you deserve for having such a lovely ass”, I told her.
Lickme giggled, and as she went back to the kitchenette to tidy and clean, made an unnecessary extra effort to wiggle, before grinning prettily over her shoulder to see if I was watching her butt.
She’d been tripping around my cabin stark naked since she’d sucked me out, and I almost wondered if I would ever see her with her clothes on again.
“What clothes Lickme get for Miss Charley this morning?” she enquired efficiently.
“Jeans and a tee will do for breakfast won’t it?” I enquired.
“Sure” Lickme assured.
“Lickme wash Miss Charley shower?” she then asked.
“Sure”, I responded, looking forward to kissing the devoted angel again.
.............................
Breakfast was a drift-in-and-out as you please affair. There was no sign of Lola or Bonito. That, I assumed, was because the casino crowd might even yet not have made it to bed.
I sat and ordered a fresh-squeezed orange juice and a full vegetarian. There was no one near me to talk to, so I listened to a duet chatting further down the table.
“Did you see what had been done to the cabin-girl?”
“Boy.....cabin-boy”, the woman listening corrected, gently.
“Jeese they’d whipped her! Oh, alright then, whipped him, if you must! And her... his punishment isn’t over yet. Lola said she’d have a treat for us this morning, and a special event this afternoon.”
“What was he begging you for? You know: when you were drooling over his welts?”
“I wasn’t drooling!”
“Oh yes you were. And they were beautiful: in a cruel way, exceedingly beautiful. It must have been agony for him, poor boy...oh his screams when they were whipping him!.....”
“A vibrator. She...he asked if I had a vibrator. But one of the sailors said he wasn’t allowed to cum, and that was why he was begging anyone who would listen. And the sailor soon sorted that out, pouring a bucket of seawater on his whipped tits. That made him howl; what with the salt.....”
“Morning Shakira!”.... I turned as a famous star of Bollywood musicals glided in in an exquisite green sari.
“Have you seen what they’ve done with the cabin-boy?”
“Oh yes: we saw him after the casino at 3.00 this morning, still tied up after that horrible whipping”.
“No. I mean now. You should see what they are doing with him now.”....
.............................
This had gone too far, but what was I to do? I consoled myself with the thought that maybe whatever was happening to poor Lieutenant Kowalski now, it might be something she could bear till I got the dope on the cause of the fate of the Jane Doe that we now knew was Pussy Purr.
I tried not to look concerned, and ate my breakfast and swallowed a slug of coffee, before I strolled out, as casually as possible, so as to disguise both my anxiety, and, of course, that Kowalski and I were in league.
There was no problem knowing where to head. A crowd had gathered around some scene, and I heard a shout of: “Shake them boy!” and the slap of a whip on a naked body, and laughter.
I strolled over to the scene.
They were making Kowalski scrub the wooden top deck. The patch of deck she was on had been sprayed over by the contents of a bucket and more of soapy water, and poor Kowalski was crawling in the wet.
They had strapped her ankles right up and tight around the tops of her thighs next to her crotch, and she was crawling on all-fours on the deck, displaying some incredibly bold thigh.
Kowalski was being made to crawl in the direction her mistress required, by the fact that she had a handle. Adrienne wore a tight black leather thong, and up from the rear of her thong rose a wooden handle that finished in a ‘T’, the horizontal of which a pretty sailorette gripped in her tiny hands.
And there were no prizes for guessing that the end of that handle went through the thong and beyond it. And beyond the thong, and beyond a little crossbar to stop it going all the way up, it was up poor Kowalski’s asshole. And how far it was up her could only be judged by the look of pain and horror in her lovely brown eyes.
But, as if that were not cruel enough, Kowalski had had both of her brutally whipped breasts bound around with tight rubber bands that bore long soft bristles. So she was crawling around on the deck on all fours, with her strangled tits dangling, and being ordered to make her tits swing so that the bristles swept the wet floor. She had been made into a human floor-scrubber and her bare back showed where she had been and was going to be whipped till she had swept the whole of the deck with her tortured tits.
“How is Hadrian shaping up Captain? Has he learned his lesson?” I heard Lola enquire, while she casually watched Kowalski’s cruel humiliation as Adrienne crawled, stopping to swing her tits to mock-clean a patch, before crawling forward, and stopping to swing her tits again to brush the deck, on literal pain of receiving the strap-whip across her bare back if she tried to stop swinging.
“Ma’am: unfortunately, he’s a slow-learner ma’am”
“Well, when he’s finished scrubbing, scrub him up and get him uniform again. I want him serving pre-luncheon aperitifs Captain”
“Ma’am certainly ma’am...... And the forecast storm ma’am?”
“Yes the storm of course. How long have we got before we are best advised to make port?”
“Ma’am we’d better get underway at sunset today at the very latest ma’am”
“And the weather till then?”
“Ma’am you can rely on sun and calm ma’am: the classic ‘lull before the storm’ ma’am”
“Okay Captain. With the weather threatening like it is, I’ll stow the casino for the rest of this voyage now, but maybe we can get some sunbathing in this afternoon?”
“Ma’am you mean the boy will sunbathe too ma’am?”
“Most certainly.”
“Ma’am, as you wish it ma’am” the Captain answered, with a polite salute to Lola.
My relief at overhearing that we were headed back to a port, any port would do in the storm I’d gotten Kowalski into, I can only leave you to imagine. The whole investigation had gone tits-up, and for poor Kowalski all too literally.
I would never forgive myself for leading Kowalski into a situation where a sweet kid like her would end up having her breasts bullwhipped, followed by the shit humiliation they were pouring on her now, making her scrub deck with her whipped tits.
This op was over. Another way to pin down what had happened to poor Pussy Purr would have to be found. Even given the bloated float with the fish-fed face that was left of her in the harbour, forensics might tell if’n she’d been at the losing end of a bullwhip too. But, obviously, that would only tell us what had happened her, not for sure who’d done it to her of course.
I wanted get powwow with Kowalski to sure her up that we were heading shore and her suffering was nearly over. We still couldn’t reveal who we really were of course. If we had Lola would have seen to us somehow, most like on a permanent basis. Even at less bad, her knowing we were PI and cop combo would blow our participation in any further undercover in her empire forever-wise for a dead cert.
I returned cabin and got Lickme to change my clothes for a formal lunch gathering, before I went lounge in a blouse miniskirt stockings and stilettos, all in white to suit my coffee mix-race complexion some, at nearing midday, still wondering how I could message-up Kowalski.
It was a relief to see her there in the cocktail lounge doing the tray round again. Sure her ghost-white redhead’s body made the sore knees she’d gotten crawling deck-scrub look all the redder. And true too, under her cut-off tee you could see the start of some of the cruel welts that trailed up to and over the soft-firm firm-soft complexion of her lovely milk-white breasts. It sure as hell made me wince with pain for her, to see them! And even the thought of the bitches pouring a bucket of salt seawater over her open wounds after they’d whipped her.....!!
The uniform she wore this time included a pelmet trying to claim it was a skirt, and convincing everyone looking that it was a failure, because of the enormity of the extent of Kowalski’s fabulous thighs it left openly open for optimum optical ogle.
She was up on tiptoe in ballets again, and to look at her legs was a pleasurable sin. Such heavenly shapeliness is surely the devil’s own enticement. Her calf muscles flexed to greater visibility when she wiggled around and her thighs were smooth bold and boldly strong. Legs wise my clit said Kowalski had a superb pair at which to stare!
A thong was integral to the skirt, and, she was giving us the full long snow-white legs with her bare milk-white titties jiggle-joggle-juggling under her top. While she trayed drinks around the guests again, like she had done pre-dinner on the first day, she was swinging ass like she was the pendulum of the devil’s own clock about to strike us all to endless black midnight.
Under her sailor’s hat, her boy-crop with a side parting in her glowing redhead’s mop, told you by its very contradiction that this was a supremely feminine girl. And her soft brown eyes and her dusting of schoolgirl freckles on a complexion an outmatch for any schoolgirl, and her bold lips confirmed that she was just a walking kiss.
Of course with her skirt so short, and her thong, her butt was bare under there and as she curtsied and then bent straight-leggy-legged to offer up her drinks on the tray in her dainty little hands, she was getting it patted and pinched and was blushing like an innocent virgin consequent.
But if I didn’t know better though, if indeed better I knew, I’d say Kowalski was enjoying being the centre of attention, the shapely leggy sexy chick that everyone wanted to smack on the ass to tell her how horny she was, and how horny she was making all of us just to look at her angel’s face and hourglass body, her titties doing a wanton war-dance for wampum under her flimsy top as she wiggled around, and those superb long, so long, white, so white, bare shapely, so shapely legs of hers.
“How are things going with you boy?” Lola enquired of Kowalski, as Kowalski bent to put a drink off her tray, and Bonito Clyde took the chance to run a pleasured hand over Kowalski’s thus exposed ass cheek.
“Ma’am fine thank you ma’am” Kowalski responded nervously, with a shy attempt at a smile.
“You’re a good looking boy!” Lola smiled.
“Ma’am thank you ma’am” Kowalski blushed.
“I’ve gotten a vacancy for a full-time cabin-boy on the Shapely-Shark, Hadrian. I mean a sign-up for a career as a cabin-boy on all my cruises. I mean permanento Hadrian. Now, are you the boy for me? Are you the boy for the job? Do you want permanent cabin-boy Hadrian?”
“Ma’am yes ma’am...I mean yes please ma’am”, Kowalski answered without hesitation.
“You’ve had a taste of the discipline onboard my ship Hadrian. Can you take the discipline boy?”
“Ma’am yes ma’am” Kowalski responded, standing to dutiful attention with her lovely legs curvedly straight in her tiptop-tiptoe ballet-booties, and holding her stance, just about, even when Bonito pinched her bare ass’ right-cheek.
“That’s the kind of answer I like to hear boy! Now you finish up drink-fetch here, till my honoured guests go lunch, and then you tell the captain that I gave you permit to spend this afternoon sunbathing. D’yer hear me now?”
“Ma’am thank you ma’am: thank you ever so much ma’am!” sweet Kowalski emotioned with tears of joy nearing spill her darling dark browns.
...........................
After overhearing that conversation with Kowalski, I enjoyed my food for the first time.
Sure, I did a lot of overhearing, but sometimes you overhear cos you’re a PI and that’s part the skill, and sometimes because it’s intended you should. It was the second of those with that talk ‘tween Lola and Kowalski, and we’d all overheard it and were all conclude that Lola could be kind if’n she was so mind.
Okay, so Kowalski had said ‘yes’ to fulltime cabin-boy. But that was clear lie. When the woman who’s asking has just had your tits whipped such that the pain is still a forever never-ending remind, you ain’t gonna say her a ‘no’, if’n you’re wise.
And, lessen the weather, like a girl, changed its mind, we were heading back to port. I heard talk about bikinis and I was going to show I had a figure worth a nun’s wolf-whistle, and get some sun myself. I’d be ready action to steer Kowalski outta where I’d gotten her into when we made port, but that was a time wait awhiles yet.
...........................
I bikini’d up in my favourite white. I’d bought Paris. It was tiny luxury in designer shape and style. But the designer musta worked stitching with a microscope and then an accountant, cos I had never before bought so little for so much.
I barefooted on the wooden boards top deck, and headed for the swimming pool where I could already see a crowd of Hollywood and Bollywood lovelies showing why they conjured up such as wet-dreams are made on.
It was only as I got close that I saw what they’d done to her.
I’d missed Lickme from my cabin. Her not being there, I was assume she had to put some clothes on sometime, and seeing her in uniform was therefore no great surprise, even if the plastic bucket she was carrying around looked decidedly outta place.
They were laughing and pointing. I mean the guests of Lola and Bonito. And it wasn’t little Lickme they were mocking.
I knew now I should never have used the word ‘kind’ in connection with Lola; but, as ever before on this cruise of crises for her, Kowalski had cause to know it more.
“Please don’t be alarmed ladies and ladies! Their powers of transformation are well known. The ancient mariners tell tales of cabin-boys transformed by infiltrators from the sea. And our handsome young man, Hadrian, has just proved the truth that sometimes they come on board ships in the dead of night and bite boys’ cocks to draw blood and make him stiff and then suck the boy off to swallow his spunk thus to turn the boy into a fellow sea creature.”
“We hope and pray that this is just a temporary transformation ladies. Hope is at hand. Our captain has experienced this kind of happening before. The procedure to be adopted is to treat Hadrian as if his transformation were permanent: as if he had become, what he has indeed become through the magic mysteries of the sea, forever. He may in fact never change back. But by treating this present guise appropriately, he can perhaps, just perhaps, be rescued and return as Hadrian the handsome cabin-boy we all now know and love!”
Lola was on the bullhorn and having a whale of a time introducing the new torment she had ordered for Kowalski. And I freely admit that what was going on brought instant cream into my éclair.
Kowalski was stark naked and lying by the pool. Stark naked, that is, but for the sailor’s uniform hat she still had perched on her gorgeous golden boy-cropped red hair. Stark naked with her lovely arms tied at the wrists behind her back. Stark naked but for the tail she was wallowing around in completely helplessly, like she was on a fishmonger’s slab.
It was as long as her legs: her lovely long snow-white legs. Save that she was laid down, she stood to attention within it, with her legs closed close together. Bar some artificial sculpting of the pliable plastic during its casting to make out like scales, the tail she was in was transparent, so all of her lovely legs and her gorgeous ass were visible through it.
It was fitted up to just above the top of her hips and hugged her waist so close it would never slip, because her hips would ever prevent that.
From her hips to her toes, the toes of her feet that were stretched out like she was tiptoe-ballet standing inside it, giving her legs great shape within it: from her hips to her toes the tail tapered. Then, at her toes, it was formed into two tail-end fin-fans that were really just the one tail-end, in that it made an upside-down ‘V’, with the point of the V between the stood-together big toes of her pretty feet.
Kowalski had been made into a mermaid.
Adrienne had been made into a mermaid with a sailor’s hat left on as the supposed identity truth, that this was the cabin-boy Hadrian, transformed by evil magic.
Kowalski had been made into a mermaid and she wallowed on the deck helplessly sealed into a transparent flexible plastic fish’s tail that clung so close to her lovely legs and stupendous thighs and shapely ass, that she had no hope of ever escaping, and even less than no hope with her hands tied as they were.
And I looked close, and the transparency of the tail showed she was penetrated, front by a dildo. Within the tail bondage Kowalski had been sealed into by a heating iron run down the outer seam after the two halves had been glued forever together, so that she could now only be cut out: into the tail bondage was an inbuilt wooden dildo, broad and long as the broom handle it probably was, that was splitting her, and pushed high up her pink sheath. It went down to her knees within the tail, sealed in such that as she wallowed in or swished her tail, it was working her, and working her good and hard.
They had wet the deck and poured water on her, supposedly because, she being half-fish, she needed to be kept wet. And Lickme was throwing Kowalski raw fish that Kowalski was supposed to catch in her mouth like a performing seal; else she got her bare top body whipped.
And so Kowalski was wallowing around, working her tail by bending her lovely legs to slither herself to the fish anyhow she could to avoid the strap-whip and by working her tail she was working the broom handle dildo and fucking herself vigorously deeply.
I now watched her squashing her milk-white breasts into the deck, the breasts she had had so savagely whipped: squashing her soft gentle soft-firm milk-white breasts and her so recently whip-split nipples into the wet deck as she fought to get one of the raw fish into her lovely mouth, and overcome her revulsion at the stench and taste of it, and try to chew and swallow it: and I heard the loud crack of the whip across her bare shoulders, and heard her scream of pain, as she worked her tail and thus fucked herself with the dildo inside her tail, slithering on the wet deck to the next fish she had tried to raise her head to catch and failed. And she was whipped for every fish she failed to catch in her mouth when it had been thrown, even those that were tossed nowhere near her luscious lips.
This was Lola’s idea of sunbathing for her cabin-boy!
The sun beat down on Kowalski’s redhead’s whiteness, and her soft flesh was burning red in its relentless rays. She was the kind of chick who should always be parasol, even if she’d been creamed with blocker. She could only burn, never turn tan.
When at last they untied Kowalski’s wrists and took off her hat, my relief was brief.
I’d assumed release, and tried to calm my concern by looking unconcerned. I found a sun lounger and lay me downside up to drink sun on my back, undoing my bikini top soas not to get strap spoil my intended all-over.
It was error. I heard fuss made and sounds of voices expressing amazement without words. If someone had spoke something that had let me know what was happening, I coulda maybe intervened some. But I was only afterwards realise that the tone of my fellow guests was one of astonished surprise. I supposed for now and for wrong therefore, that the tone was only from all Lola had already had done to Kowalski to entertain her guests. It was a tone expressing that surely she would not go that far, yet accepting that Lola would always have one more surprise.
I heard a couple of metallic snicks, and chains rattle, but it was only at Kowalski’s terrified scream of “NO!!!!! that I turned over sat up and saw that she had been lifted and they were swinging her to and fro, body and fish’s tail, one sailorgirl holding her pretty hands and the other her mermaid’s fishtail where her legs and feet were sealed, and they were swinging her like a hammock in a force-nine. A girl in gloves held a spiked ball, the size of three-foot diameter beach-ball, over Kowalski, and I saw that Kowalski’s wrists were chained to that ball, and that the ball was a mass of six-inch long spiteful steel needle spikes, pointing pitilessly out between nine-inch long ones.
They had chained Kowalski by her slender wrists to a Judas-Ball, a viciously spiked ball, big-beach-ball-sized. And they were swinging Kowalski at the edge of the yacht above the safety rail, and she was struggling in fear and horror. And the Hollywood and Bollywood girls were counting out, chanting in joyous chorus......
A...ONE-ERRR!!!.........
.....A...TWOO-ERRR!!........
.....A...THREE-ERRR!!!!!!!........
And, just as the sailors threw Kowalski into the sea, I got up and ran to try and save her. And I screamed “Adrienne!!!!” only, perhaps fortunately, for the sound ‘Hadrian!!!!’ to be heard above the passengers’ bubbling Babel babble and Kowalski’s horrendous scream of absolute terror.
And I got to the rail, and I saw her flying through the air to become the answer to gravity’s lust-filled prayers. And then a splash as the sea swallowed her beautiful body: the blue waters slicing asunder as if she were returning to the eternal womb. The mothering waters swallowed her beauty forever, with her sadistic fish tail bondage taking her down first, and the spiked Judas-Ball the last to follow, as her heavenly golden-downed arms and dainty hands disappeared beneath the waters in which we were anchored. Then bubbles from her shocked exhalation troubled the sea’s surface for the few brief seconds in which she exhaled the last of her lovely life. And I showed all the cowardice I cannot even now justify in retrospect: though it is true that I cannot swim.
And then suddenly, the spiked ball bobbed up above the water, and I saw the hoops one-eighty-degrees apart at the side of the ball: the hoops to which the chains fitted, and knew they led to sweet Adrienne’s slender wrists down below the sea-blue wave swell. And then she surfaced somehow, fighting for her sweet life: swishing her mermaid’s tail like a landed fish gasping for air and flapping its body to get back to water; but in reverse of that struggle for sweet Adrienne, her struggle being to save herself from drowning.
She screamed and coughed the seawater from her lungs in her total terror gasping for breath in order to exhale a squeal of horror, instead of breathing in her desperately needed lungs-full for should she vanish beneath the waves once more, as the water in which she had just been immersed flowed down her soft flesh as if it were unveiling her beauty newborn afresh: the seductive siren birth of a golden honey mermaid beauty.
And then it was if it were not just my eyes straining to see and watch. It was if I were four-eyed for by-and-by I noticed and knew my body was betraying Adrienne, for not only was my bikini thong’s inside crotch saturated, but my eyes also caught my unstrapped bra: the bikini bra I had unclasped from behind my back and removed the straps of from my shoulders in order it should not pattern my tan.
In my rush to get to the side-rail of the boat, in both the excitement of fear and, as was very evident now, in another shaming and shameful form of excitement, I had completely forgotten my bikini top only to notice now, now that my nipples were so engorged engaged and stiffly aroused, as if they too wanted to see Adrienne suffer if truth be told, that my bikini bra’s cups was hanging and swinging from them.
So as to cover myself and hide my shame, I slid the straps back up my upper arms, and pulled them up onto my shoulders and struggled to fasten the clasp behind me, but never ceased to watch Adrienne’s life and death struggle in the water.
And we saw her lovely whipped titties bobbing in the waters Adrienne’s titties were bobbing two uniquely girly buoys with her split nipples pink beacons to guide rescue craft to her, along with the beauty of the equally pink succulent lips with which she now cried pitiably for our help.
And she worked her legs to flex her tail, the complete beautiful mermaid, with her lovely long lithe lissom legs swishing her artificial tail to keep her afloat, fucking herself with the huge dildo within the tail and high up into her slit, and her bare upper body with her soft-firm firm-soft breasts that had been scourged so brutally with the bullwhip and her schoolgirl-angel’s face showing the agony of her distress as she struggled to stay afloat and thereby alive. And her terrified eyes, her lovely dark-brown eyes and her shock of bright red hair as she stared in horror.
And she lost her struggle and disappeared beneath the water....
.....And then she came up again to a cheer and jeer of inhuman cruelty from the gathering at the yacht’s rail. And she realised her only choice and salvation, and the silence that followed was eager not to miss any detail of the mermaid with her fish’s tale, as she began to swim toward and pull toward herself the floating Judas-Ball to which she was attached by long chains, and bridge a gap which, as she swished her tail, seemed ever to widen from her exhausted exhalations of exaltations that it should offer her arms alms.
And she went under the water again almost spent of strength and yet found superhuman effort to swish her mermaid’s tale to take her to the salvation island of the floating ball and its alms and its mockery of mercy. And Adrienne succeeded in getting her beautiful slim arms around the ball, and we saw the blood as she was pricked and punctured, torn and stabbed by hundreds of its needle-thorns, and watched and saw that the pain was unbearable, but that her fear of drowning was greater, and so she must hug her buoy, the cabin-boy must hug her buoy, and cling on to the Judas-Ball for her dear life for dear life. And the cruel savagery of her torture was revealed when, because it was her only means of staying afloat, she embraced the ball as if a loving wife, to save her life, and thus drove into her innocent soft-firm milk-white breasts and her gentle semi-translucent pink nipples the multi-multitude of needles barbing the barbarous spherical porcupine: the Judas-Ball, so that they penetrated her, traitor to the cause of saving her life, savaging her breasts as she bobbed helplessly on the water within a spreading pool of red from her breasts’ ripping and shredding, as she clung to her saviour and torture. And her violently extracted vibrant vivacious vital red mingled with the ocean’s paradise pacific- blue, and the air was rent with a pitiful scream that was not in tone immediate any more than the cry of a girl in tortured agony from her bullwhipping, and her humiliation, and the betrayal of her being a human being, of her humanity, thrown overboard to struggle in the denigrating bondage that mocked her as half human half fish: a mermaid. It was a scream of passionate pain. It was a scream redolent of relief that she had saved herself from certain drowning. And then, as she used her beautiful legs encased within it to thrash her tail to froth the red blood-stained blue sea, and thus bobbed the Judas-Ball buoy to rip her tits the more: the Judas-Ball she hugged to her gentle bosom with joy as she fucked herself with the inbuilt dildo in her fish’s tale in her mermaid’s tail, harder and faster and harder and faster and harder still: till her tail wagged no more, and her ripped red runnelling bloody bleeding body hugged the spiked ball to her brutalised breasts as if in passionate lover’s embrace with all the strength of her long slim golden-down dappled arms, as the salt water splashed on and into to sear her suffering wounds: and she went as rigid as death with her lovely head thrown back in agony and ecstasy as she embraced her lover, the spiked ball the Judas-Ball betraying her: hugging it in a hold as hard as hades onto and into her ripped tits and savaged nipples, and her scream changed tone to the unmistakable sound of a girl in the highest height of the highest of heightened-high-octane multitudinous-multi-multiple orgasm’s orgasm’s orgasms....
..............................
As we sailed harbour, just over three hours later, I went visit Adrienne where she was being nursed.
And when I opened door, I heard her sweet voice hymning a pretty song that was summer bee kissing petals, like she had nectar on her already so sweet lips. It had a tuneless tone but was melodious and fragrantly dreamy.
She lay naked, face down on a sick-bay bed, one bandaged arm reaching down flicking over the colourful pages of an ancient looking yellowing dog-eared school-age picture-book, spread open on the floor so she could read it. She lolled her head resting her chin edge the bed to look distractedly at the book’s pictures.
Her chest was lying on and pressing into a huge square of gauze covered with some soothing ointment or other. She was kicking her lovely legs slowly to and fro in contra-time with her timeless tonal tune, with her toes pointed to heaven and her calves in great shape consequent, as if, were she stood straight, she had been meandering scented misty mystery wilds, and trying not to let the dewdrops wet all of her entrancing dancing bare feet.
“Ooooh Charley! How darling!!” she greeted, in genuine full-girl loveliness, looking at me with her head turned, but still lying side her head on the bed, since she had to stay face down.
“I can’t move much at the moment Charlie. Could you be an absolute doll: squeeze some of the after-sun out and run it over my shoulders: would you please?”
In my enthusiasm to touch her lovely body, albeit not as I longed, in love, I overdid the squeeze and had to prolong my caress of her redhead’s sensitive skin on her badly sunburnt shoulders and back, to work all the balm in.
“Oh now Charley!” she teased, “I only wanted you to apply the lotion!”
Her lovely dark-brown eyes, such as I could see of them, were distracted as she hummed and kicked her so distracting legs. I wondered if she was covering for pain or high on painkilling drugs, but she seemed as if she had had some kind of instant cure for all she had gone through and that it wasn’t nothing artificial. And I half-feared and half-knew what had done it to her, and what had done it for her, and that they were one and the same.
She then giggled out, before I had even asked, and without turning her head the little she could to make attempt to look at me: “I’m not going ashore Charley”.
“Awe come on Adrienne, what are you saying?....”, I tried, though somehowing it was in a hopelessly lost cause, since she had clearly pre-read my thoughts.
“I’m saying, that Lola has ordered me to stay onboard as crew, Charley, and that means I’ve no choice but to obey.”
Then she sighed her complete happiness, and stretched her toes even more heavenward flexing her stupendous calves to beyond erotic curvature, as her pretty fingers flicked over another page of ‘The Bumper Book of Adventures for Boys’.....
The Flotsam Dame – Episode 2
(a Charlotte Moans prequel)
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: - If you have not already read Episode 1 of this story, then you can find it at Part 24 of ‘Disconnections’.
In Episode 1 we learned that Private Investigator Charlotte (“Charley”) Moans’ enquiries into the goings on aboard the Shapely Shark, a yacht owned by the devilish Lola, had not gone entirely smoothly. Indeed, along the way Charley had somehow lost lovely police lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski....
The Flotsam Dame – Episode 2
(a Charlotte Moans prequel)
by Eve Adorer
To have heard Captain Kismet Lipps rave at me, you would have thought I’d actually made Lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski stay aboard Lola’s yacht, the Shapely Shark.
Kismet’s stress and distress were understandable, but I was hanged if I was going take the crap, for the sassy Kowalski having apparently discovered enjoyment of submissiveness. If enjoyment it was. If that, and not shear fear, was what had prompted Adrienne to decline to come ashore when we docked to ride out the storm that had called short Lola’s voyage.
Lipps’ flames took extinguisher soon enough though.
“How on this side of the world of fuck do we get her outta there, Charley?”
“Who says we oughta, Kismet? She’s a grown girl, and if a grown girl is discover she likes having her pretty bottom spanked, that’s a grown girl’s privilege ain’t it? Every girl oughta have a hobby, don’t they?” I quipped, resignedly.
I knew what Kismet was going to suggest of course, and I was not quite ready to ‘yes’ such a notion yet.
The proposal came soon enough though, and in the shape and size I’d anticipated. But I had not foreseen that Kismet would slide it in both sideways and underhand.
“You’ve still got intro to Lola and Bonito Clyde’s world Charley....”
“Forget it Kismet. I ain’t no Tantalus. I ain’t gonna risk my wings gettin’ melted flying too close the moon. I’m PI now. If you recall, that ‘P’ is for ‘private’, not ‘police’. Adrienne’s problems are cop problems. You and Adrienne are the cops. So Adrienne’s therefore your problem. I was just doing my job on the Pussy Purr front. But now, as far as any helping goes, I’m just gonna help myself right outta this.”
“We didn’t get no answer on who did Pussy Purr afore she washed up in New Edingow Bay: assuming it was no accident.”
“I did my job. I found her missing person. That she didn’t die of drowning, and what else she might have goodnighted from, is for the New Edingow Police Department, the good old NEPD, not me. Her ma can still have her fee back, and that leaves the square circled where my business is concerned.”
“Pussy Purr’s ma never in fact of point paid my fee, so it’s only a matter of me telling her she don’t need to now....And that’ll be a relief, cos it never did seem right taking money for not finding Pussy missing alive, rather than discovering her as a Jane Doe first out.....” I affirmed.
“Yea ‘fees’...funny you should mention fees Charley. Fees are just what we need to talk about you and me”, Kismet responded.
Even before I began again to insist it was not my business anymore, I trailed off. I’d seen that wicked look in Kismet’s eyes before. I knew she was as sharp as a snake’s fang. And I sensed she was several moves ahead of me on the chessboard, and was about to announce ‘cheesecake’, or whatever you call it.”
“What about Ursa Bows’ money Charley?” Kismet smiled confidently.
“What about Ursa Bows’ money Kismet?” I responded, having not seen her southpaw coming.
“They bankrolled so you could play high-flyer on a bonus squander wander yonder, yachting out beyond the line in the ocean where Lola takes high rollers to avoid state and federal taxes. It was a tidy sum. It put you and Sam Splayed and your tec agency back in the black. I woulda bought me shares in Splayed Moans Inc right then, it looked so good a buy. But Splayed Moans shares look now as if they’re heading south, if you read me.”
“I expect Ursa Bows will take a cheque, but not a rain-check Charley....” Kismet smirked triumphantly, with a smile I wanted to kiss off her lovely mouth.
“You can’t pin that shit on me Kismet!” I ventured with the uncertainty I had about everything other than Kismet’s obvious certainty, making my voice end-sentence a bit on the squeaky side.
Kismet smirked: “You and I both know I signed the NEPD’s certificate of surety that the sum would be returned nett of any damage at Lola’s roulette wheel. And I think we both know who, if its instant total recalled, won’t be able to make the necessary available in full, for quite some time. That’s cos her business was dead as said by her auditors last fiscal, and therefore her bank said ‘thank you everso Charley that’ll do nicely as a dollar-pro-quo’, for an account more in a force nine gale than a mere overdraft......”
“......Yea: I know Charley. You’re thinking that Ursa Bows Bank loaned that dough to the NEPD, and therefore the debt is on the NEPD......”
“......Sure. That’s right. But it was paid over to you, and I’m afraid I accidentally lost, or will shortly lose, the agreement signed saying that, if you needed delay, the NEPD would give you time to pay it all back drip by drop, instead of all in one whole lot. Sorry Charley!”
As she then took my hands in hers, to tell us both that we were still friends, despite this blatant blackmail, Kismet giggled: “You know, you’re face says you’re wanting to call me a bitch, Charley”.
.............................
The Shapely Shark was waived bye-bye ocean wave a whole month before she again docked for revit’ling and coaling-up. Old king coal was on the throne again now, oil having last flowed decades ago. So, allowing for the loading of food and fuel, and an underwater refit of a wonky propeller, it was more than six weeks before I could use contact with Captain Lusciouoso Ngano, Lola’s appointee for the bridge of the Shapely Shark, and get myself back aboard a sea-readied vessel.
I’d decided to slide aboard by this indirect route, rather than call Lola or Bonito Clyde’s attention to my return. But I needn’t have worried. Both were ashore attending to the business that saw Bonito’s name headline on the finance websites, when she pulled off a deal that made her the outright owner of the Double-U ponygirl stables in Pinkoria Texas. Yes: the very stables that has produced five Kentucky Derby, three Melbourne Cup, and three English Derby winners in the past seven years.
Tell you the truth; I was as much on the lookout for the sparkling brown eyes of the gorgeous little negress, Lickme, as I was for Adrienne Kowalski.
Don’t get me wrong none. It was just that Adrienne was unfinished business, whereas Lickme was unfinished pleasure. Having Lickme’s heavenly negress’ lips suck the cream from my éclair last I was voyage, was something I was never easy gonna forget.
On board the Shapely Shark, Hollywood and Bollywood beauties were on parade as before. Though there had been some changes of place, the new faces were still familiar from screen and some from stage too, and the visions of feminine loveliness, no less than before.
To these actresses, the frisson of being the guests of Lola and Bonito, whose repute as being of evil root was not in dispute even if their records were squeaky clean, was symbiotic with Lola and Bonito’s adoration of being welcome in celebrity society.
“You got such lovely eyes”
“Thank you”, Adrienne’s voice responded.
“And great legs”
There was no response there, and I sensed Adrienne would be blushing at eyes wondering up and down what were no more than two long very shapely proofs of the truth of the latter statement.
I looked up at the screen. I hadn’t expected this. But dinner had ended with the captain’s announcement that the propeller repair was taking longer than expected.
She added something technical about it being better done in dry-dock, but time was saved using divers, only that was taking a tad longer than expected, what with hitherto unexpected underwater welding now being entailed.
Anyway, she apologised that our hosts had made a no-show, on account of the delay. And then offered us a chance to see screened, the latest adventure of Hadrian, the Shapely Shark’s shapely cabin boy.
“The life of a cabin boy has been summarised as ‘rum, bum, and concertina’...” Captain Ngano, the model of a model in her light blue gold-braid-laced uniform, tried to joke.
“It had been a long day for Hadrian when she....I mean when he went to the sailors’ sleeping birth. All he wanted to do was shower, and slide into his hammock....”
This we could see for ourselves. The DVD loaded in the projector, though the picture flickered slightly whilst, as now, it was held in freeze-frame, showed the gorgeous Adrienne Kowalski, wearing only a white towel around her hips, coming out of a shower cubicle on the sailors’ dormitory deck. Her boy-cropped radiant-red hair was darker hued on account of its wetness. Her delicate pink nipples were kissed with tiny droplets of water anointing them alike with dew dappled spring rosebuds.
For a girl I knew had only six weeks since been savagely whipped, she was now back as pristine as a Sistine.
The DVD ravished the delicate beauty of her breasts, even down to the intricate filigree of fine-line-veins that showed blue through the ghostly whiteness of Adrienne’s exquisitely soft redhead’s complexion.
She was being accosted by five of her fellow sailorettes.
All the sailors on the Shapely Shark were stunning negresses, and the five eying Adrienne Kowalski’s bold and beautiful thighs, were decidedly no exception to the rule of that rule.
“The DVD is from the security cams”, Captain Lusciouoso Ngano continued. “Some of the goings on among the hammocks and bunks in the sailors’ quarters you would hardly believe!”
“Our five in the picture had had their eyes on Hadrian for some time. He’s a handsome boy as you can see. They wanted to make the cabin boy feel at home, and to do that, they wanted to feel the cabin boy!”
Some of the newcomers among the Holly and Bollywood set, must have wondered why a creature so obviously a girl, the stunning Adrienne, was being spoken of as a boy, the handsome ‘Hadrian’. But they would no doubt learn of Lola’s love of games-play, once their ultimate host deigned to award us with her presence.
Meanwhile, Captain Ngano had realised her sense of humour met no match with a listless audience, so she signalled for the movie to be started from its beginning.
“Ladies and ladies, I hope you will enjoy our humble entertainment. Please order such drinks as you please. They are all on the house. And please feel free to roam the Shapely Shark as you may wish; save that I would respectfully request that the crew’s quarters be kept out of bounds. Thank you....”.
We all watched the screen......
“You got such lovely eyes”
“Thank you”, Adrienne’s voice responded.
“And great legs”
There was no response there, save for Adrienne’s profuse and very lovely blushing.
On the screen, Adrienne moved to busy herself with a hairdryer, only to have her hands gently taken and held, while one of the five stunning negresses took Adrienne’s towel off her, leaving her naked.
A genuine gasp from the watching audience of the movie being wall-screened in the Shapely Shark’s dining hall, could have been lip-synched with the gasps of the five negresses on screen, for all were astonished at the wonderful beauty of Adrienne’s thus exposed slit.
She was as smooth tight-lipped and hairless as a pre-pubescent innocent. Let alone that she was clearly in her early twenties, the heart-stopping gentle hillock of her pronounced Venus mound, was as immaculate as if she had never yet seen ten, let alone passed all eight of her teens.
“You’re all girl! If you is a cabin boy, where’s your fucking dick?!” one of the gang of girls challenged, with distinct surprise evident in her intonation.
“Just cos she’s all girl, don’t mean we can’t ‘ave a bit of fun do it?”, the seeming leader of the predatory pack gloated. “It just means we got us an ‘ole instead of a pole to play wiv dunnit?” she sneered.
“No! Please!” Adrienne begged.
“We’ve seen ‘er credentials now Vixy, better show ‘er ours ‘adn’t we?”
At this, as if they knew there was Closed-Circuit CCTV recording them, the five taunting the frightened redhead, took off their skirts with integral thongs, so they stood in their sailor’s blue and white hooped tee-shirts alone: alone that is save for the company of their very erect cocks.
The almost painful looking rigid stiffness of their erections, was wholly a compliment to the wholesome holy beauty of Adrienne’s face and body. These dick-girls, these unsated half-female satyrs, had been lusting after the lovely redhead ever since she had come aboard the Shapely Shark.
Adrienne being called ‘Hadrian’ by captain and crew had made them assume she had a cock too. But at the discovery she had a slit where a cock was expected, their cocks had flown, grown, and now silently moaned their need to mount, pierce, and piss their orgasms inside Adrienne.
Their cocks were magnificent. That was decidedly because they stood so proudly, and shouted so loudly, that they wanted Adrienne.
None was less than at least fifteen inches, and, now she was fully naked, that of the leader of the predatory pack was curving back so that its throbbing head was nestling in her concave navel.
These cocks were crying that they were dying for relief, and Adrienne’s body excited their rigidly upright uptight attention.
“’Ere Vixy. She’s only got three ‘oles and there’s five of us!” one of the dick-girls mockingly bemoaned, in order to terrify Lieutenant Kowalski the more.
“So, she’s gonna ‘ave to take them in her, in turn, don’t she”, Vixy replied.
The sight of this quintet of erectile tissue began a twittering of excitement among the Holly and Bolly beauties watching the movie. Giggles of embarrassment undoubtedly denoted that more than one pair of knickers had acquired a sudden moist patch. Some shifting on seats could, if one were suspicious, have been attributed to a desire to rub or press on the musk-scented pods on which these lovelies nestled.
Then pantomime boos broke out, since, because the rigidly fixed CCTV cameras, unlike time, did not take survey of all the earth, the follow-up action was consequently a fraction and then an entirety off screen.
But ears grew attentive, mine not least, to a reflex coughing throttling begging sound, that told us all, that Adrienne had had an erect cock forced down her throat. Then came a momentary glimpse of Vixy leaning back, her eyes closed with the consummate pleasure of the attention being paid her devastatingly distended dick, by Adrienne’s ululating tongue, as we saw lovely Adrienne, her eyes half-closed as if her eyelids must thus take precaution against her seemingly unseeing deep dark browns bursting out of their sockets, she was in such distress, her face reddened beyond the lovely blush that made her redolent a rose, toward the violent-violet end of asphyxiations’ spectrum, her sweet voice an indecipherably muffled repeated retching, begging for mercy, that she not be so cruelly used that even her magnificently flared nostrils gave her no air. She was become the sole soul of the satiation sensation for the penetration on which she gurgled gargled coughed and choked, as she struggled for the very breath of sweet life, with seventeen inches of Vixy’s hard-rock cock, rammed and forcefully held all its length down her throat.
We saw that Vixy held her swollen sword down Adrienne’s throat using it as a sexual scabbard to the fullest, such that Vixy’s testicles were dangling at Adrienne’s chin, and Vixy’s hands were grasping Adrienne’s hair, to hold her cock in there, where Adrienne’s struggle for life was the highest of height of delight for the length of the shaft flickeringly licked and the swollen head experiencing Adrienne’s vibrant vibrato retching gargles.
And yet, when Vixy let mercy prevail and let go Adrienne’s head and radiant curls, it was Adrienne herself who instead gripped gentle hands on Vixy’s pretty bottom, to hold Vixy’s cock down her throat, in longing to keep it fully filling and fucking her mouth, even as the irises of Adrienne’s eyes rolled above her top lids out of sight, her exposed eyes thus showing only whites.
As her strangulation by the cock was bidding her faint to final cruel world goodnight, Adrienne was holding the cock down her at full length, all seventeen inches of its throbbing vitality filling her mouth and throat as she endlessly coughed and murderously choked.
Only when Vixy insistently pulled herself out of Adrienne’s lovely mouth, did we witness that the plunging action of the cruel prick, so swiftly withdrawn, caused Adrienne to fountain out vile sucked up bile, that now spattered on Adrienne’s restless breasts as they swung where their transparent near translucent beauty hung, never at rest, pronouncedly bouncing as Adrienne announced the degree to which she had suffered in this initial fuck, by coughing and gasping for sweet air in combination and competition, as she squatted bare on the boards of the deck, fantastically hugely thighed, wondering where she would experience the penetration of her powerfully potent pulchritude next.
“Get the fucking bitch kneeling so she can take it up her bum!”
“Nah! There’s no need to lubricate the whore. She can take it dry so it fucking hurts!”
The words were meant to sting like a spur to urge on the desire in her, the gorgeous Adrienne, as on fire as her inflammatory hair. The other four had her kneeling in prayer over a lower bunk, and held Adrienne’s lovely hands to keep her there, as if there were need, as there was not, even as Vixy’s huge cock, still wet with the bile Adrienne continued to taste in her pretty mouth, pecked and kissed the tight sphincter that formed the ‘lips’ of Adrienne’s exceptionally shapely bottom.
There would be no Red Sea pedestrians’ separation for the stiff prick that sniffed akin a bobbing throbbing over-eager connoisseur sommelier at Adrienne’s fear-tightened anus. Instead there was a slow push, a withdrawal strategic, a rally, another defeated push, and a rush push and surely inexorable thrust, that still met with defeat, such that Adrienne’s sphincter seemed able to forever repeat; till a brutal final rush of rapine rigidity, opened Adrienne’s eyes like an astonished ingénue, as wide as her anus’ sphincter was forced aside in surrendering the fight to the superior might of Vixy’s insistent unstoppable stab, which pushed the reluctant doors wide, and Adrienne’s endless scream of pain matched the duration of the cock that was sliding relentlessly up her bum to ready Vixy for a joyous joyride.
The cameras caught sweet Adrienne’s angelic face as a scream and tears of pain took rein in place of her usual tender look, when Vixy’s cock went up her bum and began to fuck her in the wholly holy hole of deepest darkest joy.
And the cameras too, in the edited film, showed Vixy riding the range with her cock sliding in and out of Adrienne’s surrendered anus, as Adrienne’s face, now shown again, depicted acceptance that her beauty could only be thus expressed, by her taking a cock where it chose to shaft her, in one of the three holes all cocks were forever ever after.
Adrienne was being taken up the bum. And her face blushed as she knew the joy of giving a love ride to the girl half-boy whose dick was diving seventeen inches deep within her bum’s insides, as she fought to overcome the feeling that was innate, that she was about to defecate. That feeling, akin to the little girly fart evinced at times with arousals start, was girlfully overcome as Adrienne relaxed to enjoy enduring the relentless fucking of her gorgeous bum.
The cowgirl at rodeo scene seemed apt as Vixy rode Adrienne’s bum hard with repeated slaps, as her violent thrusts rocked the girl she was using forth and back.
Then she grabbed Adrienne’s hair and pulled her head hard, harder and harder still, till she jerked and squirted her total outcome, overcome and come to cum. For the beauty of Adrienne’s bum was too great for Vixy not to cum, and so her hot seed pissed in Adrienne’s insides as Vixy, at her loveseed’s hosing a white hot jet in the pretty bum her cock had so viciously and yet so temporarily owned, groaned and moaned with completion and repletion.
There was but a moment’s respite for Adrienne’s lovely butt. The film was in real-time. It had been edited only to show views from differing cameras, not to shorten the duration of Adrienne’s rape.
“’Ere, give us a go Vixy - we wanna fuck ‘er in ‘er bum’ole too!”
Vixy was sufficiently in control of the other four would-be rapists though, that she alone would dictate what, and who would, and how they would take Adrienne next.
So it was only at her behest, and for chance to recover to her best, that Adrienne’s bum was fucked in turn by all four of the rest. Then.....
“Are you fully ripe?” Vixy sneered cruelly.
“I’m sorry....ripe?” Adrienne’s off-screen voice sweetly queried.
“Ripe! Are you at risk?”
“Risk? I really don’t understand, I’m sorry...?”
“Well you better fucking understand, cos you’re going to get it fucked bareback sweetheart...”
The possibilities from the ministrations of the unprotected cocks of these shemales forced up the sheath of her peerless innocent’s slit, was thus reminded the delicious Adrienne. The purpose of so doing being to horrify her when it dawned, as well as to make her resistant to having it penetrated, so that the dickgirls could and would enjoy slapping her around to make her part her thighs and take their immense intense inches fully to the maximum of full fathom three by five inches minimum dive inside.
The scream and the spurt of blood when Vixy’s reinvigorated cock took Adrienne’s virginity, made us all look up. But the tears of extreme pain in Adrienne’s soulful brown eyes, were swiftly followed by her sweet hands caressing Vixy’s sides as Vixy, with both of Adrienne’s harshly slapped tits grasped in each fist, took Adrienne for another savage selfish ride, till she spilt her fecund milk within Adrienne’s febrile fertile insides: Adrienne ripe for the result resultant from rape, as the scalding spunk shot up her slit, fucking her with fertile fertiliser to speed seed.
It should not have been that we got bored and turned to chat, such that the next two hours of Adrienne’s constant and repeated rape, turned into background music of grunts, and Adrienne’s very sexy moans and sighs.
The cockgirls forced to look on were non-too-gentle with Adrienne when they took their further turn.
The triple penetration was particularly cruel, but Adrienne eagerly took into her mouth a cock that had just delved sixteen inches deep into her bum, and was readily ridden to a three seed cum by her triumvirate of non-penitent penetrators, who, though they spurted in sequence not simultaneous as sought, made joy of their sport, by wiping their spent dicks on Adrienne’s tits, and having Adrienne take into her with her succulent moist lips and eager tongue, the semen splattered from the half-seamen on her aroused delicate pink nips.
The last I saw of the film was, corner my eye, sweet Adrienne going back into the shower to try, it would appear, to douche away her fear and guilt, as her replete repeated lovers admitted defeat, and conceded the wonderful Kowalski victor in their now seemingly always inevitable exhausted defeat.
Poor Kowalski had taken all five cockgirls, at least twice each down her throat and up her bum, and as many and more times in her slit. And surplus semen was trickling then dribbling then dripping down on the deck from the innocently closed nude lips of it, with only time to tell if the spunk spurted in it, from the cocks she had had rammed up it, to ride her for their selfish pleasure, and the same number that had pissed white hot within its cloisters, would make a pearl in the ripe clam of this girl; a pearl in the oyster of heaven’s lovely daughter.
.............................
I wasn’t know whereabouts on the Shapely Shark sweet Lieutenant Kowalski would be, so I wasn’t know from personal experience that, even while we were half-watching the DVD of her recent gang rape, she was scenting a hammock with her womanly aromas, while playing guitar on her pleasure plectrum, trying not to sigh at the pinnacle of pleasure when she peaked.
Mind back time, Adrienne was daydream that night at the opera with her lovely momma.
It was just after the time her momma had remarked that Adrienne was now taller than her. Adrienne was slimmer of build, though already a wet-dream of curves, complimentary to, and in contrasting comparison with her mama’s more fully womanly wonder.
They might have been sisters, with the wild red of their autumnal-maple-leaf hair, their dark-deep deep-dark shining brown eyes, and the proud soft lips of their moist eager mouths.
Her momma was a head-turner threatening to put a permanent kink in the necks of all the chicks who twisted astonished agape and eager to feast their eyes as she slinked by. The confusion and double contusions risked by the necks of the girls who now wolf-whistled the mother and daughter combination, set Adrienne and her momma off into giggles adorable conspiratorial.
Emilda Kowalski, Adrienne’s lovely momma, so longed that her daughter should make more of her life than she thought she had achieved herself. And, so as to ensure her daughter did not repeat her, Emilda’s, error, of falling in love with the first girl she met and marrying too young, Emilda had taken three paid jobs to pay for Adrienne to go to college.
But that was to come. In her reminiscence of the present, Adrienne was recall of her being fourteen and, though not understanding why, deeply in love with the sensitive toy she had in her panties, and the shape she had been fashioned into by nature, as she was beginning to mature around it: it being at the central to the shy wiggle in her natural walk.
That mother and daughter should have the occasional disagreement was inevitably to be seen, now that Adrienne was filled with the sexual hypertension of being a tempestuous tempting temptress teen.
As fourteen had found Adrienne, there had been the row over what Adrienne had regarded as just plain silly: her momma’s insistence that Adrienne should keep it hygienically shaved. She loved her darling red curls.
When Emilda had insisted that shaving was essential, and reminded Adrienne that she, Emilda, knew what was best for her young daughter. Adrienne had sulked and not spoken to her momma for a whole 24.
But Adrienne had, in the end, taken up her momma’s offer to pay for Adrienne to have them removed, and it thus smoothed. And then she had cried her eyes out with the hours of endless agony endured, in having each individual pubic hair plucked out of its follicle by its root with tweezers.
Adrienne had not spoken to her momma for a whole week after that: not till she now enjoyed relief: the pain and soreness having been replaced by the exciting feel of its new complete replete nudity against the cool crotch of a fresh pair of panties.
When then arrived, Adrienne had given Emilda a sudden kiss on the cheek, and a whisper of “Sorry mummy”, that had made Emilda smile puzzled for the passing moment; then with realisation and satisfaction with Adrienne’s belated acceptance that her momma had been right all along.
A week later, and the row had been over Adrienne’s behaviour on the night she and Emilda were to share at the opera: Emilda’s birthday treat from Adrienne no less.
The evening had begun so lovingly, with Emilda behaving more like a teen than sweet Adrienne. Indeed it had been Adrienne’s momma who had suggested they dress as much as possible alike.
The result had been two stunning redheads decked out in white, standing before a mirror they took turns to share, as each stood tiptop tiptoe in her heelless ballet shoes, behind the other, to tease the final touches to their opposite’s copious curling hair.
Who would dare to try and compare these gorgeous creatures in white ballets, curvy legged en-pointe to shape their calves knees and thighs to draw sighs, their micro-miniskirts tauntingly hauntingly pleasingly teasingly just hiding the potent pods pouching centrally, and scenting their pristine white thongs; their single breasted jackets double-breasted by their bosoms’ riding proudly in their crisp white cool white blouses, bountifully in Emilda’s case with a strongly cantilevered bra struggling to keep its lively contents behaving decorously; and braless as yet in Adrienne’s case, she was so virginally young and firm, though much more by far than merely boldly budding.
Their decision to walk together arm in arm was decidedly because Emilda decided she wanted the wolf-whistles she knew would follow their alarming charms.
Each had checked the tops of their white stockings were smoothly around the boldness of their beautiful thighs below the hems of their skirts, that those hems were just hiding fragrant flagrant heaven, and that the exposed suspender clasps at their thighs’ sides would cause onlookers ogles and sighs.
And then they giggled in musical unison, as they took their fresh-faced freckles outside, and made the sidewalk heaven as their pretty toes kissed it to pride with their every tiptoe stride.
“Just look at the fuckin’ legs on that!” one of the contractors, English girls, working the road drills and pile-drivers mending the highway outside the Kowalski home, had stage-whispered in a loud aside to her mates, “What a pair of fuckin’ dolls!”
“Hey darlin’ is it finger-licking good?” called one labouring girl to Emilda, whose blushing face had turned shy-eyed her way momentarily.
“Yer can come round to my place anytime you like sweetheart..... As long as you bring it wiv yer of course!” this first girl added, as Emilda turned away again.
“Say dat agen! Where was it yer said yer kissed yer sister good-night last night?!” she then added.
“You lettin’ it catch the breeze under dem skirts are you?” another called, a bit lamely tamely.
“Nah, dat ud never work! ‘Ave you tried an ice-pack on it darlin’?!” the first girl now shouted.
“Bloody ‘ell. So it’s dat and not global warmin’ what’s meltin’ all de fuckin’ ice at der norf pole!” opined another stunned ogler.
“Do you two always go around togever?” the second girl enquired, a little more peacefully, as Emilda and Adrienne were receding from earshot.
“Of course dey fuckin’ do: it’s permanent sat atween ‘er fuckin’ gorgeous fies innit?” the first girl concluded, as her fellow labourers giggled and reluctantly returned to work.
Neither Emilda nor Adrienne was going to confess to the wetness this direct and, if humorous, still somewhat earthy attention to their charms, had caused in the slings of their tiny white panties. Indeed both pretended to the other that they were upset by the crudity.
Both were blushing. Their blushes denoted the instant and the instances and incidents when they moistened. They had blushed and moistened throughout the teasing from the labourers. And the blushes they wore now, were the afterglow to signal their continued feminine wetness, even though Adrienne didn’t know why she was wet there, and thought it must be that the heat of her blushes caused her to sweat there.
It was from that moment that trouble between mother and teenaged daughter began again.
A chance meeting with Davidia in the foyer of the opera house before the show, had set it in train.
Later time had revealed that, through coincidence, Emilda’s ex lover, Davidia, the girl who had been Adrienne’s other mother till Emilda and she had broken up, had a seat in the same front stalls row, indeed, numerically, the seat next to mother and daughter.
The atmosphere between Emilda and Davidia was as cool, as that felt by her teenage daughter for her alma mater, Davidia, was shyly hot.
The discovery that Emilda’s seat in the opera house was right next to that for Davidia, had prompted the feeble excuses that had left Adrienne in her stead, next to the woman Adrienne longed would to her say “bed?”
Davidia attempted to be civilised and continued the conversation across the vast expanse of Adrienne’s stockinged thighs, as she tried small talk to heal the rift, at least to the extent of being once more friends with Emilda, whom she had not seen for some six months by then.
Perhaps it was because she had sat too hurriedly in the confusion over who should sit where, that the crotch of Adrienne’s minuscule white panties had somehow managed to divide it. But while the two adults were making politenesses across her stocking tops and the flawlessly smooth flesh of her white thighs, bare above those tops, she could not try to rearrange her clothing so that there would be less pressure in it.
It was only in an attempt to relieve that pressure that Adrienne had crossed her legs, and thus displayed a very shapely enormity of right thigh, which she shyly noticed, instantly attracted and distracted both of Davidia’s roaming appreciative eyes.
“Adrienne!!” Emilda’s risen voice sharply reminded her leggy daughter, as mothers will a mother’s will apply, making girls like Adrienne humbly numbly shy.
“Sorry mummy”, Adrienne whispered as she uncrossed her thighs, while the orchestra struck up the overture for ‘Il Seraglio’ and her parent, and at one-time parent-apparent, Davidia, continued to pretend they wanted, once more, to be friends, across the seat in which Adrienne uncomfortably sat.
As the opera proper began, and Mozart’s wonderful music filled the auditorium, was it Adrienne’s fault that, somehow, the lowered lighting in the auditorium, and the spotlighting on the stage, made for subtle shadows that showed the supremely virginal shapeliness of her very firm young tits?
Or that, as her pretty hand played distractedly distractingly attractively attractingly with her red-hot curls, her forearm would press a breast and brush a nipple through her blouse?
Adrienne’s mesmerising brown eyes were aglow with the joy of what she witnessed on the stage. But she made no show when she finished twiddling her pretty curls, and put down a lovely little hand, which, in that very instant Davidia grasped, clasped, and held.
But though Adrienne was enough of an actress not to, for even one millisecond, alter her gaze, she was thankful that the hushed lighting did not let her blush show, and therefore let the world know, that the crotch of her panties, so caught up in dividing it, and causing her discomfort, was now wet, and its pressure on her dancing clitoris pleasuring her, with an additional feeling in her nipples that she had never before felt yet.
Adrienne was so confused. Why was Davidia now so eager to get her, Davidia’s, hand on the hot bare thigh flesh above her right stocking’s top? Surely it should be like in ‘Romance’, the illustrated comic Adrienne religiously read each week, where the older woman and the virginal miss who, like Adrienne here in real life, had never yet been kissed, always did no more than hold hands on a date, till the miss realised her fate, and entered the nunnery’s gate, to devote her life to good works for god’s sake.
Adrienne put her freed hand on Davidia’s hand, meaning it to message that she did not want to play that way. But Davidia took it as a signal that all was okay, and moved her hand to get to where it nestled so warmly on the seat, only to be disappointed when she discovered that Adrienne’s panties were pulled up in it hard, and she could therefore not get a finger in it to search for Adrienne’s little trigger, to stroke it and make it better and bigger.
Thinking she would try again after the interval when Adrienne’s clothing would be straightened, and her little love-button thus more accessible, Davidia now withdrew her hand.
To sweet Adrienne this sudden withdrawal was an act of the deepest passion and compassion, and she just knew that the experiences of her favourite character, ‘Lorna Love’ in ‘Romance’ had come true. She now had no doubt that Davidia was the love of her life. She instantly knew, in her sweet inexperience and wholly holy ignorance, that she had met the woman who would make her her wife, and that they would not even kiss until their wedding night.
But, at the interval, Davidia had left her seat to answer her mobile where that action would be discreet. It had been set on vibrate, though it should not have been on at all. However, Davidia had been expecting a potentially very important business call, and it had come and held sway, so Davidia now disappeared for the rest of the day.
Adrienne now turned to her momma and smiled, only for Emilda to take her daughter’s slender wrist and haul Adrienne from her seat.
Astonished, Adrienne made no resistance as Emilda pulled her across, and bent her across her knee, and pulled her skirt the tiny minimum it was necessary to completely bare Adrienne’s pretty bum, and began to spank her daughter very hard there.
A cheer from the audience that had remained rather than having to the bars for refreshment detrained, reminded poor sweet Adrienne that she was being spanked by her furious momma, in front of an audience enjoying the resounding ‘smack’ of Emilda’s heavy slaps on Adrienne’s bare bum, as they echoed audibly of the walls of the auditorium.
Poor little Adrienne’s bummy was being slapped by her mummy, because of Emilda’s frustration that it had been Davidia that had ended the relationship, that with Emilda that is, and the pain she had endured from her broken heart. A heart she had consoled with the thought that at least she had her lovely daughter to succeed her, and succeed in life where she had failed. And now her daughter had behaved in a way that made her fear that even that hope had also paled.
“I will NOT have you behaving like that!” Emilda repeated as she gave Adrienne’s bare bum yet another hard slap.
The embarrassment of Adrienne’s public spanking was only increased as she kicked her pretty legs and wept and wailed as her mummy’s hand her pretty daughter’s bare bummy publicly flailed. And the bars were emptied as the echoes sounded, of the slaps on soft firm flesh where Emilda’s hand harshly pounded. And then bye and bye clapping and jeering accompanied the rhythm of the slaps, and sweet Adrienne thought she must surely die. Till when Adrienne knew she was feeling what she shouldn’t, and her tears went dry as she tried to disguise the new true colour of her secretly wanton cries. And as her mummy continued to slap her bummy hard, the crotch of the panties dividing it was as wet as a slavered gag. And her secret secretions only increased when she glimpsed the girls on the balcony agog, with opera glasses binocular before their unbelieving eyes, as the beautiful auburn woman in the front row of the stalls, slapped the bare bottom of the cute curly redhead in a way at which they should have been appalled.
“Mummy please!” Adrienne pleaded but Emilda continued to give her daughter what she considered the naughty girl needed, unaware that Adrienne’s plea was from the fear she was about to cum across her mummy’s knee, though Adrienne knew not what to cum might be. For Adrienne was feeling something so strange that she had for it no name. She only knew that her panties were soaking wet: wetter than ever before: wetter even than when she had peed in them when she was very young. Hence the cause of her plea: “Mummy please” for the fear of the innocent miss was that she had wet herself with piss.
And then her mummy had held her wrist and dragged her out of the serried ranks of seats down the centre aisle, as the audience returning greeted the spanked naughty girl with a knowing smile, that was followed by wolf-whistles from the stares that showed Adrienne’s skirt still ridden up and her thong leaving her reddened bummy glowingingly bare, and the crotch of her panties pulled up where it rubbed Adrienne as she wiggled along tiptop tiptoed in her ballet shoes, and thus multiplied her shame, the shame at which the blushing freckle-faced redheaded fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, with the lovely long legs and hanging blushing demean, came, and came, with cums she had never before known, as her mummy still slapped her bare bummy in open view plain, as she dragged her home, spanking her even in the open aisles where the smiles of the audience said they knew a newcomer new-cummer, when she wiggled that way to rotate her bare bottom in enticing display, and grind herself on the sopping wet panties pulled hard up into it along the way. And she was dragged home to where Adrienne hoped and prayed that after this humiliating parade, her mummy would spank her again this very day.
.....................
“You playing with it Hadrian?!” Adrienne’s suddenly arrived overseer sarcastically barked.
“No ma’am. I would never do that ma’am”, poor Lieutenant Kowalski lied and whisper cried, knowing she would be punished if her overseer knew she had had her finger in it.
“Hadrian no masturbate! It weaken Hadrian when he got work do!”
“Get out hammock. We got order steam raise!”
Adrienne, still known aboard and treated and spoken of and to, as “Hadrian”, was, unknown to me, now employed in the Shapely Shark’s boiler-room, below many decks. “He” worked there, “he” ate there, “he” slept there.
Obeying the sexy little negress whose turn it was to take charge over her for this shift, Adrienne’s dainty feet, still shod in the dirty ballet shoes she wore 24/7, for she had no time to remove them even to go to bed, dropped silently to the still warm steel plates of the boiler-room deck.
Reaching up to the end of her filthy hammock, she pulled down a rag that had long since ceased to be white, and tied it around her slender hips, in a bow at her right side, so that the longer left side of this, her only clothing, covered her left buttock and thigh, but the slope up to the bow let the delights of the right cheek of her beautiful bottom more than half show.
Then her pretty little hands put on a pair of leather gloves so worn that her soft palms nearly showed through their torn ones.
The reason for their careworn appearance became obvious, as not long since newly appointed Stoker Zero Class “Hadrian” Kowalski, wiggled tiptoe, hurriedly across the deck, and flicked two catches which opened the access to the still hot but now burnt coals: the clinker dropped through the grating at the bottom of the yacht’s furnace’s fire.
Hadrian’s long day of sweating sweated labour had begun.
Now she that was treated as a he, squatted on her superb haunches, making her thighs compellingly huge, as she fought with her little hands and slim arms, with their feminine lack of muscularity, to remove the tray full of the clinker she must dump in a chute across the way.
Her redhead’s ghost-white body was smeared with soot stains she had acquired in her toils, and had had no time to remove, because she was so dead tired at the end of her days.
Now she wiped her soiled gloves on her sweat-shiny thighs, as she drew a deep breath, and grasped the handles of the ashcan, showing the sheer beauty of the power in her wonderful legs, as she rose to tiptoe in her ballets, her breasts heaving as if she sobbed from having just been jilted by a lover, as she uprighted her curves with the weight borne by her sweetly muscle-tensioned arms.
Then she wiggled her comely bum, her tits swinging side to side determinedly, while she carried the half-tonne of clinker to the chute down which her cute face and adorable brown eyes stared in relief, as the old spent coals and ash, tumbled and rumbled down, to form ballast in a skip that would be taken ashore another day.
As she bent at the waist to put the emptied clinker tray back under the furnace, its naked lips flashed between her exceptionally excellent thighs. This was no boy! And, in the know that that was so, she straightened quickly at the recall of how this particular overseer liked to flick it with the tips of her whip, to make her do a leggy leap and yelp and caress the pain, so the overseer could whip her again for ‘playing with it’ when she ‘should be working’.
The regrets Adrienne had experienced from her decision to stay aboard the Shapely Shark, had not dawned till the day, not long after her gang-rape, that her role as ‘cabin boy’ had been re-advertised by Lola, the owner of the ocean-going yacht on which Adrienne now served.
Lola wanted ‘fresh meat’. She had tired of sporting with ‘Hadrian’, and decided to put him where his redhead’s ghostly-white presence, would not stand out among the gorgeous negresses that were ‘standard issue’ among the rest of the boat’s crew.
Taking a pair of metal tongs in her gloved right hand, Adrienne flicked open the door of the furnace, and her near naked body glowed its glory in the red heat of the dying flames. That radiant glow poured itself on the canvas of her redhead’s spectral complexion, and the resulting pink almost matched, but could never surpass, that of Adrienne’s nipples.
The door for the furnace was not easily closed. Its engineering was clever. It was temperature controlled.
The furnace had a long lower steel ‘jaw’ door, as long as lovely Adrienne was tall.
When dropped open, as it was now, it looked like the maw of a monster. It had a serrated top edge with square-profile ‘teeth’ to mesh with those at opposite intervals in the stationary top ‘jaw,’ on which it would close like a mouth. Thus shut, it even had a grim smile. The smiling jaws would close when an acceptably even temperature had been reached by the fire in the furnace’s ravenous belly.
Adrienne now turned the dial that would set the jaw of the furnace in action and reaction to the temperature of its fire.
An embossed plate four-corner-riveted on one of its sides, confirmed that the furnace had been installed by ‘Fannie’s Conversions’ of Clitboro NE; Fannie’s, being a now defunct one-time employer of thousands of New Edingow girls.
The Shapely Shark had been oil-fired till oil had got so rare it had even gotten beyond Lola’s fortune affording it. The coal-fired replacement furnace, these days used the proceeds from many of the former Fannie’s Conversions’ girls made redundant, who were now hewing and hacking and pick-axing two miles down in the New Edingow coalmines.
For the moment, since the coals within it were cooling, the furnace’s jaw stood stuck agape, as if expressing dumbstruck astonishment at the sight of the beauty of a girl like Adrienne.
Orders for the yacht to be ready to set out to sea within the hour had come from the bridge but ten minutes since, and sweet Adrienne was going to be busy.
I was discover where Adrienne now was, when I saw part her day in the bowels of the boat on which I was cruise leisure, while she slaved away.
For the sades among the Holly and Bollywood dollies fragrancing Lola’s yacht, and for the ‘tainment of Lola and her girlfriend Bonito Clyde, and their honoured guests, there were viewing platforms, some with one-way mirrors / other way glass, for those who wanted watch the lovely crew girls put to work.
Where discipline was needed, discipline was harsh. So, the crew-girls were regular stripped waist, so the whips used to drive them would be maximum pain.
We were yet to witness the lovely legs under muscular strain when the negress sailorettes would be whipped if need be, to drive them to turn the anchor-haul capstan. Dressed only in their tiptoe ballets, their microskirts with inbuilt thongs, and the sailorettes hats on their adorable curls, their shining ebony calves would curve while their sweaty thighs displayed the power innate in their superbly shaped enormity, as they bent their curvy backs and thrust up their firm buttocks, with their pretty hands grasping the capstan’s arms, while their bare titties swung irrelevantly elegantly, as they sweetly sang at their strenuous labours.
Once they were stripped for action this way, none of the sailorettes ever less than ran in her ballets, titties dancing as their lovely legs were prancing, to go their next order to obey.
I was party on the platform viewing the boiler-room. It was recommend we sades watch the sailorette, who was work there under the direction of one of the sergeants of crew.
That I was now know where Adrienne was onboard this expansive expensive tub, was something I must no show. That I saw that the delicious Lickme was her sergeant overseer was a mind blow.
Last cruise Lickme had spoken love to my clit like her tongue was ten miles long, and washed me with soft sponge and hot kisses shower. Now she wielded a nine-tail of cat category, with knots not three-inches apart down each two-foot long kissing tongue, with a knot ending each ropette. Adrienne’s back showed Hadrian had tasted its kisses too: come to that two or three times two.
Adrienne was no see us, as we saw one-way mirror, her beautiful body dressed only in a dirty slanting rag tied bow her right hip: her body shining with the permanent inspirational perspiration on her soft flesh: sweet sweat caused by the heat of the furnace she must attend, in the unventilated boiler-room’s claustrophobic space.
Her bare back was already reddened with three whip strikes min, making some twenty-seven or more stripes on her flawless flesh, from the thrash of the nine-tail that had stalked her, then whistled at the sexy shapeliness of her body, and then kissed her bare back to punish her, and drive her in the horrible heat of the boiler-room’s bowels. And each of the nine-tails many knots had left their love-bites as brutal bruises on her sensationally sensuously soft skin.
The jaw of the furnace was demandingly open, and we watched Adrienne’s shapely legs, her curvy calves’ fleetingly flexing muscles not least, as she tiptoed busily in her ballets, over to the chute in which cold coal was delivered in crushed form from a hopper higher.
Now the insides of her golden-down-decorated forearms brushed her bare breasts brusquely aside, as she worked her wooden-handled steel-shod shovel into the coal, and measured metre that which would fill but not overspill load wise.
Then her babe’s biceps bulged as she carried her shovel-load to the greedy maw of the fire, that was forever demanding more and more. And so, as her nipples glowed in the yellow flames longing to lick them, she spread the load she had up-shovelled, sprinkling it evenly, as she intended, along the length inside of the furnace’s open door, and trotted in wonderful wiggle back for coal more.
As she tippy-toe trotted, briskly sexily daintily, prancing entrancingly, her titties dancing while she wiggled back to the coal chute, Adrienne’s gorgeous face looked up at the mirror she could see but not see through, the one-way glass we were behind. And I looked at the strain on her pretty face, the absence of anything less than exhaustion in her glorious dark brown soul globes, and the glow of her boy-cropped red locks, matted and unwashed as they were, as was she; the lips of her pert mouth dry and cracked with her thirst.
The squeal and leap of pain when Lickme lashed Adrienne’s firm scallop-dimple-sided half-bared bum, for her daring to look in the mirror when she should be working, was accompanied by:
“Hadrian no time look mirror! Hadrian here work, not look pretty face! Hadrian get his titties moving, or Hadrian get whipped more!!”
Had the pain from the nine-tails across her half-bare bum excited Adrienne? Was there an extra wiggle in her trot as she tiptoed, leggy muscles in lovely display, as she made her way to spoon-feed the jaws once more, her bum swinging, as blue bruises, cruel contusions from the whip’s caresses, gradually replaced the cat’s knots’ initially red kisses on her petulant posterior?
Or was it in hope that?.... yes... hope fulfilled, when she had filled the furnace’s jaws with the spread of the shovel’s load, and, moments later more, it slowly closed its jaw.
The furnace was now up to temperature and its moving lower jaw had been shut by a signal from its thermostat’s thermometer. Adrienne could rest till it gaped open-mouthed at her astonishing beauty once more.
Now Adrienne tippy-toed in her dirty ballets over to a transparent plastic tube dangling from the ceiling: a tube which her eager red lips and her lascivious pink tongue licked, to make it ejaculate water into her wanting wanton waiting fellating hot mouth: water that was actually the piss, filtered, if not fully, of faeces, from the latrines in the crew’s quarters on the deck above.
This hell, in which even the steel deck on which her pretty toes danced in her square-toed ballet shoes: this hell of primeval humidity in which her body was constantly wet with her sweat, sweat running even now in two un-matching trickles down the ski-slopes of her magically majestic milk-white breasts, till they formed individual transparent salty tears on the tips of her exquisite nipples, the tears her poor body cried now that the tears from her eyes had dried. This hell was the sade’s heaven, in which police lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski had dwelt since I had left her onboard, at her insistence, after my last cruise on the Shapely Shark, now some six weeks since.
Masturbation was Adrienne’s only relief. Only in her lonely hammock where she could play with her clit till she fell asleep, did Adrienne feel any remaining connection with her humanity. And even that joy was receding since she was increasingly finding that the only thoughts that would arouse her clitoris were those of her suffering onboard this ship.
Playing her pink with finger -plectrum to the tune of the memory of her mummy pounding her bummy in public at the opera, was a fading source of arousal. Now her trigger would increasingly only respond to her middle finger, when she recalled the bullwhipping given her tits, or her mermaid torture. And even they needed extensive hard rotation and rubbing to arouse her nibble’s nocturnal interest; whereas the memory of the horrors of her endless days under threat of the lash, as she fed the fire here in the boiler-room’s bowels, made her pinky perky in an instant.
The order for Hadrian never to masturbate had been issued firmly by Captain Lusciouoso Ngano, the ship’s commander on her, Adrienne’s, appointment as Stoker.
Masturbation would weaken a boy like Hadrian, and make him less able to carry out his heavy duties. Being found masturbating would lead to profound penalties never expanded upon or expounded.
As her pretty lips and long tongue were lapping piss from the drinking tube in a manner making we onlookers long Adrienne were licking between our legs that eagerly, only a female mind-reader could possibly know that Adrienne’s brain was focused on her only relief from the hell in which she must now dwell, and planning how she would arouse herself in her hammock this coming night: what to feed her pink so that she could take herself to the queendom-come of a relieving cum. The horror of the thought that she might lose even that relief, leaving her with nothing to live for, had occurred to her though.
Even though she got relief from the horrors of her day by thinking this way, Adrienne’s foremind had not yet admitted to itself that she secretly wanted to be caught masturbating. The excitement of that prospect was nonetheless growing as a subliminal thought.
That she was now excited sexually by the thought of getting caught playing with it, was seeing her take greater risks. She had nearly been caught just back from now caressing it under her blanket. Yet she would not admit that she intended to finger it on top of her hammock tonight: that is she did, till the thought made her excited and she instantly told herself she must not be so stupid, and stowed the idea away once more.
But her body had betrayed her. At the very thought of being caught masturbating, Adrienne’s nipples momentarily peaked. Lickme spotted their flicker of interest, and knew what Adrienne had got going through her mind, if not the detail.
“Hadrian’s titties’ nippies say Hadrian think dirty thoughts!” Lickme insisted.
“No ma’am, no: really and truly ma’am!” Adrienne pleaded.
“Hadrian very naughty. Hadrian touch toes!”
“Oh please, I beg you ma’am” Adrienne tearfully whispered, in a tone admitting she knew what she must inevitably do.
“Hadrian no argue!
With pleading-begging beaming from her glorious brown eyes, Adrienne wiggle-wended over to where she must bend, and we watched as she grasped at her shapely ankles, with her little gloved hands holding each, before she took her fingers, and made them long so that they joined her ballet tiptoed toes, in anointing where she stood the very locus of highest heaven.
Her pendulous breasts dangled heavily, as if they were full and she ready to be milked. The nipples that had betrayed her, bulged pointedly, as if her tits were promisingly full of fresh white cream.
As Adrienne held her submissive position, Lickme was in no haste, for her eyes too wanted to taste, nay, feast on the sight of it as it slowly rose, vertically, between Adrienne’s strong thighs when Adrienne bent over. For there it was now in all its magical presence: Adrienne’s very essence, the heart, the mind, the very soul of such a girl.
Its nude lips looked veritably vulnerably virginally innocent. A perfect line was formed by its labia majora where they met and lovingly lightly kissed. This sensitive doorway to her passionate pink was as tightly, though lightly closed, as her lovely mouth. And both were as begging of a kiss north as south.
Knowing she was showing everything about her, Adrienne was blushing prettily, and her lovely eyes closed, praying that she could only have clothes enough to cover it from Lickme’s blatant stare, the loin-rag Adrienne wore at her waist being not even near, so that the view of it was all too clear.
“Naughty Hadrian make his pretty legs straight!” Lickme ordered, and in that instant, Adrienne locked back her thus made dimpled knees, only for the knotted cat o’ nine tails not to miss; as it swished and whistled and hit it: ‘THWICK!!!! and its greased-lightening swiftness forced it open and took it, sundering its sweet lips to plunder her pink, a knot not merely beating her clitoris, but battering bruising biting and branding it burning with brutal fire, as Adrienne shot upright screaming with pain and her pretty hands sought to sooth the flames in it.
But resisting what she knew she must not do, she screamed the more as she crossed her lithe long legs, intertwining their lissom loveliness, and lowering herself to a squat, one lusciously lubricated sweat-sheen-shining thigh, sliding silkily silently smoothly swiftly over its equally boldly beautiful and equally sweat-lubricated lubricious sister, as she squeezed her huge squatted sweaty thighs to ease her dreadful pain, till standing again on her long beautiful legs and twisting intertwined those lovely limbs, so that one dainty ankle and tiptoed foot was behind the other as she strangled her huge sweat-shimmering thighs fighting forcefully to wring out the echoing agony in it; finally reaching a hand down to give it balm......before....
“Hadrian no touch his penis!!” came the contradictory order that Adrienne who was Hadrian must obey, even as tears from her pain trickled from her lovely eyes, and her tongue licked their salt from the swollen lips of her lovely mouth. The visitation from the cat’s tail had left it throbbing with pain. And then a little droplet, a tiny red tear, formed; hesitated; dripped; and then dropped from the lips of it, before it became a trickle of blood from it: blood from Adrienne’s spilt clitoris.
In that instant, as if in astonishment that a girl could take such pain, the lower jaw of the furnace fell open again, and pretty Adrienne grasped her shovel once more, to tiptop tiptoe in her ballets, all legs that wasn’t legs and bum and proportionate yet huge thigh, her heavy titties aswing, her nipples like lanterns warning of her wicked wantoness, as she trotted submissively to do her thing, and shovel more coal into the hole that could and would, like her pinkest one, never ever be satiatedely satisfied.
But as she paraded her pretty legs in eager trips to and from the furnace in which fresh coal to tip, and blood still dripped from it, was she hiding a shine in her eyes that said she was enjoying enduring the terrible echoing sting in it?
..........................
I was deck when Lola and Bonito Clyde came back aboard the Shapely Shark.
I was still mission rescue sassy redhead Lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski from this ocean-going, having got her aboard first out on a missing person mission solved by DNA ident of a Jane Doe, as the same dame whose whereabouts show was what I was originally need know.
I’d just witnessed site sight Stoker Zero Class “Hadrian” Kowalski, the mischievously masculine misnomer of the very feminine Adrienne Kowalski: an alter ego given her in game play for the evil Lola, who owned the yacht, and had advertised for a cabin boy.
Sweet Hadrian was doing time boiler room fire feed, and I was get her where I might get her outta here need; boiler’s bowels being a tad on the inaccessible side.
I was still bankrolled bonus gambler by the NEPD, though I was PI in truth of fact. Ursa Bows Bank was my employer according to my records as forged for the occasion. I’d been Lola’s guest twice before now. And for the new now, I made myself pretty as an Anglo-Saxon-Afro-Caribbean-half-cast can be - which is to say I looked completely compellingly kapow! - for another chance of powwow.
“Charley Moans, you old devil you!” in passing recognition and a blown kiss from Lola’s albino-negress lips, was all I got though: this as she rushed to talk to Captain Lusciouoso Ngano, Lola’s appointed sea-experienced commander.
After whatever was conveyed that discussion, Lola slipped away her quarters aboard, and I was witness the all-negress crew of the Shapely Shark, or at least the lowest and thus the working ranks of it, the myriad of pretty negress sailorettes, strip naked to their waists to ready themselves for the cat o’ nine tails lash, if they failed in their tasks, as they tippy-toe, brown-nippled titties swinging, ballet-shoe shod, around the deck in a dash.
...............................
Later:-
“Ma’am I caught him masturbating last night ma’am”, I overheard a sergeant sailorette saying to Captain Ngano as I lolled over the rails looking around New Edingow harbour.
“We gotta have someone in the boiler room”, I heard Captain Ngano respond, as she organised our setting sail, steam having already been raised by Adrienne’s efforts.
“Ma’am Sergeantess Lickme was kissing him ma’am”, the reportee reported.
“That decides it Sergeantess. Lickme is relieved her rank forthwith. She’s Stoker Zero Class Lickme from this instant. You take charge of her. As for Stoker Zero Class Hadrian Kowalski......Have him clapped in irons. It’ll be for the ship’s owner, not crew like me, to decide his fate. So, if he’s to be court martialled, you’d better have him washed and scrubbed too.”
“Ma’am yes ma’am” I heard. And I thought I heard a certain anticipatory pleasure in the latter speaker’s tone. Was it from the thought of having Lickme busted back to deck rank, and answerable to the whip for loading coal in the boiler-room furnace I wondered?
.........................
By the time I was see Kowalski next the Shapely Shark had been sea a week.
Don’t worry none. I’d been ‘tained. I was sade enough to enjoy the boiler-room viewing platform sight of the little negress Lickme, stripped to the waist, wearing only an oily rag as a loin cloth, as she stoked furnace under threat of the lash.
When they marched her in, Adrienne looked tired, terrified, and totally terrific.
Her ghost white redhead’s body was filling out, almost spilling out, her patriotic red white and blue sailorette’s uniform once more.
She was up topmost tiptoe on her goddamn gorgeous legs, in squared-off-toed heelless white ballets. Her bountiful bosom abundantly abounce in a sky-blue and virgin-white hooped torn of tee, that left her firmly flat belly bare, where one could see she was navel as well as naval.
A scarlet sailorette’s round hat, could not possibly outglow the glory of her red-gold hair, the curls of which had been freshly cropped, and a left parting applied, to give her the sweetest of boy-cuts.
The milk-white undersides of her silk-soft breasts were exiting excitingly below the short hem of her vest, a vest pointedly attesting to where her nipples had appointed to rest.
Her bum, beautifully, twice emboldened her sky-blue shorts. At each rear of the legs of her shorts, the foothills of her bum cheeks made quarter moons’ outglowing the night sky’s inferior half-hemisphere.
Adrienne swung her golden down decorated forearmed arms, and her lovely legs; the latter in shapely rigidly stiffly-locked-back-kneed goosestep, as she was marched into the guests’ mess after our dinner, and made to stand to attention in front of Lola and Lola’s girl, Bonito Clyde.
Captain Lusciouoso Ngano was in charge of the girl, the sweetly freckle-kissed brown-eyed red-lipped ghost-white honey, who was about to be court martialled, for being caught masturbating her surely irresistibly beautiful body.
“Prisoner hat off!” Captain Ngano ordered, and Adrienne reached up a pretty right hand to remove her hat in respect for the court, and held it at her right thigh, as she stood to conspicuously curvy attention, on her exceptionally shapely legs, her dark brown orbs gazing dutifully unseeing at the distant horizon.
“Ma’am Stoker Zero Class Hadrian Kowalski is hereby reported to you for sentence ma’am”
“Of what is the prisoner guilty?” Lola casually meowed, with a barely suppressed yawn.
“Ma’am Count 1 ma’am - Touching it with lascivious intention aforethought and without licence or authorisation from any duly appointed and accredited senior, or appropriately delegated and duly licensed junior ma’am: to wit using his right-hand middle finger as means of unnatural stimulation of his penis matter, with the intention of arousing sexual excitement, and with the probable intention of taking that excitement to an impermissible conclusion, thereby breaching Clause 1 of Standing Order 1 of the Service Code relating to activities conducive to the detriment of physical and mental welfare, and Clause 2 of Standing Order 1 of the Service Code relating to lewd behaviour in public and or private that has not been duly sanctioned and authorised by a person or persons having due authority or licence ma’am. And....
Ma’am Count 2 ma’am – Being a person of the first part in inappropriate appropriation with his mouth, of the mouth of a person having an appointment giving that person of the second part seniority over the person of the first part, which is in breach of Clause 5 of Standing Order 2 of the Service Code relating to misconduct, whether solo or more than solo, between differing and / or within the same rank and / or ranks, ma’am.”
Ma’am Count 3 ma’am .......”
At the threat of yet more legalise, Lola held up a hand in a policegirl’s ‘stop-the-traffic’ mode, bidding the captain cease....
“My goodness me captain! The prisoner is surely guilty enough on the first two counterosos!”
“Ma’am, do you wish me to repeat those two counts to aid your certainty ma’am?”
“I think my certainty is sufficient as it stands, thank you captain. But please tell me why it is that there is a totally disgusting stain in the crotch of Hadrian’s uniform shorts?!” a distracted and bored sounding Lola enquired; thereby, as no doubt intended, drawing our attention to the stain.
“Ma’am, at the time of his release from solitary confinement, after showering and before dressing in uniform to attend court martial, prisoner requested prisoner’s guard issue prisoner with a tampon or sanitary pad or the like thereof in function, ma’am.”
“Ma’am prisoner is claiming to be having a monthly period ma’am.”
“Ma’am as prisoner is a male of the species, the completely ridiculous request was immediately denied ma’am.”
“And quite rightly so captain, and quite rightly so!” Lola agreed, before enquiring.....
....”And what do the regulations define as the punishimento for young Hadrian being caught playing with his penis mmm....? Oh, and do please, for goodness’ sake keep it brief captain!” Lola drawled.
“Ma’am, the time of month being taken into account ma’am, that he be trawled ma’am”, Captain Ngano confirmed.
“Excellent captain! ‘Those who play with their swordiosos etcetera, etceteraa’ mmm.....?” Lola added, to our and poor Adrienne’s complete puzzlement, though the latter dare not show it.
“Tomorrow morning perhaps captain?”
“Ma’am tomorrow morning would indeed be ideal ma’am”
“Then make it so, captain, make it so....” Lola concluded dismissively.
“Prisoner: hat on!” Captain Ngano barked at lovely Adrienne, and we watched as she was ordered “About face!” and then “Quick march!” and stomped her tiptop-tiptoe-stood feet, goosestep, her tits jumping mesmerizingly, fit to flip out of her top, as her hyper-hot openly menstruating body was marched out of the dining hall and out of our sight.
.......................
In the buzz of eager conversation at breakfast on the next sunny dawn: a Sunday born with choppy seas but only a light breeze local to the locale where we were at anchor far out sea, I caught snippets of breakfast chatter from differing directions on a united theme....
“Hadrian? I thought she was Adrienne or some such...”
“She....I mean he is a boy, not a girl Petra! At least that’s Lola’s idea of fun with the little honey”......
“Playing with himself, deserves everything he gets”......
“Could they not just flog his back with a cat o’ nine tails like they do in the movies?” .....
“Did you watch him in the boiler room? God what a pair of legs he’s got on him!
“Yes, and how: magnificent thighs!”.....
“I’m a tits girl myself” ......
“No disappointment there then either!” .....
“I’d skin his lovely bum with a cat for even thinking of touching it.....”
Then a late arrival for breakfast, having overheard what I had too, advised: “He’s out there now, prepared top deck: have you not seen.....?”
This latter made me hurry as slowly as pretence I was desperate for another cigarette would allow.
I was still fear Kowalski be discovered Lieutenant of Police, or me as PI or, worse still, me and she in league. But I’d be lie if I denied I was enjoy Kowalski’s distress, even though I was still fear discover meant Lola could put me and Adrienne both in max of mess.
I was top deck trying casual look, as I strolled over to where a crowd had gathered to give sweet Adrienne the full 20:20 ogle.
It was resting between two upright wooden wine barrels. A barrel filled with a girl being treated as a boy.
How they had crammed and jammed Adrienne in, I would never be know.
The imprisoning containment was terrible in contemplation, for the barrel in which Adrienne had been crammed, her body folded jack-knife, was surely no more than two feet high, and of similar diameter.
The barrel contrasted with the wine barrels on which it rested, in that the barrel containing the gorgeous Adrienne, had transparent plastic staves, so that we could see her beauty and that beauty’s cruel constriction.
She was naked, butt naked, but for her ballets, and had somehow been jack-knifed, so that her folded legs, with their thus made massive thighs, were pressed hard up to and squashing and crushing her heavy breasts to those thighs, and to her chest. Thus was she forced somehow into a barrel, with her lovely arms, bent double at the elbows, jammed helplessly at her sides inside it.
This brutal encapsulating capture of Adrienne’s captivating body, was capped out by the translucent top of the transparent barrel, a barrel that contained far more intoxicating contents than mere wine – Adrienne. The top of the barrel had been manufactured like a circular cangue.
The top thus made, had two halves hinged together at one end like a movie clapperboard. This closed, Adrienne’s neck was through central semicircle half-holes in each half of the cangue-like top: semi-circular holes that formed a complete central hole when closed around her neck. The closed barrel top, had then been padlocked at each point of the compass to the transparent barrel, irremovably, leaving her head alone out of the barrel.
Around the circumference of the base of the barrel, there had been firmly fastened, the like of a circular rescue lifebuoy; somewhat larger in diameter than the riverside or ocean-beach norm. This cork-filled lifebuoy-akin-addition to the barrel, was around the barrel’s base: the bottom of the barrel proper being through the lifebuoy’s central hole.
To aid we eager onlookers to see it without problem, a mirror had been placed at a slope under the barrel in which Adrienne was crammed doubled-up, so we could see the arrangements at the base of the barrel itself.
Within the barrel in which she was folded and totally and absolutely immovably forced, Adrienne still wore ballets, and her tiptoed toes touched the outer edge of one side of the transparent bottom of the barrel. At the opposite side she sat on her beautiful bum.
Adrienne’s containment within the two-foot high, two foot diameter, transparent barrel included a wedge at her back, at the small of her back, that thrust her jack-knifed body forward at belly level, and made sure that it, her essence and epicentre, the sheath within her slit in particular, was perpendicular to the hole in the barrel’s base.
Between where her bum sat and her toes touched, there was a hole in the barrel’s bottom. From that hole, Adrienne’s sacrificial monthly had dripped, and spatters of her moon-cycle sacrifice to womanhood, were trickling down the mirror. And down from just above where her menses flowed, there dangled the evidence that she had had an intimate, supremely sensitive, part of her anatomy, intricately bound around with a line, the end of which was dangling out of the hole in the barrel’s base.
Droplets of Hadrian’s heavenly blood had sainted the mirror placed below him on the deck. This beautiful girl Adrienne, the cabin-boy ‘Hadrian’, was menstruating heavily: the bleed that hymned her heaven on earth, was in full flow with nothing to staunch it, save that the purposely placed mirror showed that she, that he had been prepared. A line dangled from within her. That line hung down some inches out of the hole in the barrel’s bottom, and thus below her. And the curved metal attachment at the end of the line, glinted in the early morning sun, and the reflexion of its sparkles sparked in turn off the sloping mirror.
And to make the girl completely into a buoy in her two-foot high two foot across barrel, Adrienne wore a heavy brass crown pressed compressingly-hard down onto her forehead, held further in place with a strap that ran under her chin. And at the sides and back of the crown, were pre-welded solid brass hammer heads, facing out in all bar the forward plane. And behind Adrienne’s head and to its left and right, there hung and swung three matching open-ended brass bells without internal clappers.
Adrienne’s lovely dark brown eyes already showed the extent of her suffering, crammed immovably jack-knife in the tiny barrel of this torture: the Bitch-Buoy.
‘Hadrian’ was naked bar his shoes. His superb thighs were pressed up against his tits and his calves hard up against the backs of his thighs. He was jack-knifed in the transparent Bitch-Buoy so tightly, that his folded legs and his back were trapped as if he were in an inescapable cocoon. He could hardly breathe.
As he squatted squeezed thus, each and both of his soft firm tits were squashed against each and both of his gorgeous thighs.
His lovely slim arms were bent at the elbow and tucked at the sides of his body, unable to move bar minimally, because he that was she was so tightly jammed into the cocooning barrel. Only his adorably freckle speckled visage was free. His haunting deep-dark-brown eyes looking for the mercy he would and could not see.
However, wait one moment. This Bitch-Buoy had a warning bell arrangement on top, but surely it was lacking a warning beacon! But of course that was not so, for the radiant red of Kowalski’s glorious hair stood as refutation of any accusation of a lack in the warning beacon department.
...........................
Without any forewarning for poor Adrienne, four strong half-naked negress sailorettes suddenly marched up behind her, as ordered, and then, distributing themselves evenly around its cork-float base, lifted the Bitch-Buoy in which the beautiful girl was bound in readiness.
That beautiful girl, Adrienne, closed her gorgeous brown eyes as if in prayer.
Then she screeeeamed with horror and terror and begging and pleading as they carried her over to the Shapely Shark’s top deck’s safety rails, lifted her clear above those rails, and dropped the Bitch-Buoy overboard into the open ocean.
And, as we heard the splash and Adrienne’s further screams, I was no less eager to watch than the crew, and the actresses who were Lola’s guests, or Lola herself, or the divinely evil Bonito Clyde, as we all ran to the ship’s side.
At first the Bitch-Buoy capsized one side and then its other. Then it righted itself and Adrienne was bobbing on the azure ocean: afloat with her pretty bum her thighs her ballet shod toes and it, being plashed by the ocean’s wash through the hole in the base of the Bitch-Buoy.
Adrienne / Hadrian was in her, in his Bitch-Buoy. She / he was on the open ocean in the Bitch-Buoy: afloat without a line attaching the Bitch-Buoy to the yacht: afloat, drifting off, already some twenty yards from the yacht: afloat bobbing on the water helplessly, bound immeasurably immovably, with a pool of her menstrual blood being spread by the undulating swell of the waters in which she now did dwell.
For Adrienne, firmly folded in the Bitch-Buoy, there were suddenly two views of the world in which she dwelt.
One was the world occupied solely by her lightly freckled outstandingly pretty face: her face standing out of the top of the Bitch-Buoy barrel: the only part of her body that was not in the cruellest of imprisonment.
Her face felt the bright breeze. Her nostrils filled her lungs with a sea salt tasting tang. Her pretty ears were awash with the slish and slosh and sometimes swifter sluicing swash, of the ceaseless shifting of the sibilant sea, oftimes dashing and crashing over her; as well as the contrasting constant flip-flap of the water local to where she in the Bitch-Buoy was afloat, as the sea lipped-lapped on the lip of Bitch-Buoy’s lap comprised by the circular rescue-buoy on which her imprisoning barrel was mounted boat.
Her lovely brown eyes, stang with salt from the breeze and the seas, and looked longingly up at the clear sky, enforcedly half-closing at the brightness of the still rising to midday sun, and of the brilliant blue in the free heavens.
But the woeful world in which bewitching beauty alluring Adrienne doubly dwelt in paradigmatic parallel, was the hideous hell of her exceptionally exquisite beautiful body, brutally bound, tied tightly by the thus brimful barrel of the Bitch-Buoy in which she sat foetal formed and cruelly crammed so firmly fully.
As she distantly cried in pitiful pleading for mercy, while she floated away in the Bitch-buoy bleeding, Adrienne’s head rocked and the hammers on her heavy brass crown tapped the bells of the buoy: the bells along with her redhead’s aflame hair, being there to warn all shipping, and especially the seductive sirens of maritime mythology, to beware the supreme extreme danger for all hearts, that here was a girl!
I was handed binoculars to better see Adrienne’s suffering. As tears from her terror coursed down her freckled cheeks, an anxious frown on her lovely face creased her brow. Her cries begging for mercy were made incoherent, not just by the distance she was from the yacht, but also by the terror in her sobs.
Nothing happened now.
Nothing happened for we on the yacht that is. In the Bitch-Buoy, Adrienne Hadrian hollered her hell, terrified she would sink and drown, unable to save herself with her body jack-knifed immovably, her legs folded, her arms bent at the elbows; all four of her limbs held helpless. She rocked with the Bitch-Buoy’s rocks, and rolled with the Bitch-Buoy’s rolls, and bobbed up and down in wave and trough with the swell of the ocean on which she helplessly dwelled, the crown on her head rapping the warning bells.
Inside the Bitch-Buoy’s barrel Adrienne Hadrian was in veritable hell. The ocean’s waters were only a little choppy, but the Bitch-Buoy’s height was of no account such that the occasional wave would wash over Adrienne, and flood past her neck into the Bitch-Buoy’s barrel, where it soaked her beautiful body, washing it with salty chill, as it poured over her handsomely huge thighs: thighs pressed closely together as if in a virgin’s prayer: thighs pressed as closely together as they were hard up against her tits. And the ingress of cold ocean took the route provided by her cleavage, to escape over her belly and past it, to make for the hole at the Bitch-Buoy’s base. And this occasional flow of brine over it, together with the constant in-wash through the open hole at the barrels base, took more droplets of her monthly into the open expanse of expansive ocean on which the Bitch-Buoy freely uncontrolledly sailed.
Dawn had timed into mid-morn by now, and the sun on the deck of the Shapely Shark become warm. But in the Bitch-Buoy, Adrienne’s body was saturated with the ocean’s wash, with waves lashing over her bedraggled redhead’s curls, and salt stinging her pretty eyes. And the water finding recourse in taking a course over her, jack-knifed as she was in the transparent barrel, had wet her so that her body shone with sheen as beautiful as that seen when she had been bathed in sweat in the boiler-room. But this new form of complete repeat soaking, in which her nakedness was bathed in the bubbling brine, chilled her. She shivered; but her tits were too hard pressed against her thighs to quiver.
Adrienne closed her lovely dark brown eyes in despair. As if to taunt her, another wave washed over the Bitch-Buoy, and past her cangue – the barrel’s lid – and ensured the saturation of her statistical shapeliness continued. And she began to cry: to cry not just with despair, and not just with fear, but also for her thoroughly wet and totally chilled body, and the increasing pain from and in her immovably jack-knifed position in the two foot high by two foot across barrel of the Bitch-Buoy.
Then they came. Hideous cramps in her conspicuously curvy calves. It was agony, unrelieveable, unbelievable, agony. Jack-knifed and jammed in the Bitch-Buoy as she was, Adrienne could do nothing to ease her cramps, and her seized-up muscles made her scream with pain. But all the open ocean did was to mock her, and wash over her and into the Bitch-Buoy, once; then twice; then thrice, again.
As her body bobbed in the Bitch-Buoy side to side, and up and down with the movement of the tide, Adrienne tried to ease her pain, but found that, such was the strict constriction of her confinement in the barrel, that she could but only move her fingers and then only just.
Her cries to her god that she be released, sounded into the empty void without even the echo of Adrienne’s own sweet voice to comfort her. And the Bitch-Buoy bobbed like the proverbial cork on the literal not littoral waters, and a wave lashed over Adrienne’s despair, and its waters washed once more into and through the barrel of the Bitch-Buoy where she squatted jack-knifed immovably there.
Was the bright, some would say the brilliant, Police Lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski to be driven out of her mind by the dreadful torture of the Bitch-Buoy, just for being caught touching her clit?
The Bitch-Buoy rolled, rose, fell, shot up on the swell, and then dipped down in a trough, then spun a three-sixty, then rocked fore and aft, then tried to turn turtle, before it rose on the swell once more, then in a trough would again dwell, till another wave washed over it, onto her head and flame-red hair, into the Bitch-Buoy and over her, and Adrienne cried once more. And her sobs caused her breasts to ride, and her nipples on her thighs to slide. The terrible cramps bit her calves again, and she screamed. And her nipples, hitherto hardened with the cold and her cramps, began to flicker and dance.
At first bare Adrienne was barely aware that the function of her body that had got her into the Bitch-Buoy as punishment in the first place, was still there. Her lonely sobs, her cries of despair, and the expansion and contraction of her chest from those and her natural breathing, was never at rest. And the nipples of her beautiful breasts were taking care of the rest, as they were rubbed on her huge thighs, and once more gave rise to the knowledge that she was wholly a girl, a girl alive.
An hour later, and Adrienne’s engorged engaged nipples rubbed on the silken smooth softness of the flawless flesh of her sumptuous thighs, and, despite being midst her monthly and her terrible cramps, Adrienne became sexually aroused.
And Adrienne’s mind delivered wisdom to the wise that to keep herself alive, she must make herself warm, and to masturbate herself was the only way to deliver herself from harm.
Then she cried out once more in the mocking knowledge that she could not deliver on the necessary promise, for her body was too confined for her fingers her clit to find. And so the constant rub of her nipples on her thighs took her only to heaven’s edge, with no means for her to enter inside.
........................
For we still aboard the Shapely Shark, an hour passed, and nothing happened.
For we still aboard the Shapely Shark, another hour passed, and that same nothing happened again.
An hour later still, and that same nothing had happened yet once more.
Those hours had seen most of us become bored, and move off for cocktails aperitif to luncheon.
The scream and the beating of the bells like the bells of hell on the Bitch-Buoy, was therefore all the more terrible when they tore the air asunder with chilling horror. And we rushed back to the rails of the top deck, many of us trying to focus binoculars, and fumbling in failure, till we calmed our sweaty-palmed excitement sufficiently.
We could not hear Adrienne’s repeated cries of akin to: “Get it off me! Please get it off me!! Oh god, please get it off meeee!!!”
All we could see in our binoculars, was that the waters under the Bitch-Buoy were being whisked to froth, and that the red stain caused by Adrienne’s monthly to float just under her torture boat, was being spread by something thrashing and threshing the waters into a miniature local maelstrom.
“Get it off!!!!! Please god, get it off! Oh dear god please get it off meeee!!!”
The pull on Adrienne’s clitoris from the fish that had been attracted by the bait of her menstrual blood, was agony’s astonished agony. The fish, alive and helplessly held on the barbed curved hook that was at the end of the short line tied to and around Adrienne’s clitoris, to make her clit into a little pink fishing rod, knew that its life and freedom were at threat, and so it fought to pull itself off Adrienne’s clitty-rod even yet, and yanked and twisted and turned and corkscrewed Adrienne’s clit, as it fought to get itself free from the barbed 10/0 circle hook that Adrienne had had fitted to the fishing line tied to her clit. And Adrienne’s eyes were wide with her immeasurable pain, as the fish her clitty-rod had caught fought its freedom to gain.
This girl being punished for wanting to masturbate, had been forced into the Bitch-Buoy and was now mistress-bait.
There could be only one perky part of Hadrian’s pink anatomy that could have been bound brilliantly tightly with the required length of line, the required strength of line ending in the barbed 10/0 circle hook that Adrienne, being tortured and mocked as Hadrian, had, dangling in the water from the hole in the base of the Bitch-Buoy.
Adrienne Hadrian’s holy blood had pooled around in the waters of the open ocean, and its lure had baited the hook on her clitty-rod, and at last a fish had took, the crashing of its tail mixing her menstrual blood’s red with the blue of the ocean to make it purple instead.
To give my eyes a rest, the better to focus on this divine torture, I looked away from my binoculars for a tiny moment, and noticed that Captain Ngano had an industrial-sized tripod-mounted pair of binoculars readied and focused, and was making a cool assessment of the violent distress under the Bitch-Buoy: under poor Adrienne.
“And your advice captain?” Lola calmly enquired.
“Ma’am, it is a minor catch ma’am. However, ma’am, along with Hadrian’s bleed, it will be excellent bait for a more significant catch ma’am”.
“Thank you captain.”
“Is a further catch likely soon, or are we as well to go to luncheon in the meanwhile?”
“Ma’am there can be no exact telling when Hadrian’s penis will catch more worthwhile prey. It does not appear to have been so ideal a day for bitch-fishing as my experience originally led me to conclude....... Menses is usually irresistible bait ma’am.....”
“So, shall we repair to luncheon or not captain?”
“Ma’am, my humble apologies for rambling ma’am.”
“Ma’am, may I respectfully propose that I send crew to inform you in the instance a further catch by the Bitch-Buoy Trawler, would justify your breaking away from your luncheon ma’am?”
“No apology was necessary captain. I appreciate that trawling with a Bitch-Buoy is not an exact sciencemneto... and yes, please do feel free to interrupt my guests, and myself, if a more worthwhile catch takes.”
The captain saluted, and I took one last look at the swishing and swashing under the Bitch-Buoy, and noticed how wet my knickers were at the thought of what that feisty fish’s fearsome fight to flee the barb at the end of the fishing line and hook tied to her clitoris, would be doing to what had been thereby made Adrienne’s clitty-rod.
...............................
A clanging of the bells of the Bitch-Boy and another blood-curdling scream of Adrienne’s absolute agony saved any need for the captain to call for us. The double bait comprising the fish, the fish already caught by her clitty-rod, and her menstrual blood, had caused another fish to take the invitation, and Adrienne in the Bitch-Buoy was screaming in the extreme of extreme, of extreme pain.
But for the incoherence of her cries and the distance at which she bobbed in the Bitch-Buoy, we might have deciphered and decided Adrienne’s cries were: “It’s up me! Oh god it’s up me!! It’s up me! It’s up me! It’s up meeeeeheeeee!”
Adrienne was screeching in unimpeachable unrepeatable pain again. Below her violently agitated buoy, the sea was awash with a tail threshing, and her menstrual blood was mixing to make the white spume from whatever was violently agitating the hitherto comparatively peaceful waters, turn pink this time.
Her cries turned to animal agony as the thrashing of her new catch grew still more strident, as it fought violently to try and escape the hook and line that was dangling from her clit under the Bitch-Buoy Trawler: under her gorgeous bum.
Her Bitch-Buoy bound chest heaved with horror, and her salt water wetted breasts pressed and rubbed on her huge thighs, her smooth thighs thus caressing her sensitive nipples as her belly showed her breathtaking slimness when she screamed and screeched and screamed again with pain.
“Oh god help meee!! It’s up me! It’s ripping me!!! Oh god it’s ripping meeee!!!”
Adrienne was bawling in inescapable agony again, as the whipping and slapping and swishing and flapping below the Bitch-Buoy in which her beautiful girl’s body bobbed and swayed, now witnessed a tsunami of waves from her second catch’s violent creation, almost seeing the Bitch-Buoy turn submarine.
Her oh so kissable mouth now gaped and her eyes stared silently; stunned as she was with the horrible pain from her clitty-rod.
I looked away from my binoculars for a moment and focused on the calm Lola, whose albino's pink eyes showed the only smile of which they were capable, that of the deepest cruelty being immeasurably enjoyed.
“Oh god it’s up me!!! It’s up me! Oh god it’s tearing me!! It’s up me! It’s up me! It’s ripping me! Oh god it’s ripping meeeeeeheeee!!!”
Adrienne was screeching with the swishing and swashing and thrashing and threshing of the waters below her beautiful bum, as she gave a louder scream and more blood poured from her slit into the waters.
“Oh god it’s torn meeeeeeeheeeee!!” she screeched and sobbed in incoherent unison, as if begging, as indeed she was, for her god to take whatever it was out of her.
The attraction of her menstrual blood had caught a huge catch. The swift eye of some submarine animal had spied her menses and its eye and its senses had been secondarily excited by Adrienne’s clitty-rod’s first fish catch.
The fishing hook at the end of the strong line that was dangling from the fishing rod formed by her clitoris, to which the line was tied, and around which it was wound and bound, had caught one fish attracted by Adrienne’s menstrual blood. And now a far bigger second was fighting to free itself from the hook, dashing the ocean to a saltwater froth, whilst Adrienne’s clitoris was pulled and twisted by its inexhaustible excited writhing; the hook on her clit-fishing-rod holding it fast.
Adrienne cried and screamed and screeched and hollered her pain as her catch fought and tried to dive, only to more securely and more certainly hook its mouth, as it pulled and twisted and swung and tugged and dove and pirouetted and writhed and tore at Adrienne’s clitty-rod, punishing ‘Hadrian’ for masturbating it.
Without any change in her state of horror to match the change in the wording of her imploring: “Fuck me! Oh fuck me! Fuck me! Fuuuuck meeeeheee!!!” Adrienne bawled, as if obscenities could ease her agony.
Behind we guests as we watched through our binoculars, eager not to miss an iota’s scintilla of Adrienne’s suffering:
“Ma’am, shall I instruct chef to arrange a fish course for dinner ma’am?” Captain Ngano relaxedly cruelly enquired.
“Mmmm?....... Oh yes do.... Do..... Erm..... Do that..... Erm....Do just that please captain”, Lola responded.
“Oh, and, in particular, advise chef to look out her recipes for swordfish...”
“Ma’am, swordfish ma’am?”, the captain enquired, slyly-knowingly, with a rise of voice expressing mock astonishment, intending Lola’s answer to inform we ignorant landlubbers.
“Undoubtedly captain”, Lola replied, after returning her eyes to the tripod mounted binoculars, through which she has been studying the Bitch-Buoy Trawler as it tossed on the wandering waves, and its catch sought to drag it below to a watery grave, its life to save.
“There is no question that Hadrian’s little pink penis has hooked at least a 150 pounder: a good six-footer I shouldn’t wonder: a female I would guess, a female on Hadrian’s penis-hook with, and, by all the protests we have had from the young man, its two-foot-long sword all the way up it....”
The thrashing of the fish on Adrienne’s clitty line-and-hook began again. The swordfish, for such indeed it was, had indeed penetrated Adrienne full hilt up it. But it had been resting to think of some way of wresting and wrestling itself from the flexible rod line and hook on which it was caught, and extracting its two-foot-long beak from the bleeding pink scabbard in which it was sheathed.
Then it began to thresh and thrash and splash and crash and swish and swash and smash, and thrust itself harder up Adrienne’s slit once more, as it renewed its fight to escape, and:
“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh god! It’s fucking me!! It’s fucking me!! It’s fucking meeeee!!!”
Adrienne cried in wanting wanter’s despair, as the epicentre of her girlness, the very centre and core of her mind and body and soul, surrendered to the vile humiliation of her clitoris and menstrual blood being used as rod and bait. And the torture and humiliation of having caught fish with her clit and menses, flipped her mind, even while the huge swordfish’s crashing and slashing still pulled on her clitoris, and the fish’s vicious sword still continually ripped and raped and ravaged and savaged her slit. And she came with a cum on a cum on a cum on a cum, and her chest heaved with her sighs and wailing cries, and her inescapably jack-knifed body, her beautiful body crammed and jammed immovably in the Bitch-Buoy in agonising immobile immovability, came alive, became girl.
As if to shatter this new life though, at the parallel point of its presenting its presence, Adrienne’s cramps arrived anew, and the muscles of her pretty arms and her shapely calves locked in agonising pain. And she hollered out in her stricken strife, her tongue shooting out as she shouted her unbearable excruciation, so that she bit her tongue and never noticed that she had done so, such was the brutality of this new bout of exceptionally extreme cramps.
She could not move. Her beautiful body was folded jack-knife and forced so hard into the impossibly confined space of her two-foot by two-foot prison-cell barrel, that she just could not move a millimetre let alone an inch. The terrible cramps had taken her over and over again, and yet. She had endured them from the first when they had cast her in the Bitch-Buoy onto the open ocean’s waves, and yet. After their initial oncoming, they had eased but briefly, as if to muster strength to cramp her up again, and yet. And when they had regrouped their forces they had come over her once more even worse than before, and yet. And now the total agony, the unrelievable unbelievable pain of her cramps had seized her arms and her curvy calves yet once again, and yet her body was in agony that her mind now welcomed, the perverse reverse of and to her suffering from her cramping during her cums, after initial dampening thereof, thereafter only serving to increase the already indelibly incredible heaven now found in her hell: her mind’s gain from the horror of her confinement, her inescapable confinement bent immovably doubled-up foetus-folded, completely and utterly unable to move her body let alone escape the terrible torture of being jammed and crammed into her two-foot by two-foot barrel, and the insult to her body and mind of her body being redeployed and its monthly bleed being used as bait, and the huge catch that was taking her no matter wither hither whether or whatever her will, as it tortured her clitoris and rip-raped her, took Adrienne to a state of multi-multiple cums that nothing before had ever replicated, and to which now her every ounce of beautiful being was to their experience dedicated, and her cramps, the furiously fearsome fire in her arms and calves had taken her cums even higher.
Now Adrienne’s nipples rubbing on the satin-smooth soft firm flesh of the massive thighs formed in her jack-knifed imprisonment, the imprisoning torture that pressed her tits so hard onto her thunderous silk-smooth thighs, distended and extended in the instant and hardened to peaks sensitive and sore. And then, amidst her multiple orgasms, each new orgasm attaining the seemingly surely impossible feat, of a massivity greater than the critical mass of that which had just preceded it, until Adrienne had become her orgasms, and still more onwards until Adrienne was organic orgasm, her solely sexualised mind felt a sudden onset of pain in her breasts. This pain was relieved as suddenly as it arrived by Adrienne experiencing a completely inexplicable but totally wonderful sensation of warmth in both of her beautiful tits. Then, to her horror, the warmth was accompanied by a terrible sensation that her tits were swelling, unstoppably. And then she screamed anew as her tits felt as sure as certainty and more, that they had suddenly burst, and the warmth she had experienced within them, was in that same instant, replaced by hot fluid running over her gorgeous thighs.
Adrienne felt the strange hot wash over her huge thighs but, crammed folded foetal-form totally immovably in the Bitch-Buoy as she was, knew not from whence it might arise, and had no way of finding out what had caused the most wonderful of most wonderful sensations: a sensational sensation that had been instantaneously coincident with her orgasm rising to an even higher plane, and her loudest yet screeching scream of orgasms attained. For the terrified Adrienne was not to know that the rape ripping total torture in the Bitch-Buoy, had been so elemental, that it had caused her attaining the ultimate in femininity: that it had finally totally transmogrified her instantly post-gestation, and that she had just ejaculated from her tits. Adrienne had been tuned by her torture, so all-girl, that her tits had been brought to milk. And that milk had suddenly poured: milk had just pissed from her nipples: from both tits: Adrienne had ejaculated milk from her tits, and her hot milk had poured, nay squirted, from her beautiful translucent pink nipples, up onto her huge thighs; and consequent trickles, alike to streams of white tears, had poured down her silk smooth thighs till the hot stream from her nipples, from her breasts, from her love-cum-levered-lactation, had finally flowed out the Bitch-Buoy’s barrel and made alliance with her menses and the blood from her penitent’s penetration and rape by the beak of the swordfish, to try, as balm, white balm turned brusquely briskly pink by her menses and rape blood, to claim calm for the never still, ever still tossing seas, on which the Bitch-Buoy Trawler, and Adrienne, continued to bob .
After her tits had ejaculated on her thighs and her consequent instantly coincident final and most climactic cum, Adrienne, exhausted by her total sexual surrender, opened and closed her lovely mouth, gasping for breath whilst pleading for mercy; silently, with her adorable dark brown eyes alone, because she was hollered completely hollow and hoarse.
As she gasped her oh so sotto voce whispered exhaustion, and the swordfish continued to twist and turn and corkscrew her clitoris, and rip and tear and rape her with its sword, I cast my line to help her with her catch: to aid the Bitch-Buoy Trawler bound girl with her swordfish catch.
But my line, skilfully tossed as I had thought, merely made a snake on the water before seeking to sink.
I had gained the right distance but not achieved the necessary purchase, to help bring the swordfish lined up for the fish course at dinner, back to the yacht.
I must needs be more skilful on my third and last turn, or else pass the sea-fishing rod handed to me by Lola for a guest to go first, to the next guest girl for her to have a go.
I wound the line in from the waters, checked it was not tangled, flicked a lengthy end of it over my shoulder, checked that that end could not get caught up on anything behind me, and whisked it out distantly over the ocean once more, listening to the brisk rotation of the reel releasing the line, as I watched the weighted hook, fly toward lovely Adrienne and the swordfish that was continuing to ravage and savage her.
Adrienne’s gorgeous mouth opened to exhale another prayer for relief and release from her extreme extremity of eternal pain, and the swordfish still threshed and thrashed and crashed the waters under Adrienne, its violent commotion increasing, as my hook, this time, found home.
As it would never confess to itself it seemed, the swordfish was caught by Adrienne’s clitty-rod and by her taking its sword full tilt, full hilt, up her slit.
This time though, my hook had also found purchase, and I began to haul the catch in.
Winding the rod’s reel, in a brisk business-like manner, whilst watching that the restless swashing of the swordfish would not make my hook lose its purchase, I began to haul the catch in with my sea-fishing rod, and my skilfully cast line of course.
With my success seeming to hold, I began slowly to reel the swordfish in to help Adrienne: I began to successfully reel in the swordfish lovely Adrienne had caught with her menstruating slit and her clitty-rod in the Bitch-Buoy Trawler....
.....That is, of course, I began to reel Adrienne in, Adrienne in the Bitch-Buoy.
By my fishing hook, by my treble-hook, cast for her to catch, and now savagely cruelly pulled through her soft freckled cheek from the inside of her oh so kissable mouth, I began to reel Adrienne in, Adrienne in the Bitch-Buoy..... and the swordfish still dancing to its death on her clitty-rod, and still raping her slit, of course.....
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.
“Cross your beautiful thighs!”
“Cross your gorgeous thighs!”
“Cross your beautiful thighs!”
“Cross your gorgeous thighs!”
And this cry was chanted endlessly while Kebroo cried, but then she lifted her lovely left leg, the gartered leg, the lovely leg with the barbed-wire garter and the pink garter.
“Cross your gorgeous thighs!”
“Cross your beautiful thighs!”
“Cross your gorgeous thighs!”
“Cross your beautiful thighs!”
The chant of enchantment was louder still as the judge and the other guests clapped rhythmically therewith their will.
“Cross your beautiful thighs!”
“Cross your gorgeous thighs!”
“Cross your beautiful thighs!”
“Cross your gorgeous thighs!”
And now Kebroo was crossing her thighs, she was crossing her lovely thighs, she was crossing her gorgeous thighs, she was crossing her left thigh with its barbed-wire garter over her right thigh. She was crossing her lovely thighs, she was crossing her gorgeous thighs, she was crossing her barbed-wire gartered left thigh over her right thigh in her barbed-wire ball gown, her barbed-wire ball gown, the barbed-wire dress, the side tide barbed-wire coil in which her beautiful body had been tightly wrapped, her barbed-wire ball gown, the mockingly shockingly cruel barbed-wire gown that dug into her upper body and had ripped the flesh of her thighs and legs to shreds as around and around, round the round dance floor, she had been unmercifully for endless hours led. And she moved to cross her thighs, she motioned to cross her beautiful thighs, and eyes opened wide at the thought and sight of her doing this in the barbed-wire dress in which she sat and which had ripped her raw at every step, as she had been danced, and torn her calves and raked her thighs and bitten deep into her dimple-hollow- buttocks sides. It cut into her tits her belly and her back. She was sitting in terrible agony in her barbed-wire ball gown, the barbed-wire ball gown that had sparkled in the dance floor’s spotlights when she had been twirled to display the wonderful legs of a beautiful girl. And she was now crossing her gorgeous thighs, she was crossing her barbed-wire gartered left thigh over her right thigh, in her barbed-wire dress, and ripping the flesh of her beautiful left leg on the inside of her dress’ skirt, as she dragged her left leg across in the barbed-wire skirt. And she cried out with joy and pain when she had crossed her thighs and her barbed-wire garter was ripping her right thigh as her beautiful left thigh ripped bloody by the dancing, the cruel barbed-wire garter and the barbed-wire skirt of her dress as she sat, was pressing down on her right thigh, and she was twisting her dangling left tiptoed foot behind her tiptoe stood right foot, to squeeze her huge thighs together and drive into her right thigh the spur that her left thigh’s barbed-wire garter now was, the spur for the barbed-wire ball gown and barbed-wire garter dressed girl, the spur for the barbed-wire waltzed girl, the spur for the barbed-wire ripped flesh of the tortured girl, who was now squeezing her stupendous thighs hard together to spike herself more spitefully with her barbed-wire garter, and drive into her slavering slit the more, the single strand binding of barbed-wire, the single strand barbed-wire thong panties she wore with the barbs of its crotch pulled hard up into her slit, and rip her clit with a barbed-wire kiss, as she raised her oh so wide-open O forced mouth, and howled to the moon that she had arrived, and the crossing of her thighs, the crossing of her lovely thighs, the crossing of her gorgeous thighs, the left with its barbed-wire and distinguishing pink garter, the crossing of her barbed-wire gartered left thigh onto her right thigh, in her barbed-wire thong, the barbed-wire thong under the barbed-wire ball gown in which her beautiful body had been ripped and raked and raped, as she had been danced and whirled and twirled and her lovely flesh had been tattered and torn by the barbarous barbed-wire of the barbed-wire dress and the barbed-wire thong and the barbed-wire garter in which she was rapturously wrapped, the crossing of her barbed wire gartered left thigh over her right thigh, had taken her to rapture’s capture, and she knew now and only now for the very first time in her sweet young life, that orgasm had a meaning, and its one and only true and absolute meaning, was that with which Kebroo was now screaming!!!!
Blaze Days
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: Sometimes a scatterbrain moment is all it takes for a girl to lose out on all her breaks.....
Blaze Days
by Eve Adorer
Comforting crackles emanated from the coals in the glowing grate. At a double crack louder than the norm from amid the flames, Lucida momentarily turned her head toward the noise, and the flashing highlights in her radiant red hair gave the fire a lesson in how to blaze.
Just out of her morning shower, Lucida hurried worried. She was running late. It was her turn to visit the local stores. And if she didn’t complete her mission on time, her mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, would smack her bottom.
The Friday night spankings were a routine in the Smythen-Featherstonehaugh household. When Amalia’s wife had been at home, she had spanked the naughty maids at the end of the week. But Susanrale had done it privately, and kissed and petted the girls to make them feel better afterwards.
But, now Susanrale was abroad, Amalia had taken on the role, and had once spanked Lucida on her bare bottom in front of all the maids: all forty of them, till all four of her lovely cheeks had flushed red and hot: two from the spanking, and two from her dying from embarrassment at enforcedly showing the De Milo smile between her thighs to the whole household. Lucida didn’t want that to happen again.
Black was not the best colour to contrast with the glorious red of her torrential titian hair. But black was the colour of a maid’s dress in the Smythen-Featherstonehaugh household. Today she would even wear black latex stockings.
Amalia liked her maids to look attractive when they were out and about. So, even though her figure out-curved an hourglass already, Lucida busied her nimble fingers pulling tight and then tighter, and then tighter still, the laces at the front of the spring-steel reinforced rubber wasp-corset she had to wear.
Suspenders from the bottom of this corset had now to be stretched to meet stocking tops, down the front of her thighs and, rather awkwardly impractically, if rather teasingly naughtily, over the firm domes of her creamy-white bottom.
At least she had remembered to put her black rubber thong panties on first before the corset this time. These, of course, were the ones formed like a codpiece-cup which can be tied tightly over it.
To go out in public without having one’s breasts under strict control, whilst not a problem for less generously apportioned girls, gave Lucida more than considerable double trouble, in the most beautiful ways. She did not wish to attract the attention of the Girl Control patrols. And that was why she cupped her breasts in the individual transparent rigid bell-domes of a vacuum brassiere, worn separately above the clinging wasp-corset.
Twelve-inch stiletto-heel platform mules took her to exquisite heights, and, with her flawless toes pointing to the floor when she stood in them, her stance sculpted sexy scallop dimples in the sides of her firm buttocks once more, as well as giving her long legs divine shape.
Lucida’s toilet was nearly complete, but before she put on her black rubber maid’s dress and her black latex gloves, she must needs apply suction to the holes in the centre-top of the domes of her bra: the tightly strapped bra pressing the rubber ring-seals at the bases of the transparent rigid plastic domes firmly to her chest.
For this she used a device that looked like a warning horn for a bicycle’s handlebars. The rubber ball at the end of this “horn” had a one-way valve in its end. Thus the application of the horn end over one of the titty-domes, drew the air out of that dome into and then out of the ball when the bulbous ball at the end of the horn was squeezed.
Full success in this necessary exercise was demonstrated when Lucida’s tit completely filled the transparent dome, and her nipple had been sucked out of the hole in the top of the dome so that it formed a stopper to prevent the vacuum in the dome being broken.
The seals pressed on her chest by the tightness of the bra’s straps did the rest. And thus were Lucida’s lovely breasts made into lewd forward thrusting wide-spaced domes, alike with the tits of a fuck-toy doll, but solid and soldierly in the brusque attention at which they now unnaturally and obscenely stood.
Her black rubber maid’s dress for this trip into the town, was as plain as it was short. Its hem was of such brevity, that even the briefest description of it would be too long. Suffice it to say, that quarter-moons of Lucida’s very feminine rear played delightfully wicked peek-a-boo, even when she just stood still.
Lucida would not wear her indoor-maid’s apron in her shopping trip. Instead she drew around her waist, a broad white rubber belt, which, noting that her wasp-corset had given her a totally incredible twelve-inch waist already, she did not need to draw tight.
Within the dress she could feel, with two sensitive intimate parts of her very feminine anatomy, the inbuilt Velcro rub. The Velcro fastened inside the bib of her dress, so that its roughness would constantly tease her nipples, and thus just as consistently, remind her that she was a girl.
After she had donned her black rubber gloves and tied their laces tight at her individual wrists, came a casual toss of her magical hair, and Lucida was ready to go.
It was raining outside, so she grabbed her green-rubber fedora, and her umbrella, and dashed out of her attic room, to make her way out through the servants’ doorway at the rear of Chater House, only to have to stop, stand to attention on her shapely legs, and bow her autumn-gold crowned head.
“Good morning Jones”, her mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, bid her as she fragranced entrancingly by with two of her pretty young bathing maids dancing eager attendance on her.
“Good morning my lady”, Lucida nervously responded, while simultaneously bobbing a very leggy curtsy.
The brand was all-important. Lucida knew she would have to go wider afield, as Woolmart had gone badly further downmarket, and no longer stocked it.
Lucida loved her momentary freedom in this high class area of London, even in the April showers. The scatter patter pattern of the rain on her raised transparent latex umbrella sounded so reassuring, that Lucida smiled. Her smile, being more than adequate substitute, it gave the sun an excuse to stay abed under the rolling grey duvet of the early morn.
And she loved the way her waspie-corset made her walk. Her bottom’s hemisphere’s still performed their erotic undulations with her every step, but the swing of her hips was wider and wilder because of her gasp-making breathtaking twelve-inch waist.
She walked wasting not a wiggle or a giggle, she felt so sexy. She felt so sexy indeed that even the rubbing of her nipples on the Velcro from the bobbling of her tits in the bounteously bold domes thrusting out her chest high wide and very handsomely twice over, was but a bonus. She was a girl being a girl and in love with the world that was encapsulated in the microcosm of her captivating body.
Lucida had come a long way from the curves-clinging powder-blue rubber mini-dress she had worn that day. It had been her first before a full class: a class full of teenage girls. It had been her first day as a teacher: her training done.
The Grant-Oral family were bankers. Lucida’s momma had wanted Lucida to take a post at Mellon Twins, the family’s bank, once she had come down from Camford. But Lucida had wanted to spend some time, as she put it: “giving something back to the world”. Teaching had been her choice.
The girls in the class would just not stop giggling. Lucida sensed they found her attractive. But her teacher training psychology lessons had taught her that it was only natural for teens to have a crush on an older girl. It was only when she reached up to point out a particular point in the furthest highest corner of the schoolroom whiteboard, that Lucida had lost face with a devastatingly deep blush, amid a posy of wolf-whistles and cheers from her class. She was so embarrassed, that she had instantly run out of the classroom.
The headmistress had been gentle understanding itself, but of course, had accepted Lucida’s on the spot resignation. The judge had not been so forbearing.
The downfall of one of the Grant-Oral daughters was a sensation in the media. And the judge’s line about it being the first occasion she had: “passed sentence on someone parsing a sentence” had been a gift to the more erudite newspapers.
The gutter press had merely stuck with speculation about whether Lucida had purposely worn no panties that day. A poll in one of these rags asking mothers to vote against school’s employing “predatory teachers” had been the final straw.
Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh had been Lucida’s judge. The sentence of a public flogging had been suspended: meaning it would only be carried out if Lucida was again found guilty of lewd behaviour in public office.
Nobody would employ Lucida after that: nobody in the world where the Grant-Oral family usually found appointments that is; and certainly not the family bank.
The position of maid of all works in the Smythen-Featherstonehaugh household had therefore been an offer Lucida just could not turn down. After all, she had lost everything. She had been disowned by her momma and her three sisters, and even completely written out of her momma’s will. She had been totally alone and completely destitute.
As Lucida swung in swing her lovely bum like a wild thing, while she merely walked down the street, a wolf-whistle crackled on the cool air.
“Hey darlin’! Where else ‘ave you got dat gorgeous red ‘air den?!”
Lucida tried to ignore the garbage girls, but she was walking on the sidewalk alongside which their truck, pulled by two lovely negress ponygirls, was slowly advancing, while they lifted the filled plastic trash sacks onto it from outside each home in turn.
Lucida blushed, but continued to wiggle inescapably inestimably provocatively, as she could not help from the nature of her body, assisted by the wasping of her waist to an outrageously curvaceous twelve-inches. Holding her head high, her sparkling green eyes tried to see only the horizon.
“Looks like she’s keepin’ ‘er lips closed den......
.....And ‘er mouff as well o’ course!” another teasing girl called out for the whole street to hear.
“You’re knock-dead gorgeous darlin’: yer know dat don’tya?” the girl in charge of the refuse collectors opined.
“Thank you”, Lucida whispered, and blushed the more.
“It talks den!”, one of the more unkind girls commented next.
“Yea, I bet it even does dat!!” her companion joined in, and Lucida tried to run she was so embarrassed.
“Take no notice of me mates luv. You look after it. Each to dare own, I alus say”
“Yea, that’s true, and I bet she can’t keep ‘er ‘ands off ‘er own neiver!”
“How big is your tits for real den darlin’?” came another voice.
Lucida hung her head, only to see, of course, the huge obscene domes that her breasts had been made into.
“You got more dan a coupla ‘andsfull dare, dats for sure, innit?”
“Ant she got great legs?” another garbage girl chimed in.
“’Yea, and ‘ave you seen the bum on ‘er!!”
“Tell you what you need luv. What you need is a fuckin’ good spanking. Dat’s what you need: you need to ‘ave dat luvly bum of yourn fuckin’ slapped till it makes yer cry, and den ‘ave it kissed better!”
Despite her shy look, Lucida had loved the attention. And her blushes were the sign of what it had done for her. The strides she took with her shapely legs, were now aided by intimate lubrication. The constant rub of her exposed nipples on the Velcro on the sweaty insides of her rubber dress had added to her natural arousal. The sexual desert in which she had dwelt for the twelve months since her classroom sin, made her long for such attention. And the crudity of some of the remarks had, secretly, pleased her all the more, for, rather than respecting her as a girl, lowering her to a sex unit.
...........................
The girls behind the counter at Fortune and Nathan were far more respecting of maids such as Lucida. Behind her back, they would refer to her as: “the sexy redhead”, but where politeness itself to her face.
They meant no harm by their description of Lucida either. There might have been a little jealousy that Lucida needed such an evidently large vacuum bra to ensure her breasts behaved with appropriate decorum when she was in the streets, but otherwise, it was just their way of distinguishing her from the other maids who shopped for their mistresses there. They knew no, and it was not allowed that they should ask any, names.
To rid the raindrops on her umbrella, Lucida turned her back to the shop’s door and was working it briskly open and shut on the sidewalk, unaware of the eyes of the counter-girls casually assessing the beauty of the creamy crescents of her bare bottom below the mischievous hem of her dress through the glass in the doorway.
The uniform of Fortune and Nathan staff comprised a crisp immaculately-white rubber mini-dress, neck-high to its Chinese style collar. The girls’ breasts were clearly forced into a cone-cupped wide-separation control brassiere under it. The white nylons were always on very shapely legs tiptop-toed in white patent-leather six-inch stiletto lace-up booties. And it was all topped off with a rakishly angled white rubber bellhop’s hat, with a coloured bobble in top centre to confirm relative rank. The hat was required to be strapped under the chin on hair drawn up into a tight bun high at the rear of the head. The uniform of Fortune and Nathan, even down to the choice of a girl for the excellence of her legs, spoke of brisk efficiency.
The pretty girl employed to operate the rotating doors for customers, waited patiently. Her bellhop’s hat had a yellow bobble. She was the lowest rank of all.
This brunette had operated the door for the lovely redhead before, and hoped she would get a smile again.
That she did, and a “thank you”, which made her day, as well as making her blush.
Was it the contrast of the wet paving and the steady drizzle, with the dry inside the store that brought on the urge?
“Good morning miss”, one of the counter girls called.
“Oh: good morning”, Lucida responded as she wiggled over to select her shopping trolley, and put her furled umbrella in it the while.
In the console room, the security guard paid more attention. It was that girl again: the one with the titian hair.
As, inside the shop, Lucida bent over to inspect a product on a lower shelf, the guard found no reluctance in focusing the nearest camera on Lucida’s wasped waist and the slow rise of her hem up the bare thigh atop her latex stockings, till it revealed her firm rotund bum impressively impressed by the rubber suspenders stretched over its oh so spankable smooth creamy whiteness.
Though unaware of the admiring camera, Lucida looked around. She was blushing. Her rubber gloved hands reached for her hem, and her pretty arms, bare from just above the wrists up to the short puff-sleeves high at her shoulders, went behind her as she tugged on the misbehaving hem.
The operation was successful, but she had to let it have its own way, when she bent once more to look at some tinned food.
But then another maid came into the same aisle, and Lucida was seen on the security camera, bending at the knees to put the tin back down, and thereafter struggling once more with her rebellious hemline.
Lucida was worried that this shop might not have what she was looking for either. But she always enjoyed being out of the house. Shopping was a pleasure she could no longer indulge for herself. As a maid, she had a bed and was fed, but no money for her services.
Round the end of the aisle she wiggled. The decorative champagne fountain had always fascinated her. It had been a feature at Fortune and Nathan’s London store since she had been at school. She reminisced about that as she wiggled past with her trolley, even though its trickling tintinnabulation met some sympathy in her body.
At last Lucida spotted what she thought she would find here: what she had come to Fortune and Nathan for. And so she continued wiggling toward the target aisle.
The face on the tins was particularly attractive: youthful and sweet; a blonde with a shy smile. Lucida checked each of the seven tins, before she put them in her trolley, and changed two, when she saw the labels did not confirm that the product within comprised what she specifically sought.
As Lucida waited in the queue to be served, her eyes casually glanced over the counter girls, and admired what they saw.
Lucida did not have to wait long for the till-girl to serve her, and put her purchases in a Fortune and Nathan carry bag for her. But the last tin was waylaid by the till operator’s assistant, who lifted it and looked at the picture on its label.
“Oh god that’s Natasha....I went to school with her!”
Then, fearing that Lucida might demand that the manageress have her whipped for gross impertinence: “I’m so sorry miss”, she apologised to Lucida.
“That’s quite alright”, Lucida whispered.
“Did you want all seven the same miss? I only ask because often customers like a variety miss”, the first serving girl enquired.
“Oh yes... yes...all the same is right thank you”, Lucida answered sweetly.
Would you charge my mistresses’ account for these please?” Lucida added.
The first counter-girl then held an x-ray-reader in the region of Lucida’s left nipple, which was secretly saucily aroused under the sweaty rubber of her dress, and waved it till she heard a ‘beep’ to show that Lucida had been registered, probably over the internet, to buy under a specific account.
“Oh, so you work for Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh then miss? If I may make so bold as to say so miss, you are a lucky girl miss. She’s a real lady she is miss!”
As Lucida left the shop, she turned to give the counter girls a thank-you smile, only to end up blushing when she saw they were both staring appreciatively at the wiggles of her dimple-sided bum, and to end up struggling with her gloved pretty hands, one holding her folded umbrella and the other the bag with the tins in it, to yet once more pull down the hem of her very naughty dress.
As she began her wiggle home, her twelve-inch heels tapping out a vivid valentine on the paving, Lucida raised her umbrella to the still falling rain. And she was reminded by it of the champagne fountain, and of an urge: so, as she wiggled busily home, she casually peed into her panties.
Other maids scurried on their errands for their mistresses. The simply gorgeous negress from the neighbouring house came wiggling by, looking stunning beyond stunning in her all-white rubber maids dress, with white latex stockings on and her wonderful tits in taming cones under the breast of her dress. But both lovely girls lowered their eyes in order that they should not be attracted or distracted. Maidenly love was totally forbidden.
It was because of that particularly devastating sight, that Lucida didn’t immediately notice that the garbage collection girls were now on the street where Chater House stood. When she did, at the thought of being accosted by them once more, and having them make lewd remarks about her body, Lucida hurried herself along and thus wiggled all the more and thus all the more sensationally sexily.
When the long low wolf-whistles appreciated her legs this time, Lucida almost fell over the garbage sack outside Chater House.
She knew better than to do so anyway, but she did not speak to the girl who was tied up in it.
In the brief chances she had had to gossip with her fellow maids, she had understood that “Poppet” was not considered up to her duties. Clearly, Amalia had decided Poppet must be disposed of, and she would soon be swung in her sack onto the garbage truck.
Lucida had chanced a glance and been relieved to see that Poppet had her curly blonde head sticking out of a green sack. So at least the girl was being recycled rather than being dumped on a landfill site.
Lucida had heard more than enough stories about the scavenger-girls who took discarded maids from the garbage tips and gang-raped them for days, before throwing them back. The very thought made her shudder.
............................
Immediately after whisking the rain from her umbrella, Lucida wiggled around to the rear of Chater House, to the kennels at the bottom of the garden beyond the tennis courts, and took the contents of her Fortune and Nathan carry bag out to put them on a shelf in a store there.
Even as she beckoned with her beacon bottom bared by her bending to stock the shelf, her pretty eyes, glowing their irresistible green, double-checked that each tin contained the meat of choice. Montgomery was very fussy and choosy about his food. He would only eat the meat of a live-roasted girl’s thighs.
............................
Back in her room once more, Lucida knew she had to change into her indoor maid’s outfit for the day. She had just that moment opened the nozzle in the crotch of her rubber thong-panties, and poured some of her piss into a wine glass, so that she could enjoy a sip or two while she changed clothes. But she had not even removed a glove, when her lovely eyes, following the direction of the tinkling from the bell sounding in her pretty ears, told her that Amalia was summoning her to the library.
..........................
As she stood tall on her lithe legs, awaiting her mistress’ attention, crackles from the coals in the glowing grate beat time with the flame flickers, reflected as lovely love sparkles in Lucida’s dreamy green eyes.
“I’m so sorry my lady. Please forgive me my lady. I had no time to change my lady. I really am so sorry my lady. It won’t happen again my lady. Please forgive me my lady....” Lucida breathlessly gabbled as she curtsied repeatedly and thus repeatedly flashed the glory of her stupendous thighs.
“Shush now Jones”, Amalia gently soothed.
“Oh thank you my lady. Thank you! Thank you!” Lucida whispered with her pretty face, its brow kissably creased with her total sincerity.
Once Lucida had calmed herself, and stopped bobbing seductive curtsies, Amalia announced: “Jones....I have decided that you will replace Poppet”.
“But my lady....!” Lucida, in her unpreparedness and total astonishment, innocently but inadvisably blurted out.
Like lightening in the dark of a summer night, Amalia’s face as suddenly flickered a warning that thunder must follow such impertinence from one of the lower orders.
Yet, in the event, as ever, her voice showed her breading. She raised its modulation not one fraction of a degree above its normal measured self-assured calmness, as she dismissed Lucida, with:
“I will not have that tone from anyone Jones. Go to your room. You will be dealt with later.”
Lucida curtsied, and wiggled from the room, her tears only beginning to flow when she was safely in the corridors.
............................
A lull in the conversation was punctuated by crackles from the coals in the glowing grate. At a crack louder than the norm from the competing flames, eyes turned to the lovely redhead walking before the blaze around the gathered party.
The Handsole Hotel was select even among the select. This annual gathering of the great and good of London society, was one she had taken over while her wife was away overseas. It was small-change to Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh that she was paying £2k dollars an hour for entertaining there.
This was a masked ball, without the waltzing. Discretion was assured. Even if anyone recognised anyone else, they would still only address them by the discreet number on their masks. The amusement it had given Amalia to give the prime minister of England the number “10” on her mask, did not mean that Lady A*****, the present incumbent of that office and official address, would ever be embarrassed.
Lucida was the adorable redhead eyes were feasting upon. She was in a pair of cornflower-blue patent-leather ballet booties, the heels and toes of which would leave Amalia with a repair bill for the wooden slats of the parquet floor of the fortieth floor of the Handsole. For Lucida tottered timorously as she traipsed her dainty steps, injecting heaven where the needle-pointed tips of her shoes’ toes kissed, and the needle sharp termini of the heels bearing up her flawless beauty touched a mere lowly floor.
With her booties’ incredible twelve-inch needle heels and equally appointed pointed toes, her dainty feet were raised en-pointe ballet, and her stupendous legs thus surely illegally erotically shaped, in consequence of the height at which she teetered, with her conspicuous calf muscles constantly flexing as they and her strong thighs sought to secure her stance and ensure she would not take a terrible tumble.
Her pretty little hands were encased in cornflower-blue latex gloves, which flowed up her graceful slender arms to her armpits. Her waist was in a cornflower-blue steel rib reinforced rubber corset, which had been laced at her curved back with such force, that she wiggled with a waistline enforcedly curved at its middle to a totally incredible eight-inch wasp’s dying gasp.
The steel core supported quarter cup brassiere built into her breathtaking cornflower-blue rubber corset, held her bountiful breasts proudly boldly firmly thrust up and out, and covered them so minimally, that more than a hint of her nipples’ two-inch diameter areole peeked like pink sunrises above the corset’s quarter cups.
Lucida’s flame red inflaming red hair flowed to her bottom in a whirl of fire, inspiring only the darkest deepest most devilish desires.
And apart from her long gloves, her wickedly cruel shoes, her waist savagely squeezed so she could hardly breathe with the eight-inches it was laced down to, and she could not stop her rolling wiggle in consequence of it either, these cornflower-blue accoutrements, with a cornflower-blue choker around her slender neck too, these cornflower-blue accoutrements, their colour chosen for best contrast with her bewitching autumn hair and her creamy flesh, these with her breasts held out obscenely on open display, these were her only clothing. Apart from these her ghost white soft white smooth white unblemished milk white redhead’s body was naked, except...
...except that a suspender belt dangled one hook for it from the base of her corset at the mid-front. And the matching suspender and hook for it dangled from her corset’s mid-rear. The inbuilt string hoops held it at either end: the shorter to the front of course, and the longer doing duty between the cheeks of her dimple-hollow-sided bum, as it journeyed to its connection with the hook at the rear. And her sanitary towel was thus kissing it: kissing the immaculate-innocent-shaven post-pre-pubescent-smoothed lips of it between her creamy thighs.
Lucida’s shy shame showed in her emerald eyes. The timing of her humiliation had been of Amalia’s choosing. The timing of Lucida’s humiliation dictated the timing of this annual gathering. And the timing of Lucida’s humiliation purposely coincided with the week when it was in bleed. And she was on display, openly on display, bleeding her sacrifice into the sanitary pad that was the only thing covering it.
Teetering in tiptoe topple trot steps in her needle toe twelve-inch needle heel ballet booties, sweet Lucida was visiting each guest by turn, and bobbing dangerous curtsies: dangerous for her as she stood in her murderous shoes, and dangerous for the girl or girls she bobbed her thighs and displayed her heaving heavy breasts before, as she courteously curtsied, before indicating with the merest momentary flicker of her sweet eyes that she was talking about her heavenly chest.
“My two naughty girls have been particularly wicked ma’am. And they are to be punished ma’am. Would you like to see my two very naughty girls being punished ma’am? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am. But all the money will go to charity ma’am”.
A sale made. Lucida wiggled onwards on her wonderful legs teetering in her en-pointes and blushing when a girl she passed patted her irresistible bottom.
It was to this girl Lucida now turned, and bobbed a full-thighed curtsey, before her eyes shyly indicated her fulsome frontal beauty: “My two naughty girls have been misbehaving dreadfully ma’am. And they are to be tortured to punish them ma’am. Would you like to see my two very naughty girls being punished ma’am? All the money will go to charity ma’am. The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am.”
“They are huge!” the girl whispered as she stared, as she could not help but stare, and Lucida’s living breathing heaving breasts.
“Thank you ma’am, but they must be punished ma’am. They are two truly wicked girls ma’am. Would you like to buy a ticket and watch my very wicked girls being punished ma’am?” Lucida pleaded.
The humiliation was endless. Wretched in her bleed as she was, seeping heavily into her sanitary napkin as she was, Lucida continued to teeter-totty-tiptoe-trot on her divine creamy-smooth creamy-white legs around the room, waiting respectfully to be paid attention, before she pleaded for a ticket sale.
“My twin girls have been extremely naughty ma’am. And they are to be punished for their wanton misbehaviour ma’am. Would you like to see my two naughty girls being punished ma’am? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am: all sales income for charity ma’am”.
The next girl she wiggled toward in her pinpoint shoes, her calf muscles flexing divinely as they and her strong thighs kept her from tottering and toppling, was Faranatina Mandrake-Warner. This Lucida knew, despite Faranatina’s mask, but was discretion itself, as she stood, and then bobbed a thighy curtsy to her one-time best school-friend.
“My twin girls have been leading each other into terrible mischief ma’am. They are equally as bad as each other. They are to be punished for their own good ma’am. Would you like to see my naughty girls undergoing correction ma’am? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am. But all the proceeds will go to charity ma’am”.
Lucida now wiggled toward a gaggle of pretty girls leaning against the bar.
“My god, look at the fucking legs on this! Sweetheart, you can wrap those fucking fantastic thighs of yours around my face any time you want...but not till you’re off your fucking bleed though!”
Lucida blushed, as she indicated her breasts with a swift look from her bewitching green eyes, and repeated her humiliating sales pitch: “One of my twin girls has been wickedly naughty ma’am. But neither of them will say which one did it. So both of my naughty girls are to be punished for the one of them that was particularly naughty, so as to teach them both to own up in future. Would you like to see my two naughty girls being taught a lesson ma’am? All the money goes to charity ma’am. The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ma’am.”
“Oh, fucking hell, would I like to see that?! Jeese you’ve got great tits! There’s five of us want to watch that sweetheart. So give me five tickets, all for seats on the fucking front row!”
Lucida wiggled her creamy-white bum as she graced along the bar to another group of girls. And although they had already overheard her debasing herself, they ogled her legs with open lasciviousness, lubricated by the champagne they had been quaffing.
Behind her back from where she had already passed, Lucida heard: “The dirty cat: fancy parading yourself around like that when you’re ....you know....!”
“Quite! You’d have thought she’d wear some panties to hide that she’s menstruating!”
“I don’t imagine she was given the choice. It’s part of humiliation”, another voice answered.
“Whose humiliation: hers or ours? It’s perfectly disgusting if you ask me....”
“My naughty girls have been stepping badly out of line ladies. They need to be taught a lesson they will never forget. Ladies, unless my naughty girls get what they deserve, they will think that they can always get away with being naughty. Would you like to see my naughty girls being taught a lesson ladies? The tickets are one-thousand dollars each ladies. But all sales money goes to charity ladies.”
And so Lucida’s humiliation proceeded, as did she, an angel from heaven conveying the devil’s message to the assembled two hundred guests by turn, almost every one of them individually.
But, at long last, all tickets sold, to loud cheering and even louder wolf-whistles, Lucida was led away on her cream-white legs to be prepared in a neighbouring room.
............................
As the ticket bearing guests filed into the neighbouring room for their dinner, they saw that the dining tables had been arranged in a square, and that a semi-naked redhead stood on a raised platform in the middle of that square.
Lucida, the near-naked redhead, stood not only on a raised platform, but also fastened to a tit-behaviour-corrector.
Her shapely body was bathed with the beautiful perspiration of her fear: her glorious green eyes were staring fixedly in terror.
Her bare big toes were on high on the floor of her platform: the platform to which the tit-behaviour-corrector was firmly affixed. She faced the rigid upright of the behaviour-corrector.
The stainless-steel tit-behaviour-corrector’s upright had a cornflower-blue leather corset belt to hold her: the corset she had worn during her initial debasement: the corset that took her already egg-timer waist down to an eight-inch waif’s whiff of a minuscule midriff.
The corset now had the tit-behaviour-corrector’s upright running through a dozen stainless-steel rings on the front of the corset, such that the girl in the corset could slide down the upright, or rise up it again as she might choose; or rather, in this case, not choose if she could possibly avoid it. But also so she could not flinch away from it.
Other than for the corset, and her cornflower-blue choker, Lucida was all but naked.
She was still wearing her sensual arm-long armpit-high arm-enveloping cornflower-blue latex gloves, but had had her slender wrists firmly girlackled to strong stainless-steel rings at either side of the corset, such that she seemed to be standing in an expression of annoyance with her gloved hands fixed so that her slim gloved fingers played nervous harpsichord on her violin’s hips.
Her glorious golden hair cascaded in majesty down her back and was so burnished by the spotlights kissing its beauty, that it shone as if she had a halo. And her frightened eyes looked on as the perspiration of fear bathed her freckle kissed ghost-white visage.
She continued to menstruate of course, and the evidence of that was on her thighs’ insides, just as it was also sliding in a livid scarlet trickle gliding slowly around a rigid platform-floor bolted, four-inch diameter, cold stainless-steel upright dildo, the rounded top tip of which had already been inextricably introduced between her thighs and up into it. This rigid dildo would also stop her escaping her fate.
And her fate cupped her two naughty girls. Up from the corset that could slide up and down the tit-behaviour-corrector’s fixed upright, up over her ribcage up under each of her two naughty girls, there now ran two inverted-L shaped stainless steel supports that each ended with an out-jutting ‘shelf’. And on each of the two so formed ‘shelves’, agape for the present, like two love books opened at their middle pages, were the tit-behaviour-corrector’s jaws.
The cornflower-blue corset as worn during Lucida’s ticket sales circuit, had had its detachable brassiere top removed, and the right-angled brackets fixed into the lace-up waspie that remained. The brackets were also in turn held to Lucida by a strap under her tits: a strap through rings on the front of the brackets’ uprights: a strap that did the duty of a bra-strap, helping with restraining but without actually containing her abundant beauties.
Each individual tit-behaviour-corrector jaw, was made of transparent flexible plastic, and shaped, each half, like the halves of a dome: domes the size needed to contain, in their closed state, the wonders that Lucida had resting within their open maws.
The halves of each jaw were hair-trigger-spring-hinged at the bottom, and had quick-lock catches on their opened edges. And the half-dome shaped jaws were opened, each with a beautiful live naughty girl resting in it.
These ‘opened-book’ jaws were fixed to the ‘shelves’ of the brackets, so as to be a savage substitute for brassiere cups.
The opened out half-dome shaped tit-behaviour-corrector jaws, also had strong steel rings, one apiece at each top of their open ends. Above them, above Lucida’s incendiary hair, was the crossbeam. The stainless-steel crossbeam was equally as solidly strong as the two uprights on which it was rigidly supported, and they could have held up the statue of liberty.
Two chains dangled from the beam, one above each of Lucida’s naughty girls. From the rings in the top half of the opened tit-behaviour-corrector jaws, two shorter chains – one pair for each naughty girl - ran up to each of the single strong beam-hung pair of single chains.
Within each opened out love-story-book tit-behaviour-corrector jaw, were the teeth of the tit-behaviour-corrector: scores of stainless-steel needles of three and six inch lengths. A heavy concentration of needles was evident at the distant end, facing back toward Lucida, ready for where her nipples would be forced to go. These latter needles pointed back at Lucida, ready to play welcoming host for her expanding breasts when squeezed by the closing jaws.
Lucida’s beautiful naughty girls, her wonderful breasts, presently played nervous fakirs, as they rested, unharmed, within their individual beds of ‘nails’.
For the present, as he stood on tiptoe barefoot, Lucida’s superb legs were tautly stretched while she fought to keep herself on the tip of her big toes on the base on which she stood. For, if she lowered her heels, she would lower her body on the behaviour-corrector’s upright, and the chains from which the opened jaws of the behaviour-corrector dangled, would set off the jaws’ hair-trigger springs, and cause them to clap closed.
She was gagged. Lucida was gagged. Her sanitary pad, soaked with her feminine bleed, had been forced into her mouth, and was held there by a tight cornflower-blue rubber gag, so she must lick and taste her monthly with her tongue as she choked.
In order that the whole assembly sitting around the square of dining tables at this money-raising gathering, should be able to enjoy Lucida’s naughty girls being taught a lesson, the base on which Lucida stood, was slowly rotating.
“Are you going to let that beautiful bitch stand distracting us with her gorgeous legs like that all night, or are we going to get the entertainment we paid for?” a drunken voice slurred, as the first course of the dinner was being served.
“Number 10 can be assured that the entertainment will be worth the wait. But, if necessary, I will have her whipped to break her”, Amalia’s voice calmly reassured.
“What’s all this ‘naughty girls’ stuff you had the slag talking about while we were all next door?”
“Oh that was just a little conceit of mine. The girl in the stocks is my maid. Her tits have been driving me to distraction forever, so I thought I’d teach them both....I suppose you might almost say ‘all three’.... a lesson!” Amalia answered.
“Don’t I recognise her? There’s a strong family likeness. Isn’t she one of the Grant-Oral daughters?”
“I thought that too. I bet it’s the youngest one: ‘Lucanda’ or some such name. Dirty little hussy went into a schoolroom on her first day as a teacher, wearing a rubber micro-mini-dress would you believe, and with no knickers! I ask you! Apparently, she claimed she’d clean forgotten to put her panties on. But, if you ask me, there was nothing ‘clean’ about it!”
“Quite right! She was supposed to be settling down, after the highlife. She was as drunk as a skunk every night, and having girls lick champagne out of her navel. At least that’s what I read. At least I think it was her navel she had them licking inside. Turned to so called ‘good works’ and trained to teach impressionable young girls. Well, with that sort of background, what did they expect? ‘The leopard never changes its stripes’, I always say!”
“Mentioning stripes, if she was my maid, I’d put more than a few across that gorgeous bum she’s got on her!”
Lucida’s muffled cry of agony followed in that same instant, and then the jeers and then the cheers and then the wolf-whistles. She, her beautiful legs that is, could hold her up on her top-toe-tops no longer, and her heels had only lowered a fraction. She had only relaxed the aching muscles of her curvaceous calves for a microsecond. She had only let herself move a fraction to ease her pretty knees. Her thighs were strong but still she had stood on her tiptop tiptoes for so long. A fractional relaxation in her concentration and, despite her terror at what she knew would happen to her naughty girls, overcome by tiredness and the dreadful strain of walking in her needle-point shoes, and now standing on her bare big toes, and Lucida had flexed her lovely calves, relaxed her pretty knees, eased her enormously strong thighs, lowered her dainty feet, and in that instant she had lowered it further onto the stainless-steel dildo, and the lubrication of her menses flow, had shot the dildo up it, and with the shock of its relentless cruel cold inevitability as it had taken her with its four-inch diameter violence violating high and hard and wide and deep inside it, and she had shot up to her toes once more to try and stop it fucking it, only for her menses to make it slither down its shining smoothness once again, till it was one-foot deep into it and seeking out her womb, and her second slow fall to disgrace on the raping dildo lubricated by her moon-cycle blood, had triggered her naughty girls being slap-clap-trapped in the snapping maw of the corrector’s jaws, as the strong springs in the hinged undersides slammed closed the half-domes of the corrector, the half-dome jaws that would eat her naughty girls, and she had been bitten by the dozens of needles driven into her, through the flawless flesh of her naughty girls, and she was riding it on the dildo as she danced and writhed in her agony as her naughty girls were bitten through by the teeth of the jaws that had slammed shut on and crushed their beauty and were still doing the duty of punishing them with their sharks’ teeth for their wanton wickedness as they remained clamped closed with the clicks of the snap-locks at the tops of the formerly open jaws: the jaws that had swallowed her naughty girls and now made love to them with their teeth tearing her flesh as Lucida tried to pull her naughty girls free, riding it on the dildo the while dancing on her divine legs a dervish devil’s dance of dreadful pain as she went down and up on the dildo over and over and up and down and up and down over and over and up and down and down and up again and again and again, slithering its wantonness lubricated by her menstrual blood as she hollered and screamed choking on the menstrual blood on her used sanitary pad forced into her mouth, gagging with the relentless pitiless pain from her naughty girls as she tore at them to take them from the jaws of the corrector, and ripping them, ripping her naughty girls to punish them just as her naughty girls needed and deserved for their totally wild totally wanton totally wicked ways.
Lucida’s muffled cries of extreme distress and as extreme pain and her soft tears gentle rain were a constant refrain for the rest of the dinner, as she rotated with her naughty girls trapped in the tit-behaviour-corrector’s jaws, with blood from the brutal bites trickling along under the jaws, down her corset, a crimson trail on the cornflower-blue, and then the creamy-white of her thighs and calves, till it dripped onto the raised stand’s floor.
....................
Cigars and cognac were taken next door, and were accompanied by a girl with a whirl of copper red hair returned back into needle pointed toes and heels to maximise her leggy appeal, as she wiggled around the floor, in the eight-inch squeezing cornflower-blue corset that she had worn when her naughty girls were first bitten and torn.
And as Lucida tiptoed up to each guest in turn, they saw the menstrual blood that had curled around the smooth muscles of her thighs and her tautly tensioned calves, and the blood where the tit-behaviour-corrector’s two halves were still biting Lucida’s breasts and stabbing her nipples in savage mockery of a lover’s kisses.
And she now paraded her shame with no tampon or pad to staunch her seep, and offered cigars with her naughty girls still slapped in the tit-behaviour-corrector’s jaws, and her emerald green eyes still tearful with her extreme pain.
“My naughty girls want to say thank you for teaching them how to behave properly, miss”, she curtsied as a cigar was taken, and then she wiggled on, her humiliation humbling her to her now natural station.
“Thank you for punishing my naughty girls ma’am”, she bobbed her thighs, and wiggled her bum as she could not help, she being girl, and slinked on her next cigar to sell.
“My naughty girls needed this lesson. They thank you ma’am”, she flashed her thighs and then wiggled on, becoming aware that she was very turned on. Lucida was from a family among the highest in the nation, but was only a girl, and so she hoped and she prayed that her womanly figure would not give way to the strange sexual trigger of this degradation.
Lucida’s wiggle had grown more wickedly wanton, and her creamy-white legs so lithe and long slinked her toward the next girl along, and she bobbed this beauty a submissive curtsey, and offered a cigar: “My naughty girls are in dreadful pain, but there was no other way to teach them respect again.”
Toward the bar and the champagne quaffers, Lucida now must wiggle her still tortured breasts, to offer cigars, and curtsey before her social superiors:
“God those jaws must hurt like fuck, but how else could you teach such a slut?”
“Ladies, my naughty girls are in terrible pain. But they thank you for correcting their wickedness? On behalf of my naughty girls I thank you for their appropriate treatment, for they wilfully ignored mere admonishment”.
Lucida wiggled on to debase herself once more, with her tits still clamped in the vicious teeth of the tit-behaviour-corrector jaws.
“My naughty girls are paying their penance for wild indulgence in total decadence. Thank you for witnessing their well-deserved punishment, and let us hope when it is over that they are duly truly penitent.”
Faranatina Mandrake-Warner giggled and blushed as Lucida now wiggled trying to make her thighs brush, as toward her she came with her pain turned to gain. And lovely Lucida had cums queendom come when she debased herself before her former best friend with an orgasm’s orgasm making her buckle at the knee and squat on the ground and try to get her huge thighs one the other wrapped around, as she could not in her steepling shoes, though she still screamed and hollered her sexual joy profound: joy found in her debasement and degradation and in her torture before this congregation. And Lucida continued her immensely strong thighs to press and slap together and squeeze hard, both her orgasms to ease and yet to prolong, as her lovely mouth uttered a sexual song: the song of a girl so long frustrated who had just arrived at the highest state of girls’ nature.
Lucida heard Amalia hiss as Faranatina bent over Lucida and gave the helplessly orgasming redhead’s hair a gentle kiss:
“You filthy bitch!!”
“Quickly, quickly someone, find me a whip!!”
...........................
Lucida awoke soaked. Although on this hot summer’s humid night she had chosen aright to sleep as best she might beneath a single rubber sheet’s sheath; having helloed haloed-angel in the wondrous wetness of feminine perspiration’s luscious lubrication, she was bathed in a sensuously seductive shimmering sheen.
She sighed as she whisked her sheet aside, and a trickle of her rainbow-imprisoning tear-impersonating sweat, trickled in a track contributory to tributaries, that joined in a ribbon, flowing river between her pink-appointed deeply-riven snow-white peaks. It momentarily made naval-enabled her navel, till overspill of this pores pour of rain, reigned across the range of her lower belly, before finally dripping its liberal libation into the smiling canyon of her pristinely post-pre-pubescent-maintained labia of love.
This trickle tickled, and lovely Lucida longed to wipe it with her long fingers, but knew that that could lead to naughtiness, and so bit her liberally bold lower lip and then pouted as she constrained her longing for the physik of physical love.
A year’s nights of deprivation had led to this. How could anyone expect a girl, love to miss so entirely from her life? It was unnatural and cruel, but still the hyper-hot Lucida stayed cool, even as the trickle tickled and moistened her little clitty, as it peeked peaked and pulsated her indisputable girlhood from under its rain-hood.
Despite the humidity of a thunder-rolling night, Lucida, her sleep hitherto as shallow as the pool of perspiration in which her bummy now wallowed as her sweet-sweat gathered pool on her rubber lower bed sheet, had managed at last to make depth and dreams consequent her reward to ward off the endless tiredness she had endured from always being a good girl and not being naughty with the taunting toy between her titan thighs.
And this had been her reward. With real sleep in place of counting sheep at last, she had been slapped and spanked with the night-dreams of which she daydreamed when she longed to finger-fill and thus fulfil her cup of love to overflowing. And yet, and even yet, she was unsated unsatisfied and desperately deprived.
Her long longing had assured the mighty degradation of her incredibly wild wet-dream and she had squirted: she had jerked in her sleep, had cums come incomplete, and copiously conspicuously squirted her love; her squirt making cupid sandwich of her sodden sheets.
Soaked after sin had surfaced from her within, with her glorious golden hair bedraggled, Lucida must drag herself to the shower and then seek some way to hide the shame so evident in her saturated bedding.
Lucida’s reality was far from the savagery of her wet-dream. Poppet’s sacking had not been so literal, and she now worked for neighbours who were as kind to her as Amalia had, in truth, always been. As far as she knew, Faranatina Mandrake-Warner had been abroad for years. And Montgomery was just Montgomery. He was a pet, and what a pet, so lazy, so relaxed and so loving.
So, Amalia liked her maids to be pretty and to dress seductively, and to be unquestioningly obedient. But that was only right and proper. Amalia had never laid a finger on Lucida, who, in consequence, could never do enough for such a wonderful, and such an attractive mistress.
Well, okay, since Poppet had gone, there had been that. Lucida hadn’t wanted to take that on, but had not protested in the manner depicted in her colourful dreams. It had to be done. Poppy was no longer around to do it, so someone had to....
The overnight storms had cleared the air. Either it was decidedly chill in contrast to the week that had just expired as much as it had perspired, or else Lucida’s breasts were just quivering from her shivering in her drying sweat. She would shower, and then enquire discreetly, if she and the other maids were required to make ready, and even light, the coal fuelled fires throughout the house.
...........................
Crackles from the coals in the glowing grate punctuated a lull in the conversation. At a snapped crack from the comforting flames louder than the norm, Montgomery stirred, reluctantly lifted his head toward the source of the disturbance, saw nothing to match eyes’ sight to ears sound in verification of the cause of the momentary disturbance; yawned, stretched all four of his limbs, and once more measured his full length on the hearthrug with his back to the blaze.
“I do so love your hat!” Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh exclaimed.
“Oh, I know! Isn’t it just so peachy?! Walkers in the Strand don’t you know”, the freshly foreign suntanned beauty, Faranatina Mandrake-Warner giggled blushingly.
At this Montgomery stirred and stared vacantly.
“Woo silly wickle doggy. Miss Fawamatwima said ‘Walkers’ not ‘walkies’!” Amalia teased, her wild-strawberry lips kissing the air with pretty pouts for her pampered pet, as she leaned forward to stroke Montgomery’s chest, coincidentally venting her considerable cleavage.
Amalia’s spoilt Alsatian gave a look that might have been interpreted as expressing gratitude that his long longed-for late afternoon before the glowing flames was not going to be disturbed by exercise after all, and lowered his head before rolling over, with a simpered whimper-yawn, so that his front would now be warmed in its turn.
“They’ve moved along the Strand....Walkers I mean. To the banking quarter, right next door to Clits and Co? And I was just coming out of Clits after cashing one of dear momma’s cheques there, and I saw it, and it just had to be mine: the hat I mean! You know how it is...!” Faranatina enthused, with eyes the size of saucers: sources to sear the soul.
Were it not that they were only in their mid-twenties, Amalia and Faranatina could have been called ‘old friends’. If the ‘old friends’ categorisation is defined by two girls who have known each other since childhood, then perhaps its implication that greater age must play a part can be set aside, and these two stunning brunettes qualify for its etymological embrace after all.
The Smythen-Featherstonehaugh family owned half of Somersetshire, but never troubled to visit that bucolic location. Three-quarters of neighbouring Gloucestershire had been owned by generations of the Mandrake-Warners seemingly since before time began.
Faranatina Mandrake-Warner bore the junior title. She was the Honourable Faranatina Lady Halmoures. Her momma was the present Lady Dunholme, a high flying minister in the House of Ladies in the London parliament.
Public duty had always weighed heavily on the Mandrake-Warners. The previous Lady Dunholme, the twenty-first - Faranatina Mandrake-Warner’s grandmamma - had condescended to be the prime minister of England for a time. In turn, her mother, the twenty-second Lady Dunholme, had been Foreign Minister during the Australia / Austria crisis, and had negotiated the Treaty of Harare: the agreement that had prevented those two nations going to war over what had been satirised at the time, as a mere misunderstanding over spelling.
In their earlier youth, apart from a spell when Amalia had been abroad with her momma, Amalia and Faranatina had been at boarding school and Camford University together.
Faranatina was now something on high at the English Broadcasting Company, but found attending the office behind the brass-plate with her name on it, “Too too tedious my dear”, and had thus given up on what could have been called ‘the habit’, but that it had never formed one.
Amalia, who had been born Amalia Clark-Clarke-Clerk (from the Sussex wing of that well connected family), had made a good marriage. However, her wife, Susanrale Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, was presently an ambassador in Beijing, and Amalia had wanted to stay here in Chater House, the main Smythen-Featherstonehaugh London residence.
As Amalia uncrossed her strong thighs, the smooth slide of nylon stocking on nylon stocking made the silence sensually significant. When she traipsed to trace her way to the bell-rope that sided the hearth before which Montgomery slept, grace had no compare.
A single soundless tug on the pristine white cord, was accompanied by her explanation, as if thinking aloud: “I thought we’d have tea...”
Amalia returned to her seat in a rustle of expensive expansive silks, and then displayed the bountiful benevolence of her uplift brassiere when leaning forward to stroke Montgomery’s head between his ears, unaware of the erotic whisper from the friction of her stocking tops when she crossed handsome thigh over handsome thigh once more.
She did not trouble herself to glance at the door when it opened at her maid’s entry.
Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh’s maid, having tapped on the door, as lightly as politely and as prettily, entered the blue lounge, bearing silverware, which, as she passed the windows behind the chaise-longue her mistress and mistress’ guest graced, answered the setting sun’s sparkle with myriad mirrored flashes.
On the hallmarked tray of assayed silver, she essayed to convey the fruit of topmost-top-leaf-China, which was weaving a wavering humid stream from the swan-necked spout of a tall solid-silver teapot, accompanied by a similarly stolid hot water jug, an ordered scattering of clattering spoons, and two cups and saucers of such transparent delicacy that ‘crockery’ was too harsh a word to define them.
The maid, a stunning vision, had an incredibility of natural red hair tumbling around an innocent face before falling to her curved back’s base. The kitten-green eyes, the delight of light freckles dancing on her delicate cheeks and skipping playfully over the bridge of her nose, the pouty but never petulant lips reading red in ready contrast with the pallid confection of this redhead’s complexion: recognition was instantaneous, but Faranatina too astounded to speak, and Lucida Grant-Oral, Amalia’s maid, too polite and too wise to acknowledge her one-time school-friend’s stares.
In her nine-inch stiletto heeled black ballet-toed booties, Lucida Grant-Oral’s legs were of a curvature that only nature can sculpture, and only then from the finest of god’s material: girl. Her white latex stockings clung condom-close, as no-one could condemn them for doing, and were therefore not negligent in caressing the emphatic curvature of her tensioned calf muscles.
The maid’s dress Lucida was wearing, was a ‘little black number’ in shimmering latex, with ‘little’ decidedly out-emphasising black in its description, unless and until ‘Satan’ were to be prefixed to ‘black’; although even then its brevity was more explained than its colouration by that additional description.
Lucida’s slim arms were bare to the top of her biceps and triceps. Her hands were in white latex gloves fastened at her wrists with delightfully delicate bows. Short puffed sleeves decorated each shoulder of her neck-high-fronted dress. But no-one looking that way, unless they were doubly blind, would not stare instead at two far more prominent features outlined in outthrust. For Lucida, although adorably slim, was also indisputably big.
Her fulsome fully firm breasts were in need of considerable constraint and control. They ballooned-out her dress now, with massively majestic curves, begging only of the question how big they would be were they not nestling recumbent, encumbered by her clothing, and thus restrained from full free range.
Even so, they were frolicsome. Denied the reins of a brassiere, they roamed from home within the bib of her dress, making for, or rather two, or rather too, an impressively double-blest forefront or rather two front, in the front in which they romped, with Lucida’s nipples as pronounced punctuation prompts.
Her maid’s dress was so short, that her black latex thong was clearly seen. It was leaving her bottom blatantly bare, except where the sides of her bum cheeks were caressed by the tensioned black latex suspenders clasping her stockings’ tops into local stretches. And the hem of her dress’ skirt applied no alternate modicum of becoming modesty there.
The white of the stockings was echoed in the minuscule frill-edged latex apron Lucida wore on the front of the dress’ skirt. A tiny white latex tiara did not belong in the radiance of such bewitching red hair, but was the final decking out display of the subservience of this supreme among girls: that and the white filigree frill where her dress caressed her slim neck that is.
On the very tips of her toes in her shoes, Lucida still managed to walk with a graceful gait. She was blushing at knowing she had been recognised by her friend of not so long ago schooldays, in the shame of the lowly position fate had ordained, but her sparkling emerald eyes were obediently unseeing.
As she reached the occasional table toward which Amalia had waved a casual hand, to convey that that was where she was her tray to down lay, Lucida bent straight-curvy-legged at her waist, giving gravity the dangle angle of her heavy breasts in the biblical black of the bib of her dress, and fading moonrise to inconsequence where romance makes eyes, as four eyes caressed the baring of her bottom when her hem raised the only curtain stopping staring at its starring role, until, that is, the filled sling of her tight thong joined the cabaret by singing its erotic song between her bedazzling moonlight-white thighs.
As Lucida rose again, blushing scarlet at her enforced immodesty: “Thank you Jones. That will be all for now”, Amalia gently instructed.
At this Lucida turned toward Amalia, and bobbed a curtsy of supreme subservience, as she quietly politely but audibly whispered: “Thank you my lady”.
Then she wiggled out of the blue room, the deep dimples in the sides of her delicious derriere from her stilettos holding her on such height, devastating the two waited-on women’s line of sight. Then she turned before quietly closing the door as she finally left the room.
“Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, you secretive little bitch!! I’ve a damned good mind never to talk to you ever again!” Faranatina Mandrake-Warner screamed as she giggled, before she grasped Amalia’s hands just to be sure her friend didn’t think she really meant what she had just said.
“I remember her in school. She’d left before you came to Chiltern College, but not before she’d had a turn as my slag. And, oh my dear, let me tell you, when she was fifteen! God she was so pretty! And, jeese, the tits on her!!. And she shagged like a rattlesnake! I made her shave it of course. Is it still shaven?” Faranatina enthused, “And what’s this ‘Jones’ thing all about, she was Lucida Grant-Oral last I knew. Has some lucky girl made her her wife?”
Though she was pleased at upstaging her friend, Amalia did not show it. A calm front was needed, or else the fruits of victory could fall from her grasp. A smile might become a grin. And a grin would give away that what the two friends had just witnessed was the outcome, the nearing successful outcome, of Amalia’s overhead lob.
There was no unkindness in this. It was one-upgirlship tennis, and Amalia had just won the latest match, in three straight sets; or rather, with one very curvy set in clinging latex. The next round might be Faranatina’s: so still might this one yet, unless Amalia kept her cool.....
“Oh, I didn’t think you’d know her”, Amalia calmly white-lied.
“What did you say her name was? No No No. Don’t tell me. I’m damned if I’m going to be bothered to learn the real names of servants. My first maid of all works, goodness knows how long ago now, was called ‘Jones’, so I’ve called them all ‘Jones’ ever since. It makes life so much simpler. And they don’t mind in the least you know. After all, they’re glad of the job. And so they should be, the little money grubbing slugs....” Amalia expounded, as, in the rear of her mind, she grinned ever more widely.
“Shall I pour you tea?” she then enquired, as she rose to deal with the contents of the silver tray.
Lubricated by the fragrant tea, the conversation that had been in lull between the two highborn women in the warmth of the fire, now flowed freely.
Gossip was always at the heart of it. Neither girl spoke of a mutual friend save with a flavour of cattiness. It was a never spoken fact that the cat would meow about the girl presently in front of her, behind her back too. But to each other’s fronts, faces showed only sincerity, and delight only at the shortcomings and mishaps of third parties.
As the sun sank a little more still, and the shadow pattern of the window frame on the carpet turned further from rectangle to parallelogram, dregs of tea were drying in the bone-china cups listing at angles on the saucers on the tray to which Amalia had returned them.
Both girls now half-noticed that, in his warmth and sleep, Montgomery legs were taking him chasing after deer or some other prey. But when his cock began to throb and show erection pink, Amalia realised a more passionate objective of his imaginative chase was gaining on his attention, or rather he on it, and rose to pull the bell cord, before returning to her conflab.
As Lucida walked back in and curtseyed to Amalia, the two women were still in full flow, and left her standing on her stunning legs, patiently awaiting being noticed.
“Ah, Jones, good”, Amalia responded at last.
“Will you be so good as to take Montgomery out for some exercise please”, Amalia instructed with a question that was, of course, a direct order.
“Yes my lady. Of course my lady” Lucida whispered.
Then she curtseyed, once more demonstrating the excellence of her legs as she did so, before she squatted and displayed her goddess’ thighs in their thus emboldened state, when she took a hold of the just awakening Montgomery’s collar.
Moments later, as the bent-forward Lucida walked the still sleepy Montgomery out of the room by the collar grasped in one of her gloved pretty hands, from over the back of the chaise, breaking off in mid-conversation to do so, and resuming the same discussion with Faranatina immediately afterwards, Amalia called:
“Oh and Jones: I’m afraid Montgomery was getting tiresomely frisky yet once more”.
“Do please take him into the gardens, and....well..... you know... take your panties off for him again?”
“But of course my lady”, Lucida responded as she took Montgomery out of the blue room’s door.
Blaze Days
- Episode 2 -
by Eve Adorer
Synopsis: Of the further misadventures of English socialite, redhead beauty Lucida Grant-Oral, as she pays the price for one moment of forgetfulness.....
If you wish to read Episode 1 of ‘Blaze Days’ first, before reading this second episode, you will find it as Part 27 of ‘Disconnections’......
Blaze Days
- Episode 2 -
by Eve Adorer
Lucida looked at the shoes.
Lucida’s mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh had issued new orders to inform her maids, as to what would henceforth be uniform. Lucida looked at the shoes.
Amalia’s orders were unchanged as regards forbidding the wearing of brassieres.
Even though she had two very ample samples of soft-firm mammalian matter with wilful will and wild ways wondering wonderfully before her, that was no problem for Lucida. Outdoors, she was in need of the heavy restraints against such waywardness as might otherwise see her breaking the girl-laws....twice. But indoors, all the reining-in and training and constraining that had been tried on them, before she had been unmade and made a maid, had been totally worthless.
And since she had subsequently and consequently been ordered to forego a bra, they had gone completely feral. And she just loved the feel their freedom gave her. Their magical mischievousness made her conscious of their conspicuousness.
Once again....twice again...., the glide of her silken nipples on the insides of her maid’s uniforms reminded her constantly that she was a girl. Her breasts’ return to full nature, seemed only to have made her nipples all the more sensitive, and she was only too aware of the way her pink peaks poked out, as they scribed an essay on love within the bib of her dresses, when her breasts juddered jiggled and juggled, which was even when she merely walked.
Under the cool white-rubber summer blouse she had now been issued, Lucida’s bosom was bold, and would do anything other than what it was told. Her shirt was buttoned up to her neck, with sleeves likewise at wrists, though the latter with silver cufflinks rather than buttons per se. But still her double-boldness thrust out her shirt, shouting that they were, unlike the rest of Lucida, under no command from on high, other than that from heaven, to be the two minxes that made Lucida blush divinely at their magical misdemeanours.
The new orders included that maids must dress with their bottoms bared, so that they were readily accessible for chastisement when they had been naughty. This was to be interpreted as banning the wearing of: ‘any style of panty that covers the half-domes of the nethermost region’, as the instructions put it.
Reading that phraseology had brought on the prettiest giggles from the autumnal-gold-haired Lucida; giggles which had only ceased when she realised how naughtily her lovely laughter was making her breasts behave: so that her golden laughter ended with the loveliest blush.
Lucida had always worn her rubber thongs till now, when she had thought of another solution to obedience of the instruction: a solution she dearly hoped was not in breach of any other among the rules.
Lucida was always obedient of the rules. She had no wish to endure the embarrassment of being spanked; especially now Amalia – her mistress - required that the spanking be performed by another maid.
Amalia might choose to look on so as to ensure the smacking of a bared bottom was of the requisite quality as well as the decreed quantity; but had, these days, further delegated the spanking she in turn had been delegated by her absent wife, Susanrale Smythen-Featherstonehaugh.
In Lucida’s view, the black latex dress caressed her lower curves to a state of distinctively outlining conspicuousness, which was far too revealing. But it was not for Lucida to decide on such matters.
Nor did any of the maids have any say in the hemlines of their skirts, which, in the most literal sense to cut it short, were not within their control. The close-cling of Lucida’s black-rubber skirt was decreed a necessity from the very fact that its brevity would otherwise not cover her bottom when she went about being bent about any business.
Around her supremely slender waist, were the strings of Lucida’s pristinely white rubber apron: her apron a tiny frill-edged symbol of her subservience. A perfectly-neatly tied bow in the small of her back held it at the front of her skirt.
The choker around Lucida’s swan-slim neck now bore her position in the household. On the white of its tight rubber, it read in red that she was a ‘Maid of All Works’. The other maids were wearing the same guidance to inform their superiors. They were labelled ‘Maid Below Stairs’, ‘Maid of the Sleeping Chambers’, ‘Maid for Waiting – Bathing’, ‘Maid for Waiting – Dining’ and the like: all forty maids in Amalia’s household now being so distinguished one from the other.
Even though her flame-red hair made Lucida outstanding even among the astoundingly pretty girls that Amalia had in her entourage, the maid’s tiara-hat that crowned her golden glory, still bore a name, so that, as with the choker, she could be fully identified.
Although it had never been her name, Lucida’s tiara bore the surname ‘Jones’. For Lucida was the twentieth successive incumbent in the lowly position of maid of all works. And the first had been a French-Welsh girl, another redhead as it happened, named Francois Jones. And so every successor of Francois Jones had therefore been called ‘Jones’ so as to make it easier for their mistress, who had no desire to, or intention of, ever bothering to learn a new girl’s real name.
To be allowed to wear real nylon stockings instead of the previous latex ones, had been an unexpected honour. And their rolling on over her curvaceous legs had reminded Lucida of her days of freedom: the days before in history she had forgotten to put on her panties, and lost her teen-girls’ school schoolteacher’s employment instantly in consequence. But she had not worn stockings with seams before, and had had to check in a full-length mirror, which was long enough, if only just it seemed, to take in the full length of her legs, to ensure the seams were straight.
And she had teased and pleased herself by flexing her shapely calves by putting her foot on tiptoe on the wooden stool she had used, when she had fixed the clasp of her suspenders, her sin-black rubber suspenders clearly visible in outline through the cling of her skirt, to her bible-black seamed nylon stockings. Then she stood and when she stood, her stockings’ tops were high up her thighs, but not so near her skirt’s hem that they did not leave her suspenders’ clasps exposed at her thighs’ sides, and an erotic intensity of ghost-white-redhead’s thigh-flesh, bare between hem and her stocking tops’ respective respectful loving embraces.
Lucida looked at the shoes. They were in black rubber with a gold metal toecap.
Whether the metal of the toecaps was merely gold in colour or genuinely of that precious material, she endeavoured to assay by weighing one shoe held by its ankle strap in one of her long fingers. From weight alone, it seemed they were indeed gold, till she realised it was their solidity that had drawn her to the wrong conclusion.
On the outside, these gold-coloured toe tips were curved into semi-circles. Lucida used the stool she had deployed and employed to don her stockings, to explore with her toes inside the right shoe, and found that her big toe was guided to slide into a hole offset minimally from the centre of the heavy toecap, and obviously drilled into it for that purposeful containment. Meanwhile, her other toes were curled up within a hollow groove that was clearly meant to keep them thus out of the way.
She had wondered why her stockings seemed to be ‘gloved’ for her feet: why each stocking ended with a separate ‘finger’ for her big toes, a ‘glove finger’ that made her stockings’ toes the equal of mittens for her feet; given her big toes answered for thumbs in such a description.
Lucida’s curiosity grew, and, having pushed her big toe into the rounded hole within the shoe in the metal toe, she found herself working on the laces of the shoe, more a bootie in description: a black rubber bootie with leather laces through innumerable eyelets, over the tongue she had established was not tucked up, when she checked its part to ensure that it worshipfully licked her upper foot when she closed the shoe over it and began to trace place and tie the laces.
And so to the left bootie, and an equally perfect fit, found that stocking-clung big toe too seeking the seeming endless depth of the hole-recess designed for it in the inside of the toecap. And the tongue of that bootie now worshipped the upper of her left foot. And finally, she struggled with the seemingly endless laces of that bootie, finishing the tightening of those with a bow at her left ankle to match the bow adorning her right.
Lucida’s curiosity increased the more when she realised the only way it was possible for her to stand in these shoes.
And now Lucida, as she stood in her ballet-booties on her big toes alone, on the very, very topmost top tips of her big toes in her heelless ballet booties, winced at the pain from her other toes, the toes curved back like a foot fist.
And when she had got used to the pain in her other toes, Lucida turned to the mirror with a glance over her shoulder to check how she looked, and that the seams of her stockings were still as regimentally erect as would have been any connoisseur penis at the superb sight she presented, her legs not least among her accomplishments.
But, until her pretty hand and long fingers took that radiant curtain aside, flames of her bottom-of-her-back-length hair hid her startlingly-sparkling green eyes from seeing that she was devastation incarnate.
And Lucida’s lovely mouth fell open when she saw herself teetering on the curved metal toes, top-tip-tip-topped on her big toes alone, in her heelless ballets. Her ballet booties were shaping her calves and tensioning her thighs and giving her deep dimples in each of her tautly tensioned buttock’s sides.
And so she stood a study for ‘thighchology’: the science of the intense beauty in the passion-provoking proportionate immensity of the female thigh.
And Lucida’s mouth went moist at such a delicious sight. And, between her thighs, her slit instantly moistened. And Lucida’s blush was as instantaneous and as openly betraying of her arousal in that secreted secreting location; the pre-post-pubescently-shaven-and-immaculately smoothed musk-scented-centre of her instant intimate damp receptiveness.
Between her handsome thighs, her slit was simply telling Lucida that she was stunning and to: ‘look on such beauty, ye mighty, and despair’.
.......................
The wolf-whistle took Lucida by total surprise. She blushed again, her soft cream-white complexion made instant pink-petalled rosé.
She turned and realised there was a familiar shadow in the doorway of her bedroom. And she dutifully curtsied, her slight stagger illustrating the dangerousness of her tiptoe shoes, but overcoming that to show the dangerousness too, of her dipping her knees in subservience, and thus flashing the gentle but strong muscles of her thighs and calves.
“You look wonderful Lucida; or should that be ‘Jones’”? - Faranatina Mandrake-Warner’s horny croaky whisper assured her.
“Thank you my lady”, Lucida responded, blushing even more, and even more as, between her legs, it wetted at being whetted once more. And when her wicked clitty within it demonstrated its single-mindedness as it appraised praised prized prayed before and preyed upon the alluring attractiveness of Faranatina with a quiver akin Cupid’s shot arrow’s delivery in a target, Lucida blushed deeper still.
Lucida had once been Faranatina’s bed-mate. But that had been back in school when Faranatina had chosen the two-years younger Lucida to be her slag. School tradition obliged younger girls to be the ‘slags’ i.e. the servants, of the more mature girls. That the younger girls would end up being bedded in consequence was not in the statutes. And Faranatina was recalling that under the statutory issue dormitory duvet, Lucida had been anything but a statue.
“I’m bored Lucida. Bored, bored, bloody bored!” the dark-brown-eyed dark-brown-haired healthily tanned obviously fit and very shapely Faranatina moaned.
“I’m sorry to hear that my lady”, Lucida whispered as she bobbed another suspenders-testing thigh-flexing curtsey.
Faranatina now wandered slowly into Lucida’s room. She was barefoot as if she could not even be bothered to complete dressing.
At least Lucida would have concluded as much, were it not that she had earlier glimpsed Faranatina stark naked on one of Chater House’s rear verandas, topping up the tan she had acquired in the same manner in Italy a week or so since.
The dark-blue satin dress she had thrown on, was the first thing Faranatina had found to readily slip over her voluminously voluptuous figure, after re-entering the house and looking to find if fellow-brown-eyed devastatingly attractive brunette, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, had returned from an interview with Clits and Co, the exclusive London bankers.
Faranatina glided over to Lucida’s bed and perched herself on one corner, folding her bare legs under her so she knelt there, and thus causing Lucida to shy away her lovely green eyes from the sight of Faranatina’s strong tanned thighs.
“Oh to hell with it! It’s a glorious morning! Why don’t I take you for a spin in my auto?!” Faranatina queried, in a tone that conveyed a decision already made rather than one in need of the affirmative agreement Lucida was in no position to grant or deny, let alone defy.
“But, my lady, Mistress Amalia must give permission for me to go outside Chater House’s grounds. And I must be dressed to take due account of the girl-laws when it comes to such things as my....my er..... my.... bosoms....” Lucida objected shyly.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense! You’ve got a beautiful pair of tits! They should be free to play. Anyway, as long as we make it clear that you are a servant under my charge....” Faranatina inconclusively concluded.
And so, thirty minutes later, a lovely brunette led a stunning redhead out of the door of Chater House, and into London’s Mayfair streets. The redhead was Lucida dressed as an indoor servant, sans her labelling choker, naming headband, and maid’s apron now, and on a dog’s collar and leash to show that she was an inferior, and so as to save having to have her wildly wilful breasts under strict control as per legal stricture, if against nature’s scripture.
...........................
Lucida wiggled erect-penis-tall on her long legs on top-tip-to-tiptoe-big-toes in her golden-steel cold-steel toecapped black rubber ballet booties, her thus long-stretched calf muscles flexing as she swung one divinely shapely devilishly-darkly stockinged leg before the other, causing her hips to swing as her firm buttocks did their undulation-thing in the intimately close-cling of her minuscule rubber skirt.
As it flashed off the bare flesh of her thighs above her stockings’ tops and below the hem of a skirt that clung so closely she was almost more naked dressed than if she were truly nude, the pure dream cream whiteness of her redhead’s complexion dazzled even the sun.
When she wiggled, the tits on the redhead, dived and rose to show they too were alive and free, and her glorious hair fluttered in the same breeze that spoke of its coolness, as, between her thighs, its breath whispered undying love to her immaculate lips.
A corner turned by Lucida’s wiggling curves, and they came to Faranatina’s long black open-topped limousine. And a pretty hand rose to raspberry-red strawberry-sweet lips on a giggling freckle-deckled ghost-white face with glowing green eyes filled with lovely laughter, as Lucida whispered....
“Oh, my lady!” as she stared at that now most rare of rare possessions: an automobile that had escaped the mass-scrapping that had followed the last of oil’s long-since lack of lapping. Fuel was available at a queen’s ransom: such a handsome price small change to one as wealthy as Faranatina.
Faranatina led Lucida on Lucida’s leash to the passenger side, and opened the door for the servant girl.
“Oh no my lady! You mustn’t open doors for me my lady!” Lucida protested sweetly.
But as she unclipped the leash from the dog’s collar around Lucida’s neck, where Lucida had hitherto worn her servant’s title-choker, Faranatina merely smiled. Faranatina was not being subservient to Lucida. She just wanted to watch Lucida’s legs when Lucida sat down in the car’s inside.
And as, by the bending at Lucida’s knees, stockings were stretched to bare more creamy thigh above them, and the hem of her rubber skirt fought and lost its battle not to slide over the base of Lucida’s bold bottom, and Lucida sat with her ballet-shoe-shod feet with her toes straight down and calves consequently compellingly conspicuously curved, Faranatina was in no way disappointed at the erotic display.
In the back of her mind, Lucida was by now wondering if she was going to be shagged. If Faranatina wanted to toy with her tits, or if she decided to put her hand up her skirt and feel it, or even finger it, Lucida had, of course, no say in the matter.
And she blushed when the thought of having Faranatina play with her nipples, made it moisten-up between her thighs. And since her hem had risen so high as to bare it, and it was thus kissing the leather seat as she sat, she blushed again at the certainty, that she would be anointing the seat with her love-juice if she didn’t stop her natural girlness making it feel so excitingly naughty.
Lucida knew her place. She would do nothing to bring about any intimacy with the gorgeous Faranatina. But then, with her physical and facial attributes, Lucida had no need to worry. She was too provocative for trying not to turn Faranatina on, not also to be a way in which she would turn Faranatina on. And Lucida tried not to blush as she wondered if her bottom would, as she hoped it would, be given a preliminary spanking.
Closing the passenger door, Faranatina wiggled around the front of the vehicle and slid in behind the steering wheel, her eyes being compelled to ogle Lucida’s thighs, and take in the distance Lucida’s skirt was up above her stocking tops as she sat, and to be subliminally aware, that, if Lucida wore no panties, as Faranatina suspected was the case, it would be being very intimate with the leather of Lucida’s vehicle’s front seat.
.......................
As the coveted convertible sped along the main Mayfair thoroughfare, squeals of delight uttered from the pert pouting pink lips of the lovely Lucida. Being only twenty-two, Lucida was too young to recall ever seeing a motor car other than in photographs, movies, or rusting in a scrap yard, and she had certainly never ever ridden in one before.
Now the breeze of brisk progress brought tears from the stinging fresh air for her pretty eyes. And her bare titties were very alert under her white-rubber shirt, and were vibrating with the motor’s forceful throbbing: dancing a duet down to her nipples’ tips, to the orchestrated jazz of twelve thrusting cylinders. And she was all too aware, that, in a lower location, another sensitive part of her was all too aware of the vibration the powerful motor was impressing upon it, as it pressed on the seat between her gorgeous thighs.
When lovely Faranatina turned her way and shouted “What do you think of motoring then Lucida?!”
Lucida could honestly respond: “It is wonderful my lady”, only for her to blush at the answering look in Faranatina’s dark-brown eyes, which seemed to say: ‘Yes indeed you are!’
...........................
The two Girl-Control copettes, in their pink two-piece jacket and miniskirt uniforms with uniform black stockings, at the crossroads five miles out on the journey, were astonished to see an automobile on the road, and seemed to see it as their bounden duty to hold a forbidding hand aloft, in order to order Faranatina to stop.
“Good morning ladies”, the corporal of copettes remarked as she drew near, till she spotted Lucida and corrected her polite greeting to “Good morning lady”, thus addressing Faranatina alone, and ignoring the inconsequential Lucida, whom she could now see was obviously only a servant.
“Lady, it must take a whole lot more than a standard ponygirl-and-cart licence to drive this incredible machine!” the corporal copette joked.
“It does indeed”, Faranatina responded, politely but with an intonation of impatience....“Now, if you would be so good as to let us go on our way officer......”
“Not so fast lady. Not so fast. We’re on the lookout after a bank rob down town last night...well, early this morning? It was a two girl team? I’m afraid we’re gonna have to ask you to step out this splendid contraption, and open anywhere where anything might be hid, and then I’m afraid we gotta search you both, to check you ain’t hidden no diamonds on you....It’s just routine....”
“Oh for god’s sake officer! Would your two robbers be in a mode of transport like this?! Jeese, where do they get your types from?! Are you so stupid as to think your robbers would be so foolish as to make themselves so blatantly obvious?!!”
The corporal copette blushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger, but knew from experience that the best revenge for this rudeness was to stay cool. Besides, if she answered back a civilian of the ‘valued class’, such as this beautiful brunette appeared to be if she could afford to buy let alone run this auto, her job was on the line.
“Would you step out of the vehicle please ma’am and you too”, she added with a nod to indicate that she meant Lucida as well.
As she rose on her tiptoes in her ballet shoes after exiting the car and her pretty hands successfully fought to lower her miscreant micro-miniskirt’s hem, the corporal’s attractive assistant ogled the full length of Lucida’s dark-stockinged creamy-white legs, and let out an inadvertent low whistle conveying the word ‘wow!!’
For her part, Faranatina stayed in the vehicle, whilst holding outstretched her slim arm and sarcastically waving her identity card.
The corporal took the card, and opened its single fold, read it, closed it, and blushed deep scarlet as she handed it back, before snapping to attention and saluting briskly as she stared straight at the horizon.
“I do beg your pardon Lady Halmoures”, she whispered as she addressed Faranatina by her formal title: a title she recognised as that of the oldest daughter and heir of her ultimate boss, Lady Dunholme, the Minister for Home Affairs in England’s government.
As the corporal walked around the front of the car, to assist her assistant in insisting that Lucida at least stand with her pretty hands on the vehicles rear-folded folding roof, Faranatina got out of the driver’s seat.
“We’ve still got to search this one though”, the corporal confirmed, seeing doing so as some revenge for Faranatina having got away frisk free as it were.
“Why isn’t this’n wearing a bra ma’am?” the corporal enquired of Faranatina, “It’s against the law for a serving girl as well endowed as she clearly is to go out in public with her breasts free to excite and entice other girls ma’am.”
“I’m perfectly au fait with the girl-laws officer”, Faranatina responded forcefully, “She is a servant and I have her on a leash as required. So there is no breach of the law, officer. Now: if you would be so kind as to let us go about our peaceful and lawful progress....”, Faranatina sarcasmed.
“I can see a collar, but I can’t see no leash ma’am”, the corporal responded in a monotone, that conveyed the sarcasm it hid sufficiently to avoid giving Faranatina a chance to charge the officer with insolence.
“It’s in the car you stupid woman!” Faranatina snapped.
“So it’s not on the girl, and she’s therefore not under full right proper and lawful control is she ma’am?” the copette countered.
“No bra is already one additional...well....two additional breaches of the girl-laws ma’am. Now then, does she got it covered I wonder..... Or do we got yet another breach, and a worse one at that?” the corporal enquired coolly, realising she had spotted a way to get her own back on the titled lady who was being so rude to her.
“How on earth would I know if the little tart is wearing panties?!” Faranatina almost shouted.
“Well, there’s one way to find out”, the corporal concluded. And, in that instant, Lucida felt an insistent enquiring hand pushed between to part her superb thighs.
The fingers fumbled to find it, and she closed her eyes at the very thought of having it felt right here and now while she stood on the sidewalk of a busy main outer-city highway.
Lucida lowered and lidded her sparkling green love lanterns, but could not cool the flush that suffused her soft complexion. It had gone moist. She was wanton girl because she had been for so very long wanting girl. It had mistressy over her majesty. It reigned and it could not be reined. She wanted to cross her legs so as to make access to it the more challenging. Perhaps if she did that, the copette would slap her around to make her yield it up.
So was it perhaps to give a roughing-up in rough justice a ‘yes’, that Lucida moved to rub her thighs together?
But then she noticed the look in Faranatina’s eyes: a look that said that Faranatina thought ....because she had seen Lucida’s blush and knew why her lovely face was thus....that Lucida was already being too much the whore, and Lucida felt shamed before her mistress’ friend.
Lucida relaxed her attempt to close her powerful legs, and fought her anticipation.
She also fought to prevent letting go un petit pét to vocalise in the locale of her excitement. But then the thought that Faranatina would enjoy watching her being felt and fingered by a complete stranger, turned moisture to drizzle and the two copettes and Faranatina, all ignored Lucida’s demeaning little fart.
At least Lucida assumed they had, till the weary worldly-wise copette looked Faranatina straight in the eyes and enquiring insultingly of Lucida: “You trying to tell us something darlin’?”
Lucida’s blush deepened as she died of shame until her flushed face gave the beetroot a challenge to its colourful claim to fame. Now, instead of it being secretly exciting to have it felt by a stranger, all knew the secret Lucida had been seeking to keep. And, what her little fart had announced to the world was her state of mind. Her petit pét had demeaningly demonstrated that she had been turned whole whore by the thought of having it explored.
But still Lucida sighed when the corporal’s fingers were caressing its sensitive totally nude and shaved –to-innocence lips. If Lucida had been asked she would have confessed to the state of undress it was in. But to her girly subconscious, to have the state of pure nature it was in, explored and discovered in this demeaning manner was so so exciting! And her blushes betrayed what they portrayed, which was that she was fighting not to let it wet itself up even more.
But when the corporal suddenly pushed her middle finger up into it, and began to finger-fuck it, Lucida’s succulent mouth stifled a scream of astonishment.
In an instant’s instant it was immensely wet, and it was no longer a scream she sought and fought to stifle, but a moan of longing and pleasure.
And when the finger was pulled out of it, as brusquely as it had been pushed up it, Lucida could not help the squeak of disappointment and frustration she emitted from her pertly pouting mouth.
And yet the brevity of the depravity and the deprivation of its non-prolongation kept it lubriciously deliciously lubricated. And in consequence she felt the cusp of a cum.
Momentarily, this sufficed to satisfy her intense femininity. But frustration so quickly took its place, when the cum did not come but faded from the memory of her most intimate place, that her pretty face displayed her displaced disgrace, because, even as she tried to look as if the fingering had been something she totally despised, tiny tears of keening cornered her pretty eyes.
These tears Lucida tried to prolong so they would look like she was ashamed at and hurt by being ravished and intimately fingered, and her moans and squeaks had been of subsequent consequent pain. But that did not work, so she lowered her head and hoped her sweet mouth and gorgeous eyes would not show her confused state of elation deprivation and frustration.
“Is this horny little bitch yours ma’am!” the corporal asked Faranatina with a tone suggesting confidence increasingly restored.
“Well no, she belongs to a close friend....” Faranatina began to explain, before realising, too late, the approach the corporal was taking.
“Just as I thought possible ma’am. Intimacy between the valued class and the serving classes is of course, an offence against the girl-laws. A serving girl in public without her breasts under strict control and, more especially, without it at least covered by panties, is a misdemeanour. But, me and my constable here, are also convinced that you were taking this serving girl, a serving girl you do not own, somewhere where you could, not to put too fine a point on it ma’am, shag it ma’am. And I don’t blame you at all for that neither ma’am...”, the corporal smirked.
“Your insolence has been duly and fully noted corporal; as has the fact that your police number is ‘6969’. Your superiors will be hearing from my solicitors”, Faranatina furied.
“Ma’am!” the corporal responded briskly and smartly, and clicked her heels as she saluted Faranatina.
At that Faranatina got back into her automobile, started it, and drove away, leaving Lucida in the hands of the two shapely Girl-Control officers.
...............................
“You’re under arrest darlin’. Being naked of the chest and without nether cover in public is one count...well...two counts.....well even three counts, if I thinks about it. But you is mainly being taken in for being ‘a female of the underclass attempting, either successfully or unsuccessfully, to seduce a female of the valued classes into an act or acts of an indecent nature’. That’s a premium charge under the girl-laws that is darlin’.....”.
The corporal then turned toward and grinned and winked at the constable. Then she nodded at Lucida: “Take a note constable, that it’s true what they say about redheads. Redheads are hot, and I mean hot!! It was on fire in there! It nearly burnt my effing finger off!!”
“Get her in the girlackles. And use them to cuff her wrists at the front of her. It’s a long walk to the station house, and I reckon we’ve earned the right to have her walk in front so we can enjoy the legs on her, and watch that wonderfully wicked bum she’s got.”
...............................
Whoever had decreed that Lucida’s golden glistering hair be cropped to a one-inch stubble of wonderful wavering waving old-gold, should have been told that it deprived her crowning glory of not one scintilla of its searing seductiveness.
Lucida appeared in the dock: the stand in the court for the accused. She was not in court: not in the dock in the court proper: she merely appeared in the dock, projected onto a whole-wall size screen from the cell she occupied in a neighbouring room.
After her walk, her seductive silken gliding wiggle, to the precinct station house, Lucida had been subjected to all the ritual preliminaries. Her name and servants’ registration number had been tapped into one of the station’s rather aging laptops by the pretty copette constable who had been in the arrest team duo.
For a girl of eighteen or so, raised, since she had been born right into it, only in the modern age, this sweet-faced curly-haired blonde was pretty backward with something as old-fashioned as a laptop.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was that it was too old for her. She was, after all, having to type out the entry with her fingers, instead of employing the voice-recognition procedures she had used at school.
Lucida admired the younger girl’s complexion, which was almost as soft as her own. The younger girl could take a tan though. As a pure redhead, Lucida was always as perfectly pale as ghostly white, but for the pink health of her cheeks as aided, of course, by her frequent shy blushes.
“Would yer undo yer blouse please luv?” the blonde copette instructed sweetly, before adding: “Sorry luv: like it’s just routine and dat?”
Dexterity with long slim fingers despite impractically long perfectly girlicured fingernails, Lucida’s dainty hands, swiftly undid the belly to neck buttons that secreted her bountiful breasts.
Lucida’s lobster-pink nipples caught the younger girl’s light-blue eyes, and found her shy to look upon them. And she blushed. Lucida struggled to pull the tail of her rubber shirt out of the waistband of her rubber micro-mini-skirt, and the young copette watched, whilst trying not to watch, Lucida’s breasts dance decidedly distracting.
This done: “Face der camera luv?” the copette constable instructed.
Lucida was correctness itself in her behaviour. She had no wish to cause trouble. She knew she was in enough already, without adding to her problems.
The flash caught a seriously lovely face with green eyes glowing with health but sad with fear; a face speckled with spectacular full summer freckles.
“Would yer... I means like dis...” Lucida watched the pretty copette as the copette made her hands make two gestures of supplication under the region of her own chest... “So-as to stop ‘em moving like....”, the copette added, with a further blush.
Obedience her best convenience, Lucida cupped her breasts, one per considerably overspilled overfilled gentle hand, and held them a little aloft and as steady as their wild wilfulness would ever let them allow themselves to be.
The copette remembered to adjust the focus of the camera for a super-close-up. And, with a pause for its flash to recharge between shots, she quickly photographed each of Lucida’s nipples, very close to.
Now the camera was plugged into a port on the laptop and the photos downloaded.
Two seconds later, a ‘beep’ sounding took the curly haired cute blonde’s attention to a message on the laptop’s screen.
“Well, I’m glad to see yer telling us der troof luv. Yer’d be surprised ‘ow many ud try it on wiv dare lies. Day ought ter know dat dare nipple-prints was taken when day was reduced to der serving class, and dat dare nip photos, like dose what I’ve just taken of yourn, would find dem out in an instant. So yer really is Lucida Grant-Oral. Yer taught my kid sister for half-an-hour. She told me about it....it were dat day yer forgot yer panties....?”
The copette stopped. She could see that the terrified Lucida had tears starting in her lovely eyes.
“Sorry sweetheart. I didn’t mean ter be cruel nor nuffink.....”
“Yer trial is underway tomorrer”, she added.
“We gotta get yer in dare for der sentence. Afraid we gotta trim dat gorgeous ‘air of yourn. We gotta get yer lookin’ like a guilty prisoner, since dat is what der court will find yer, eh....” she concluded in a tone as meant to be cheering as the words she used were searing.
...............................
Lucida had then had her glorious red hair cropped to golden stubble before being put in one of the station’s portable cells.
A survey of girls in prison and police holding cells, such as that Lucida would have been confined to in days now passed into the past: a survey of the ‘footage’ taken by the cameras in their cells, had shown that all too many sought to relieve the boredom and fear of their long days in prison by masturbating.
The authorities’ response had been a rigorous regime of exercise and cold showers, but that had not worked. Accordingly, they welcomed the introduction of the anti-masturbation cage.
Lucida sat in an anti-masturbation cage. She was in her white-rubber shirt. The ‘hem’ of that shirt now hung out. Her black-rubber skirt was ridden up.
Lucida had had her hair cropped and then been imprisoned in a standard anti-masturbation cage. Square shaped, iron bars on all six sides, with a steel plate slid in to form the unyielding cold hard floor on which she sat with her thunderously-strong thighs up against her chest. Lucida’s pretty hands were outside the bars and her slender wrists chained and padlocked to the cage’s bars so that she could not use her hands to play with it.
Lucida’s blouse was not buttoned up to the entirety of its collar around her neck, and the size of the anti-masturbation cage was such that her head must bow and her lovely eyes forcibly assess the visible rise and fall of her beautiful snow-white breasts as she breathed: breasts mountainous each side the distinctly distantly deep valley of her cleavage.
Her cell had been lifted in the midmorning of the next day. It had been hosed out first. She had pissed, but her sauternes had been wickedly ignored and hosed out of the cage in sacrilege and wanton waste.
Trapped in her anti-masturbation cage Lucida had been carried into the camera room next door to the court in which she was being tried in semi-absentia.
Her anti-masturbation cage rotated on the dock on the screen in the courtroom, and the judge and court and the women and girls present to watch justice take its proper course, could see that Lucida sat with her legs folded up to her chest and her tiptoed feet in her ballet shoes pointing firmly to the ground. So her thighs were made massive, and her calves were acutely cutely curved.
And since Lucida’s charges included the confirmation she was sans panties in a public place. And since Lucida was still in the servant’s clothing she had worn at arrest. And since, in order to avoid cramps, Lucida was innocently waving her tucked-up folded legs slowly side to side in the micro-minimum of movement her anti-masturbation cage allowed her, even the judge found herself looking between Lucida’s handsome thighs to try and catch a glimpse of it.
“.....extraordinary behaviour....wanton seduction preamble to rape of her superior....should be ashamed of using such an admittedly alarmingly attractive face....goddess-made body..... wonderfully full firm breasts......stunningly lovely hair....such shapely legs.....above all, those very ample thighs.....seduction....no punishment too little....too much displaying of legs in the modern world.....too much exposure of thigh.....lesson for all young women in the undeserving serving classes setting out to deliberately seduce those above their station in life by disporting themselves in a state of semi-undress so as to expose their youthful bodies and not least their thighs.... guilty statutory rape of an innocent of the valued class.... rendition.... punishment filmed for the purposes of sale to offset the cost of the proceedings. Take her down.....”
Lucida heard none of this, and merely found her anti-masturbation cage being lifted and removed from the camera room, so that the next caged girl could be found guilty as charged in her turn
Lucida’s mistress, Amalia Smythen-Featherstonehaugh, had been her judge. Amalia of course knew that the truth was that Lucida’s drive out with her close friend, Amalia’s close friend that is..... the drive in Faranatina Mandrake-Warner’s auto, had been entirely innocent.
But Amalia’s job was to uphold the girl-laws, and to be merely arrested under those was a plea of ‘guilty’ - the trial only being to enable the prisoner to be subjected to filming in her cage, and the proceedings in the court, as would her punishment be filmed also, so that the expense of imposing the law could be defrayed though sale of the rights in the movie to the highest bidder on O-bey.
..........................
After her trial in semi-absentia, Lucida was free, briefly. She had not been informed of the outcome of her trial, or the sentence. She had no right to know, and nobody thought to bother to tell her. After all, she was only a serving girl. When she dared to ask, she was dismissed with:
“I have no idea. And, even if I knew, I can see no good reason why I should inform you!” this from the copette sergeant who was removing the padlocks and chains that held Lucida’s slender wrists to the side-bars of her anti-masturbation cage.
But at least Lucida could deduce from that dismissive response that a trial, her trial, had taken place, and was over: or, rather, it seemed reasonable to draw those two inferences.
Let out of her anti-masturbation cage, the chance to shower had been like a visitation of heaven to earth. Even more so, had been the opportunity for Lucida to urinate and defecate without soiling herself and her cage.
Lucida had been fighting against defecating in her cage for seeming hours. And now she was released from that cramped confinement, she almost lost out on holding back. She dashed to sit her shapely bottom on the seat over a lavatory bowl, getting there only within a split second before achievement of an embarrassment that had not been visited upon her since her childhood.
Afterwards, while she showered, to ensure that her snow-white body did not tempt her to any naughtiness, a close eye was kept on her by two bored-looking occasionally yawning Girl-Control copettes.
When washing between her thighs, Lucida’s dainty fingers were only allowed to touch it so as to be able to wash it. In so doing she realised that she had sweet golden stubble: a five o’ clock shadow at six o’ clock on her timeless egg-timer-figure.
Lucida was naked for prison breakfast. That is not saying that she was being served up as the meal. She was, of course, more delicious than anything on the menu. But her state of undress was total after her shower, as she sat on the prickly splinters of a wooden bench, and eagerly spooned salted-water-based porridge into her pretty mouth. Downing drinking-water eagerly between porridge spoonfuls, such was her thirst after over twenty-four hours chained in her anti-masturbation cage.
She had not realised that she was or could be so hungry, as she voraciously consumed two windfall apples and a pear from a bowl in the middle of the table she sat before, before spotting the notice restricting prisoners to ‘one item of fruit only’.
At home, working for Amalia, that could have earned her a hand-spanking. Here in prison, she prayed it would not be noticed, for fear that if it was, she would be whipped.
Insofar as prison provided for luxury, Lucida’s post-breakfast procedures were para-pampering. Apart from cleansing her teeth, she was thoroughly waxed so that it was returned to its pristine pre-post-pubescence.
.........................
Compared with the tiny thongs she had always worn before; when she wore panties at all, the black-rubber knickers Lucida was instructed to don immediately after her shower breakfast and pampering, were positively industrial in size and strength.
They were like the knickers she had worn at school for her physical training lessons. Back then, the exercises to shape the legs, keep the breasts firm, keep the tummy flat, and aerobics and running, but nothing that would risk her girl’s hymen: these had all been performed in the horrible green rubber knickers the girls had had to swap for their panties and thongs before such lessons.
The ‘pogols’ for her feet were the clue. Anabian wives came to Lucida’s sharp mind. Lucida had seen them in pictures, and she began to realise what they wore under their submissive outside appearance: for she realised - a dawning step-by-step - that she was being put into their mourning-style raiment.
The ‘pogols’ for her feet were the clue. She had latterly worn ballets to shape her legs. Lucida had always wondered what Anabian wives wore. She had discovered pogols on a website all about British Senabre in Africa, and thought them decidedly sexy. That had been not long before they had briefly caught on as fashion must-haves here in England and over in the states.
The pogol for her right foot was readied first. It was a flat-soled rubber-soled sandal. The natives had originally carved the soles from wood, but were rumoured now to make them from the discarded worn rubber tyres off ponygirl carts.
The Anabians were a make-do-and-mend people, who hated waste. The recycling of the rubber tyres was typical of their women’s sharp eye for an improvement at no measureable cost.
Hand-crafted pogols had been imported to Europe and America, from British Senabre, where the Anabian Tribe mainly lived, when the fashion rage was on. But the Anabians were a simple tribe, and had no interest in upping production much beyond what would satisfy their own demands. And that was partly why the rage for them died out as quickly as it had arisen.
Lucida tried not to show the erotic impact the binding of her right foot in its pogol was having on it: that is, on the essence of girl between her thighs.
Her big toe was inserted in a long round pogol, a cup-like container, circular in shape, hollowed to contain the big toe, and longer still than the big toe itself by the length of the big toe.
A comparison with a pogol, would be with the ferrule of a walking stick, or a large finger thimble. The big toe was inserted in the pogol ‘ferrule’, which was, like a walking stick ferrule, flat at the tip and slightly broader than its contents. The pogol for the big toe was what gave this form of sandal its name.
Now, Lucida watched fascinated, as a series of laces, slim leather, coming up from the lower end of the pogol’s hard-rubber sole: the lower end of the sole to which the pogol’s cup / ‘ferrule’ was also attached, were arranged between each of her toes, taken through a conjoining rubber ring, spread once more, and buckled in an array to a tight leather strap around her slender ankle. At her sandals’ rear, a broad single leather strap led from her ankle strap, over her heel to the end of the pogol’s sole covering her heels.
Prior to them going into the gathering ring and thereafter fanning-out once more to be buckled individually to the strap around her ankle, a tongue was effectively formed by these between-toe-straps. And two horizontal leather straps were now buckled across this ‘tongue’ array of between-toes straps: one cross-strap just above her toes, and one just below the gathering ring. A third cross-strap just above the gathering-ring completed the strapping of the pogol sandal to her foot. These cross-straps not only tied the sole of the pogol to her foot, but made its sole bend inward to take on the shape of her instep.
When both pogol sandals had been strapped on, Lucida stood on tiptoes on her big toes alone: on her big toes in the pogol-cups: the pogol “ferrules”. These held her feet up so that her other wide-spread toes wiggled helplessly above the floor. Lucida was thus even more perhaps, but at least as much en-pointe top-tiptoe as in her ballets, and the effect on shaping her legs and dimpling her derriere was just as divine.
The black-rubber arm-length gloves came next; then the black-rubber underskirt.
The former were rolled up like stockings in preparation, before, after her fingers and thumbs were in them, being unrolled up her slender arms till they ended under her armpits.
The latter, the black-rubber underskirt, clung as tightly as the micro-miniskirt Lucida had worn in the freedom of London on the day before her trial. But this underskirt was no miniskirt. Its waistband was just above her hips: just above where her black-rubber knickers clung to the outline of her buttocks, and bulged between her thighs, outlining the lips of it, where it nestled there.
The underskirt followed her knickers in the closeness of its intimate cling, and enveloped her strong thighs, covered over her knees, her curvaceous calves, and right down to her very ankles, tapering as it went and getting tighter and tighter still by degrees, till it effectively bound her ankles with their inner ankle bones – the outthrust of her navicular bones - almost touching.
Lucida found it difficult to stand now without turning her heels in, and thus her tiptop-tiptoe-topped feet out: the latter at 45 degrees as she stood at strict soldierly attention in the clinging imprisoning tapering underskirt.
Now came the strangulation bra. Its message was that Lucida’s breasts would behave.
Each of Lucida’s lovely breasts was strapped tightly in five-inch-long thick black-rubber semi-circular formations that closing straps wrapped around so that the semi-circles that cupped became tubes that gripped.
The straps of these tubes were pulled tight until they were gripping each breast as if a life depended upon their grasp. The tit tubes, linked by a strap like a bra in her cleavage, also had straps that went around her back and were tightly buckled after being joined together there.
The tubes of the strangulation bra made Lucida’s breasts bulge out like balloons at the ends of the tubes, and her soft lobster-pink-sunrise nipples had become as puffed out and pointed as if they were permanently excited. So the individual nipple-bras came next.
It was to address the latter unfortunate by-product of the strangulation bra, that found each of Lucida’s now very pointed nipples, being cupped over with tiny rubber cups, from each of north, south, east and west of which, short straps led to the outer edge of the tubes of the strangulation bra, and could be strapped into answering buckles at the same compass locations on the tubes. Thus Lucida’s lewd-made nipples were discretely cupped and capped.
Now the black-rubber waspie-corset was passed around Lucida’s already very shapely waist, and no effort wasted in taking her natural twenty-two inches down to a breathtaking – breathtaken – twelve. Multiple tight straps were used to ensure this: strong leather straps pulling the hard rubber waspie to a brutally narrow acute curviness.
Next came the black-rubber gag. Lucida’s mouth was filled with a vile tasting round rubber penis-tongue that filled her lovely mouth, all the way back to her epiglottis and beyond.
The tongue had within it, an integral ball-bulge that ensured her mouth was fully filled by pressing hard down on her own tongue. So her mouth and teeth were around this gag, as if her lovely lips and tongue were performing a particularly enthusiastic fellatio, with the added spice of her teeth biting gently into this invader of her upper love-orifice.
Akin to a scarf being wrapped over the mouth on a bitterly cold day, the broad scarf-gag that had its integral penis deep in her mouth, was wrapped over her lips - it did not cover her nose - with, as it was strapped at the back of her neck, its penis-tongue almost causing Lucida to choke it was thrust so far to the back of her mouth. Its only mercy was a central pin-width hole in the penis gag through to her throat in recognition that this wholly holy creation – this girl – must somehow breath.
As the black-rubber hood was placed over her head, Lucida’s sparkling green eyes showed her fear.
The hood was initially turned inside-out, placed at the crown of this redhead’s gorgeous golden hair, and then turned so that its outside was no longer inside, and so that the whole of Lucida’s lovely freckled features were completely covered: made completely anonymous by its cruelty, as, by designed shape, it enveloped the whole of her head including covering her already gagged mouth before going under her chin.
Lucida’s struggles in panic were totally understandable. But she soon realised that, when she opened her pretty eyes, she could see through two individual eye-shaped slits provided for that purpose; and she could breathe through the three pinhole-holes provided for her nostrils and her gagged mouth.
The black-rubber hood came next: another black-rubber mask. It covered her head more completely than the already all-face close-cling mask that had been put on her over her scarf-gag.
The hood, covered Lucida’s head, and its rubber shoulders covered her soft complexioned lightly freckled own.
Now Lucida must breathe through a tiny single circular hole in the region of her nostrils and mouth. And though she could not bear witness to the fact herself, her green eyes softly shone through a narrow horizontal slit in the cowl: a slit sewn top-to-bottom in its centre where the bridge of her nose would be, so as to keep it shaped: to stop it falling wider in the middle than it was at its outer edges: so as to minimise the slot for her eyes.
Lucida’s slim arms, already encased in arm-pit long black-rubber gloves, were now introduced into the sleeves of the black-rubber outer dress she must wear.
These sleeves clung as closely as her gloves. The open back of the dress enabled it to be put around her neck next, with the hood’s lower extremities thus contained within it. And the dress, its thick strong black-rubber, now pressed down on Lucida’s normally naughty breasts strangled and with their nipples in individual bra-cups on her chest. The dress’ close cling ensured her tits would still emboldenly show that they were definitely defiantly there.
In a concession to modernity, the outer dress included a strong zip the length of its back. And thus, all the way from Lucida’s neck, where the cowl-mask was fixed under the dress’ circular collar, down the arch of her back, over her buttocks within her black-rubber knickers and the already close-clinging underskirt, to Lucida’s ankles, and to where the hem of the outer dress then flared out to cover the tiptop-tiptoed feet of the redhead angel and trailed on the ground so that the outer dress completely covered her feet. Over the long road the zip trailed over delectable dale and desirable hills: over arches and curves, the zipper was eased till Lucida was finally sealed concealed.
Over her gloved fingers the rings of her silver finger-cuffs were eased next. From each finger ring-cuff ran a chain to a bracelet padlocked around her wrist. These silver chains ran over the backs of her hands to keep the finger-cuff-rings at the top of her individual gloved fingers. More, slim but strong, silver chains, no more than half-an-inch long each, then linked her left and right hands together, finger by finger.
And her thumbs were not forgotten. They too wore silver rings chained to the bracelet on their respective wrists. But they did not have a chain between them. Instead the two rings around her thumbs melded. They were soldered solidly to form two rings as one, like a figure 8, with her thumbs thus kept in obedient close proximity and harmless harmony.
Two silver cuffs then embraced her arms above the crooks of her elbows, and her arms were linked by a chain behind her back, so that her gloved and finger and thumb-cuffed hands, were held as if praying in supplication, at the height of her wasped waist in front of her belly.
The final all-enveloping rubber cape: a cape covering her from head to toes: a cape of no shape, that left a sister-slit for her eyes to match the slit in the cowl, but paid no other due to Lucida being a girl or to her needing to breath: this huge heavy rubber cape was thrown over her, its eye slit arranged aligned, care taken the cape covered her entirely and that it draped the floor all around her: that all 360 of the degrees circling her beauty trailed cape that covered her.....
The latter and last cape was fixed on its inside to a circular rubber crown, and this was pressed on Lucida’s already scarf-gagged, masked, and then cowl-hooded head. The crown was carefully located over her forehead so that it ran around her head, holding the outer-cape from escape, and the eye-slit in the outer-cape in place.
.....And in this dreadful garb, Lucida was ready. Her sparkling eyes now saw the world through a three-ply-gauze strip covering inside the outer cape: a multiple gauze strip that was there to stop the world seeing even Lucida’s gorgeous green eyes.
And so the world could not see that the lovely redhead was crying.
This was the dress and under-jewellery: this, but for its being in rubber rather than traditional wool and leather; this as a whole was the garb and under-jewellery, of a wife-ette or fiancée of an Anabian tribeswoman. This much Lucida knew. And from that knowledge she concluded that the court must have decided that she be banished to an Anabian harem to spend the rest of her life either occasionally loved, or wholly neglected, by an Anabian warrior-girl chieftain.
“Hey darlin’! You’d better hope you don’t want the bathroom in a hurry don’t you?!” a mocking girl’s voice shouted so that Lucida could hear her, even in her Anabian robes.
................................
Lucida must now learn some of the secrets of her Anabian outfit. Her first problem was to learn how to walk, on her big toes alone, in her tiptoe-enforcing pogol sandals, and within the purposely tight cling of her underskirt as reinforced by her overdress.
“Come on you bitch: we haven’t got all day for fuck’s sake!”
Lucida began to paddle her pretty feet and work her strong legs against the counter-will of her underskirt and dress. Her tiptoed feet were the only part of her lower limbs she could move with any freedom at all. Her legs were so tightly bound together she could almost have progressed more readily by jumping forward than by trying to walk. She flexed her feet, and she managed a single step forward.
“Come on you fucking bitch! Get a fucking move on!!”
Like all girls, lovely Lucida was always in at least two minds, and the second of them on this occasion, as ever, was in the precise location where it nestled in her heavy-duty rubber knickers under her tight-clinging underskirt, her body-shape-outlining overdress, and her body-shape disguising and denying final black-rubber over-cape.
And the cruelty of her situation; and the voice of the new girl, the new copette in charge of her, ordering her to: “Come on you fucking slag! Get fucking moving!!” suddenly lubricated it, and Lucida wanted to obey despite the pain in her big toes as she merely stood, and she began to paddle her feet, tippy-toe by tippy-toe, to flick her feet, which were all she could really move, and thus to discover the only way in which an Anabian wife-ette could walk.
A girl’s concentration being at all times and totally on her body, was an intention behind the Anabian wife-ette’s garb. And such concentration had now to be Lucida’s only purpose in her sweet life, as she paddled her pretty feet and progressed slow-snail along: despite, to all outward appearances, moving like a graceful black swan.
Already perspiring under all the rubber that clung to her and covered her, Lucida flexed her pretty feet and tippy-toed slowly along the corridor that led out of the police station, her heart leaping at the beams of morning sun that were warming London in the doorway she was slowly approaching in her mourning-coloured garb.
Such was the strain on her of the strange way in which she had to make motion, Lucida’s feet hurt and her calves ached already, but she girlfully flexed her feet hidden as they were below the floor-draping hem of her outer-dress and the all-covering final cape, and slowly and obediently made her way outside.
The sun Lucida thought she would welcome, now beat down on her black clad figure, and made her only too glad that it was not yet so far after dawn.
A gaggle of giggling girls went by. They were schoolgirls on vacation. As always, they had taken the opportunity of the freedom of their holiday, to be free about their dress; or, more accurately, lax about the extensive state of their undress.
“Charley is a milkmaid! Charley is a milkmaid! Charley is a milkmaid!” they chanted behind the miniskirted figure of the most profoundly well-endowed among them. And then the two tormentors of poor Charlotte burst into giggles at their cruelty to their friend, after, no doubt, she had again turned to implore them to keep it a secret as they had originally promised.
Lucida took in that the pretty blonde “Charley” was maybe seventeen and her friends perhaps two years younger. And she realised that Charlotte must have been told that, with advantage being taken of her foremost two-most evident advantages, she was to be brought to milk, and become a dairy-ponygirl to graze her days away at one of the wealthy country-houses when she left school.
There was nothing shameful in that. But her two companions were perhaps covering up for the fact that their futures were yet to be decided, and that they were accordingly apprehensive underneath, despite their outward bravado.
But, when the three miniskirted lovelies spotted Lucida in her Anabian dress, they paused in astonishment. Why that should be so in such a cosmopolitan city as London was curious. Perhaps these angels were from out of town.
And was it because their slits went instantly wet at the thought of being dressed in confinement like that Lucida was in, that they all pointed and gasped and collapsed in giggles at the sight of Lucida in her Anabian clothing?
Lucida had no answer to that question. Their skirts were exceptionally short and their pure-white snow-white panties might have shown evidence had it been true. But she could not be sure that what they did indeed show, was from excitement of love’s lust, or from the pretty girls peeing themselves with their laughter at her misfortune.
All Lucida knew was that the golden laughter of these girls in their youthful freedom, hurt her cruelly, and the fact that the taunting of Charlotte had been forgotten, and Charlotte included-in with her friends once more, and joining in with the golden giggles, was no compensation.
Meanwhile, Lucida flexed her tiptop-tiptoed big toes to tippy-toe in her pogol-sandals walking to where she knew not, till she spotted the waiting ponygirl cab, and a ramp, and a curse: “Get fucking moving you filthy slag” from the copette who ensured Lucida wiggled up the prepared ramp and went aboard.
.......................
“There you go luv! Your fare’s already paid....” the cab-girl smiled kindly as she lowered the ramp for Lucida to wiggle down it and into the airport terminal.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine out their sweetheart. I’ve heard that some of those Anabian warrior-girls can be very nice to their women..... that I have”, the cabess relayed, in a tone that said she didn’t really know anything about the subject, and what little she did know was very much of the opposite to her sugar-coated assurance.
Lucida wondered if she could now escape: although running was hardly an option and she would clearly stand out among the populace, and she could not use her hands and arms to disrobe herself, and she could not speak to beg for help, and she had no money or other means to pay.....and so her mind went over and over her situation as she tiptoed top-tip of her big toes in her cruel Anabian out-fittings and in-fittings toward and into the airport terminal, because it was the only place she could think of to go.
She needed a plan. She kept telling herself that she needed a plan. But still she obediently wiggled in her Anabian obscurity toward the flight-booking desks.
“Ms Grant-Oral?” a simply stunningly pretty brown-eyed black-haired sub-continental ethnic Indian English girl smiled in front of her.
“I easily recognised you!” this lovely creature joked, completely innocently.
“It is Ms Lucida Grant-Oral and not some other Anabian wife-ette....?”
“Oh: of course. You Anabian girls are forbidden to speak aren’t you? Just nod if you are Lucida”
Lucida duly nodded.
“Oh thank cripes for that eh? Otherwise, knowing me, I would be the first one to eff it all up on my first day in the Office of Girl Affairs wouldn’t I?” the charming dusky lovely smiled.
“They’ve already called the gate for the 11.00 o’clock Senabre flight. But you’re okay. Just come to gate 15 with me, and it’s all arranged. They’re used to you Anabian girls on that route of course. Your ticket and all the passport and visa stuff are okay on my verification. I’ve got the only document you need to be got aboard, and it’s been faxed ahead for when you land. All we need now is to get you on the luggage lift. I don’t know! You Anabian girls....the way we have to look after you!”, this princess of nature giggled sweetly, as she gently teased Lucida.
While she strolled along in her miniskirt, her six-inch stiletto platform mules tapping out love’s Morse on the hard-tile-clad flooring as she wiggled, with Lucida tippy-tip-top-tiptoe in her restraining gowns and pogol-sandals struggling beside her, her eyes ogling the young girl’s shapely legs, the Indian-English angel suddenly realised she was walking way too fast for the purposely encumberanced Lucida, and turned and smiled to ensure she assured Lucida she would be patient.
Lucida flexed her pretty feet in her tiptoe pogols rubbing the silken-smoothness of her perspiration-lubricated thighs together as she fought with her pretty powerful, very pretty legs against the unyielding constraints of her confining underskirt and equally close-clinging dress’ skirt.
“Sorry love. I should have realised.....”
To Lucida as she struggled to wiggle in the garb her naturally wanton woman’s body had been confined within, a metre was a million miles. But at last she caught up with the smiling beauty.
“Before you married in England and your divorce, were you born Anabian?” the Indian-English angel enquired completely innocently, and completely without understanding who Lucida was, where born, or why Lucida was being expelled.
“It must be nice to be going back there”, the angel added.
“But I think the Anabians are very cruel to their girls, the way they make them dress all the time.....”
There was a pause. Then, a pretty hand went to a lovely mouth all too late to stop this gorgeous girl having already blurted out what she had really been thinking....
Oh god! I’m so sorry!...... I mean, it’s not the same if you’re used to it...... I mean like you are, with you being born an Anabian and all that......”
Lucida’s inexpert escort was by now standing imploringly before her, and almost crying with shame at her blunder. Lucida longed to comfort her.
“I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! I didn’t mean to be so rude.....” the Indian-English angel begged.
Lucida had no way to convey that of course she forgave this lovely creature: a girl anyone could forgive anything at any time, so she just nodded.
“Oh no! You’re angry with me! And I don’t blame you!” the angel concluded.
....................
After she had been raised on the luggage elevator and entered the tail of the airliner, Lucida tiptoed strangle-ankled in her pogols into the passenger area.
And as a shapely stewardess guided her to her allotted seat on Air Cunilingus’ flight 69 to Senabre, the sweet parting smile of the ethnic-Indian English honey, was still burning into Lucida’s memory.
..............................
The douche woke Lucida with a start. The heat and humidity and long hours crouched, had felled her to sleep, and the chance taken for this dream girl to dream it seemed, for, as a bucket hitherto filled with ice-cold water soon told her with the total recall it caused in recoil, she was still in her anti-masturbation cell.
Her wrists were being ungirlacled and her pretty eyes were lowered when they met and realised that she was being surveyed, for all that her body conveyed, by a girl who portrayed power.
Lucida looked up with her lovely greens, only to shy away again at this girl’s piercing blues, her cute acutely curled blonde hair, her long legs, and her evidently heavy bosom.
Out of her cage Lucida was ordered by the pink-uniformed copette with the laser eyes:
“Showver!”
Lucida did not understand. The heavily accented English was foreign to her pretty ears. She had not come across the sound. Her sweet greens pleaded replication of the instruction from the curvaceously vivacious blonde of the sky-blues, and was ordered:
“Showver....vou vesh in ver showver!”
Lucida understood now sufficiently well, and all too well for it was only now she noticed that the Girl-Control copette seemingly newly in charge of her, guided her path to the showers with an indicative flick of a veritably verifiable vicious thigh-whip.
The thigh-whip, or thigh-tamer, was made of a sparkling spring-steel wire wound through a wooden handle: a single strand of wicked wire: of three-ply-wire plaited into a single strand of two foot length knotted at each end. There were two close knots either side of its one-foot-long wooden handle, to hold it from sliding through the hole it passed through in that handle. The other knot was to stop its furthest end from fraying and splaying when it was played on the prey it was flaying.
It now whisked through the air, stage-whisper-whistling its unmerciful menace, and the girl, Lucida, just exit the cage, all the more urgently desired to obey.
Camera girls had already moved in. The copette with the thigh-whip seemed to double as film director. Accordingly, a motion of her slim forefinger saw two pretty girls in tight tee-shirts, and blue-jeans wonderfully fulfilled by the mature youthful product of their parents’ genes, dive to their knees to record Lucida peeling off her rubber shirt and skirt, and unfastening her tiptop-of-tiptoe-stance-enforcing ballet-booties.
Post-shower, dressed only in a modesty-ensuring white towel knotted and tucked in at her cleavage, bare foot on the cold concrete of the station-house floor, Lucida made her way, to breakfast on water and golden-girl-pee-porridge, plus windfall fruit. With the latter she was obedient to the notice she had noticed when notified in her dream: the notice she had therein defied by error of way, that prisoners were restricted to one item of breakfast fruit per day.
She chose a pear, so apt for her raspberry-tipped pair cleaved and bare under where they were thrusting out her towel-cape-drape with thrilling thrall: all this, all the while, under the eye of the cameras failing to capture how a girl can so beguile.
After breakfast, in camera and not in the purview of the cameras this once, Lucida had her teeth cleaned. She was then thoroughly waxed all-body, including having it, her musk-scented siren’s centre, returned to its pristine pre-post-pubescence, before she was ordered to take another shower.
Lucida knew she was going to be punished, but not how. She was not sure if she had dreamt that nobody would tell her the court’s decision on her punishment for being caught being courted by Faranatina Mandrake-Warner and found at sport disporting both braless and sans panties in a public place.
To be punished for just being a girl being a girl was the way of the day. The Girl-Control police had been set up to enforce the new moral code. Even to go braless was now only allowed among consenting adults in private.
The exception was, of course, if you had class. Lucida Grant-Oral had once had class, but was now reclassified as declassified. So she shared the fate of the lower orders that society intended should be kept in good order and obey orders.
An hour-long wait followed.
That expired, upon order, on the cold concrete floor of one of the old cells in the station house – one of the lock-ups employed before the introduction of the anti-masturbation cells – Lucida sat on her haunches with her knees and her toes blessing the ground with the touch of her touching beauty.
Her redhead’s body with its tantalisingly translucent flesh, through which the magical mystery of beauty’s inner workings; the way god had constructed her earth-bound ambassadors from and of heaven, showed now and again, as in mysterious blue veins in Lucida’s marvel of statuesque marble white, in a thigh or a breast, if you could take your eyes from the place where it nestled at rest, her lower but not lowly lovely love-nest.
Lucida shivered. Her pronouncedly pronounced breasts quivered. Her nipples contracted closing the portals that could yield the milk of girl’s kindness to mere mortals. Was this from cold or fear or both?
Two pretty copettes brought the leather straps to bind her ankles to her thighs. Slipping them under her individual ankles, they introduced the straps around the ankle, over the enormity of the thigh at squat, and fastened the buckles, located neatly at the outside of her lovely legs; neatly in evenly-matching positions in which they were posited and posed at each of her legs outsides.
The excess of pulled-through strap was then tidied away, by doubling it back over the buckles and through fixed hoop-loops that the straps had ready for just that occasion. These hoops were at the crown of Lucida’s thighs as she squatted.
And to prevent those hitherto loose ends coming loose again, a metal split-pin was inserted through readymade receptive holes in the tips of the would-be wondering ends, and the split-pins legs splayed, before the excess of pin-leg was snipped off. The split-pins heads, too large for the holes they had penetrated, now stood proud, and the needle-like eyes of those heads, espied and then spied upon the glory that is girl.
The same gentle pink-uniformed copettes took Lucida’s slender arms behind her, and cuffed her wrists with girlacles, leaving her sweet hands resting on her bold bare bottom.
Lucida licked her dry lips, making them thus unmistakable invitations to the kiss.
From where Lucida knelt, her glorious green eyes shone up at the crutch of the girl with the mysterious accent. Then they shot down in shyness at the sight of the site of this mysterious girl’s snow-white panties filled with a bold pod, and then glanced blushing, down at her own thighs.
So as not to miss a momentous moment of her movement, the cameras moved in when Lucida’s cell door was opened wide.
“Kernees!” the gorgeous blonde copette with the devastating blue eyes ordered.
Lucida’s sweet face registered her concern to obey, if only she understood the command. Her pretty eyes pleaded a begging of pardon for her not knowing what she was being told to do.
“Kernees!!” came the command as a menacing whispered shout.
“Kernees!! Kernees!! vou valk on vour Kernees!!” came the repeated command and explanation.
Lucida longed to do as ordered. Diamonds of nervous perspiration prettied her sincerity-creased brow. She looked imploring green eyes at her bound-doubled thighs and then at the pretty hands she tried to display in order to convey that she was bound such that she was bound not to obey.
“Kernees!! Kernees!! Kernees!!!! vou vet up on vour Kernees!!”
Realising what she was being ordered to do, just as readily as its shear impossibility, Lucida endeavoured to show it could not be done, and struggled to rise to the tip tops of the knees of her wonderful legs tied doubled. Then she crashed down on her tensioned bare toes, and squeaked with the pain, surely having shown her tormentor that it was a no go.
But she knew she must show willing. The thigh-whip the curly-haired blonde copette wielded was no toy. Perhaps Lucida had misunderstood. Perhaps that was what was meant. To demonstrate she had this new understanding, Lucida shuffled, still squatting on her toes and the knees of her bound legs, in the hope that that would be sufficient.
“Vou vet up on vour Kernees!! Vou vill valk on vour Kernees, or vou vill ve vhip-ped!!”
Lucida had, of course now fully understood, she had also not misunderstood about the prevalence of mercy.
She once more, with her legs bound double and no rescue from her dainty hands should she fail and fall, struggled to raise herself on the tips of her knees and fell painfully back on her toes.
Then she fought again and found herself aloft as commanded, with her knees agonisingly painfully standing her waveringly unbalanced, till she went back on her toes once more, and began to cry in the hope that tears would relieve her from this punishment.
“Vou vill valk on vour Kernees, or vou vill ve vhip-ped!!”
Praying that practice would have perfected her ability at stability, the perfect angel rose on the tips of her knees once more and tried to balance her beautiful body, and began to walk on her knees as if they were the stubs left of her lovely legs after a cruel amputation.
The pain was unbearable and she sank down to a squat on her toes once again.
But, knowing she must obey, the English rose rose to her knees once more, and lightly bit her lower lip, as if the mild pain thereby intimated, would ease the unendurable pain where her bare knees walked her on the unyielding rough cold concrete.
Lucida wiggled. It is in the nature of a girl to wiggle. It is in the nature of a girl to giggle. It is in the nature of a girl to giggle as she wiggles. But wiggling along atop the knees of her bound thighs under threat of a fall and the whip if she fell, teetering on the verge of testing the cushioning her tits would provide if she crashed to the fore, on the two on the floor, and with her hands tied behind on her lovely behind so they could not rescue her: Lucida struggled in agony.
A few paces and she must stop, she must stop, the pain was so great and she must stop and relieve herself by lowering herself down to a squat on her toes. But her mind was read and instead came the order:
“Kip valking on vour kernees or I vill vhip-ped vou!”
In her pain, Lucida wavered and nearly fell back to her haunches. She tried to look only at the doorway toward which she was being headed, and to imagine that her pain would be at and end were she to enter where she could hear the voices of women and girls come to witness her punishment.
She staggered and fought not to lose her balance. The natural formation of her body attempted to fold her at the hips. Stood on the knees of her tied-doubled legs, her centre of gravity was gravely displaced, so that if she did not fold at the hips into a squat, she would assuredly tumble forward on her pretty face.
Her progress was slow and tentative. She must swivel her body. She must advance a thunderous thigh and try and hold out against folding or falling as she then swivelled her trunk to advance her other wonderful thigh. The pain in her knees was unendurable.
“Kip valking!!” came the command followed by Lucida’s squeal of pain after the thigh-whip had whistled and kissed her folded right leg, caressing the beauty of her bold thigh as if anyone could resist, and striping her with blood from the cut of its furiously fiery blitz.
At this, Lucida fell forward squashing her abundant soft-firm breasts on the unyielding floor of the police station-house, her nipples caressed by the rough corrugations of the concrete floor, as they kissed its brutal coldness when her tits slid beneath her to cushion her fall and save her lovely face from hitting the ground at all.
“Vet up on vour Kernees!! Vet up on vour Kernees!! Kip valking on vour kernees. Vou vill valk on vour Kernees! Vet up on vour Kernees!!!”
Lucida struggled to get herself lying on one side and from there back up on her haunches to launch herself back up teetering on her knees once more, so that she could be tortured by making her walk on the knees of her folded legs.
The wicked whip whistled and wound itself snake around her bound right thigh once more by-and bye. And Lucida screamed with its bite as it kissed a second red stripe with lightning strike.
“Vet up on vour Kernees! Vet up on vour Kernees!! Kip valking on vour kernees!!”
Lucida wiggled and wobbled uncertainly balanced again, taking a step with one thigh and having the other thigh catch up before she ventured forth her next thigh.
“Valk on vour kernees proper vay or I vhip-ped vou!”
Lucida paused and implored with her glorious green eyes that she be shown mercy.
“Valk on vour kernees ver proper vay, or vou vill ve vhip-ped!!”
Lucida took a struggling stride wide and again endured the agony of balancing on one knee while she swung the other beautiful thigh past the standing one, and took that stride too in turn, fearing the progress of her trip was too slow to save her from the kiss of the thigh-whip and that at any time she would slip slap once more onto her tits.
The catcalls and whistles and screams of laughter when, at long last, she entered the neighbouring room walking like this, shamed lovely Lucida. She was not to know that the laughter and giggles were from embarrassment, much of it meant to hide the lubrication of knickers’ crotches’ insides.
“Vou stay on vour kernees! “Vou stand on vour kernees till ve are veady vor vou!”
Swaying on the top tips of her beautifully bold thighs, Lucida’s lovely eyes surveyed the room.
It was the courtroom in which her trial had taken place. But she could not recognise it of course, because, except in projected effigy, she had not been in it before. She was at a raised level. The crowd was in the well of the court. Lucida teetered dazed on the dais where the judge and her staff normally spent their business days.
Her punishment was in fact ready, but the camera crew wished to film her holding steady in the uncertain state she was in, risen on her knees, her stupendously bold thighs stunningly erotically formed: a stance in which Lucida obediently stayed even as her whip-striped thigh-stood body swayed.
“Vou verk on ver vigh-vill!”
Lucida did not recognise what she was being told. At least she didn’t till her emerald distractions, beamed in on the contraption bolted to the floor some distance from where she teetered on the tip-tops of her knees.
It looked like a small shelter. It was curved like a huge pipe that had been halved, or rather two-thirded.
But the descriptions “shelter” and “pipe” only define its basic formation. In fact it comprised a series of horizontal thick strong round wooden bars. These bars were mounted through stainless-steel bracing supports, bolted firmly to the deck of the dais platform at their bases. Two outmost and two inner support braces held the bars rigid.
The horizontal wooden bars were akin to wall-bars in a gymnasium, but the upright supports through which they were mounted, curved up from near floor level, continued up the back of the “shelter”, continued over what would be the roof of the “shelter”, and then left a gap, a gaping mouth between the edge of the roof and the floor.
So the “horizontal bars” formed a curve from near the floor, continued the curve as if a wall, and then continued the curve over as if a roof, before a gap was left. Hence the parallel with two-thirds of a pipe: the one third missing being the open gap from curved-over roof to floor.
In the centre of this curve of slats sat a spring-steel seat. The seat was floor mounted, slid into floor-bolted slots. It too took a curve, but up forward, in opposite curvature to the wall and roof of slats, till it levelled off at a crutch-height: crutch-height for a girl with her legs bound double that is. Throughout its length this seat was no more than three inches wide.
“Vou verk on ver vigh-vill!” Lucida was reminded, before she was ordered: “Valk to ver zaddle now or I vill vhip-ped vou”
Lucida knew better than not to obey. So she struggled to recall how she had managed to walk on her knees into this room at all, and wiggle-sidled her pain-filled way to the strange wood and steel contraption on display.
Her glorious green eyes asked, nay begged to know if she was doing it right, as her struggling bound body found itself right in front of the sprung-steel seat.
“Zit on ver zaddle!”
Lucida eased herself forward as seemed to be indicated, and slid herself over the cold steel of the spring saddle, so that she sat with her heavenly heavy thighs minimally astride. The cold of the steel on the sensitive lips of her slit caused her pretty mouth to yield forth a decidedly sexy little appealing squeal of sudden surprise: “Ooooh!”
For Lucida to be so sat was a relief and yet discomfort. The saddle had a central ridge and it divided and ruled over her, because the ridge divided her divine lips and pressed into her most sensitive pink.
Her wrists were now released. Her slim shapely arms were then stretched out to their utmost, and she was bade to grip two distant handles.
Fine tuning: the loosening, adjustment of the stretch, and re-tightening of securing bolts, ensured this part of the device was tailored to this prettiest of girls, by spacing the handles at the fullest extent of her arms. And while she gripped the far distant handles, her slender wrists were girlackled to each handle, so that she could not help but grip or be gripped to them.
These handles were in the centre of wheels mounted to the distant-most floor-bolted brackets that supported the curve of horizontal slats. The wheels were free to rotate at dictate.
The nooses had been tied in the traditional manner, with the silk rope that would slide to crush that contained on the nooses’ insides, wrapped around in close-coil, like the seducing serpent around Eve’s even more seductive thigh in the story of the Garden of Eden.
The two nooses were fastened together at their bottom-most ends by a very short tether of leather.
Lucida’s sweet pleading: “No. Oh please no!” whispered gently though it was, earned her the thigh-whip’s kiss on her right thigh once more, swiftly-followed by the holler of her scream of pain extreme.
A rigid steel bar was held at her back, to form a strap. To hold the bar in general place, a rope through the hollow centre of it, went around her at armpit height, and it was also tied around her arms at both armpits.
The bar at her back ended – both ends - with steel rings for the loose ends of the nooses to be passed through. This done, the nooses’ circles were passed over Lucida’s luxuriously luscious milk-white breasts, and tightened by the minimum to ensure success with no excess of noose to slip loose, and a gentle grip at the base of each tit.
And then the long loose ends were taken further through the rings at the ends of the bra-bar, out horizontally, their slack removed all bar, and then tied off at the same distance as Lucida’s pretty hands. But the silk ropes were not tethered to the wheel; they were tied off tightly to the distant-most slat-holding uprights: they were tied to immovably rigid rings mounted above the height of her dainty hands.
The audience chatted. Pretty giggles punctuated the air as eyes stared and then shied away from the sight and site of what was to be done by Lucida to herself this very day.
“Ven I gift vou ver order, vou vill climber ver vall viv vour vighs, end vou vill valk over ver zeiling viv vour vighs, end vurn vourself uver arnd uver. Do vou standunder?!” the strange beautiful blonde hornily huskily both instructed and enquired.
“But it’s not possible!” Lucida audibly whispered, more in thought than in a daring protest.
“Vou vill climber ver vall viv vour vighs, end vou vill valk over ver zeiling viv vour vighs and vlip vourselve uver.....End vou vill vever stopper, or I vill vhip-ped vou! Do vou standunder?!”
Lucida slid forward off the saddle, and, as the ridge on the saddle licked her inner pink, uttered another sensually sexy “Ooooh!”.
Her tied-doubled legs, that is her thighs, that is her knees, were now between the first set of horizontal slats. Before her curved the wall of slats; above her curved the walls continuation into a roof of slats.
“Valk up ver vall!” the gorgeous curly-haired blonde shouted at her.
And Lucida knew she had to make the impossible possible. She advanced her thighs step by step, slat by slat, slot by slot, and walked herself up the curve of the thighmill’s wall, taking the enormous strain of the weight of her lovely body on her outstretched arms, and screaming with the pain in her arms and shoulders as she walked her wonderful thighs in a running back-flip traipse trip over the ceiling of the thighmill, her mouth almost able to lick the saddle below her, before she had finally flipped her body over and landed cruelly on her already bloodied knees. Then she crawled straddle over the saddle and had its rigidity lick her pink, before she must walk the walls and the roof again.
“Kip voing vou veetch or vou vill be vhip-ped!!”
Lucida’s lovely green eyes begged for mercy, but she still found herself carefully putting her knees in the slots between the slats and advancing one handsome thigh and then its equally handsome twin, as she crawled up the painful slats walking her body up the wall of slats to the roof of slats where she must run herself hard along in the gaps between the slats in order to defy gravity’s grave call if she was not to fall at all, and she would finally leap to flick herself acrobatically in a flurry of air-walking thighs, as she flipped herself over and braced herself for the hard landing on her already brutalised knees.
“Kip voing vou zlut!”
Lucida slid over the saddle. Why did the saddle’s lick not seem so coarse now? Was her straddled passage lubricated this time? Did the saddle shine the more after her slit had been licked by it?
Lucida’s beautiful thighs walked her once more up the “shelter’s” insides, with their sexy strides, her pretty mouth licked by her bright pink tongue in her concentration, so that her mouth was a moist invitation to the contemplation of consummation, and thought of where her tongue might lick lips longer and longing for such a lavish kiss.
Beads of perspiration formed decorative diamonds on Lucida’s delightful flesh. This was not from any lacking litheness, but from muscles in stretch and stress. This was the jewellery of nature on a jewel of nature. These were the sparkling diadems marking the pearl that is girl.
And again Lucida found herself carefully putting her knees in the slots between the slats and advancing one handsome thigh and then her other handsome thigh and crawling clawing clinging with her bound thighs up the slats bruising her knees walking her beautiful body up the curve of slats to the ceiling of slats where she must walk her thighs in the gaps between the slats her arms and shoulders wrenched by her weight as she defied gravity’s fate, and walked her thighs over the thighmill’s curved insides to the point of no return, where she could flip herself over and take the leap of faith that landed her once again on her bloodied knees.
“Vou vill kip going vou vilthy zlag, or I vill vhip-ped vour vighs!”
Over the saddle Lucida now slid her slit, but now her slit sailed over its tongue, betraying that she was slick as a snail, so that it shone afresh with her fragrant flagrant oozings.
And she placed her bloodied knees in the slots between the slats of the dread-filled thighmill and walked her beautiful thighs crawling clawing clinging with her bound legs up the slats bruising her knees walking her beautiful body up the curve of slats to the roof of slats where she must walk her thighs in the gaps between the slats her arms and shoulders pulled out cruelly by her weight as she gripped the distant handles with pretty hands so she could defy fate’s call to fall, and walked her thighs over the thighmill’s semicircular insides to turn herself over, till the slats ran out and she took the drop that landed her once again .... but no.... this time Lucida landed astride and astraddle the saddle, and she cried out with the pain and then the gain from her pain, her sexiest yet “Ooooooh!” needing no-one to explain.
The audience in the court watched mesmerised by the cruelty of this punishment, with just their occasional giggles to hide what watching Lucida being tortured was doing to the crotches of their prettiest panties insides.
The film cameras continued to whir at what this redhead was being made to do in order to give O-bey a sale of material for the enjoyment of girls, with live lithe fingers visitors to vestibules and adjacent triggers, to perform a solo act in which Lucida’s suffering would greatly figure.
Lucida’s leggy walk up the wall of the thighmill till the point at which gravity obliged her to flip herself over in a flurry of heavenly heavy thighs, had the ropes of the nooses as its axis and axle. She took these ropes with her as she deployed her thighs in the slats of the thighmill’s walls, swung over the noose-ropes when she ran her thighs over the thighmill’s roof till her final circus back-flip, and tightened them the more every time her thigh-walk and sky-walk took here the full circuit.
After ten thigh-walks, the nooses were already tightening. Lucida’s hitherto perfect pendulous all-natural tits, were now perked up and poked out as much as if she had made the blunder of having silicone inserted so unnecessarily under such wonders of woman and the world, the abundant soft firm free-swinging prominences pronouncing that she was pronouncedly a girl.
“Kip valking!”
Lucida walked her thighs yet once more up the thighmill’s curved insides up its back wall, over its slatted ceiling, her body and mind reeling with the pain in her arms and shoulders as she walked her thighs up over her head and turned herself over again to land on the spring saddle as had always been intended. She winced and then sighed with the pain as she dropped herself straddle and smacked her slit down on the saddle, and the saddle pressed her inner pink and her long-since surrendered innocence evident became in her seeping, for the wonder between her thighs was positively weeping.
An hour later, and Lucida’s tits were in tourniquets. They had become bulbous. Her nipples had become enormous. They looked as engorged as if they were engaged in the wrestle of love: as if other girls had sucked on them for that same hour. And her tits were turning pink, for they were being strangled: Lucida’s constant walk up and over in the thighmill had twisted the ropes’ free ends leading from her nooses, such that there was no longer any free play in their ply, and the nooses must close over their lovely prey.
“Kip valking vou vilthy veech!”
Lucida continued to walk her thighs up the thighmill’s curved insides up its wall, over its roof, torturing her arms and shoulders as she walked her thighs over her head and flipped herself over to land bang on the spring-steel saddle and try not to show to what this torture was leading, tried not to cry out with her sexual needing, and the impact of the saddles between-thighs kneading.
Now the nooses squeezing her tits were so tight that her knees no longer touched the floor of the thighmill. Whereas Lucida would have hitherto alighted after she had walked the ceiling with her thighs, she would now hang suspended for the moment if she missed the saddle. And so she must ensure she would it straddle, or else be left with her thighs paddling air and be whipped for not engaging the slats to walk her circuit once again; the lash to punish her with pain for seeming daring. She was horizontally hung by her tits. By obediently walking the thighmill, Lucida had hung herself by her tits, and her tits were so strangled that their beauty was dark red from her performing her duty and the nooses’ lack of slack had strangled her tits so, that her nipples had turned black.
And she placed her bloodied knees in the slots between the slats of the thighmill and walked her beautiful thighs crawling clawing clinging with her bound legs up the slats walking her beautiful body up the curve of slats to the roof of slats where she must walk her thighs in the gaps between the slats, and walked her thighs over the thighmill’s insides till the slats ran out and she took the drop of fate.
Lucida’s ghost-white redhead’s complexion shone in the TV spotlights. Her thighs were aglow with her perfumed perspiration, lubricated lubriciously deliciously with the sweet sweat of her hour of femininely physical effort. Droplets of her pretty perspiration stung her lovely eyes, and from the wolf-whistles and vile cries from the audience, she knew that the smooth shining sweat-bathed mirror-wetness of her huge thighs was more than a mere minor magical miracle of the erotic.
“Kip valking vou virty veech, or I vill vhip-ped vou!”
Lucida obediently struggled into completing her second hour on the thighmill, walking its slats with her bound legs, her knees so bruised that they were now numb. Her tits so strangled that she was by them hung. And her slit so wet that she longed for a cum.
“Kip valking vou vilthy vhore!”
Lucida obediently continued to walk her thighs up yet once more the thighmill’s insides, up its wall, over its ceiling, her body and mind reeling with the excruciating pain in her breasts as they now took her inverted weight to leave her arms and shoulders at least at last at rest, as she walked her thighs up head-over-heels and rotated herself as if on a wheel, landing on the spring saddle lathered with her love-seepings and adding the more as over it she slid her slit’s now bubbling wheepings licked out by the saddle’s tongue making her for a cum so long to long.
“Ziz vhore enzoy ver zaddle var voo vutch. Vek ver Zaddle avay!”
Lucida was climbing her thighs up the slatted slots on the wall of her thighmill, turning herself over yet once again, when two assisting copettes obeyed her chief torturer’s order, and efficient clicks said that the saddle had been released from where such saddles fit, and lovely Lucida knew now that there would be no more comforting slides over it for the joy of her slit.
She walked the ceiling slats with her thighs yet once more, inverting her body before she leaped to the floor. But with no more saddle her slit’s pink to explore, she dangled now her knees high off the floor, hung by her tits her sweat-mirrored thighs waving, as she struggled to find grip in the slats to walk in behaving.
It was then that Lucida came and came again and again: it was when her right knee found the slot between the lowest wall slats that Lucida came. And she came and she came as she walked her thighs up the wall again. And she came and she came as over the inside roof of the thighmill she laid claim to the ultimate in obedience walking her thighmill while by constant cums inconvenienced, cums that longed her to close her thighs and ring every last bell of their echoing joy out from her slit’s insides, as her mind’s inner voice whispered in pleading that she be whipped as she obediently continued to walk on around her thighmill trip the more to strangle her tits.
But though Lucida was such an intelligent girl her cums had her mind in such a whirl that she failed to realise that they would not whip her sweaty thighs as she longed they would, as long as she used them on her thighmill as she should.
But perhaps we underestimate the mind of a girl. Perhaps Lucida had already calculated that if she stopped her walk and dangled by her tits to be whipped on her thighs for being a disobedient miss, her cums might cease, though she rather thought not.
Perhaps she could not decide between the hanging drop, or to keep her cums coming by obedient trot. For that is the fate of a girl, to be in two minds and unable to choose whether to risk her cums to lose by dangling by her tits so they would flog her thighs into bleeding red and white candy stripes, or keeping walking the thighmill and have obedience deliver the cums of her sweet young life.
For ten more circuits Lucida walked the thighmill with her thighs, trying not to reveal her constant cums with her cries or sighs or even her beautiful green eyes. But when her cums had gone she longed them to revive and, exhausted, stopped walking and dangled hung by the tits: by her tits strangled by the nooses she had made ever tighter by her walking the thighmill into the night for the audience in the court in her punishment to delight.
.....No sooner had Lucida stopped her walk than the curly-haired acutely cute blue-eyed blonde used the thigh-whip on her bare thighs, cursing her the while and ordering her to walk around the thighmill in the statutory style.
But Lucida hung by her strangled tits, her white thighs being wrapped around repeatedly with the vicious whip, and the flesh of her thighs being cut to ribbons, enduring the terrible pain without the comfort of a cum, and without reserve, knowing that this was the final punishment she richly deserved, because for cumming on the thighmill against what she had to do been bidden, a girl should never be forgiven.....
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
The Dusky Dame
Synopsis: - Another investigation for private eye Charlotte Moans
Earlier cases can be found here within ‘Disconnections’
‘The Little Sister’ as Part 16
‘The Flotsam Dame’ as Parts 24 and 25
‘Dead Dames Don’t Lick’ is published on this site in its own separate right
This new Charlotte Moans fantasy starts with PI Charlotte (“Charley”) Moans still feeling guilty for losing police lieutenant and lovely redhead, Adrienne Kowalski to the clutches of the evil Lola.....
The Dusky Dame
by Eve Adorer
I’d had my fill of broads. I’d just had me a major with Sam. Sam Splayed. Samantha Splayed my partner and partner: business and bed? It was all over where I’d put a vase. But that was just excuse for a moody. Yours truly had been doghouse for days.
I knew I was accuse. I’d gotten the flowers anniversary. Sam and me had known each other cop-college since before. Maybe Sam was feel the seven year scratch, or whatever you call it. The way she was react, anyone’d be think I’d done the flower trip trick for some other chick.
Well okay, so I had, and so they were kinda second-hand. But there was no way Sam could have known that. At least there didn’t oughta be. Maybe I was just paying the price for one of her skills. She sure as hell could read faces: my face anyways.
It was five days in before she’d finally shown me the ringed date proving our seventh year wasn’t till fourteen more days.
With Sam in a brood and the sun in shortest shadows season, 122V Faker Street was both too cold and too hot. That decided me I was best outta there. The call from Lipps had been a godsend. Even if, truth told, I was no-ways sure there’d be a doormat reading ‘welcome’ at the 14th precinct either.
As I strolled sidewalk trying to look as if I hadn’t just been banjaxed by my own blunder, I was wonder if pincer-movement wasn’t plan. Had Sam recruited our long-time mutual, police captain Kismet Lipps, to give me hell as well? Kismet still had reason to be honked with yours truly. After all, last mission I’d misplaced lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski without Lipps’ permission.
.....................
As I turned corner and began stride the steep stone steps to the 14th precinct station house’s wide-flung doors, I found things were looking up. I was looking up.
The nut-brown legs of the honey in front of me were toptip-toed in heelless tiptoe ballets. And as the flexing of her calf muscles dancing temptation tango when she climbed step, took my eyes off of her thighs, I was decide the world was not so bad after all.
She was taking steps to take the steps before me. So, first out, I took steps to slow and enjoy the show.
I was guess she was twenty-two. At least her waist matched that age. And if time was the stats vital, she was older below middle and the higher age twice above: least she cast shadows saying so.
In summer heat bare legs, she wore her white heelless ballets with a wide ankle strap that was pure attraction and total distraction. Her tiptoed-toes alone gave her ground-traction, and her ass waved like a rattlesnake slithering on scorched sand.
She was a chick of Asian-Indian origin: nature-brown topped out by sun’s nurture. In the street heat she held aloft a white parasol dreamily twirled in a dainty hand with long slender fingers, as she blessed the world with everything that’s girl.
She was mode, with a white light bright cool cotton dress clinging overall form out-shaping a hornet’s egg-timer. Even at the height of noon, a moonlit rainbow shimmered through the midnight of her bottom of butt length raven hair.
When I got close her on the steps, I instant flared nostril, while draped flowers in the spring rains of Babylon’s gardens sent scent to my assenting senses.
Top step, after pass by, eager to see her face, I made an ‘excuse-me’ cough to attract her attention. And she looked up with a visage that matched the matchless vision I’d followed till now. And when she lit smile, shying away deep brown wide eyes, my jaw tested dislocation.
Her shoes her dress and a white panama with a white ribbon round it, shading shadows on her heart-shaped heart-stopping face, was all she wore.
Inside the station house, a former colleague from my cop days, the curly-haired redheaded cutie Constable Pat McClit, gave me the ‘Hi’ till the honey too caught her eye, and we exchanged shared winks as we both watched the sugar-brown sweetmeat lower her parasol, and make along the same corridor as I intended for the office of Lipps with which it ended.
The angel was now giving off the subliminals, that while she loved to be admired by the girls, it wasn’t fair to stare. So I eased off from full bore, and only took in her hem rising to show bold strong thighs when she took seat at a desk and put her furled parasol aside.
.........................
After more mo-passing catch-up gossip with McClit: “Go straight in Charley! I’ll be there seconds!” Lipps called to my turned head, so, making her office knowing Lipps was not there, I forewent the knock customary for a caller even for door of a constant open captain’s cabin.
As I thresholded, my eyes instant spied the superb brown thighs inside, and I shot into Kismet’s office more enthused than a frosted kitten for a warm kitchen.
I knew my mouth was gaping again. But I’d no time say ‘hello’ and ask if the ethnic-Indian babe was date, afore Kismet wiggled in, all busy stiletto clack, behind me.
“Hi Charley. Good to see you again. This is Alenixa.... Alenixa Nevaeh?” Kismet breezed, as she swept to a filing cabinet to slot away some docs.
For a mo I was think Kismet’d given up on the confusion her office was usually in. But a quick glance round showed it still made a scrap-yard look like a military parade.
Alenixa was holding out a hand, and I instant stood and took the long slim fingers, while my mind was remind it was a shake in greet and meet for the miss, while my clit screamed ‘kiss!’
“Alenixa’s out from London, England.....Scotland Yard?” Kismet mumbled distractedly, as her fingers flicked an open drawer’s up-stood index tabs to find the slot for her file.
“Oh fuck it!” she then whispered to herself, and flung the papers atop the cabinet for a time when she could be assed with such piddling fiddling as filing.
“This here’s Charlotte Moans, Alenixa.....”, Kismet informed, as she sat her lovely ass behind the desk between herself Alenixa and me.
“Hi Charley”, the honey whispered with a delish of giggle, “I’ve heard all about you!” she smiled as she gave me laughter and love with her wide calf’s eyes.
Nobody’d said Alenixa could give me my ‘Charley’ handle, but nobody’d say it a no go neither; least of all yours truly.
“The cuts are beginning to bite Charley. The banks gotta get their billion-size annual bonuses, meanwhile we get to pay for them by losing some force. Fucking TARP. Alenixa’s stateside on exchange. That hides some of my strength from chop the whiles, since the switcheroo with London is funded from a sep pot. So I’m up on the game till they boat back over the puddle again....But you don’t wanna hear all this admin crap....”
As Kismet was giving me the latest lowdown on the New Edingow Police Department’s world, I was glad I’d gone PI and kissed the NEPD goodbye. Kismet looked like sleep had given best to sheep-counting weeks. I knew she ambished higher, time come. But if this was what strain did for her captain-wise, I was mind to remind her she was PI partner with Sam and me, any day she was say.
“Lola’s cancer’s eating London now? That’s bad and good. The bad is obvious. The good part is that Alenixa’s been sent over to follow up behind a plant Scotland Yard have sown in Lola’s garden.”
“While Lola’s girl, Bonito Clyde, is using prison-issue tampons, Lola’s gotten two new temporary temptations: Kowalski for one?”
“You mean Adrienne is okay?!”
“Oh yeh. She was sure struggling Charley. But Adrienne’s got herself back into Lola’s good books......via her bed of course. And she’s now with Alenixa’s sister, Belanina, who’s cloaking for Scotland Yard. Lola’s parading both honeys draped arm like they wanna melt into her. And you and Alenixa here have gotten an invite to dinner Saturday come”.
“Belanina has told Lola she has a twin sis in Alenixa, and Lola’s got her tongue licking floor she’s so longing meet. Hence the invite, which has a ‘bring a guest’ above the ‘RSVP’? And since you know Lola and New Edingow City better than Alenixa, Charley.....”
“Lola got off on the ponygirl doping charges that have got Bonito cooling her nipples on Alclitraz. But Belanina’s since got tapes proving Lola was full know. And with double-jeopardy gone history a retrial is cards on.....When a judge can be found Lola hasn’t got in her ass pocket.”
“Belanina needs an exit-Lola visa Charley, and Kowalski too. Lola ain’t gonna open fire escape for Kowalski even in a blaze, or newcomer Belanina come to that. So you’re the ‘copter for the big escape, so as Belanina can make court witness along with her tapes.”
“There’s a safe-house lined up and we’re ready to move in on Lola once we’ve sured ourselves her new girlfriends are out. City hall came up with the funding. The tapes’ll add up to a court case that’ll put Lola away; if not for a long enough forever. I know you’ll find a way Charley, and you owe the NEPD....Remember, you owe me for losing Kowalski.....”
“Do I got me a ‘yes’ Charley?”
I took one long look at Alenixa’s strong bare brown thighs, forgot I was not afford pro bono, and nodded casual to hide I was bowled over double back-flip at even the thought of having this cute candy clinging my arm dinner date.
.............................
The dinner wrap could only be a prelim. Alenixa was bed-bate to dangle front of Lola, who’d crave being the meat in sandwich ‘tween Belanina and Alenixa. So leaving Alenixa behind to weave herself in with Lola would be no prob. But getting me away from Lola’s remind that a door works both ways at the end of the day, was a way round that had to be found.
The invite was to a conventional tux and black tie do. I’d dust off my dark-blue pinstripe jacket and skirt combo and try and find a clean shirt to iron.
Getting Alenixa doll would be a cinch pinch. But I needed more. Best plan seemed something that would make me and Alenixa an item. So I got me Alenixa’s appro to play along, and the rings and things to sing the song. Alenixa was part of the mix that puts the new merry in 21st century England. She was English-Indian by birth, but from the Sessik-Caste distant tree: the Sessiks being a less known Hindu caste from eastern side the subcontinent.
At least Lipps would go along with expenses. She went along with plan too. But any bankroll of bank bonus scale she blew.
My cover with Lola before had been that I was IT brains with Ursa Bows Inc, Wall Street’s finest. Lipps was agree I not change that, but wasn’t going to give me largesse licence. Instead she was prompt I plead I was on a minus from a personal dabble in sub-primes if pressed to play the tables.
I was nervous that that would only wash to whisk me out of Lola’s door like I was plague on roller blades. But Kismet was insist I roulette with my own money if that was the stakes, or make excuse. And she pointed out I’d be with cute candy, and could use that as distraction traction.
Belanina was the problem remaining, but Alenixa had means of comm., so that circled the square and we were go for a hope of a ‘stay-behind’ from Lola when the dinner event was gone.
.............................
I was so look forward event, I was almost forget prime Sam’s pump.
Natch I told her Alenixa made a pig’s pet pug look dollars. But I suspect Sam was not believe, so I musta failed the sly smile test.
As double-cover I challenged Sam to go instead of me, and see for herself that Alenixa looked badder than the ugly duckling’s long dead grandma. But Sam was remind it was me had the intro with Lola, and we were decide she’d take up a divorce case, where some chick was complain about spanking. She was think her wife had found new bed-meat because she wasn’t slapping her ass no more.
I didn’t tell Sam it was a pro bono. I went along with her relief belief that at least our bank loan repayments would get a boost to their upkeep.
.............................
I stretched expenses. I was going to impress the princess using the NEPD’s imprest. So it was in a double-headed Pretty-Cab, hauled by two stunning redhead ponygirls, that I was clip-clopped into the close, where I was pick up Alenixa for eight and not late.
She was late of course. She was girl. A girl’s got right to keep wait.
As she scented around her hotel room, I kept eye on her: I kept both eyes on her! She was in a full-length hug gown that clung her body so intimate, that in all bar this and one more out of the fifty states; she’d have had to have gotten married to it. It caressed her so close it musta been bad news for the underwear industry. No line it outlined didn’t curve so smooth that a bra and nicks must have been given the nix kicks.
Her dress’ tactile crushed velvet in Prussian-blue refracted light in its creases when she moved around putting the fascinating finishing touches to her midnight-black hair, which she’d worked into a single plait she’d drawn over her left shoulder so it draped front of her like the serpent offering Eden’s know-fruit.
From the side slit in the skirt of her dress flashed a left leg that wore one of her translucent Prussian-blue nylons, and teased to please not least that she wore a poppy-red thrilly frilly garter to hold it high by making the lightest impression in her very impressive thigh.
If that leg wasn’t a dancer’s prancer then I knew no other description that could answer a fit for its fit shapeliness, especially emphasised by Alenixa being sky-highed in wedge platform sandals.
A quick flashing glance at her just visible pretty toes, proved she’d donned her dolly’s legs in gloved stockings. These ‘gloves’, pocketed her toes separate. Her big toes being free, her other toes being through the individual leather loops that held her feet from touching the ground in her sandals: the ground touch role being reserved for the wooden sandals’ soles.
The sandals, heavy lump-lead in core with a skin akin to cork for outer appearance, comprised triangles with her feet strapped on the hyperto-knees, or whatever it’s called, rising at sixty degrees from the floor and giving her three inches behind her toes on which to totter, on shoe soles that were also the shoes’ heels, before the ninety-degree angle and the vertical rise to where the sandals’ leather straps had her slender ankles tight tied. Her toes were off ground by inches. The sandals did her walking.
“Will I do?” Alenixa coaxed with surprising shyness from a girl who must have known she’d give perfection an inferiority complex.
“No” I instanted slyly, and she looked at me moment hurt-shock, and then made her pretty hands flutter butterfly over her nose as she fell apart with glorious golden giggles.
But even as Alenixa gave the giggle of girl its wonderful whirl, she subliminalled that I was agog at how her heavy tits were reverberate with her lovely laughter, and slowly pulled herself together, to give me two darkest browns reading my soul’s soul as she moved her sweet face and moist mouth my way, and shied her head to beg me kiss her.
“May I kiss you then Alenixa?” I asked like a sap.
“No!” she whispered, and danced herself away from me, laughter in her sparkling lanterns as she kept out of my way and made me know I would have to work a whole lot harder to earn such an honour after such a stupid start.
“It’s not as if we are really engaged”, Alenixa teased as she passed me the rings.
On my knees I could have been worshipping her. But in fact I was down there struggling to click the silver toe cuffs round her big toes. Alenixa herself worked the five conjoined solid-silver rings over her right hand’s slender fingers and thumb, and ditto the left, leaving me to close the wrist bands that held these in place via five silver chains over the backs of her hands, and then click closed the locking rings that fastened one thumb to the other, so she must hold the backs of her lovely hands on her beautiful butt.
“This is going to hurt sweetheart”, I muttered, as she bravely held her head high while I clipped closed the silver engagement ring for her nose. Its spiked ends bit into and through the septum between her nostrils.
As I put the heavy solid-silver chainmail maiden’s cap on her midnight tresses, she closed her eyes under the heavy weight of the dangling ball-ended links tapping on their upper eyelids – two before each eye - while I took its strap under her chin. These dangling swinging inter-knocking balls were an intentional threat to her pretty eyes when she moved, so she was wise to keep her top eyelids at all times demurely lowered.
The mouth mask came next. Its side chains drew over her own divine moist lips, their hinged moulded-silver counterparts. I drew each chain over Alenixa’s peach-soft cheeks and around behind her head, and fastened the clasp to hold the concave sculpted silver lips tightly over her own.
One chain ran from each side of the hinge in the silver lips. The upper lip had an elongated projection into the rear of Alenixa’s mouth: a projection studded with a multitude of down-pointing needle-sharp spikes, warning her that they were sharper than a girl’s tongue could ever be.
To hold the decorative lips in final place, via the holes in its silver, I drove two ruby jewel ended sharp pointed silver needles: one through her lower lip within its silver cover, and one through her upper lip through its silver cover. And then I topped and bottomed these off by screwing onto the needles’ threaded pointed ends, ruby jewel stops.
Alenixa’s lowered her eyes trying not to voice her pain. She could only talk now at the expense of having her tongue punished by the spikes that awaited its every lovely emotional wave.
The solid-silver chainmail neck-brace fitted perfectly around her swan-slim long slim sweet neck, which it was all I could do not to kiss before I drew it around to brace her queenly head in a firm forward-looking rigid hold. I took care with the multitude of leather straps that held the neck-brace in place, not to choke the angel.
I completed the adornment of her head with the inverted triangle shaped woven-wired-silver chainmail yashmak, over her nose mouth and with its down-pointed single ruby decorated apex, dangling just beyond her chin. It left a slit for her eyes between its top line and the dangling eye-tease-balls of the maiden’s cap. This gap I closed at the centre at the bridge of her nose with a hook that linked the yashmak to her chainmail cap at that point. She now peeked through elliptical gaps – the gaps her eye-tease-balls patrolled with their swinging stinging.
Alenixa’s upper eyelids remained half open. The weighty twin eye-tease-balls keeping her darkest-dark brown eyes submissively half closed. Alenixa lowered her eyes as an engaged girl of the Sessik-Caste from eastern India must before her future wife.
I gently reached up under the yashmak and attached the four-foot long silver chain to Alenixa’s nose ring – her engagement ring – the symbol of our pretend engagement – and she was ready.
“Please be gentle with me Charley”, Alenixa’s sweet mouth softly whisper-lisped as she gave me brave wide-open eyes, before lowering her eyelids once more to save her eyes themselves being beaten by the eye-tease-balls.
.............................
The progress from Alenixa’s hotel room was slow. She had not only to get used to it being her duty to at all times walk a minimum of three steps behind me when on her chain, but with her big toes being linked together by the silver toe cuffs, she had also to get used to wiggling along with the half-inch shuffle step which is all a Sessik-Caste bride-girl is allowed, soas her gait ain’t considered too alluringly lewd.
As we slowed across the hotel’s corridor to the elevator, even though it was intend NEPD expenses, I was sudden mind what leaving the Pretty-Cab on hold below must be clocking up dollar wise, and I heard a gasp of pain from Alenixa as I tried hurry.
“Sorry sweetheart”, I whispered.
“You shouldn’t be”, Alenixa’s warmed-honey enforced lisp coaxed from her silver lips and punished mouth, and I turned in surprise and instant saw what the Sessik-Caste dress code had done for her. In her crushed velvet gown Alenixa’s nipples were popped out like her tits had just shot bullets at my back. And she was blushing at this evidence of her natural feminine arousal, as if it was anything to be ashamed about.
.............................
When she was able to stop her mouth gaping, the girl driving the cab got the ramp out so that Alenixa could shuffle up it after me and put her pretty butt on its polished leather seat.
“Are you one lucky girl, or are you one lucky girl?” the cabess’ uninvited conversation began with me.
“I’m one lucky girl I guess”, I shot back polite but firm, “Say, we gotta be at the Imperious Hotel by 07.30. It’s 07.15 and two miles to go already. Do you got a whip to get the lead outta the asses of those leggies up front?”
“Don’t you worry none ma’am”, the cabess answered, as she flipped a wave in the white leather reins, down through the rings each side of the redhead ponygirls’ mouth bits: a pulse that travelled past their mouths and down the short reins tethered to the rings in the ponygirls’ nipples, so that the reins’ waves finally flickered through their tits, and the girls knew we, that is they, were to pull away.
She then brisked the reins again to pass a message to the ponygirls through their tits that their walk must become a trot. And the rhythmic pounding of brisk iron hooves, second only to the click of high heels as a clit please, sparked off the concrete of the road.
To avoid the converse I was not looking to have, I eyed up the ghost-white redheads with their hair drawn high at the back of their heads, through rings, to sky and then down like the elongated sparks from firecrackers. Their ponytails were now waving in the wind of our speed.
Their arms were behind their own backs held together by a single leather sleeve per girl tied light-tight with long laces, leaving their hands free. They were both making pretty fists in show of how determined they were to get their gorgeous legs going for us.
I took in that this Pretty-Cab was of the design where the girls hauled us along by individual slim stainless-steel shafts, with the girls stood upright and the shafts running six foot beyond the front of the cab, and ending between their thighs.
The shafts were then held at back of their butts by a strong chain dangling from rear of the bottom of their tight-laced white-leather waspie corsets, to solid rings welded top the shafts: a chain that held the shafts high in their crotches so that the coupling joint at which the shaft took a right angle upwards, kept the furthest ends of the shafts – their girl-bits – hard up their respective cunts.
“I see your a bit of a connasewer of ponygirl flesh then”, the cabess, who was as determined on conversation as she was on ogling Alenixa’s sensually exposed stockinged leg and gartered thigh, insisted as she saw my eye-line.
“You gotta mix discipline and contentment in equal measure? That’s my view. If’n you’re into the technical detail, I use the one-inch diameter knurled girl-bits. Not the iron ones. They rusty-up too much quickly soon as the girl gets a wet on. Ponygirls slaver a whole lot down there you know. Stainless-steel: ten-inches of knurled stainless: that keeps them purring and healthy.”
“Those there’s Nina and Mina. They’re first cousins? They cost me a fortune in sun-screen to keep them that natural redhead white. I got them catalogue. They came with their nipples ready ringed for to take the reins. They’d been trained to obey too, out there in Russia?”
“It was problem in my early days that. You know. What with no agreed international standard? I had a couple of French honeys before these two. But they’d been broken European way.”
“They was second-hand. I shoulda just bought this Pretty-Cab and let the ponies go market. But the complete kit seemed too good a bargain to miss. Their previous owner intended retire? I didn’t rip her off none. She got a good price. She’d made her dollar pile and was going to live coast.”
“I was young, just off the cab drivers’ course? Well, the Russians mostly agree with the good old USA, so these chicks were ready to go as soon as I got them out of the delivery crates. But those French honeys?! I tried all ways I knew and some I didn’t before, but they’d been learned-up European, and I just couldn’t get their tits to understand, and obey US standard messages”.
“No girlree! Once a girl’s been broken to pony and had her tits trained to obey reins a given way, they can’t be un-learned. No way, no matter what. You see, the girl’s tits get to remember what the reins tell her to do a certain way, so her mind no longer has to think none at all. So when she’s had her tits trained to reins one way, her tits can’t be retrained. By then it’s too late, because she’ll have had her spirit broke to make her pony, true pure girl that is, and consequent, she has to let her tits do the knowing and thinking, because it was her tits that did the learning, or she gets all skittish and confused, and becomes no use for pony no more. I’ve learned since it’s called ‘mammary memory’. I’ve read it’s become recognised problem among top veterinarians....”
I watched the cabess skilfully repeatedly flick the reins leading to the redheads’ right tits, and they obediently veered us right at the quickly upcoming junction. And we were advancing up Main and 69, when the cabess whisked the reins to signal through the reins all the way to both tits of both girls in unison, to be sure they’d trot us straight ahead again.
“You taught her who’s boss yet?” the cabess casualled.
“Who?” I asked, my mind distracted going over concern I was about to meet Lola again.
“Your fiancée......”
“.....There’s a catalogue in that pocket compartment on your right. You’re welcome take with you if you’re minded.”
“Even though I bought from them a year since gone, they keep pushing their sales crap in my mailbox”.
“I haven’t looked that one through yet. But it’s okay by me if you want to take it with you. I’ve already got all the whips I need.”
I turned to find Alenixa looking at me with her full-open brown eyes as if to say I should take the catalogue and buy the means to teach her how to be even more fully girl. Then she lowered her love lanterns, but continued to tell me I could teach her her place if I wished, by staring at me hard with her heavily stiff nipples.
.............................
The cabess’ call of “Whoa now honeys” as she pulled all four ponygirl tits up hard with the reins to tell them to stop, brought me back to the reality of what I was about to face.
As Alenixa to adore, her shy eyes looking constant floor, made so to do by the eye-tease-balls, shuffled dutifully in her half inch tiptoed steps behind me on the end of the chain linked to her nose-ring, I felt both proud and alone.
I was almost sorry Alenixa was dressed Sessik-Caste-bride-to-be, waiting the day all her silver raiment would be changed for same in gold. It made her a potent passport for a stay with her, and therefore with Lola, but it put her out of the game if trouble came. A girl with her hands thumb-cuffed behind her back ain’t much use when bush comes to glove, as the old saying goes.
There was no doubting we were right place. Right outside the Imperious was an easel with a big poster announcing a fund-raise for the gaoled Bonito Clyde. It gave direction to the February Suite on the fourteenth floor.
“Are you okay Charley”, Alenixa’s sweet voice, her tongue tortured to a lisp by the spikes in her lovely mouth, concerned to me.
“Sure kid: no probs”, I braved, knowing the angel expected me to be in charge.
In the elevator, I took Alenixa’s nose chain off her, kissed her where her left eye was shied. And she looked at me with nipples hard as diamonds once more.
“Charley you crafty old vixen! Good to see ya!” Lola greeted, her eyes only for Alenixa standing submissively behind me.
“Say: you got you one delish doll there Charley, yessirimento you do!”
“I got me fiancéed-up Lola. This sugar-babe is Alenixa? We gonna wedding traditional Sessik-Caste style over out India? Don’t you just love the engagement jewels?”
I sensed without looking where Alenixa stood dutifully three steps behind me, that she was glad her eye-tease-balls lowered her upper eyelids to shade her from the direct cruel stair of the gorgeous reverse-negress Lola: the albino negress Lola with her cruel pink eyes.
“She’s sure a honey-babe Charley! You’re one lucky girl! Me too, I got your sugar’s ident working secretary for me. English babes eh Charley! These days London’s got every shade of babe from babe to babe via babe. And they’re all so cute, talking the American language with that England accent like they do? You better believe it Charley.....”.
“It’s two thousand dollars a head: four for you with your gorgeous chick. It’s a fund-raise for my Bonito. We gotta get her out of Alclitras Charley. And that costs top lawyer, and top lawyer costs dollar dumpster loads. So don’t hesitate to generous-up above ticket Charley: you’ve got the dough I know, or have Ursa-Bows joined Lemon Sisters in the old collapserimento stakes eh?! eh?!” Lola teased as she brushed by.
“Oh, see my MC, Charley. He’ll show you your places!” Lola called as she busied with the next guests arriving.
I spotted ‘him’ immediately. The MC: the master of ceremonies? It was the gorgeous redhead Adrienne. Lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski. She was back in the role of ‘Hadrian’ once more.
Hadrian had her glorious red hair trimmed military short, slicked with mousse, and parted middle. She was in a black tailcoat with silk lapels, buttoned tight at her waif’s whiff of a midriff, with her cleavage and curves denying that this boy could ever be anything other than a girl.
She was no bra and her tits were having an away day, dancing for joy when she moved. The swallow-tailed tuxedo she filled, topped a micro-mini-skirt, buttoned down its front to where the proof she was definitely pure redhead, and as definitely a girl, could have both been crosschecked, but only one of the two, if she still kept it depilated reborn newborn smooth.
In her soft kid leather heelless ballets, Hadrian’s supremely white redhead’s complexioned legs, superbly strong and long, lissomed her tiptop pirouette-stood way our way.
She was still as knockout as I recalled. But when she came up to us, she made out no recall me, even when she got close enough for me to look into her sparkling greens, and audit her gorgeous freckles to be sure she’d misplaced none.
“Good evening ma’am. Good evening young lady. You must be Ms Moans and friend. Welcome both. Dinner will be served at eight-thirty. Places are marked at the table in the next room. If you’ll be so good as to take your chairs at least five minutes before we serve? Have you any particular dietary requirements?”
“Sure” I said, “The kid needs straw for her mountain-stream water.”
“We would be honoured to blendise fresh fruits for the little lady to drink straw...to go with the mountain-stream water.”
“That’ll be fine. Say, where’s a thirst find a quench round here?”
“May I pass your order on?” Adrienne as Hadrian polited.
“A large bourbon trickled over crushed-iced-French-girlpee?”, I requested.
“Certainly ma’am.”
I became aware of a disturbance. It was even more disturbing than watching Hadrian’s cleavage, mentalling that her tits seemed to be wanting to nod their own separate hellos. The disturbance was in the room, and the kind of disruption that can only be caused by a beautiful dame. Belanina had arrived.
Belanina had arrived and her gorgeous brown eyes were scanning the room to locate her twin sister, my Alenixa.
Belanina was temping as Lola’s girl. That was clear. No expense had been spared on Belanina’s evening gown. She was dressed Paris in what must have cost France.
Her jet black hair was tumbling torrent down her rear to below her bottom. It had been brushed to glow with a million stars on show as the glaring lights’ reflexions were refracted by its perfection.
She was upright on her supremely shapely legs in Persian-blue goat-skin heelless ballets, with real gold squared-off toe-ends on which she perched en-pointe with her calves compelling curves conspicuous in consequence.
The shoes apart, her legs were caressed by white seamed stockings the more opaque tops of which circumferenced strong thighs. Her translucent white waspie-corset caressed her slim waist without pressure, for this brown-complexioned English-Indian treasure was heedless needless of any artificial measure to ensure she was fully femininely curved.
The rest of Belanina’s dress was a confection of feathers: peacock feathers. Upward from the top of her waspie a six-peacock-plume array covered her heavenly heavy bosom display. Two feathers each side each breast took sides to hide her bare tits - one each in her cleavage and one each at their outside sides. A third larger plume apiece, with its peacock feather’s eye close inspecting spy on their perfection, hid her nipples’ shy brown-pink eyes.
Down rear from Belanina’s waspie, two huge peacock plumes trailed and failed bid to hide the firm coffee-brown half-moons of her darling side-dimpled derriere. And a third at front with another all-seeing Cyclops’ peeper, defied a glimpse of the angel nymph’s somehow guessed to be post-pre-puberty delicately depilated silken-smooth-lipped maiden’s slit.
Her raven hair was crowned with a diamond tiara from top centre of which there curved rear, another magnificent peacock plume.
But as Belanina graced the room all eyes pretended to be wise and advised not to contemplate the purpose of the garters Belanina wore around the darker shade of her shear nylon virgin white stockings’ thigh caressing tops. For upwards from the garters were peacock plumes en-mass, their length a clear choice so that they performed duty in covering the girlmost part of this gorgeous creature, while they must surely too have been chosen in design to constantly caress her intimately, for she clearly wore no panties and it must be en-prise for the upthrust feathers to brush its lips in tease and please with her every move and step.
As Belanina wiggled tippy-toe past me in her ballerina posed tiptop-of-tiptoe walk, the glow in her eyes, the fullness of her lips, and a brief glimpse of her distantly distended nips, told my practiced eye that her feather garb had had due regard to putting her mind and body on highest charge.
As shy as her sister though Belanina was, she loved all eyes being on her, and to admire her wonderful femininity was our honour.
“Oh my love!” Belanina cried with all her girly heart as she spied Alenixa and brushed her heady fragrance straight past me to kiss her equal beauty, Alenixa, on her yashmak in chaste sisterly greeting.
“Lola wants us to circulate together. You will won’t you darling? I’ve dined already. We can find you something later. I just adore that dress! You will come around with me won’t you Alenixa please? I’m so frightened on my own dressed like this”, Belanina’s sweet ever-wet lips pleaded.
My heart sank. I’d expected a Scotland Yard cop and some co-op. Instead I’d found that the cop had reverted to girl, and I was looking at a solo fight if Alenixa took the same flight. The effect on Alenixa of her caste’s engagement gear, showed how fem she was too. So it was a dollar to a dime her girlness would win through. But......
“I’m with Charley”, to my relief, I heard Alenixa lisp.
“But I’m so wanting you’d come around with me. Please darling.”
I now wondered if chance for note swap between English cop and English cop was Belanina’s intend. So I released Alenixa’s thumb-cuffs and gave her my permiss to go off with her twin sister miss.
.............................
A sweet chick wiggled toward yours truly with my drink on a tray. The same rectangular silver tray, strapped around her back like a bra, and held horizontal by another single strap anchored each outside-end of it, running around her neck, carried her bare tits on display. My French girlpee iced bourbon was in a glass ‘tween them.
These dolls in their black French maid’s micro-dresses, fishnet stockings, sin black suspenders, and six-inch stilettos, were hobble-chained, three-inch-of-links, at their ankles, to sure they were slow and inefficient, and had their slender wrists girlackled behind them too. They wore no panties so the room was peppered with the crack of hard slaps after they had curtsied and proffered a drink at last to lap, as their naughtiness was communicated by their customers to their lovely ass.
With no partner no more, I was a drift-in to find my place name, and take seat for the feast. Looking round I saw masks worn by some guests. Lola had power. She’d sown political seed. She had bouts of make believe her past was past and her bankroll not from bankrobs.
I was recognise the mayor and her mayoress. The masks worn were time waste. You were easy recognise who was behind them. But purpose was they signalled mouth-hush. And since they failed not to reveal who wore them, at least they were tell who you were to be hush about.
I chose the vegetarian courses, but was not enthuse about eat. Sure the food was the best of the best, but I was distract.
Belanina and my Alenixa were come back in and circulate. And now both gorgeous dolls had hair worked serpent snake, and both were plumed up feathers like only Belanina had been before, and both were in Sessik-Caste pure silver engagement gear. And that ‘tween them there was no-way recognise, was second thought to realise that Belanina’s adoption of the pre-wedding outfit, could mean she was really engage.
I was, for sure, hope this was only fancy dress chance taken. The thought Belanina had gone girl and taken Lola’s ring through her pretty nose was my mission’s total blow, if it was so.
My whole scheme was falling apart. I was recognise truth. I’d come into this with no proper plan. I’d gone in to try and get Belanina out so she could bless the witness box with her pretty feet. But if Belanina had gone native I was looking at defeat. My armour was already holed. My amour, Alenixa, had left my side and with her had gone my passport for a stay at the end of the day.
I was not relax. I ordered another bourbon on iced girlpee, and was realise a pretty chick next to me was talk had I been listen. She was the mayor’s wife and she was ask about Wall Street in a short tongued lisp that was so sweet. So I turned and chatted to honey-blonde hair and brown eyes and found I could spin yarn good as any actress to keep my disguise wise.
Side-of-eye I kept watch on Belanina and Alenixa. They tip-top-tiptoed around in leggy display sweetening the day of the guests they were taking turns to turn to and stand outstandingly behind their chairs. Soft lisps from soft lips shyly enquired of each guest if the guest had all they required.
The pain for the tongues of the twins was certain from the spiteful spikes that filled their mouths, but they displayed sweet obedience to the gathered crowd. Hands thumb-cuffed behind them, I was aware as I watched that both girls were high tensioned teased to please by the feathers that tickled and tormented their girlmost part, for they bent to display a shy of beautiful bosom when they leant forward to swing the eye-tease balls away from their glowing eyes to sincere their wonder to the guest they stood beside.
The more I watched, the more I was sure that they had both gone girl. A glimpse of their swollen nipples when they stood next the mayors chair, told me they’d been sured hot by the peacock plumes feathering their nests, as tiptoe in their ballets around the room they made trot with their sheer loveliness.
“Hi Charley”, they whisper lisped in complete unison when they reached my chair. And then, despite the pain for their tongues, fell into gorgeous giggles with realise they had spoken two as one instead of twice.
I was eye on their titties as they tinkled giggle gold, and I saw their nipples were bigger than bold and told what the feathers torment had tolled.
Both girls saw where I was sly, and sweet-shy-innocent bent lower to give me fuller eye.
Belanina took chance to cross thigh as she stood. I’d been notice Belanina was keep slowing in her walk almost to stop. The abundant peacock plumes pushing up from her high thigh garters and caressing her slit with her every step were clearly making her very juicy. Guess was she was wetter than an Amazon jungle weekend.
She was adore parading herself centre of all attention so near nude, all eyes on her legs her cleavage and the rest her gorgeous body, and all minds know what the peacock feathers thrusting up from the garters hid and were for. As she blessed the floor in her tiptop-tiptoe ballets, I’d have won bet dollar she was fight-off constant verge orgasm.
Alenixa too seemed delighted by her sister’s enticement and to find excitement in being the twin, as naughtily dressed and enjoying equally alluring leering exposure, and equal sin.
“Do you think naughty girls should be spanked Charley?” a sweet lisp whispered musically to my ear. And four gorgeous calf’s eyes above two silver yashmaks waited on my reply with a look Gemini, that said I could slap them around anytime I was minded.
But I was then sudden realise the question was from the mayor’s wife. And I was embarrass blush as I answered her and listened to the twins girly gaggle of golden giggles as they passed on to next guest.
A whiles later, spoon on glass and all attention called to Hadrian, whose sweet voice was announce ticket sale two thousand dollar again for special event. ‘No ticket no go’ meaning no stay. And a bevy of the French maids were behind her. And she was add, that these lovelies with their tits on display on their silver trays, were ticket sell. And a by-the-way that they were lactate, and, as we could see, equipped for two customers at a time, if’n we mind suck girl-milk straight from the tit.
I was look at the mayor’s wife and we were agree, without talking, that we’d ticket up.
Expenses were running beyond expectation here. But I was owe Kismet to find some way to make her day by coming up plan, despite it all going astray, so far and so far from where I’d been at out start.
Kismet had said a ‘no’ to gambling expenses. But sudden thought was, hey, this here upcoming was surely gambolling! And, at that, I pulled out my Amex and was remember my PIN, and I relaxed that the NEPD would pay for my sin.
“Girl-milk straight from my tit ma’am?” the blushing French maid dressed redhead doll curtsying before me enquired.
“There’s hygienic wet wipes for my nipples on my tray” she informed, in case I was too distracted to notice.
“I’m still plenty full ma’am”, she added with concern to satisfy, after I’d remarked that she seemed to have been particularly popular, while I eyed over the two enormously gorgeous reasons why: reasons that protruded well beyond the silver salver on which they were served up as platter matter in proffered offer.
I handed my Amex to her companion whose hands were free, did the deed deal and was handed a ticket in turn for whatever was to come.
Meanwhile the mayor’s wife, who was previous already pay, was wiping the milkmaid’s right nipple ready for me. She was already suckling eagerly on the girl’s left tit when I began to tongue her right to encourage it to seep.
As I sucked nipple and licked encouragement to keep her flow primed, the comforting warm sweet nectar slowly rolled over my tongue and mind. And I was awayed back to before I could recall, and love from the beating heart at my life’s new start, and eyes gazing down protective and gentle. And time in its brevity became endlessly long, and I longed this heaven to eternity’s eternity to prolong, till time had lost measure in the depth of my pleasure. And I was forget and forego all externalities, and my eyes closed and I awayed in dream that I was falling asleep in the comfort of being given pap in embracing arms above a long lost comforting lap.
“Oh please ma’am, and ma’am please, there are other customers waiting for my tits.... please, please ma’am and ma’am”, the sweet milkmaid distressfully reminded us both.
Her apology was one she had had to make to all who had taken tit with her, their longing as well as their thirst to slake. As she had circled in the cause of proffering tit she was know that she was dispensing more than milk of course, and it hurt the sweetheart’s sweet soul to have to remind customer, that despite her gentle heart, eager lips and the nurturing nirvana nature of her nipples, and their warm fluid flow, must forever part.
.............................
Cognac was circling table. Cigars and lighters had magically located themselves in front of all the girls there who wore tux and tie like me.
The truth of their arrival was, of course, the efficiency of the French maid outfitted serving girls: the ones with their hands free.
I was notice there were no seats made vacant by leavers. So ticket sales must have gone great guns for whatever Lola had lined up by way of extra fun.
Belanina and Alenixa had done their duty of letting all Lola’s guests have close look at their astonishing beauty.
Lola was stood awaiting chance speech of thanks.
The lucky albino with the bitter pink eyes, had the outstanding twins standing beside her, one each side. And it was easy tell which must be Belanina, because that honey, insofar as she could with her Sessik-Caste neck brace in place, was head on Lola’s shoulder to show her love was no mistake.
“Ladies.......!”
“Ladies........!!”
“If you please ladies....!”, Hadrian’s soft clear soprano called, in her role as master of ceremonies.
“Thank you ladies. Lola, our wonderful host, needs no introduction beyond that phrase. You have all gathered here for a cause. A cause our host has led tirelessly, despite all problems and every sacrifice. Ladies, with her speech of thanks, please listen to our marvellous host.....Lola.....”
“Thank you Hadrian, your kind words are so heart-warming. How grateful I am ladies and ladies, that I have in support of me such praiseworthy honest, and let’s not deny it, such a handsome young man as Hadrian!”
Amid a cacophony of wolf-whistles appreciate of the wonderfully feminine redheaded Adrienne as Hadrian, we all applauded, many by slapping the dining table, while Hadrian blushed and lowered her shy head.
“It will surprise no-one who knows me, to hear that I am all heart”, Lola began.
That was followed by silence. Nobody would dare by voice, cough, or any expression of face other than in a straight stare state, let alone escape of giggle or snort less alone talk, to dispute the truth of Lola’s intro.
An outta space translate would have been know that the silence said as much as any response out loud. But Lola was relaxedly lubricated by alcohol, and let it pass by, because she didn’t even read what it implied.
As Lola spoke though, Belanina risked the baubles banging on her eyes, by a look at Lola that said more than any sighs.
“You’ve generoused up so wonderfully tonight’ ladies and ladies, that we must be halfways to afford of the lawyers that my partner...I nearly said ‘partner in crime’.....”
There was another total silence, till we in the audience were realise we were supposed to be amused at Lola’s little joke, and dutifully laughed...at a length and volume that gave away we were striving a tad too hard to please.....
“.....that my partner, Bonito Clyde, will be sured of the legal support she needs to mount an appeal, so as to get her out of the hellhole that is Alclitraz!”
We all applauded lengthily.
“Meanwhiles, I have to gratitude up this little miss at my side......”
Wolf-whistles louder than even the gorgeous Hadrian had attracted, echoed off the walls as Belanina, it must surely be, bowed her body so shy, that she gave us generous eye of both her creamy-coffee tits all the way to her dark brown nips, and the whistles and table slapping began anew.
And while we were all appreciate of girl, I was notice that Lola was cigar light, Hadrian was at her side and behind Belanina, and two of the French maids with free hands were hanging around.
Lola held up a hand to save lovely Belanina’s tear-near blushes of pride that her wonder was recognise.
“But the little bitch thinks I want her in a wedding bed, and has been giving me the ‘no’ every day in every ways. She thinks we’re engaged! That’s what all the garb she’s in is about.
Lola puffed on her cigar while Belanina eyes wide let out the saddest cry.
“Bend the slut over the table Hadrian, and see how wet she is!”
‘Hadrian’, who was lovely Adrienne, did as she was ordered. Belanina was pushed forward onto the dining table, her soft firm breasts pressed onto its unyielding hardness, her aroused nipples seeking to scribe signature on love’s contract twice, sliding across its smooth polished teak, her arms still thumb-cuffed at her back, as Hadrian, who had forced her there, ran an enquiring finger along Belanina’s salivating crack.
Lola then looked at the fluid evidence drying on Hadrian’s forefinger.
“Well lookermerento the monsoon is early this year!” Lola gritted ‘tween her teeth, as we watched fascinated. And I was probably not alone in finding my panties wet.
Lola casually puffed up her cigar once more and nodded to Hadrian to grip Belanina’s nearest upper-arm tight, and reached down with her cigar alight, and we watched sweet Belanina’s eyes as while she crossed her legs at her knees, we listened to the hiss and her pitiful scream as the cigar kissed her innocent tight lips, but was denied by their guard praetorian’s protection of her pink, from the depths of depravity Lola intended Belanina to sink. But then her scream became sexual sigh, as she awaited more pain while Lola cigar patiently relit. And we watched Belanina her lovely long legs slow but sly-eagerly part, as if she knew what was coming was both end and start. And we were witness that true girl was in her deepest heart and its ultimate representative part. She was girl and her mind had surrendered to sunder and the plunder of her love so moistly expressed under and between her sentinel thighs. And Lola deliberately slowly delivered her lit cigar inside there where. And Belanina’s tongue-tearing scream was drowned by the sizzling sound as the hot cigar seared flesh and lit the flame of desire, while Belanina’s eyes grew wide with terror and surprise, and her supreme sensitivity told her she was ablaze, and that a tongue licked where no girl’s sweet lips had even yet kissed this wonderful miss. A tongue of flame had been lit in the rim of the ring. Her hymen was aglow with fire only less strong than the girl’s desire. And the cigar withdrawn to heighten its flame again, she was free to dampen the blaze within her. And her juices flowed to pour on and put out the flame. But her lips, their doors did not close as she was realise they must, despite her screams of agony, and the juices of her lust unless..... For unless her lips closed ranks to cut off the fuelling air, her hymen would be gone never to regain. She must dampen her desire and extinguish the flame. But her beautiful thighs stayed as parted as when she had been by the cigar plundered, though she was slowly burning from girl to woman, her god’s wedding ring a Catherine-wheel of crawl-circling fire. Belanina’s innocence at the doorway of her heaven, was burning away, even as her tongue was ripped by the spikes in her mouth and her screams and her shouts, the fire slowly seared to leaven her woman where once and never more again would or could she be girl. Her maidenhead was being taken in the pain of the flame that was consuming slowly its excruciating path around her hymen’s circumference. Her maidenhead was being consumed in a consummation of fiery agony. She was being raped by the fire and deprived of that she had saved for her holy wedding day. Her innocence and her girlhood were burning away, till at last the returned cigar could take the full path, pass past her holy ring no longer there or thus able to ape sphincter. And the slow hiss of its dousing in Belanina’s boiling juices, as she was cauterised as newly arrived woman, filled the pin-drop silent room. And in her pain she lifted one leg till its calf was formed in such balletic curve, it was clear to all that heaven’s will had been observed. And Belanina’s maiden’s blood trickled inside her other thigh, curled curve with her lovely calf bye and bye, and then dripped drop, to portray her betrayed innocence spread pool on the floor. And the released Belanina slumped knees down sliding in her girlhood’s blood, and lowered her head to worship at Lola’s feet, as woman in the highest state as the girl had in her stead, before she had been deflowered with the fire needed for the woman to know what a girl can only require, the real true single oneness of body mind and soul of the cunt’s role in female desire.
A silence....and then a burst of such loud whistles jeers cheers and applause as to have drowned in sound every earlier round to which we had had recourse, bounded off the walls floor and ceiling of the room.
Of course I was mind sweet Alenixa. And I was about to rise table from, to claim my pretend fiancée back, when the lady mayor’s wife bid me stop in my seat. And truth tell I was not too much persuade need.
Lola was nod to Hadrian, who wiggled her long legs over to where Alenixa was stare at her sister, still slump on the floor kicked aside by Lola. Alenixa had look in her eyes that her eye-tease-balls was hide when she demurely looked down.
Lola held up hand to quieten us down.
“That’s one of these bitches shown her place. But this one’s still got something to tell us....!”
I was instant fear Lola had sussed Alenixa and her twin were cop, and that that was why she’d slapped Belanina so hard. But Lola’s words had only referred to Alenixa so I swept my fears aside.
“You got something you want to tell us honey?” Lola menaced pushing her face with its cruel eyes right into Alenixa’s yashmak masked face, causing Alenixa to back away, even as Hadrian handed Lola a knife for Lola to slice off Alenixa’s garters in slow deliberate turn, and then the peacock plume down from Alenixa’s waist waspie that acted as the front of her feather plumed dress.
And then Lola threw the knife aside, and went behind Alenixa, grabbed one of her slim brown pretty arms, and pushed her forward, while we all astonished gasped; and then silence, before we all began to laugh and shout and stomp and thump the dining table, and holler and compete to find the crudest cruellest call to make Alenixa’s shame complete, as Lola had hold of the arms of the gorgeous English cop and was parading her around to show the world that Alenixa, lovely Benicia’s otherwise identical twin, had got a cock!
“Yesirimento Charley, you’re one lucky girl to have gotten engaged to such a gorgeous chick, a girl with such a beautiful dick”, and Lola gave Alenixa’s cock a hard flick with her free hand, and then slapped it again side to side, and made the poor girl walk among us to make it a game. And Alenixa, already aroused by the treatment of her sister, her passion momentarily doused by her being so cruelly exposed, responded to the slapping, and her cock rapidly rose till it stood with its head throbbing fully tall as her navel’s height. The laughter and humiliation continued its cruelty. The guests took turns to slap Alenixa’s cock like it was a gymnasium punch-ball. Each with a partner, like the mayor and her wife, took sport in urging each other on to give it the hardest yet swipe. And I could see from Alenixa’s walk as she was forced to circulate us all, with Hadrian holding her to stop any reluctance, said that Alenixa was enjoying this all, as the sound of her cock being slapped and the cheer that followed, echoed off the walls. When it came to my turn I didn’t hold back, I gave Alenixa’s dick the hardest cruel swack, and watched as it took the punch and bounced straight back. So I smacked it once more the other way and watched it sway and spring back upright right away. Then I slapped it again with all my might, before Alenixa was dragged away for it to be the next girl’s lot to slap poor sweet Alenixa‘s distended extended cock, and I must wait another turn when Alenixa had been forced around the room and returned, or so I was hope. But when Alenixa had done the one round, and had had her cock slapped by us all around, and it still stood stiff and tall, Lola had Alenixa stand before us all, and let her bruises and their pain register clearly, before, as we all chanted, she was brought round for more cock slapping again. But Lola had other plan. She dragged Alenixa’s deflowered sister onto the floor before Alenixa, and we watched as Hadrian’s pretty hand fisted the root of Alenixa’s cock and jerked her foreskin savagely hard, and faster, and faster, and harder still, with Hadrian in the role of Alenixa’s love-boat’s coxswain, till Alenixa screamed with the pain, but still bucked and doubled-up as she fought but could not stop orgasm’s gain, and jerked with the spurts of her white-hot sperm over her twin sister dame.
.............................
All I recall of next was recognising a stun grenade and covering my ears and opening my mouth to balance air pressure when it blew.
The doors flew open and a dozen fit shapely dames with their free-flowing tits filling coal-black leotards, in leg-caressing six-inch-heeled patent-leather knee boots, their hair ranging brunette to blonde and back via redhead and black, drawn up in ponytails under their black reversed baseball caps, and their pretty faces uniformly serious to show that, sexy as hell though they might be, they would take no crap, burst in with their pistols drawn from their thigh-tied side-holsters, and ordered everyone to “Freeze!”
Even if it was not read said in big bold white on the back of their leotards and also just decipherable front, despite distortion from their gorgeous tits: ‘S.W.E.E.T.’ - as an ex cop, I was obvious that this was the SWEET squad: the Special Women’s Expedited Enforcement Team, a select bunch of the bravest honeys, trained up by the Special Girl Service commando of the US Marines: a roving detachment of the NEPD’s very finest.
.............................
I got debrief a week later from Kismet Lipps herself. Lola and Adrienne had made escape. Holding Lola was a no go anyway. She’d committed no misdemeanour let alone a crime that could be proved. The tapes Belanina had wheedled to win, would still be with Lola, and no doubt discovered and destroyed. There’d been a microphone and camera in a look-alike for a ruby dangling down at Alenixa’s chin, below bottom her Sessik-Caste silver engaged-girl’s yashmak.
With Alenixa and Belanina being English dames, New Edingow’s state governor had been concern international incident, so she had released some dollar to have the SWEET squad on standby while I gave infiltration another try.
Kismet was conclude I’d done my best, but it looked like lieutenant Adrienne Kowalski’s police pension payments would be cease. It didn’t seem like she was a prodigal daughter probable no more.
And then we shook hands, Kismet and me, with Kismet’s parting remark that there was no hurry get my expenses claim in.
.............................
A full month down line, I was two-finger tapping PC key, when Sam put hand my shoulder from behind and was say: “I think your ugly pug’s dead grandma has come to see ya”, with a grin and a follow-up giggle that said she knew I’d been lie when I used that describe, and was all forgive as Sam always was.
I still wasn’t going to be admit. So I made casual, and took time nexting neighbour room. And what I saw made me wish I’d hurried. My English angel was looking total dish. My eyes spied she was sky-rocket-high in heelless white soft leather ballets in which she stood so casual while I ogled the white seamed stockings her lovely legs fulfilled, right up to half-thigh, where they were held high and grasped by the silver clasps of the frilly lace decorate of her white suspender’s suspenders. Two achingly smooth beautiful acres of her bare brown thighs were slowly crossed by my hungry eyes, till the hem of her charcoal-grey miniskirt worn low on her slender hips. Her bare midriff with her navel giving me the cutest smile from the middle of a belly as flat as she was fit, then the knot in which she had tied the tails of her white shirt at bottom her ribcage. Her shirt was undone bar for one button in the summer heat, and filled to bursting all bar, by wonderful breasts unconstrained and never trained by any bra. Her hair was straight black curtain, half over left shoulder down to beyond her butt, and half hiding right breast down to her stocking top at front, and from its being endlessly brushed with the finest finesse, the stars and moon both shimmered through its deep-space black. Her two darling brown eyes glowed with love that her sweet mouth smiled to confirm.
“We’re off back to England, Charley....We....I.... I couldn’t go without saying goodbye and a thank you......”, her soft voice whispered, as she extended the prettiest of long slim fingered slender tender hands for me to shake.
But I was see that her mouth wanted give even more sincere thanks. And she sighed no protest as I seized her waist and took her surprise, pulling her falling forward off her tiptop-tiptoed feet, bent tumbled helplessly prey into my longing arms, as the scent of her hair set my fires aflame, and her face found mine, and her dark brown love lights closed to express her desire’s need, and my lips closed on hers, but found them virginally tight purse poesy posed, till I explored with my eager tongue-tip and heard her hum-moan assent that I should take her mouth, and I slid her passionate lips apart, and took my tongue to the deepest depths of her, and she clung close with her wet mouth in infinite multiplicity of answer, and the inside of her beautiful stocking caressed left thigh slid over mine to show that she was open and eager and all her body was en prize. And I felt the silken smooth soft muscular firmness of the bare hot flesh of the outside of the thigh with which she had signalled her surrender, and lowered it gently down to signify my significant intent, as she redoubled the passion of her kiss and held my head in both her lovely hands, her long loving fingers interwoven with my hair. And I took my longing by hand to the inside flesh of her stood thigh, and she slowly crossed her legs and stopped my pry, before she eased back, her eyes dazed and glazed by the supreme sincerity of a girl’s love, while she straightened her hem and a stocking top, and then embraced my head with her hands again while holding her legs soldierly closed together in their tip-of-tiptoes shapeliest stance, as her sweet mouth whispered in my ear: “You adorable brave honey!” as words sincere she knew I longed to hear.
Then she drew back and held my hands by the finger tips, and began to giggle and please with a tease and her lips a sultry sulky gently laughing petulant pout: “I hope you weren’t disappointed just now Charley”.....then she gave me her full lovely laughing dark browns, and held my hands tighter with a brief squeeze to show that her love was still full bore girl: “I hope you were disappointed just now Charley not......my sister is the one with a cock!”
And my sixth sense turned me to see a vision in triangle wedge platform shoes with her big toes chained together by a half-inch-step-hobble, virgin white stockings caressing the contours of supremely shapely legs, wearing a dress that was clearly Paris and must have cost France: a concoction of peacock’s plumes strategically placed, those sweeping up from the garters around her thighs not least. Her hands were submissively behind her back, and a guess they were thumb-cuffed would not be in lack. She wore a gold-wire-weave yashmak from which a diamond dangled from its down-pointed end. Her raven black hair was plaited seductive snake, her long swan neck was in a woven-gold-wire embrace. Her head was crowned with a woven wire gold cap from which dangling baubles that could swing into her glorious brown eyes, making wise the sweet submissive downcast of their upper lids.
My eyes could not help but admire Belanina’s legs as she stepped softly, blessing the floor of my outer office with her balletic grace, till she took up the four-foot long gold-wire-weave chain that I just knew led to a gold ring through the peacock plumed angel’s nose above her gold metal false lips, and the down-facing spikes of gold above her sweet tongue.
Taking her sisters lead chain in gentle hands, Belanina turned to me once more, performing a leggy pirouette to present her smile again.
“You see Charley, when Lola raped me from girl to woman, I came. The loss of virginity, let alone a cum, is condemnation for a Sessik-Caste girl such as I. I can never now marry a Sessik husband-girl and be her bride; her family would forbid it; so I had to decide. And then my wonderful sister, sweet Alenixa, kissed me and agreed she will be at my side all my life.....or rather the three paces behind throughout, that is the proper place for a Sessik-Caste wife.....For her loss at Lola’s hand, or rather that of Lola’s handmaiden, Alenixa has been forgiven by me for spurting her sperm, just the same as she has forgiven my burning rape. And Alenixa will now serve always and only my needs, and, as in Sessik law it is bidden, will hence forward and forever a cum be forbidden.....”
“Goodbye Charlie, you dear darling!”, Belanina whispered before her shining wet lips blew me a kiss, and as she led her lovely twin sister into the future’s mists.....
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
The Girl Next Door
Synopsis: - The Barnmouth Downs, a particularly bucolic region of the English coastal county of Barnmouthshire, at some future time when.....
The Girl Next Door
by Eve Adorer
<Scene 1>
Sir Stannet Argoyle-Farquar made his considerable fortune from the export of un-moneyed, unmarried, and thus unwanted, upper-class English girls, specifically broken and trained for riding as polo ponies. Argentina was a key market. He is now in retirement in a country mansion once owned by a family obliged to put it on the market in order to raise money to pay death duties. Nearing seventy-five, he is married to the former socialite Georjayna Bannhorten-Durling, a stunningly attractive negress considerably less than half his age. Despite all gossip to the contrary, centring on the disparity in their ages, and the accusation that Georjayna had only married Sir Stannet for his money, as well as to avoid the destiny of herself being broken to become a polo-ponygirl, there is no doubting their love is mutual and strong. They have a visitor......
......Their visitor stands on their stone doorstep. She is dressed in a comfortable white cable-knit roll-neck woollen sweater long enough to entirely cover her buttocks. But she has thrown it on casually, so its hem slants. She is in flared blue jeans with removed bicycle clips in one of their tight front pockets. Her slip-on shoes, mud splashed after a sudden early-summer rain shower just before she’d started out, look new. Her shoulder-length hair is windblown. As substitute for a comb, she grooms herself with long slim dextrous fingers which swiftly become entwined in her delight of flame red natural and naturally impossible curls.
The door-chime was silent. She wonders if it knelled somewhere too deep in the huge house to be heard where she waits.....or whether it is even connected......and if she should pull the weird old ‘lavatory chain’ handle down again......Then the door opens.....
“Do come in my dear....Meloyna isn’t it?”
“Melina”
“Do come in Meloyna”
[Melina looks behind her] “What a beautiful view”
“Yes: we were so lucky to find this place. Geographically we’re slap-bang in the middle of the Barnmouthshire Downs. You’d never get planning permission to build here these days. But back in the seventeenth century.....I’ll show you the view from the windows upstairs if you like....you can see Barnmouth Cathedral’s steeple from up in the west tower, miles away.....on a clear day.....well, almost......
........Do come in.....This will be the room where most of the hard work will be done. I’m ‘Sir Stannet’ by the way....in case you were wondering....”
“Hello Sir Stannet”
“Hello Meloda”
“Melina”
“Sorry.... Melo.... I mean Meleeena.....got it right this time eh!”
“The cheque has gone through and I’m ready, though I’ve never gone quite so far..... a playful spanking from my girlfriend that sort of thing.......Blustery day: my hair’s a complete mess.....Georjayna....Lady Argoyle-Farquar I mean, I thought mentioned a barn?....”
“Oh no: it was always to be in the house.....mostly in this room. We couldn’t be more isolated...there’ll be no noise problems....even if our little device doesn’t work, as I’m sure it will.......
.......It’ll start in here and end up outside of course....This early summer is on a promise to last.....It’s been so hot of late..... Back then the lord of the manner could build what he pleased where he pleased. The buildings are grade-one listed since way back. That means we’re almost not allowed to sneeze indoors or out without having got planning permission first.....!”
“You want me fully depilated?”
“Yes. Will that be a problem?”
“Oh no, not at all; I have a full body waxing regularly, including.....including there of course....”
“And the other little thing?........Oh just look at me! What a retched host I am. May I offer you a drink: a sherry perhaps? We have a sweet amontillado if that’s to your taste. We bought a dozen bottles from a little man in a village miles off the tourist track.... miles from our Spanish villa too...... just outside Jerez....the little vintner.... and we sneaked them through English customs without paying a penny in duty. Aren’t we just so wicked?!”
“The other thing will be okay too...But it’ll dictate the timing....”
“Of course....May I get you that sherry?”
“You’re very kind, but I only ever drink mountain spring water...”
“Ah yes: only water to drink: and you live entirely on fresh fruit I hear...Georjayna said....”
“Oh yes; I’m your original organic girl......A girl has to look after her figure!.......
.......About the makeup?”
“Ah yes”
“How would you like the makeup?”
“Georjayna and I thought, maybe, you’d be entirely natural?”
“No makeup you mean?”
“No makeup please....That drink? ........Oh...listen to me.....I’m so sorry, I forgot you already said no...”
“No thank you Sir Stannet.....It’s difficult to look one’s best with no makeup. Not even lipstick and a little blusher...?”
“No makeup would be the ideal. Unless it’s a problem....”
“No, of course not.... at least, not as long as nobody minds freckles!”
“You....if I may say.....you don’t look as big as I was led to believe...You’re very lovely....those darling russet curls...and freckles are perfectly enchanting....”
“Thank you!”
“......But I thought you’d be...you know....bigger.....”
“I’m five foot four in these flatties...I mean when I’m not wearing shoes with heels on.....”
“No I was meaning.....”
“What?.... Oh, oh my chest!? .....I’m not wearing...... I never wear a bra....a brassiere.....This sweater makes me look...it’s a bit heavy....thick wool.....I’m not at all flat...far from it, believe me!”
“It’s such a lovely day. I’d have thought you’d be out with your boyfriend”.
“I had this appointment with you...”
“Of course you did. Please excuse....I’m never with-it this early in the morning....”
“Then I’m off to the gym ....then aerobics and swimming.....tennis this afternoon....And I don’t do boys. Did Georjayna not say? Lots of men are turned on by that sort of thing. I’ve never...well.... you know.....why and that.....but I suppose I can....if I try.....”
“There’ll be a doctor there.....”
“You must get what you’ve paid for...Honestly, it’s a lot of money.....You’ve read my blog....Georjayna....Georjayna reads my blog?....It’s to pay the debt I ran up for my degree?....But the money is mainly for my....for our wedding? So we can afford to marry and put a deposit on somewhere to live ‘happily ever after’ as they say in the stories.....A....a place in the village.......my girlfriend.....my fiancée.....we both live.....we’ve both always lived in Kinklebe......”
“It is okay for my Janatha..... my fiancée Janatha to be there? She won’t get in the way. She’s as quiet as a mouse. But she can’t afford what Georjayna.....the price.....a ticket?......And I promised she could.....see.......watch.....see it live..... rather than wait to watch the edited filming on O-bey?”
“Of course dear.....But....er.... has er....has Georjayna said it’s okay......?”
“She has...She did.....”
“Well, that’s that taken care of then isn’t it....?......
........I’ve made the preparations. I was always a dab hand at handy-work....handy craft... ‘do it yourself’.....Saves a fortune when you’re running a place like this, with tradesmen charging so much these days....though I’m not getting any younger......”
“Shall I ring you then, when I know I’m.....when I....when.....when it’s.....?”
“Georjayna”
“Ring Georjayna?”
“That’s right dear”
“Well, I think that’s it.....”
“Don’t you want to look at the preparations....they’re all in place?”
“No...No thank you Sir Stannet....I’ll be being told what....well....that’s how it will go won’t it?”
“Yes...yes I suppose it will rather.....Let me see you out....Oh but what about that sherry?”
“No thank you Sir Stannet....I have my bicycle to ride.....mustn’t get wobbly....end up in a ditch or something silly........I’ll see you on....when.....I must go....my daily gym session?.....”
“You take care then.... Morana.....”
“Melina....”
“Melina of course.....You take care Mor......you take care dear....”
“Thank you Sir Stannet....”
<Scene 2>
“Stannie!?!........Oh there you are...”
“In the kitchen Georgie....as usual. Had a good ride darling?”
“It’s blowing out there.....I must.....my hair’s a complete mess. I took ‘Long-Legs’......Jenny for a trot....Came across Lady Barnmouth.....Rode out that way for a change.....Lovely blossom in the orchards......I mean Lady Barnmouth’s wife: Faustina.....the lovely negress.....she was on a little ethnic-Chinese filly ’Ying-Yang’ or some such.....She’s not up to it you know..... Long-Legs I mean......I mean I was so constantly having to use my spurs on her thighs........What have you been up to?......that smells perfectly delish!
“A little treat for luncheon......We had a visitor.....”
“Would that be the little tart I saw on a bicycle she couldn’t ride properly? What did she want?.......I do wish you’d let Sistina take care of things in here Stannie.....I mean, what are we paying a chef for?......”
“Egg collecting....”
“Sorry?”
“Sistina.....I thought you might like a nice big new-laid egg for breakfast.....”
“What did she want?”
“Sistina?”
“No, the slut on the bike.....”
“She wasn’t a slut Georgie....pretty little thing with naturally curly hair and sparkling green eyes....”
“Ah.... Melina.....the redhead from the village?
“Yes...I think that was it.... charming little freckles......”
“Aha! Stannie!!....You were quite taken then?.....Did you notice that she has a very big pair?”
“I think she fell for my charm, like they all do.......And she didn’t look that big to tell you the truth...”
“You?!.....Charm?!”
“I won you didn’t I Georgie?”
“I was only teasing darling.....Have you seen Bolynda around, I want her to bathe me.....”
“Egg collecting....”
“Bolynda not Sistina, Stannie.....”
“Egg collecting with Sistina....”
“What two of them?!.....Goodness me! Am I expected to bath myself now!?”
“I don’t suppose they’ll be too long now darling.....”
“I should think not....Honestly Stannie.....Bloody two of them!.....And she’ll come back stinking of hen-shit I shouldn’t wonder....Where’s Leanara, or is she egg collecting too?
“Well: now you come to mention it.....”
“Oh god! Stannie!!”
“Just pulling your leg Georgie.....I haven’t seen Leanara this morning...she must be around somewhere....”
“How did it go with Melina?”
“Fine”
“Stannie.....darling, do tell your little wifey.....what does ‘fine’ mean exactly?”
“Fine! She’s an excellent choice.....She seemed happy....”
“I should bloody think so, the amount she’s been paid....
.......Did you show her around.....let her see your.....the arrangements......”
“Yes and no....”
“Darling; I do love you so....but please!”
“I offered to Georjayna but she didn’t want to!”
“Don’t get upset Stannie....I’m sorry.....”
“Will she ring?”
“Yes. She’ll ring you as soon...when she knows....when she’s sure....”
“Sure about what? She’s already been paid.....!”
“No no....the particular little thing.....sure about that....”
“Oh ‘the particular little thing’ eh .....”
“Did you invite Faustina, Georgie?”
“You know I did Stannie......But, come to think of it, I’ve seen you looking at her....I think I’m going to have to watch you Stannie.....I don’t blame you.... Faustina is rather gorgeous....It must be lovely to be so tall and so graceful......”
“As a matter of fact, Faustina and me, we’re planning to elope together....”
“Stannie! She’d be far more likely to run away with me....as you very well know!”
“I hope not Georgie....I do hope not.....”
“You have nothing to worry about Stannie....... for me you’re all a girl could ever need....”
“Shall I ring for Leanara?”
“You’re not lusting after the maids as well are you Stannie?!”
“No darling. I only do lust on Tuesdays, and this is a Thursday......"
“It’s Friday actually Stannie.....but.....hang on a moment, what delight do you take a fancy to on Fridays Stannie.....?
“You darling.....you.....”
“What?! Only on Fridays now?!”
“Oh be off with you Georgie and get that bath....!”
<Scene 3>
Two weeks later on a warm early-summer’s afternoon, in the expansive gardens of Castle Mingeford, the country home of Sir Stannet and Georjayna Lady Argoyle-Farquar....
“Darling Georjayna: much as we admire the outside of your home, we’ve seen the greenhouses, eyed over the dovecots, passed the hen coops, the pig sties, the dairy and the stables and seen your new Arabian ponygirls; scented the admittedly fragrant herb garden, seen the workshop Stannet is so proud of....Oh....and the rose garden, we mustn’t forget the rose garden...... Stannet’s new thingamabob the washing line post or whatever it is, and I don’t know about anyone else, but could you please ask your darling girl Garnet, to bring me a long drink. I’m just dying of thirst!”
[Distantly but distinctly] “Over here!”
“Oh for goodness sake Relphin darling, what is it? I’m not going to walk another step.....”
“Over here....come over here!”
“I’m not in the mood for any more diversions darling.”
[The distant distinct voice asks] “Georjayna, I take it you know there’s a girl’s head sticking out of one of your inspection... your....your ‘manhole’ covers?”
“What are you talking about Relphin? Goodness knows, I sometimes wonder what being the chancellor of Camford University has done for your brain....”
“Oh do shut up Anistata........ I recognise her. She came to my lectures when I was....before I was elected chancellor....’Melina’ someone or other....lives nearby, just over in Kinklebe.....Got 1st class honours in pure and applied mathematics.....Good going for one of the lower orders don’t you think...Lovely girl...Turned heads at college like you wouldn’t believe....the heads of the other girls not least......”
“Georjayna is this the....the ‘little entertainment’ Stannet was talking about?
“It is Anistata, but only for those who pay, if I may be subtle about the hint?!....”
“Oh I just must, but must see!....”
The two women join Anistata’s husband, Sir Relphin Boland Relphin of that Ilk, ex prime minister and, before that foreign secretary of the British government, now retired from both governance and parliament, and recently since elected Chancellor of the University of Camford, after a short spell dabbling in lecturing as an emeritus professor of politics at his alma-mater.......
“Oh how delicious! Is she suffering? I do hope she’s suffering!”
“It will be good for its legs Anistata. The nearest rung for it to stand on down the hole where it is, is at least five feet down, and as you can see, Stannie’s little arrangement.... halving the inspection cover and making a hole for just its head to be above ground-level after the cover has been closed around its neck and padlocked.......If it slips off from standing on that rung.... well....it wouldn’t do its neck much good to say the least.....”
“Goodness, a step five feet down and her head’s above ground. She’d have to be six foot tall, or else be on the very tips of her big toes. I recall her being less than five-five at most. So I’d just love to see how constantly standing like that is shaping her legs. And she is a peach Relphin!”
“Yes Anistata that is what I just said....What have you put her in there for Georjayna?”
“Trespassing....I think it must have been early yesterday? We found it sneaking around near the hen coops. Rustling I should think.....Do you?...You do....You can ‘rustle’ eggs can’t you?”
“Only when rustling up some breakfast....I think you mean ’stealing’ Georjayna.... She’s been in there a whole day?......The poor little bitch!”
“And last night too Relphin; and it’ll be in there all day today, all tonight, and until we’re ready to punish it.... I had its clothes and shoes burned of course.....I ordered Garnet to put them in the incinerator. I was damned if I was going to go anywhere near them. You can never be sure what filth the riff-raff have crawling around on them......
.......And you can see its suffering on O-bey Anistata. Stannie and I have contracted them for the filming rights. It’s wired night-vision down the hole there, but you get a great view of a very fit pair of shapely legs.....if you pay the fee of course....”
“What’s with....I can see she’s gagged....but....what....?”
“Oh...A medical doctor designed it based on my idea; then Stannie ran it up in his workshop. The doctor was on hand when I inserted it. It’s a flexible metal tube through a large steel ball? The tube goes right down the throat....stops the bitch.....along with the ball filling its mouth.....near broke its jaw forcing that in....but it’ll...in combination...it can’t make a sound no matter what....neat eh? But it can breathe through the hole, some holes in the tube....
.......The tube....the nearest end of the tube sticks through a gum-shield between its front teeth...the shield is over its top and bottom teeth? And to make sure it can’t possibly get it out....the ball......and the tube come to that. Well......I’m afraid the ball has spikes in it? The ball goes in the mouth first. Then pushing the tube through the hole in the middle of the ball forces the spikes out of the outer surface of the ball? Some will have gone right through its tongue I shouldn’t wonder....Such a pity that....I’ve been weeping all night at the mere thought of it....as if I could give a damn!”
“Stop it. Stop it Georjayna...You’re making me wet my knickers!.....She’s completely nude?!”
“Completely Anistata. And don’t worry...I cuffed the little bitch’s wrists behind it, so it can’t play with itself down there, as I expect is its usual filthy habit......Do you want to buy that ticket now, or, if you’ll pardon the expression, will Relphin be ‘coming’ without his good lady wife?”
“Where does the mains....where do....does the service pipe run? You’re a long way out even from Kinklebe... which must be the village nearest I’d guess?
“What pipe Relphin?”
“The water supply.....I take it she’s stood in an inspection-and-repair access to the water mains....the emergency stopcock or the meter or suchlike......”
“You’re quite right Relphin. Castle Mingeford is, as you speculate, far too isolated even for the highly organised Victorian generations of the Mingeford family to have organised fresh water piping to come out this far. But their predecessors built here because of the former village’s water-well........
.......The village had to go....it was knocked down to provide land to build this place.......Besides, would I have the little slag imprisoned so it’d prospectively pollute our water supply? The water isn’t piped from the mains, but the sewers are piped into theirs. So, I’d have it locked in the sewers yes; but not the water pipe, even if there was one....Besides, you get rats in the sewers!......
.......Oh look at the look in those lovely green eyes! I always thought the oiks liked rats, if only to eat them for dinner!”
“SHWACK!” There, that slap will help teach it not to look at its social superiors. I suppose we can at least be consoled that, where it is....where it deserves to be....it is at least obliged to look up at its masters!”
“You’ve made her nose bleed!”
“So??!!!!.....S’ s’ sorry Relphin......I, I didn’t mean.....I didn’t mean to snap at you.....I appreciate your sensitivity.....But there’s no room for sentiment in dealing with such trash...... The little bitch is going to get a lot more than a nose bleed when its time comes.....!”
“Oh Georjayna I think it’s simply divine! Will she be covered....down in the sewer like that....in....in you know what?”
“You can be pretty sure it is Anistata......I don’t think I want to take a look-and-see thank you very much.....Not that you’d be able to tell the difference between it and the rest of the shit.....I expect it lives in shit at home, like they all do.....So it’s not much of a punishment really: it must be quite used to the filth and the stink........
That particular access is to a pump......to the sewer pipe where the pump that encourages the piss, shit, soiled tampons and pads, and used shower and bath water from the servants’ quarters....It drives the shit into the main sewer. The filth is hosed around by the pump every time the lavatories are flushed. I expect the shit it splashes around would be more dilute if only the servants would wash more often; or even at all come to that!”
“Talking of which....not personal hygiene as such....but if you need to go Relphin....it’s not very practical for we ladies...the funnel?....You’ll find its slim-end fits perfectly.....You’ll probably need to wash your hands when you’ve been......I know Stannie has used it a few times, and I don’t suppose he cleaned the funnel afterwards.....Do help yourself......We girls will walk on and you can join us when you’re done...when you’re ready....I’m sure it’ll part those pretty lips...it has no choice....Slap its face if it won’t close its eyes, if that’s what you want.....I mean eyes closed....You’ll be doing it a favour....It must be thirsty.....It fits to the tube down the bitch’s throat.....the funnel..... Oh and don’t worry if you miss at all; it looks like those soft curls could do with a wash!”
<Scene 4>
In one of the cavernous side-halls of Castle Mingeford, a gathering, which will eventually include six paying guests and Melina’s fiancée, have come to witness one of Georjayna Argoyle-Farquar’s ‘little entertainments’. Georjayna brings Melina in. So as to be clearly seen, Georjayna and Melina go to stand on a one-step-up raised platform. Georjayna is dressed in a figure–outlining white polo shirt, cream jodhpurs and polished brown riding boots. As if it were a dress, and it is indeed her only clothing, Melina is wearing a long-bodied white tee-shirt, under which she is completely naked. She is barefoot. Her wrists are cuffed behind her. Her pretty hands therefore reside on what, in enticing outline, appear to be very shapely very firm buttocks.
In equally exciting delineation, it can also be seen that she is very well endowed. A speculation that her breasts are entirely the products of nature, is answered by the way they move within her shirt. Her nipples appear to be particularly inquisitive about proceedings. Around her neck, hidden at the rear by her wonderful shoulder-length redhead curls, the captured girl wears a dog’s leash in the form that ends in a chain, often referred to by the means it employs to control the wearer, as a ‘choke-chain’.....The contrast between the two young women, the smouldering beauty of the negress with her fiercely intelligent dark brown eyes and naturally passionate lips, and the supremely pale white redhead, is a reminder of the spectra of wonderful girls that bless this undeserving world.....Georjayna Lady Argoyle-Farquar begins her announcement.....
“Ladies and gentlemen; if I may have your attention!.....Please!....Thank you!.....Thank you!..........Thank you ladies and gentlemen....!”
“Ladies and gentlemen this sexy little redhead is Melina. You may well have noticed it around the village of Kinklebe, where it has been turning the heads of the men-folk, and the girls even more, since it reached its mid-teens. In its vacations from college, it works in the post office there. It can often be seen around on the post office’s bicycle......
..... It has no piercings, not even its rather pretty ears. And, although it is the vile habit among the slags it is one among, it has not despoiled the satin-smooth beauty of its youthful supremely white complexion, with the unforgivable unsightly wholly ruinous irreversibly obscene tragedy of even the tiniest tattoo! It is, thank god, the perfection of a completely unblemished girl that stands before you......
....... Even though you have not been formally introduced on a one-to-one basis as yet, I’m sure it won’t mind me using its name so familiarly in your presence. I’ll take care of the introductions in a moment, so that you can all have a close-up inspection of the goods..........
........My god!.....Huh!....Did you see the look it just gave me?! Anybody would think it amounted to something more than just a pretty face, an shapely ass, a big pair of tits, and three eager fuck-holes that have managed to walk around in formation for twenty-odd years!.......
.......As I just said, I’ll bring it round to each of you in turn. When you get a close-up look, I think you’ll probably agree that, all in all, it’s not a bad piece of meat.......
.......It was found trespassing on the estate a couple of days ago. One of my servants took it into custody. Sir Stannet ordered that it be detained. As lord of the manor, Sir Stannet, my wonderful husband, has a perfectly legal choice. In criminal matters he would be obliged to hand it over to the Girl-Police. Trespass being only a civil law matter, he may decide to punish it himself. And he has so chosen...... (.....and I think he’s about to join us......)”
“The vinegar my dear....Do you think that will be enough?”
“To have a little to spare would be better Stannie.....”
“Ah.....I’ll soon conjure up some more Georgie.....”
“Thank you Stannie.....”
“.......As I was saying....Stannie has decided to use his lawful right to have it punished, and has asked me to carry out that sad but necessary duty. You’re all invited to witness. We can offer overnight accommodation for those who wish to stay for the full duration......
...... The absolute rule is: except with my prior consent, ‘No touching’. Anyone breaching that stipulation will forfeit their right to stay, and no money will be refunded.......
.......Gentlemen; if opportunity is opportune, you will be afforded the chance to use any of its holes that remain free at the time. To my surprise, it is disease free....a rarity indeed! So, unless you wish to deploy one, no condoms will be necessary........
....... I’m afraid it’s already managed to break its hymen, no doubt from the and all to frequent vigorous masturbation such filth indulge. But it is a lesbian, so it may well not have taken cock before......It is probably still a mouth and bum virgin....
.......Relphin and Anistata; I’ll bring it your way first...”
“Curtsey you filthy slag! My god! They teach these peasant girls no manners, and no respect!.......
.......Do another curtsey and do it right this time!! We want lots of leg: give us lots of leg!!.....I do apologise Anistata.”
“Don’t bring her too close, Georjayna, remember I know where she’s been...where you kept her locked up!”
“We have an all-clear on that front Anistata. I had one of the servants hose it down in the outside yard first thing this morning. I imagine it is the first time the filthy bitch has had a decent wash in months.....”
“How many days was she there in the end, where she has been Georjayna?”
“Where has she been then Anistata? She looks dreadfully tired and pale...still redheads are always delightfully pale....but I must say she’s more than a little fetching in that long white tee-shirt thingy. Has she been allowed any panties...a thong perhaps? I’ve caught more than one suggestion of a very smackable bottom....?”
“Our gorgeous wicked Georjayna has had the little bitch locked in a cesspit for two whole days, Faustina!”
“Curtsey to Lady Barnmouth slag!......
.......Now do it properly, we want to see lots of thigh!!.....
.......NO!!.....Up on your tiptoes and give us great leg!!! That’s what your legs are for: give us great leg including lots of thigh, we want lots of leggy leg and strong thigh. And let your tits dangle.......
.......Do it again!!! Up on the very tips of your toes, dip knees low, rise from the curtsey and then bow! And give us lots of leg, loads of thigh, and when you bow, let your tits dangle! DO YOU understand?!!
“So sorry about that.....The imprisonment was for two days and two nights till early this morning ladies. You’ll understand that I didn’t want to risk it escaping. The lower orders learn nothing of any worth, but cunning is innate with them. Deceptive guile has been passed on through the generations since this one’s ancestors were crawling in shit. So at least where it’s been this last forty-eight hours and more, won’t have been at all unfamiliar to it.”
“Just look at the legs on her! What a shapely pair!! I knew she was a keep fit fanatic: always in the gymnasium when she wasn’t running swimming playing squash, or badminton and whatnot. It’s certainly done her legs a favour....and us....and our eyes! She was always slopping around in jeans at college. Thighs like that would make a good ponygirl out of her....That’d be something useful for her to do with her life, instead of wasting time dreaming that marrying that Janatha Spendlove girl will see her happy for the rest of her days.....or that she has any chance of a meaningful career in business or industry.....”
“Curtsey to my guest again slag, and give him even more leggy leg!”
“There: that’s your treat for the day so far, Relphin!....But before I move it on....”
“Wave your tits for the gentleman!......
.......Make your tits wave from side to side you stupid bitch!! Don’t you understand even the simplest order?! That’s what you’ve got tits for, you whore! Except for making them sway around to order, what fucking use are they anyway? About as much use as the rest of you I suppose!!......
.......NO NO NO! Do it more slowly, let them wave in a slow flow!....I suppose I should be talking to its tits: they’ve got to have more brains than the rest of it apparently has!!”
“Absolutely wonderful Georjayna.....I’ll obviously never know from personal experience, but I suppose when you’ve got a pair as big as those appear to be, they’re bound to follow behind your movements even if you move only a little quickly.....They don’t look at all disproportionate either..... How big is she exactly?"
“Sorry to interrupt Relphin darling.....But you do know, don’t you Georjayna, that there’s blood on the inside of her thighs........You do don’t you Georjayna?..... Georjayna?!......Georjaaynaa?!......I’ve seen that wicked look in your lovely eyes before.......This is Anistata here Georjayna, we’ve known each other for years, reeememmber?!........
.......You’re not telling me she’s......? She is isn’t she?......Oh how wonderfully wicked!! How simply divine!!....Oh my god!......She’s actually on her monthly.....she’s having her bleed.....Oh you wonderfully wicked soul Georjayna....she’s menstruating!! She’s menstruating!! Oh how simply deliciously cruel you are my dear!”
“Thank you Anistata. One does one’s best. But it is nice to be appreciated sometimes....”
“When do we get to actually see the tits?!”
“When Stannie finally joins us Relphin. Stannie’s so absolutely a tit lover.... He....you....you will neither of you, be disappointed, I can assure you of that.....twice!”
“Wave your tits again for the nice gentleman.......
.......Who told you to stop?! Who told you to stop?!!.......Good god, I give you something worthwhile to do for once in your total waste of a life, and you don’t even want to take opportunity when it’s given you on a plate. Just what do you think you’ve got tits for?!! Make them useful. Make yourself do something useful for a change. Wave them!!! Waave themm!!!!”
“This is Melina Sir Lansfarn......oh, and your lovely daughter too. How delightful to see you once more Margala, and you as well of course Sir Lansfarn......We must go riding together again while you’re on vacation from Camford Margala. It is coming up to the season, and I have in mind to have Melina’s younger sister landed in the Lipsfold forest, when she is also in season for the month. We can then hunt her with the hounds as we did with that girl last year......There is nothing like girl-hunting when her bleed is flowing to give the hounds a scent and an incentive.....
.......I can see where your eyes are Margala, and it’s understandable....Give the pretty lady and her father a tit wave.....and for Margala’s sister Decilda too....
.......Lovely to see you again Decilda....and Janatha as well. Both just arrived? You haven’t missed anything.....
.......I know how busy it keeps you Decilda, but if your medical practice will free you up for just one day, the hunting offer is open to you as well......Margala will bring you up to date on that front and I can supply a saddle and a ponygirl for you....Oh and thank you so much for your help with designing and inserting the silencing gag in the bitch! It is performing excellently, just as you predicted.....”
“You can stop waving your tits now, you stupid slag!.......Honestly! You don’t even seem to know when you’ve done enough tit waving! My god, even with the slime you oiks have in place of a brain, is it so difficult for you to work things out?!”
“She has very beautiful legs, wonderfully honed and trained, yet still femininely smooth with no over-pronounced muscularity. We can surely give her credit for having a great pair of legs. Can she not be put in extreme high heels to maximise her leg appeal: heels so high she can hardly stand in them?”
“Your taste is excellent Sir Lansfarn, not least because it coincides with my own. A strong shapely obviously fit pair of legs is unquestionably a very great attraction on girl-meat. But, if I may venture the teensiest objection.....and I obviously hesitate to be so bold in the presence of an acclaimed novelist such as yourself....To couch my point in the terms you have used in reference to its legs....would it not be more appropriate than saying: ‘She has a great pair of legs’ to say: ‘She is a great pair of legs’? We must surely take account of its station in life, and not credit it with over many characteristics only properly associated with worthwhile humankind.....”
“Ha! You have me there in one, Georgie. You are entirely correct as ever! ‘It is a great pair of legs’! Wonderful! I was almost minded to challenge you to some return games of chess.....And I would.....if you’d agree to play blindfold, so I can win for just once. I don’t think I’ll even dare to do so now!!”
“Curtsey to Janatha, your fiancée! We have no class distinction here!......
......Oh but I forgot, Melina’s not your fiancée anymore is she Janatha?!.......I think you said, if I have the words right, that ‘she’ as you quaintly call this meat, has been ‘dumped'. I did get the phraseology right I hope?”
“You did Lady Argoyle-Farquar”
“And did I get the facts right.....I would so hate to be passing on tittle-tattle or idle gossip?!”
“Yes....yes my lady....entirely right”.
“Oh dear, oh dear, look at that shocked look in its eyes!.....Did you not already tell the meat yourself Janatha?....I’m so sorry I blurted it out like that, but everybody seems to have known about it except the meat!....
.......I almost feel a tear coming on, telling it so cruelly that your...five years...It was five years you told me wasn’t it?....That your five-year love affair with the meat is at an end....”
.......Between we girls, was it ever any good in bed?.......No don’t tell me, let me guess!......
.......Ooh look we’ve got tears! Look! Look! Do look ladies and gentlemen, the meat is crying!......How sad.......
.......It was so remiss of me to blurt out the facts like that. But truth is always best. And the truth is, I had never before realised that meat could possibly have emotions.....It must be worthy of scientific examination......My tentative conclusion would be, that we are witnessing an inbuilt reflex. I can’t possibly imagine it has any true feelings beyond those normally associated with the other lower animal forms.....”
“Lady Argoyle-Farquar I brought this as promised....”
“Ah....Excellent! Excellent!.....A generous supply of your stored-up wine.....your pretty piss! Well remembered Janatha! Well remembered indeed. As you’ll see I rather have my hands full with the leash on the meat.....If you would be so kind as to locate my husband.....and ask him to use a blender to mix a suspension of sea-salt in your golden pee? He’ll know the ratio. The room he prepares things in when indoors, is through the door over there which is slightly ajar, and then straight along the corridor......
.......You’re so kind....Would you like a thank you from the meat? Okay.....And, for this once, would you like to tell the meat what to do? I don’t mind for a one-off occasion.”
“Wave your tits for me Melina.....Wave your tits for me you fucking slag!!”
“......Do as you have been told! Swing your tits for the nice lady......!!”
<Scene 5>
The sobbing Melina is taken, alone with Georjayna plus one of Georjayna’s faithful maids, into the room Melina recognises through the shimmering shower-curtain of her tears, as that she blessed with her beauty on the morning she introduced herself to Sir Stannet. Melina’s soft very lightly freckled cheeks are stained with her gentle tears from her heart-rending treatment by her now ex-fiancée, Janatha. But, eventually, her sun out-sparkling green eyes no longer weep, they are wide with pain. Georjayna has begun Melina’s punishment for being apprehended trespassing on Sir Stannet’s estate. Melina still wears the tee-shirt. Her wrists are still cuffed behind her....Once Melina is in place, the guests are politely summoned by the trustworthy trustee maid, who has assisted in putting Melina in her present state.....The guests drift in.......
“My god, look at the legs on it! That is magnificent Georjayna. You have the muscles supremely tensioned. The wonderful fitness of her lovely legs has paid us supreme dividend. The calves are stretched beautifully. The calf muscles are splendidly erotically on display, the knees locked back with a consequent smooth transformation from lower leg to the thigh. And the reserve of understated power in the thighs is so evident. How is it done?”
“You wax so poetically Relphin. But I cannot dispute that the meat has a beautiful pair of legs on it. We are so used to seeing girls in high heels, that we can only fulfil our erotic desires by raising a girl’s heels as high as possible, with the wish daughter to the impossible, that they be raised forever even higher still.......
.......If you care to come nearer the platform.....Apologies for the vision in its mirrored surface....the filthy bitch is on its bleed of course, hence the vile red suppuration seeping from the lips of its otherwise rather lovely innocent-waxed cunt.....
.......the mirror enables one to see what the raised stance has done to the meat’s buttocks. You will no doubt enjoy, as do I, the way very appetising deep concave dimples have been formed in the sides of its buttocks by its legs being stretched to maximum of tiptoe. Even among so many, such as the female face and body, especially the breasts, the female buttocks have long been acknowledged as a highly-charged erotic zone. Thus tensed, such full yet very firm buttocks as the meat has, are even more charged with erotic power, deeply-side-dimpled and with their muscular might so wonderfully displayed. I think so, and I certainly hope you agree......
......As to the means employed to make the meat stand with its legs so magnificently tensioned....I would draw your attention to the two holes drilled in the mirrored-metal floor of this stage......And you will see that the bitch stands with its big toes down the holes, searching for a grip it cannot find, other than by curling them back to grasp the bottom inside edge of the holes, and that its other, rather pretty toes, remain facing forward and thus uncurled at floor level – the level of the dais it is stood upon.....We can therefore enjoy the meat suffering the pain of its smaller toes fighting to keep it upright.....with the alternative being a tumble that, depending in which direction, will certainly break or dislocate one or more of its big toes, or several of its smaller ones or both....
.......The precaution has been taken to have the smaller toes on each foot, covered over with an ‘MM’ bar. The double-M bar’s waves are individually sized to cover each smaller toe. The MM bars are, as you will see if you look closely, placed over the smaller toes and then screwed to the metal mirror plate at the MM’s ends, and between each toe. So the big toes are held in the holes, unless the meat wishes to break all its smaller toes in trying to escape......
....... And as additional incentive for the brainless slattern to keep its heels up so as to display its legs so agreeably sexily, you will see that behind its heels are a pair of upright needle-pointed nails, equivalent to nine-inch stiletto shoe heels. Each has a cross-bar half-an inch down from its pointed end, so that, should the meat decide to relax its feet, it will be stabbed in its heels, so that it ends up with a pair of perfect eight-and-a-half-inch stiletto uprights to wear as high heels!”
“I hope it’s painful enough for you so far slut!”
A brief round of applause breaks out.......
.....Thank you! Thank you so much! I do so love appreciation! But ladies and gentlemen there is much more to come, and the meat is going to face a challenge in holding itself upright thus, and thus choosing between the pain in its toes from holding that stance, with all the wonder it makes of its shapely legs.....Or falling so it will end up with one or more broken toes......Or letting its feet down, so that it puts on a nice relaxing pair of high heels!
.......But, before I go further, has anyone seen Stannie?....Oh there you are darling. It’s time to reveal its tits dear...... I’ve used scissors to cut a nick in the rear hem of its tee-shirt. If you tear the shirt up the back, it will first give us a full view of the meat’s rather splendid muscularly tensioned bum.....”
“Where do I start Georgie?”
“Right where you are my love. Just grip the hem of the tee-shirt.....
.......Now now now Stannie, you wicked lovely man, just keep your attention on the job in hand, not on its sexy legs!....
.......That’s it, the lovely sound of a girl being forcibly stripped and exposed.....Slowly darling.....Here, let me use the scissors on the collar, it’s too strong for you to tear.....There.....we can see its lovely bare bottom now....If there is anyone who would not want to give such a gorgeous backside a very hard slap, or, preferable more, then they are not only in the wrong room and the wrong house, they are in the wrong universe!.......
.......Hold it Stannie. Let me cut the sleeves......There now, you can slide it off...
.......Slowly Stannie, slowly......You’ll enjoy exposing them all the more if you savour the moment. Don’t worry about the meat’s feelings, slags don’t have any......
.......Don’t hurry to strip it Stannie darling. Let’s enjoy watching it suffering the pain from its toes.......
.......Oh well, that’s that. You’re always too eager Stannie!.......
.......Ladies and gentlemen, behold the meat’s tits!”
.......And Stannie, are they not just wonderful?! Are you pleased my love. Aren’t they........aren’t they big for such a little girl? And the nipples it’s got on them, redheads are so ghostly white: look at the consequent contrast of those huge coral-pink discs, and the perfect little mount fujis in their centres....Don’t they compel your eyes to admire them? Don’t they seem to look right into your soul as if they were eyes themselves? Are you pleased my darling husband.......Are they not just the most wonderful tits?......
“May I weigh them Georgie?”
“You like them heavy don’t you Stannie? Lift one and assess its poundage....go on....”
“They’re magnificent Georgie. Did you select her for her tits? Were you thinking of me when you picked her out from the other sluts in Kinklebe? She is such a big little girl! And they are all as nature intended them! Do you think we are talking a forty inch chest?....May I fetch the tape measure Georgie, and my balance scales to weigh them, so I can record them in my log, along with those of the maids?”......
“When we break for drinks Stannie. But do be careful darling. Remember, they are wild! They have been on the loose all its days. There is nothing as dangerous as a pair of beautiful tits on the loose. Did you not witness how they fascinated us all, when, despite my ordering it to stop doing it, it deliberately waved them side-to-side inside its shirt, when it was being introduced to our guests?.......
.......That is how they behave when they are wild....on the loose....That is how they hypnotise their prey, like the stoat is fabled to do in dancing in like manner in front of a rabbit!.....Fortunately, I was wise to the meat’s endeavours to mesmerise us all by swaying its tits, and thus, while we were distracted, make an escape! That’s why I had the cunning little bitch on a tight neck-chain!.......
.......Now.....Stannie darling, while I un-cuff at the rear, and then re-cuff its wrists in front of it, would you fetch and then lock the grip-bar in front of the meat for me...there’s a dear.....the waist-tall inverted ‘U’ one my love: the holes to take the two ends of the inverted U are ready made in the floor of this dais!.......
.......That’s the one Stannie. Slot it in place just as it is.....Thank you darling......
....... Now slag: since you have so unceremoniously, if, I’m afraid to say, in my decided view, entirely appropriately, been, er, ‘dumped’ by your fiancée; I, out of the kindness of my sweet heart, have found you a new sweetheart!......
.......I’ve found a new girlfriend for you! Now don’t look like that with those pretty green eyes! You’re such an attractive slag that she’s fallen in love with you already.......Love at first sight.....Aren’t you pleased that you can still stun the girls?!......
.......I’ll just get her out of her box so you can say ‘hello’ to her......
.......Here she is! Now isn’t she pretty?! No? Oh I think so......
.......She’s a bit butch admittedly; a bit of a bull-dyke you might say. Technically, she’s a bullwhip. And just to turn you on, including her handle but not the loop for my wrist, her vital statistics include a four-foot-long five-plaited-leather-strip leverage-end, and that is followed by another four-foot-long single leather strand business-end, which, because she is such an expensive girl, and doesn’t know the meaning of ‘excessive’ when she is out shopping and maxing-out her credit card, is studded at one-inch intervals, with genuine sparkling diamonds.....A ring of sharply-pointed genuine diamonds worn around her tongue at every inch......
.......Oh, by the way......you do allow a kiss on a first date don’t you?.....No? Oh dear.....oh dear..... then this could be.....what do the news website’s call it?.....Yes, that’s it....I recall now......’date rape’.....
......Oh, and by the way again......the whipping you are about to get, is part of, but somehow incidental to the trespass for which you’re being punished.......
.......I’m going to whip you also, because you are menstruating; because that is both very annoying to me, as well as being disgustingly filthy!.......
.......You can’t help it?! Of course you can’t....But that is no reason why you can’t be whipped for it, is it?!”
“Ladies and gentlemen, to aid the meat against a fall during the whipping I am prepared to be merciful. As you will see a bar has been put in place for the meat to grasp with those pretty hands......such pretty hands......
.......The meat is going to have its bare body flogged, just where it stands, and standing just as it is........The grab-rail will enable it to hold itself upright so that we can continue to enjoy its taut legs and tight clenched buttocks.....
......A moment please.....
.......Take the cover off of the grab-handle please Stannie.......
........Oooh look, it’s covered by spikes! Throughout the 360 degrees of its handle and uprights, the grab-rail is covered with quarter inch long spikes. Oh how is the poor slag to grip that? It will hurt those pretty hands!.......
......Still....there’s no helping it......I’m sure we have another grab-handle somewhere; but there’s no time to find it now....and I don’t think the meat really minds.....yet!......
.......Let me look at these lovely nipples.....Do you like it when I pass my thumbs over them like this?......I rather think you do you know!......No don’t close your lovely green eyes like that. Don’t turn your head away. You know you’re enjoying it. You know......You know that, despite being on your bleed, you’re full-on-girl and your body is mistress over your mind.....There now..... .....There now.....They’re betraying you.....Your nipples...your gorgeous nipples are being traitors! Let me let your massive tits go for a moment and walk a little behind and to the side of you.....”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“.......Oh dear oh dear, those pretty little hands.....do the spikes in the grab-handle hurt that much.....Oh, sorry.....I see.......your eyes say it was the lash.....Let me give you something to distract you from the pain.....”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“It’s not your lucky day is it, slag?! Or then again, is it? At least you can have the benefit from my being ambidextrous....”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Such pretty tears....careful they don’t wash off those darling little freckles.....”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“I’m sorry your back is bleeding so badly!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“I suppose these trickles of blood are your red tears: these trickles from your whip-welts and the seep of your monthly menses from your filthy cunt!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“You know, according to the fashion pages I was reading online just this very morning, stripes are very ‘in’ this year! Apparently, they’re all the rage in Paris.”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!
“Let me guess. You want me to whip you till you look like a zebra: yes?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!
But I’m whipping you with my alternating hands, and I’ve never seen a zebra with a criss-cross striped back before, or one with blood-red stripes!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Did that catch the side of your right titty darling?! Oh I am sorry!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!
“Ooh: that was a particularly good one wasn’t it? You know, you’d have been wiser not to keep taking your pretty hands off the rail between each stroke. I dread to think what it must have done to those slender fingers!.......You poor thing, your hands are really bleeding.......But I can’t be expected to do two things at once. I’m quite busy enough whipping the skin off your back!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!
“There: that will do for starters.....
........Do you like the new high heels you are wearing?! Painful aren’t they? I’ve never stood on a nine-inch nail myself. You are a clumsy slag. Fancy letting your feet fall so as to let two nails stab you at once: clumsy....so clumsy....
.......Stop crying you slut!!.......
Let’s have a look at those lovely nipples again.......Your breasts are quite a handful.....
.......There now, the thumbs are in play to and fro across your nipples. You love that don’t you dear?!.......
.......I must say, your new girlfriend doesn’t lack for passion.....All those kisses on your bare back on your very first date!......You know: speaking as an older and wiser girl, I rather think you were behaving like an easy lay!.......
.......I’m not at all surprised of course. But letting her get her way like that: it’s as if ,on a first date, she’d already got her hand in your panties!.......But that’s a foolish remark come to think of it; because I don’t suppose a slut like you would wear panties even on a first date!.......
.....Does your back really hurt darling? I do so hope so!....I’m afraid you’ve had to pay, not only for your new girlfriend’s randiness, but also for her expensive taste. I fear your back is proof positive that sometimes, diamonds are not a girl’s best friend....”
.......And nor it seems are your nipples: just look how excited they are!......
.....Would you like an orgasm? Would that relieve your pain....Would a cum relieve your pain?......Just nod if you want me to make you cum....
.......Ooh look! Look ladies and gentlemen! Did you see that? The meat wants a cum!! Can you believe it!! It wants me to feel inside its bleed to find its filthy clitoris and excite it to a cum! As if I would! Even the thought is nauseating: urgh, yuerkh: how horrible! And such outrageous audacity from mere meat!!.”
“Janatha.....would you like to do a kindness for your ex-girlfriend.....your dumped fiancée? Vinegar as ointment for her back followed by a salve? You’ll find the vinegar....just behind you.....Stannie will hand you the container, if you’d be kind enough to bring it up here......Put the gloves on first my dear......
.......Oh deary deary me: what have you there in your other hand Janatha? That’s not the ointment...the salve.....Stannie, you gave Janatha the bucket instead of the ointment my love!.......
......Oh well, it will just have to do......On its back Janatha please, vinegar first....Then work the salve in well so it can work its cure......It will hurt of course.....But that is only to be expected when whip welts are treated with pure vinegar and then sea-salt marinated in your delightful piss!”.....
As Melina’s eyes stream with tears from her dreadful pain, Janatha pours vinegar over Melina’s whipped-raw back, and then amateurishly but literally, rubs salt into the vicious wounds from Melina’s preliminary whipping, while Georjayna steps off the stage to applause....
“.......Wicked.....So deliciously cruel.......You are a cruel woman Georjayna, and that is why you are so beautiful!”
“Thank you Relphin....What can a girl say in response to that?.....I have a gentle side too you know.....It never shows where the lower orders are concerned of course, but that is only right and proper.”
“Stannie, would you organise Bolynda to take orders for refreshments.....Ah there she is.....just on time.... Bolynda please take orders for my guest’s choice of drinks: thank you.”
“Marvellous Georjayna! Just perfectly marvellous!”
“Margala, you’re very kind.....”
“Drinks next door everybody!....You too Janatha......Leave the meat. It’s hardly going to run away.....”
“The arching of her back every time the bullwhip cut her, and the even tighter clenching of her exquisite buttocks when the whip drove her forward, and then immediately afterwards when she fought to ease the pain: the dimples it formed in her lovely bum cheeks, despite that she’d fallen back and taken the half-inches of nail into her heels, so she ended up wearing the nail-stilettos.....such an erotic sight.....Oh and, after every stroke, her tits swinging like church bells as if to ring out the beauty of a gorgeous girl under the kiss of the bitter lash, though they couldn’t wring out her pain.....”
“You too are being very poetically today Margala!.....And I must remember to thank your sister once more for the silencing gag down the meat’s throat. So far, it has worked perfectly....”
<Scene 6>
After a while with her guests at drinks, Georjayna Argoyle-Farquar returns to the room in which she has just whipped Melina on her naked back. She is joined there by her husband, Sir Stannet. The drinkers take their refreshment in the knowledge that something, or rather someone, is being prepared next door. Sounds from where Melina is, include something, two things ‘clunky’ dropped on the floor, and perhaps a struggle and some hammering?
Sir Stannet comes out of the room and back to the drinkers. He leaves the door he has come through wide open. Georjayna follows him back to be among her guests once more, about one minute later.
A considerable while more, and Melina walks in, very slowly. Melina is dressed for a night down-town chasing after the girls. She wears a garish all-too-youthful lime-green crop-top apparently a tee-shirt ‘ripped’ short at its hem. It barely covers her very ample breasts. Her fit firm midriff is bare. Hugging half-down her hips, is an equally ‘too-young-by-far’ for her scarlet lycra ruffle-micro-skirt that would not in the least challenge a seeker after the truth about the colour of her panties. And she wears a snow-white thong, so tiny it would be a challenge seeming likely to lead to defeat, to put it on a child’s toy doll let alone this real doll. The crutch of the thong is anointed red by her continuing monthly bleed.
Melina’s slender wrists are once more cuffed behind her. Her supremely cream-white legs are bare. On her feet she is wearing strappy-sandal type circular-platform shoes. The platforms are so tall, she has to duck her ravishing red curls under the doorway between the rooms.
Not only are her circular platforms massive – one-foot-deep and the same in diameter in fact - they are also extremely heavy, as they would be expected to be, since they comprise logs: the logs of a tree on which she is mounted on the circular-end-profiles, where the tree rings show her platforms are more than her sweet young womanhood in age.
A quick glance shows that her big toes are down holes drilled in the log-platforms, just as they had been when she was fixed to the dais in the neighbouring room and whipped. MM-brackets again cover over her smaller toes, and have been screwed to the log-platforms to grip those toes.
Melina no longer wears the eight-and-a-half-inch-high stiletto-nail-heels she ‘adopted’ during her whipping. Instead, to hold her up and maximise the erotic shaping of her very lovely very white very smooth legs, she is supported by steep wooden wedges mounted atop her log-platforms: wedges rising at seventy degrees from immediately behind her toes.
Individual patent-leather straps around each of her shapely ankles, anchor her to metal hoops driven into the logs at the immediate rear of each steep wedge: presumed by the guests to be the source of one of the sounds they had heard just before: the hammering.
Melina’s pretty face is contorted with pain: not just from her bullwhipping and the subsequent vinegaring and salting of her wounds, which still hurt and sting horribly, nor just from her torn hands where she gripped the rail in front of her while she was flogged.
Once Melina is in the room where the guests are gathered, Georjayna takes on a new character part in the erotic torture of Melina: this one, unlike the first, not her own......
“Oh there you are young lady; and about time too! It’s good of you to condescend to join us. I suppose you want to be out and about on the town, getting drunk, and falling into bed with the first girl who picks you up in one of the dancehalls. Honestly Melina, I despair of you sometimes!.......
.......Come and join us dear. At least we can enjoy your company for a while, before you skip off into the night and stay out until the early hours yet again.....You won’t find us that bad company, or ‘boring!’ as you so often put it in your all too frequent petulant moods. I ought to whip you more often little lady. You have become quite the spoilt little madam!.......
.......While you were no doubt making yet more of a mess in your bedroom for me to tidy up, since you never do or ever will, I’ve made up my mind. Indeed I’ve just changed my mind. I’ve just now decided that you’re not going out unless and until I say so. You will stay at this little party and assist me in looking after our guests. Note that, Melina: ‘our’ guests. It is about time you took more responsibility. It is also about time you grew up and played your part in this household. So you will not go traipsing off down town until I say you can. Is that clear?!.....
.......You had better do as you are told little lady, or I will whip you again!......
.......What’s this?! What are those shoes you’ve got on! Just look at them! Young lady, you’d do anything to disobey. I know you have to keep up with the other girls, spending a fortune on makeup, the tiniest of tiny panties, minuscule miniskirts, revealing tops, and outrageously expensive shoes with heels that would cripple you if you fell off them!.......
.......I mean, for example, what exactly were you doing in the eight-and-a-half-inch nail-stilettos I caught you wearing next door not long ago?.......
.......No don’t answer that. I’ve heard enough of your lies! But you’re not going out wearing shoes like those you’ve now got on now......
.......I just don’t know where the world is going with you little miss.....To wear shoes like those! Well, all I can say to you, young madam, is that, it might be the latest fashion, but if they hurt you....I know it’s cruel for me to say it.....but I’m glad!”
“You young girls these days!....There’s no use in your elders saying anything to you! You just won’t wear sensible shoes! What are those you’ve got on going to do to your feet? You only get issued with one pair of feet in life Melina.......
.......Oh what’s the use of me going on at you? I might as well talk to a brick wall!”
“Georjayna darling, you’re up to something I just know you are. What is it? Give us a clue.....
.......Oh my god!! Oh my god!!! How wonderfully exquisitely cruel! Oh my god!! Oh god!! You’ve nailed her to her shoes! You’ve nailed the little bitch to her shoes!!”
“Right in one Anistata.....or two if you count both of its rather pretty feet! The nails go through the foot and the ready-made hole through the wedge-sole on top of the platform, to nail the slag and the wedge as one to the log-platforms......The bitch is, therefore, in effect, nailed directly to the log-platforms.......
.....We had the devil’s own job finding nails with flat heads large enough.....But my wonderful Stannie came up with some in the end.....”
“......Now you will be staying with us and joining our little party Melina darling, be a good girl, borrow one of the trays from the servants, and take our guests’ drink orders.....Do you think you can do that little thing for me sweetheart?......
.......And only ever carry one drink on your tray at a time darling, we mustn’t risk you spilling any on our nice new carpet must we....?!”
At a signal from Georjayna made behind Melina’s back, the guests spread themselves around the spacious room, purposely making Melina have to walk further in her drink-fetching duties....
“You have brought out the muscularity of her lovely legs wonderfully Georjayna! The weighty platforms she is nailed to, enhance the calves and superbly demonstrate the power of a girl’s thighs.....And her legs are raised so steeply by the wedges, that she still has those devastatingly delicious concaves in the sides of her buttocks..... And, obviously it is in the nature with redheads, but, your excellent work with the bullwhip besides, her body is so smooth and so very ghostly white, the legs by no means least......
“I am glad her shoes please you Relphin. What do you think of the choice of clothes? Suitably sluttish?!”
“The perfect finishing touch. I bow to your artistry Georjayna!.......When she comes over this way, I wish to inspect her welts.....They look so wonderful on her! I see she still has blood seeping.”
“Ah yes, it’s not wearing a sanitary pad to sop up its monthly.....”
“I was also meaning through the back of her top.....”
“Quite so....”
“Have you tried to imagine the agonising pain of lifting those huge logs through means of having your feet nailed to them: lifting them with nailed feet and battened-down toes?!”
“Relphin, you sweet man, if I didn’t know it would be incredibly painful as well as insultingly demeaning for the meat, I would not have nailed its feet to the logs.....
.......One moment please Relphin.......
.......Melina, sweetheart, you mustn’t shuffle your feet like that. Pick them up properly darling, there’s a good girl.......You’ll never find the other girls even looking at you if you slop around like that!.....
.......And do I espy two drinks on that tray my love? If you remember, we did agree you would only ever carry one drink at a time. Take one of them back to the bar darling. We don’t want any spillages my little angel.”
“She is so obedient! The torture is exceptionally erotic Georjayna. The poor girl must be enduring purgatory with her feet nailed so brutally beautifully, but what a leg display it is affording us, every muscle and sinew in her lovely snow-white legs is challenged to the utmost. If there were a Nobel for erotic torture, you would surely win it outright Georjayna!”
“You are too kind Decilda. As a return of compliment, though I fear it is an inadequate one compared with the one you have just voiced about my comparatively humble efforts, I must congratulate and thank you once more, for finalising the ball and tube gag for the meat.”
“You’re most welcome Georjayna, it’s but a minor contribution.....
.......She’s walking across the room again....You know, I was always before today more a tits-girl than a leg lover, but you’ve made me a total convert! I just can’t take my eyes off their beauty under the stress they are in from your choice of torture!”
“A moment....just one moment....sorry Decilda......
.....Sweetheart, I know you can move a lot quicker than that....I hope I don’t detect another of your sulks coming on.....There’s a good young lady over here who is yet to have you take her order, let alone receive her drink.....Do hurry on dear....Remember, a job worth doing is worth doing properly......
......Yes, I can see from your eyes that your shoes hurt your feet and your toes very badly darling. But you young girls will make yourselves slaves to fashion! I have tried to persuade you to buy sensible shoes. The ones you’ve got on were your choice, sweetness......
.......Ah, at last Melina....what’s taken you so long my precious? It’s only a short trip from here to the bar.......
.......Would you care for one of your Irish Whiskeys Decilda?”
“That would be perfect Georjayna. Thank you.”
“With ice......No that’s okay.....No hurry to decide, I’m sure my darling Melina won’t mind making two trips to the bar if you decide on ice after all.....will you precious?.....
.......Irish Whiskey for the doctor, and do try to be a little quicker Melina.....I can see at least two guests waving empty glasses that need your attention......
.......Walk properly darling......pick your feet up when you walk.....you’ll ruin your lovely new shoes if you don’t pick your feet up properly. You need to mend your ways, little lady. You’re not so old yet, that I can’t give you another good whipping!.......
.......If you will be so kind as to excuse me Decilda.....I must circulate....Your father is coming over to join you....Oh, that sounds bad! I’m not saying I wish to move on because your father is coming this way.....”
“Sir Lansfarn I was just about to try and locate Stannie. What do you think of the show......Oh sorry there’s Stannie...please excuse me.....I’ll be back promptly?”
“I was about to say to Georjayna how sexily Melina’s legs are displayed.....
.......What’s that smile for Decilda?”
“To paraphrase: ‘like daughter like father’.....”
“How do you mean?
“Legs daddy......I agree about the legs......I told Georjayna already that the legs are displayed perfectly”
Georjayna crosses the room to talk to a guest Melina is carrying a drink for on her tray. Both Georjayna and the guest, a newcomer, Emibold Fenton, are indulging quiet enjoyment of Melina’s struggle to walk and evidently increasing pain from her toes and the nails driven through her lovely feet.......
“Emibold, how lovely that you have made it here. ‘Better late than never’ they say. Now you have your refreshment. I’m not sure if you have been introduced before, or not. But this is the little minx for whom I act as guardian........
.......Curtsey to the gentleman Melina.......
NO! I don’t call that a curtsey. Do you want another whipping? I am more than willing! Or are you going to curtsey properly?.......
.......NO! That is not good enough and you know it. If you choose to wear such heavy platform shoes it is your fault. As I keep repeating, thus making it no less true, you are a slave to fashion Melina: that’s what you are my girl. And it serves you right that you are paying for it with your pain........
.......NO! Curtsey again, and do it properly this time: you know you know how to. Are you just being awkward on purpose? Did that whipping I gave you earlier teach you no respect? All the money we are wasting on your expensive girls’ school, and they don’t even teach the pupils there to curtsey properly! I just knew it was a mistake sending you to a school where they have abolished corporal punishment!.......
.......And while you’re here Melina, as a ‘by-the-way’, what is all this tittle-tattle I’ve heard about you trespassing on Sir Stannet Argoyle-Farquar’s estate?......
........Good. Just on time Sir Stannet! Thank you for joining us. I was just asking Melina here, about the rumour she was seen trespassing on your land. Is there any truth in it?”
“Yes Georgie.....”
“Stannie! You’ve forgotten that you are playing a part! But never mind dear, that will have to do.....
....... That word, the word of a knight of the realm, is, as it should of course be, good enough for me.......
.......You are a total ingrate Melina! I’ve a good mind.....
.......Trespassing indeed. Whatever is the world coming to. Will you never learn to be a good girl?! Is that what they taught you in school?!.....
.......I’ve had enough of you! I tell you now young lady, I’m going to take you outside and give you ‘what for’ and you are not going to like it!”.......
.......Get into that room!...the one you came out of in those ludicrous clothes and ridiculous shoes....and be quick about it girl!.......
......And I’ll tell you one more thing, you stroppy little madam......I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when I come to deal with you next door!”
The gentle tears from Melina’s sad green eyes wash her soft cheeks and give a shine to her pretty freckles. In agony from her tortured toes, amid a symphony without sympathy of wailing laughter at Georjayna’s cruel little joke, Melina struggles to walk back on the ever heavier seeming log-platform shoes to which her feet are nailed, to the neighbouring room and a hope of respite she is somehow sure she is not going to get......
<Scene 7>
After an interval, at Georjayna’s invitation, to witness justice continuing to be carried out on Melina for her being caught trespassing on Sir Stannet’s estate, the whole party, hosts and guests, gather in the room where pretty redhead Melina was bullwhipped,......
“Lend me a hand stripping it please Stannie......Okay, okay, I can see the look in your eyes. At least let me get its handcuffs off before you take its top off so you can look at its tits again....You have a single-minded obsession Stannie!”
“But not a single obsession Georgie; there are, after all, two of them, and she’s got a pair of beauties!”
“How about leaving that microscopic white thong on her: not to leave her with any dignity, but because it looks so deliciously sexy!”
“But Emibold, its crotch is turning red with the meat’s monthly bleed seeping into it.”
“All the more symbolic of the girl’s sacrifice?”
“Well....okay......agreed, the thong can stay, though it’s so tiny it looks as if it could rip and fall off at any moment!......
......Just throw the skirt and top in that basket, and one of the maids will burn them.....unless anyone wants them for a souvenir....Perhaps you might like them Janatha, to remind you of your lost love....eh? he-he!”
“We could certainly sell her thong on O-bey Lady Georjayna”
“Another good idea! Thank you Janatha.......”
........Right bitch....See that tree trunk held horizontally on the two X upright steel frames over there....as if even someone as stupid as you could fail to notice it?......
.......You will walk over to the middle of it, the middle as you face it now, and you will squat down on your haunches under it......Do you suppose you can manage that very simple task, slag....!!?.......
.......And rest assured, you’re not being told to do a sit just so we can all admire your creamy-white smooth thighs when you squat......Though we will of course enjoy continuing to use your body to get off on you....”
For fear of the diamond studded bullwhip Georjayna continues to hold, carrying it casually coiled causally a cruel snake in her left hand, Melina struggles over to the huge tree trunk walking in the hugely heavy platform shoes to which her pretty feet are nailed, and then giving symmetry to simultaneous sighs as she lowers herself to a squat and displays the massive size of her wonderful thighs when her shapely legs are folded.
Sans its branches, but with bark intact, the tree trunk is held horizontally in the receptive embrace of a pair of solid stolid sturdy steel x-frames. The strength of the frames is needed, for, because its purpose is meaningfully mean in the means for which it will be used, the log is of no mean weight. A comparison by flicked eye from the huge shoes Melina is nailed to, to the trunk, shows that the platforms of her shoes are off-cuts from the same tree. The gentle little redhead squats under the hefty trunk, a log twice as heavy as her own dainty poundage, and thus gives magnificent massivity to her superb cream-white flawlessly smooth strong thighs: the thighs on which her enormously generous soft-firm coral-pink-nippled breasts press and caress as she breathes the oxygen necessary for the continuance of her breathtaking beauty’s existence: the exquisite beauty of a redhead girl.
“There now sweetheart, you can do as your told when you try, can’t you?.....
.......now lift that log on your shoulders darling and carry it down the garden for your kindly Uncle Stannie......
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
......Lift it you bitch or I’ll strip even more of the lovely flesh off your girly-curved back!......”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Oh my god just look at the weight of it! She’ll never lift it on those slim shoulders!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Every stripe is making her back bleed!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Lift it you fucking bitch!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
A cheer echoes cruelly in Melina’s ears as her surprising strength, the strength of a girl, slowly raises her up on the platform shoes to which she is nailed, with her slender gold-down blessed ghost-white complexioned forearms held forward, and then wrapped back around the huge log so her very feminine invisible biceps help her shoulders and neck hold the tree trunk from falling over her head or rolling down her bowed back.
The log, as long as little Melina is tall, is now held by her pretty arms and slender neck in place of the supporting x-frames which Sir Stannet quickly removes. Her sweet red-curl-caressed head is bowed, as the tree trunk presses down on her neck so that her sparkling green eyes must admire her swinging tits with their hot-coral pink nipples pointing the way she must progress. As she initially stands with the brutal weight born aloft at last, her supremely shapely legs are as rigid as they are beautiful and as beautiful as they are strong.
“There you are. You can make yourself useful if you try my sweetness!!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Now darling, carry the trunk out of the house and down the garden please. There’s a good girl. I know you want to be a good girl really. Your new girlfriend will help you along!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“She loves to kiss your pretty bottom”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Now don’t you start crying Melina, there’s nothing for you to cry for!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Walk darling or I’ll have to make your beautiful bum bleed even more!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“You’ll never get it through the doorway like that sweetheart! Turn sideways and bend at the knee. Here....let me help you!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“There that helped didn’t it?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Down the path heartsease! Carry the tree trunk down the path for your dear Uncle Stannie!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!
“Your new girlfriend is very passionate. Now we’re outside she can caress your bare bum as often and as hard as she really wants to!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Don’t stagger darling, we wouldn’t want the tree trunk to get damaged, now would we?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Well, if you will stick your pretty bum out like that, and go around nearly naked everywhere, with just those tiny panties on, what do you expect a passionate girl like your new girlfriend to do?”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You know, I think she’s trying to whip that provocative thong you are almost wearing right off you!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Lift your feet darling. I know that tree trunk is heavy, but we must keep proper deportment and not shuffle mustn’t we?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Don’t shuffle your feet please darling, you’ll ruin your nice new shoes!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Steady....We mustn’t drop the tree trunk must we sweetheart?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Pick your feet up darling! I won’t tell you again!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Come on now sweetness, we’re not even halfway there yet!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“It looks awfully heavy I hope you can’t stand the weight!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You’re perspiring dearest heart, I thought you kept yourself fit?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Aren’t you pleased your nice Uncle Stannie has given you a useful task to do during your school vacation?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You nearly let it go then sweetheart....surely you don’t want to have to go back to the beginning and start all over again?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“It’s so good to have you at home Melina. This is much better for you than your being down town being chased by the girls again isn’t it?!
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Gosh! Did that one really hurt?! I’m so sorry. Try this one instead!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Oh that must be so undignified! You’ve lost your panties now! I’m afraid that if they can’t be stitched at home, you’re going to be in deep trouble darling. I’m going to have to dock your spending money to pay for their mending!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“There now, look. Your kindly uncle Stannie has put the supports you lifted the log from inside the house, in their new place at the end of the garden path. Only fifty yards to go now!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Don’t bend forward like that angel: please remember the log you’re carrying!!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“What a good girl you can be when you try my darling. You deserve an award for being so good!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Nearly there now sweetness! But we mustn’t forget our deportment must we?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You have beads of perspiration on your gorgeous freckles. Is that tree trunk across your soft shoulders really that heavy?!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You nearly stumbled then darling. Do be careful!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You know: you’ve got blood running all down your gorgeous legs! I wonder how that came about?
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“I suppose if you will wiggle your bum so provocatively darling!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“If you’d been honest with me sweetness, and told me about the trespass, it might have saved you from all this!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Steady, steady, don’t fall over darling!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“I won’t remind you again about not ruining your lovely new shoes! Pick up your feet please sweetheart!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You’re being such a good girl. I may let you go down town tomorrow to see if you can whip up some interest from the other girls!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“I know you’re in the middle of your bleed week darling, but that’s just a little nuisance we girls have to put up with!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“There’s no need for you to stay at home with your nice Uncle Stannie and me, just because you’re menstruating darling!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Okay, you’re quite right....the other girls won’t come within a ten mile radius of you while you’re bleeding....so perhaps you’re right to help out in the garden like this in the meantime....”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
At long last the brutally whipped Melina is able to drop the huge log onto the x-frames. Those frames have been raised such that the redhead angel can lower the log into them while still stood with stooped shoulders. From her savagely flogged buttocks, their soft unblemished smoothness ripped by the diamond studded bullwhip’s vicious tongue, trickles of blood are contributory to tributaries becoming a river flowing the backs of her strong thighs and the taut contours of her highly arched calves. Her sweet face is lightly delightfully flushed by the girlful effort of carrying the huge tree trunk on her shoulders. Her pretty green eyes glow with the sweet sincerity of her desire to please, a desire derived from her lovely nature and not in need of being driven by the wanton whipping of her naked body. She looks around for signs of mercy, and see’s only eyes and the O-bey cameras lusting for her, and for seeing that body further whipped.
Even as she still cradles the huge tree trunk on her soft shoulders; those shoulders torn grazed and bleeding from the rub of its rough bark, her wrists are tethered with white silk ropes, her slender arms taken around the log just as she had held it like a babe when she carried it, and the ropes tied off so as to begin to give the tree trunk a permanence of burden she must bear, bare and flogged as she is.
Nailed to her log platform shoes, Melina stands on wonderfully shapely legs with the evidence of her supreme femininity, a dropule of menses blood wavering to shed another of the continuing tears of her monthly womanly consequence incontinence, un-stanched from her innocent love-mouth’s ‘labia’ labelled lips: lips as passionate as those filled by her silencing gag.
She stands now before a rigid square-profiled wooden upright, Sir Stannet’s so-called ‘washing line holder’, rooted firmly in concrete in the ground at the end of the path of sorrow she has just been whipped down. It comes to just below the flow of her slim neck, where she leans, bowed forward by her brutal burden.
“Pass me the tool and those two too please Stannie......
.....We mustn’t let you continue to hold up that heavy tree trunk without any help my darling. I’m so sorry I’ve been so neglectful. Here, let me make you more uncomfortable. Let me nail your wrists to it!”
To cheers and, at last once more, to Melina’s soft tears, Georjayna nails Melina to the log, driving the flat-headed steel nails through Melina’s slender wrists, and then untying the ropes so that Melina is nailed to what she has been whipped into carrying and now cannot drop. Bent forward cruelly like a crone, poor Melina, her brutally whipped body bleeding still, leans forward as the supports are taken away, and she once more bears aloft her brutal weight alone.
“Step forward my angel and let the penal-upright caress your cleavage.....
......A little more......That’s it sweetheart, so that your pretty titties are divided by the upright....... Hold that tree trunk up darling, we don’t want it to make you fall over backwards do we now?....
......That’s it.....Now let me caress those incredible nipples. You love it when I gently cross over them with my thumbs don’t you?.....No.....no need to answer my darling, I can see it in your eyes.....in your closed eyes.....You love having your nipples caressed don’t you my sweetness and light....They’re as much a girl as the rest of you. And.... look... look.....they’re loving it....they love to be touched like this. Their arousal is instantaneous darling......Your body is so sensitive, and yet it has taken such a whipping even to begin to teach you to be a good girl......
......But since you are being such a good girl at least for the moment, we’re going to help you hold that tree trunk up.....
.....Look. See this? There are two of them. No.....don’t be silly sweetness; there’s no prize for guessing why there are two......
.......Look. It’s just an ordinary softwood batten, nine-inches long, three-inches wide, and half-an-inch deep. Mmmmm? ‘What are they for?’ did you ask? I’ll show you in a moment. Patience darling, don’t spoil your good behaviour by being brattish again, I won’t hesitate to whip you if you start to be a naughty girl once more......It seems to be the only thing you understand......
.......Now, you may not have noticed that this one, oh and the other one of course, has a hole drilled right through its middle on the three-inch wide by nine-inch long side...... mmmmm? Clever that isn’t it? Look closely. Stannie loves his work as much as he loves big tits....
.....No Melina.... don’t take it like that...We don’t all of us believe that ‘the bigger her tits the more stupid the girl’.....I mean, if that saying were true, even you couldn’t possibly be as stupid as your tits would then convey that you must be.... A girl can have big tits and not be completely stupid. You prove that that isn’t entirely true of course, but you’re not quite as stupid as your tits are stupendous darling......
......Now to get back to the subject.....And don’t you dare try to divert me again young lady or I’ll give you another taste of the whip......To get back to how we’re going to help you hold up that heavy tree trunk we’ve had your wrists nailed to.....
........Oh, and did I say.....keep this to yourself Melina, I think they didn’t really mean you to know...but as your friend I’ll give you the whisper....You are going to have to hold that log aloft for twenty-four hours.....!
.....No....look...be fair....you’ve been a very very naughty girl, trespassing on Sir Stannet’s estate and trying to steal eggs.....I know they’re good for your figure and you are very shapely and wish to stay that way, just as we all want you to do so too....But stealing is very naughty Melina....
......Now what was I saying?....Oh yes, you’ve got to hold that tree trunk up for twenty four hours as punishment for being a naughty girl... Mmmmm? Oh the whipping. Well yes, of course the whipping was for being a naughty girl too. But the whipping is hardly punishment for a girl who has been as naughty as you have sweetness now is it.......be fair?....... Mmmmm?
Pardon?...........Oh ‘The help for you to hold that hugely heavy tree trunk aloft?’ Oh yes; silly me, I was almost forgetting to tell you the important bit.....
.......Well now, we need to do something there, and this batten...and that one too making two....Well, I tell you what Melina, out of kindness....No really and truly....I can be kind, and I’m going to show you just how kind I can be....
........Out of kindness and to help you hold up that tree trunk for twenty four hours standing in those platform shoes you are nailed to, you’re going to be nailed to this upright wooden post by your tits......
........Now don’t you look at me like that precious one! This is for your own good. If I had been as naughty as you have been Melina, I would think that to be fixed to a wooden post for twenty four hours by having my tits nailed to it, was the least I deserved.......
......If you were being honest with yourself sweetheart, you’d admit that you should thank us for nailing you to this post by your tits, shouldn’t you?.....Let’s be truthful about this my angel mmmm?......
......No darling, sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind. I mean, if we are not going to nail you to this wooden upright by your tits, how are you ever going to learn to be a good girl?.....
......No....No...sweetheart, there’s no need to thank me....
.....It won’t take long.....See...Stannie has the first batten and is slipping the flat headed nail through its readymade hole.....
.......Now then Melina...your choice my darling......would you prefer your right or your left tit to be nailed to the post first mmmm?.....Don’t mind which?....No?....
.....Now look Melina......I won’t warn you again about your attitude! Showing that you don’t mind which tit is nailed first is one thing, but signalling with those gorgeous green eyes that you don’t care....well what kind of answer is that from a girl who is supposed to be learning not to be naughty mmmm?....I’m going to have to whip you again for that darling....It’s for your own good you know!......
........Now I’m going to grip your right tit hard by the nipple and stretch it out forward....like this...Ooh sorry does that hurt?.....well it won’t last long....come on Stannie nail her right tit to the post....that’s it, drive the nail right through the tit till the batten with its long side parallel with the upright post flattens the pretty tit at its base and she can’t move......There now the nail is going through your tit and your tit is now being nailed to the wood and the batten will keep your soft flesh nailed.....we could call it ‘tit crucifixion’ couldn’t we sweet-love mmmm?
.....Well done Stannie....now the left tit to match.....that’s it darling, nail through the hole in the batten, and then through her tit, to nail her tit firmly to the upright....
.......A few more taps on the left tit’s nail darling, so it bulbs out to match the right one.....There we are. Now that didn’t hurt much did it sweetness?.....
......Now you mustn’t bend at those pretty knees or fall backwards holding that tree trunk or you’ll rip your lovely tits and we wouldn’t want that, even if you have been such a naughty girl as to be caught trespassing and stealing eggs....
.....Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to whip those lovely legs darling.....You just concentrate on your nailed tits......
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Steady now, don’t bend those knees, remember your poor nailed titties!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“If only you had listened to me before you became such a stroppy little madam sweetness, none of this would have been necessary!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You legs are trembling darling. Let me warm them up a little!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Don’t arch back like that my love, you’re pulling on your nailed titties!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“And when this punishment is over, I want you to go to Sir Stannet’s estate and apologise for trespassing darling!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“You’re such a nice girl really, that I’m sure you would wish to do that!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“And have some manners when you go there to say ‘sorry’, don’t forget to thank them for punishing you for doing it!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“If this whip damages the post your tits are nailed to darling: I’m afraid I’m going to have to dock your spending money to pay for the repairs!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“Look on the bright side sweetness and light, at least now you’ve been thoroughly whipped, nobody need be embarrassed by your standing there naked and openly menstruating so disgustingly....!”
THewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwWHICK!!!!!!!!!
“There now, I hope that’s very painful for you.....
......Mmmmm? ‘Finished?’ oh no, don’t be a silly little girl....You’re going to get ten more lashes every hour on the hour for the twenty four hours.....We don’t want to encourage you to become naughty again do we my precious?.....”
<Scene 8>
At the depth of night, the distant house a ghost-galleon on the flowing falling rising rolling hillocks beside the path poor Melina was whipped every step along down to where she now stands ‘crucified’ by her tits, as crickets click in humid darkness, a coincidentally colourfully timeous midnight-black beauty with lips and fire-flamed devil-brown eyes redolent of the ready passion she comprises in whole and in part, stands quietly anticipatorily in front of Melina, who’s beautiful brutalised snow-white redhead’s body she has once more just whipped....
.......In the silence, in her silence, in the whispers of the breeze seeking to bathe and soothe the fires from her wickedly whipped savagely salted tit-‘crucified’ body, sweet Melina releases a ruby red droplet which teeters, momentarily wavering Oporto-red in the pallid moonlight, before its gathering reaches the critical mass of a gentle red teardrip to teardrop and plash onto the unworthy earth more of her mooncycle sacrifice: her monthly penance for being that which is far and above and beyond any other of god’s most wonderful of all creations, the only true wonder of the universe: a girl....
......Then black beauty is quietly joined by white, and lips are eagerly conjoined and sighs remark love’s old and new spark as the moon hears a moan that the two girls mistake for one of their own while their longing takes throne and their very souls are only for each other....
....... Time is suspended for enraptured mortals lost in the highest love, that of girl for her natural mate, girl. An hour of passion passes in love’s song sung amid a longing tone moan alone from a third quarter for whom there has been no quarter, which the two bewitched lovers with eyes only for each other and ears in which sweet lavender language is lavished by loving longing tongues, do not hear till....
“What was that my darling; that sort of ongoing ‘whinnying’ noise?” a sweet voice, all eyes only for her black love and her love only for the stunningly gorgeous Georjayna, whispers almost silently for fear something disturbing is abroad in the wooded enclave before which Melina stands tit-crucified.....
“That?....Oh nothing that matters. I’d guess the filthy slut has been getting off on watching us kissing and having a massive cum......
......Look you go and get undressed for bed darling, then we can make love in front of Sir Stannet...You know how much, now his own love is impotent, my darling husband enjoys watching you and I simulate the real love we share when he is not there. He is such a darling man he deserves an award. He’ll be waiting up to watch we two too.....
.......Talking of watching girls make love, nobody gave this slag permission to do so did they? Her hourly ten lashes are due.....Overdue if she’s that randy still.....Even nailing the little bitch by her tits doesn’t seem to have taught her how to be a good girl......”
“.......I’ll join you in the house as soon as I can.....
.......Unless you want to take another turn in whipping her....?!
“......If I may be permitted to be so bold my lady, if you go ahead of me my lady, I’ll give the bitch her hourly whipping. You’ve had a long day away from your wonderful husband. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten my lady, but you said you needed to organise the servants for the hourly whippings during the rest of the night? I will be as honoured as I am willing, to join you in the shower in a while for Sir Stannet to watch me bathe your exquisite beauty my lady.....”
As she stood as she had stood now for thirteen long hours with her legs alofted to the swerving curves forced by the platform shoes her feet are nailed to, holding on her soft shoulders the huge tree trunk her wrists are nailed to, her body ripped; back, buttocks, thighs and legs to raw red still bleeding stripes by the savagely severe whipping she has endured and continues to endure, and with her tits ‘crucified’, nailed to an upright wooden post so that she dare not move for fear she will rip her lovely body irreparably, the last thing poor sweet oh so pretty redheaded Melina, being punished for trespass in the purview of the paying audience and of the money-paying masses awaiting the product of the O-bey website cameras, the last thing poor sweet oh so pretty redheaded Melina wants is more pain........yet the one thing poor sweet oh so pretty freckle-kissed redheaded Melina longs for is more pain......
.......Melina has no voice to speak, her gag is so complete and replete, but her lovely green eyes thank for her sweet cruelty the girl readying to whip her yet once more....... for the cruel kindness of her betraying her in preference for Georjayna, for the cruel kindness of Melina’s ex-fiancée, Janatha.....and for Melina’s discovery of the new true love of her sweet young life; the love to which her body mind and soul have been driven by the whip, the love on which she is nailing her future, the love to which she is newly engaged to be married, the love on which her future is nailed, the love to which her beautiful breasts are nailed......
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
The Maiden of the May
Synopsis: - Milton Biden an isolated village in the county of Barnmouthshire, England, at some future and past time when.....
The Maiden of the May
by Eve Adorer
Four and sixteen was she; but yet not twenty....... the daughter that is.
She was a kitten, dressed entirely in white....... the daughter that is.
This thus in the Milton Biden village school headmistress’ home; a compact ground-level apartment built in a single storey outbuilding that had once served as stables:
“And this is the study, where I do my preparation for each tomorrow’s lessons and set and mark test papers and such....”.
To the fore, the kitten had two that were clearly feral; probably having never been reined-in or therefore trained in behaviour becoming modesty. They were roaming freely in their more than considerable abundance. Within her close-clinging silk blouse her nipples were scribing a billets doux duet.
The kitten had slim shapely legs. She was five four and up on her toes so high in her ten-inch kid leather stiletto platform mules, that, within the silk stockings she wore, her calf muscles were deliciously delineated. The sparkling gold of the grasping metal clasps of her silk suspender belt were fashionably exposed below her skirt’s brief to supply a hem at some stage of a girl’s thighs, no matter how little it might try.
She was up on her tiptoes in her highest of heels, her silk miniskirt flirting with exposure of her full firm derriere domes: demimondes clenched in consequence of the length her stilettos went to lift her heels aloft; her firm buttocks being all that secured her skirt from rising to answer whether she wore panties a thong or whether it was bare.
Drawn by the irresistible attraction of the kitten, school headmistress Sampara Smith’s eyes caught hers and was smitten.
A momentous moment was no more than a glimpse of this woman-girl brushing a twist of glorious gold hue, from dandling delectably over her right eye, using a sweet little hand with exceptionally long sharp-looking fingernails - impractical if clearly not impracticable fingernails - to sweep it back into the otherwise ordered conflagration of coiled curls that crowned her head and then flowed inspiring spiralling cape over and beyond her bewitching rear.
A momentous moment was no more than a glimpse, for the kitten was shy, and blushed at Sampara’s evident admiration of her outstandingly pretty ghost-white face, with its freckle dusted nose above a pouting-coral-pink-lipped ever-moist mouth.
A momentous moment was no more than a glimpse but its sufficiency sufficed for Sampara to see the kitten had eyes of startling sparkling green, with endlessly deep dangerously dark down-drowning whirlpool pupils.
“Let me show you the bedroom.....”, Sampara now stuttered to the mother, only to glimpse the kitten hanging her head to hide the red that suddenly suffused her angelic visage.
Now Sampara momented whether this earth-blessing proof of a heaven, this girl who anointed an unworthy world with her fragrance; this ravishing redheaded kitten, was an ever-wet: a girl so constantly aroused by her own natural beauty, she was wise to wear a panty-liner even when it was not in bleed, or else spend all day in damp panties.
Even if not that, Samapara was certain sure, that if indeed she bore any panties, the kitten’s frequent blushes simultaned with a dampened crotch; the blush being all the more fed by the kitten’s wholly inappropriate shame at her natural youthful all too ready holy arousal.
“Come on sweetheart!” her momma teased the kitten, whose shy demeanour she had momentarily mistaken for teenage boredom.
“I’m so sorry. I was so eager to see the headmistress’..... your house.....I should have introduced you Miss Smith. This is Tigerna, Tigerna Softkiss, my youngest daughter, surnamed after my ex-wife, my ex-husband-wife, of course?”
“Hello Tigerna. What a pretty girl you are...”, Sampara Smith, the headmistress of the Milton Biden school surprised to herself aloud.
“Oh, thank you Miss Smith”, the kitten blushed and curtsied low with a flash of thighs and exposed stocking tops that compelled Sampara’s eyes, and which was accompanied by a mesmerising look from the startling greens that was as seductive as it was innocent. And all the more seductive because it was so innocent.
“As I mentioned in my phone call, Tigerna is a St Innocents girl. All my daughters went there. And she has just been accepted at Camford were she will take oriental languages and ancient and modern Greek... haven’t you sweetheart?” the mother enquired of her clit-tease daughter.
“Oh mummy....please!” the kitten sweetly pleaded, with a further delightful flush blush and a flash of her startling eyes to beg that Sampara still find her pretty and not solely brainy. Then the kitten smiled devastatingly, nodding deservedly proud ascent, so that the same naughty red curl that her dextrous slim fingers had replaced before, descended once more over her right eye.
“But to save the bother and time-wasting at university, we are hoping for a good marriage ....... I plan to find Tigerna a wealthy wife”, the mother added.
With the St Innocents education confirmed, Sampara knew the kitten was unsullied. The long sharp fingernails had made her wonder if the angel was untouched. They were often kept that way as further safeguard against a St Innocents schoolgirl even thinking of touching it.
The announcement that Tigerna had been a St Innocents pupil raised for marriage confirmed she was pure for sure. At this thought, Sampara herself blushed.
“A good marriage” was code for finding a wealthy wife.
A successful modern woman about town might sow her wild oats. But when she decided to settle down, she would expect to marry a virgin. A girl as pretty as the kitten, if she was as untouched and unsullied as her gorgeous face and delightful demeanour conveyed, would find an excellent match; as long as she didn’t dare to wish her wife to be as faithful as she herself would be expected to be as a wife.
“My two elder daughters made a splendid match. They are both wives of Lady Halphfay?”, the mother prided.
Sampara managed what she intended as a smile of congratulations on this, an achievement she, in truth, knew not the worth of, never having heard of Lady Halphfay. But her face must have conveyed puzzlement despite, because the mother added:
“Avanil Halphfay, the lingerie billionairess?”
“Ah....yes, of course!”, Sampara assured in intonation, though, in truth, she was still none the wiser.
Sampara now momented if the kitten had ever been kissed. At St Innocents, that was not even allowed between mother and daughter. Her body showed she was lithe and fit. So perhaps she had worked off her natural urges with energetic sport, and the talons her fingernails were filed to, and the girlacles that would have been used at school to cuff her hands behind her, had been sufficient to maintain her absolute purity.
“The bedroom.....?”, Sampara led the way to a bedroom secondary to and next door neighbour to her own dormitory. In the centre of the room was a single bed on four strong stumpy legs. The bed’s head was, but for a wall between, mirrored, location wise, with that of the head of the nowadays always half-empty double bed Sampara had in her own bedroom.
“Oh that looks much more comfortable than those horrible bare planks the girls sleep strapped to at St Innocents doesn’t it sweetheart.
“Ooh yes mummy!” Tigerna brighted.
“But we’ll have to use the girlacles darling, like we do when you’re at home? Look, we can cuff your wrists to the supports of the bed head, and your ankles can be chained together and then tethered to each bottom end bed leg. At least, unlike the wooden block you girls get at school, you’ll have a soft pillow under the back of your head. But we mustn’t have a duvet or anything that would press on or rub against you darling, must we....? But you’re used to sleeping naked at school aren’t you darling?”
Here the mother was merely thinking aloud, about what Tigerna, her lovely daughter, was allowed. Thinking aloud as if Sampara were out of earshot.
“I can bring a camp bed to sleep alongside Tigerna. Will that be alright Miss Smith? I mean... I’m sure.... I don’t mean.... you know.... trust.... well.... I know you teach girls here too..... but..... a chaperone .....I can’t afford to hire one, and to find one you can trust.....?”
“Of course it will be alright”, Sampara reassured.
“Tigerna is a very bright girl, but ..... well.... as we discussed over the telephone.... extra lessons in the present school vacation for her to be sure of her university entrance examination.....”
“In an isolated village such as this... such as Milton Biden .... a headmistress’ pay doesn’t go a long way.... it’s a poor area, but even then... a supplement will be very welcome.... Goodness only knows how my under-staff manage for money....”
At an invitational wave of Sampara’s hand, her two visitors moved back into the lounge to seat themselves. The mother moved into a leather armchair. Tigerna chose a wooden chair with an erect back; evidently a familiar furnishing at St Innocents; a seat securing of ideal posture for a growing young woman.
“Oh wait darling....Patience sweetheart!”, the mother reminded, before rising from her own chair to stop Tigerna sitting.
“Here we are my precious!” she added, after rummaging in a large handbag to produce a rubber ring with a valve through which it could be and had been inflated.
“There.. you can sit safely now darling....We mustn’t risk any pressure on...you know....” the mother concluded after placing the ring valve down-most, where her pretty daughter now lowered herself.
Sampara watched Tigerna lower herself to sit, her long slim but shapely legs tight together at the knees, even as her lovely thighs were enlarged wonderfully by the fact of the act of her being sat... the knees being close-closed to secure against any risk of a glimpse of whether she wore panties, let alone, if Tigerna were in the state Sampara speculated, a flash of it.
As double surety, Tigerna placed her dainty hands clasped in her lap, and once more blushed beautifully with a shy inclination of her radiant red crowned head.
As she now dutifully straightened her back, her heavy breasts drew apart and then slowly rose and fell with her sweet breathing.
“My daughter lacks in geometry”, the mother announced.
“I’m sorry?!”, Sampara astonished, blushing guiltily, thinking her passing thoughts concerning curves had been read.
“Geometry... Tigerna needs improved geometry”
“She doesn’t! .....I... I mean she does?”
“Mummy......?”
The mother rose and walked over to the rose adorning the wooden chair, and Tigerna whispered into her mother’s ear, blushing the while.
“Tigerna needs the bathroom, for both a number one and a number two, if you know what I mean.... She lives on fruit alone you know...It’s so good for the complexion...
....The bathroom....Miss Smith?”
“Of course. Over here....”, Sampara rose, walked over and opened the door of the lavatory, whilst listening to the series of clicks attendant upon the mother using girlacles to fasten Tigerna’s wrists securely behind her back.
“There we are darling, Now just cough when you’ve finished, and I will come in and wipe you....”
Sampara’s head went into a whirl, and her clit proved that, even at forty, she was still a girl, since she realised there had been no mention of the lowering of Tigerna’s panties to enable her to urinate and defecate; so it must be...!
.......................
As soon as Tigerna was sprinkling her golden wine behind the closed lavatory door, Miss Smith beckoned Tigerna’s mother over to the desk near the window of the headmistress’ apartment, and opened a briefcase full to the brim with high-end-value used US dollar notes.
“It must begin the day after tomorrow. That will be 21 June, which, as you obviously know, is the longest day here in England.”
“You’re an ex from this village, so no doubt you also know, that the ritual has that day central to its thesis. The whole notion is ridiculous of course, but, even in the mid-twenty-first century, here in Milton Biden, you won’t convince the peasants of that.”
“The summer has been particularly long dry and arid, and crops are at high risk of failing. They collected all this for you. And the association of the date of your daughter’s birthday, means she is what is needed.... in their mythology. I am right on the age matter aren’t I?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course.”
“You do realise that what they will do to her?”
“Tigerna has to learn what the real world is like at some time. She has been all too sheltered. This last week is the first she has ever been out of her school uniform burka; the first time she has ever even been allowed to uncover her eyes when out in public.....”
[‘She’s certainly made up for lost time, the lovely little minx!’, Sampara mused to herself.]
“And besides, I still have heavy debts from the wedding of my twin daughters. The wedding of Tigerna’s older sisters to Lady Halphfay?”
“The upper classes know how to keep a tight grip on their own money. Lady Halphfay could have paid for the wedding out of loose change. But she played tradition to full advantage, and expected the brides’ parents to pay for everything, including the honeymoons! And I’m divorced, though my ex-wife keeps me on as her secretary....”
“You do know what they’ll be after don’t you?” Sampara enquired, even though she was sure Tigerna’s mother knew only too well.
“Of course...”
Then a light polite cough was heard, and Tigerna’s mother asked if there were soft wet-wipes to hand, to deal with Tigerna’s immediate hygienic needs....”
“Yes certainly. But there is also a super-chilled-water bidet in there to clean her without need of contact....to ensure.....to remove any need of wiping her...wiping her at the front....wiping it....” Sampara informed.
.............................
“Be brave my darling!”
With the mother ever-present, Sampara must simply enjoy the joy of the pretty redhead’s bright beauty. The mother, a contemporary with Sampara in age, and an ex-pupil at the village school, though, obviously, before Sampara’s arrival as its headmistress, kept an eagle eye on her completely sexy daughter.
So, even though, next day, Tigerna sat beside Sampara wearing only a long white woollen sweater that made shift as a micro-mini-dress, and green and white hoop-ringed candy-striped long socks, not folded below, but unfolded over the knee, like self-support stockings, leaving Tigerna’s thighs bare from a mere inch above the knee to where the hem of her makeshift dress cast a shading shadow over what Sampara knew would be immaculately smooth; the shadow casting no shade on its innocence, Sampara must keep her hands as well as her thoughts to herself.
But was the rough rub of Tigerna’s sweater exciting the angel’s nipples? Or did the warmth of the day make them so apparently proud? Was she exciting herself surreptitiously with her constant fidgeting,? Was she deliberately making her nipples rub on the wool for its rough caress? Or was she simply making Sampara aware that her virgin-firm tits were bare under there?........ Or was it perchance both?
There had been the sight of the site at breakfast: the peach with the pair and the pears. Their exciting enticing motion as Tigerna had sliced the pears and her pretty lips become even more supremely moist and succulent when she ate: her fingers wet with sticky dew from the fruit as if they had just been elsewhere.
Although a complete innocent, Tigerna had seemed to show knowingness there. Or was it just that Sampara read naughtiness into the teenager’s long slow lick of the pear’s wetness from her lips with a singularly invitational tongue?
The girl was bright and eager to learn and thus easy to teach.... geometry that is. But the scent of the golden hair that cascaded to the floor as she adorned a wooden chair, sitting on the air-inflated cushion ring protecting it from inadvertent pressure; sitting before the central table, where teacher taught from a laptop computer, both she and Tigerna’s fingers shared, when question turned to answer and gorgeous green eyes made the world aware that here was a maid whose lips Sampara longed to be; but knew she would not and never could be or could ever have been, the first to kiss, let alone Tigerna’s mouth.....
And was there an extra giggle from Tigerna, when Sampara’s eyes strayed yet again to the angel’s bare creamy white smooth thighs, when both knew Sampara was trying to catch a glimpse of it?
And when one of the pencils Tigerna must use as paddles on the keys of the laptop, her fingernails so enforcing, they being so impractical, fell between her bare thighs, why had Sampara not obeyed her desire to take the permission of Tigerna’s lovely eyes to rescue it from there, but lost countenance at countenancing a fleeting fumble of fingers so close to it?
“Be brave my darling!”
.............................
Later that sleepless night, in the early morn, Sampara, and Tigerna’s mother, were all too aware of the murmurings outside. The girls from the town were supposed to be keeping noise down, but some had clearly overindulged in the alcohol that had been on sale all day the previous day, and would flow freely, if at a higher price than the norm, for commerce must take advantage, on this day of celebration also.
Before someone was foolish enough to ring the doorbell, as she feared they might, and waken the sleeping innocent, Sampara opened the outside entrance to her apartment.
It was seven on the dawn of the longest day in the tiny village of Milton Biden, as therefore of course in England, in the mid-summer of the year. The sun had risen over four hours before. When Sampara opened the outer door that led straight into her lounge from the street, the day that breathed into her apartment already glowed warm.
Three young girls, none over twenty; girls Sampara had schooled in their time, and who now worked the ponygirls pulling the plough and the harvester at each end of the season of growing, after the spring sowing in this bucolic zone, entered.
Such was their faith the commonplace of the commonweal in this isolated location, all three, as believers in the satanic lore, wore discrete inverted gold crucifixes on slim chains around their necks.
They slouched in, in high-heeled booties blue jeans and gingham shirts, which, although the latter were of different mixes, were acquainted with the meaning of the word ‘uniformity’ if not ‘uniform’.
Their blonde leader, a particularly shapely girl, brought in the iron boots. One of her two brunette companions and juniors carried the long dress, and the crown. Another the multiple girlacles and such steel “irons” that would be deployed as tradition had it ordered.
Colleana O’Nara, the village’s blacksmith and veterinarian, a tiny girl no more than five-one if that, had kept these in fettle. And, even though they had been Colleana’s great-great-grandmother’s handiwork, fashioned to replace the medieval ones now in the village museum, these substitutes were for public use by the villagers come the need.
All three girls bore the long bullwhips they would use on their ponygirls at plough and harvest, and at any time between, coiled and clipped at the belts around their hips.
“Is the maiden within?” enquired their leader in a soft whisper.
“My sweet Tigerna awaits you, in her innocent sleep”.
“Is it pure?”
“It is in a state of heaven”.
“Is she of the birth?”
“Tigerna is four and sixteen; but not twenty, if that is the answer you seek”.
“It is. The hobbyhorse awaits her. We must awake her”.
How long Tigerna’s mother had been rehearsing these lines, Sampara knew not, though, having written a history with a chapter on Milton Biden, including therefore the mysterious myths that had been indulged by the village since long ago ages to support the women who had always farmed the lands, Sampara herself was familiar with the plot.
The blonde leader with her two brunette assistants said nothing, but still made it clear, that only Tigerna’s mother could enter the bedroom where Tigerna still slept, and where she was to be prepared.
It was only with the intervention of Tigerna’s momma, that minds were changed, and Sampara was allowed to bear witness.
As they followed with lights, microphones, and cameras, the all-female crew recording the event in exchange for having paid the majority of the fiscal contribution to Tigerna’s mother – the bulk of the briefcase’s contents – the crew filming what would be sold to the highest bidder on the O-bey website, were skilful discretion itself.
.............................
“Mummy! Mummy! They are so tight mummy!”
“Be brave my darling!”
As Sampara entered the room where sweet Tigerna was still fast asleep, she saw the angel naked for the first time.
Tigerna lay on her back on an all but bare mattress. Her slender wrists were girlacled to the supports of the bed head, her ankles wrapped around with unyielding chain, with its respective loose ends padlocked in grip of the legs of the bed at the bottom of the bed. And the angel slept on a supremely soft dreamily scented golden fleece; the mattress being where her beautiful red curls spread their autumnal wonder beneath her ghost white body.
Her sleeping arrangement echoed that for the all-girls school Tigerna had attended from her first school day. There, in the dormitories, the older girls were entirely used to sleeping naked, tethered by wrists and ankles to solid wooden boards, with only their buttocks and a wooden block under their heads to support them as they slept. All this to keep them as pure as Tigerna had been securely secured since even before the dawn of her first teen.
Tigerna was thus kept untouched, unsullied, innocent, and sweet.
And between her thighs this early dawn, its allure enigmatically smiled with a soft sheen. Its lips were pre-pubescently smooth, as if they had never borne the mirror-match of the golden glory that anointed Tigerna’s head. The in-turning edges of its lips just kissed closed. And, as Sampara’s compelled eyes followed the line of its seraphic smile, she saw that, at their top, the closed lips ended akin a circle, as if as a whole, it was a lock, and this circle the entry for the shaft of the key.
“Mummy?”
Tigerna stirred, but, as her momma undid her padlocks, and nodded to the trinity of farm girls that she, Tigerna, was theirs; Tigerna was still half asleep, stupefied.
Although she had been covered not by blanket nor duvet nor even sheet in her sleep, Tigerna’s body bore the scent of a night in bed. She was unwashed and the aroma of a warm summer’s night fragranced her flawless flesh.
The two brunettes sat Tigerna on the edge of her bed, and Sampara could now witness Tigerna’s young breasts in all their stupendous glory. Tigerna was twice blessed with proportional but very considerable abundance. For such a young girl, she was decidedly a very big girl. And that summation found match in the size of her nipples too. Tigerna’s firm-soft twins were kissed with two-inch diameter coral pink areolae with firm central peaks. Her nipples were naturally engorged as if she were with milk
As she was sat up and then made to stand Tigerna’s considerable breasts swung till they settled ready to be constrained by the first set of irons.
Under her golden hair, a cold heavy-gauge steel chain was rested around the sweet angel’s neck. At the ends of this chain were the opened steel jaws, some six-inches deep, to compare with the amount of arm they would have embraced had they been wrist cuffs, but only of an opening of three inches.
This device was, by colloquial title, a “tit-controller”. For the first time in their sweet young life, Tigerna’s completely wild breasts were to be subjected to some effort at constraining them to conformity with discretion and becoming behaviour.
By means of its two halves being hinged where they joined the chain, one maw of the tit-controller presently dangling freely over Tigerna’s right tit, was opened out to its maximum; this a gap evidently inadequate for its commissioned mission and bounden duty.
Against any risk the angel might fight, the blonde held Tigerna by her wrists behind, and one of the brunettes inserted a slim white silk rope into holes in the flanges at each end of the opened tit-controller jaw, and began to draw the rope tighter; and tighter; and tighter; to pull the jaw over and onto, and then to encompass and compress Tigerna’s wonderful breast, and slowly to securely fasten the tit-controller’s maw around, so that it strangled Tigerna’s tit. This done she held closed the jaw biting the tit, till the other brunette could shut the jaw for sure, and if need be for evermore, with a padlock. The rope could now be, and therefore was removed.
Tigerna’s evident pain shot her fully awake and aware that this was, but yet was not, a nightmare.
“Mummy!”
But yet the sweet girl, her mother’s presence being taken as sanction for what was proceeding, made no resistance to her left tit being strangled and clamped in the other jaw of the tit-controller, and there padlocked in turn.
But tears filled her startling green eyes when she finally stood with her young breasts grasped brutally in the steel rings formed by the closed jaws, so that the ends of her breasts were suffused with a hue that was becoming unbecoming hue akin to blue, and her nipples were swollen painfully, having become taut pinnacles with her still exposed breasts obscenely alike in shape to the swollen ends of cartoon weight-lifter’s barbells.
“Mummy! They...they are so tight mummy!”
“Be brave my darling!”
“But it hurts mummy! It hurts my titties! My titties are going to burst mummy!!”
“Hush now my angel”
“But my nippies hurt so much mummy!!!”
Tigerna’s mother took the sweet girl’s hands as much to reassure as, perhaps to hide that Tigerna’s iron boots were being readied.
Tigerna was gently sat on the edge of the soft bed, and Sampara watched the young girl’s eyes open in fascinated horror as she realised what was to be fastened to her feet.
It began with her right ankle being shackled in a tight steel ring, in the form of an iron “collar” four inches deep. Taking account of where her heel was to end up willingly or not, from the back of this ankle shackle, and welded as an integral rigid part of it, ran a tapering steel “heel” that became stiletto near its furthest end, before becoming slimmer still, till it was no more in breadth than is the point of a knitting needle.
From one side of this ankle shackle ran a long strong steel rod, which ended in an as yet opened steel ring. The rod was positioned to run parallel with the outer side of Tigerna’s lovely leg. The ring was then closed around that part of her leg, just below her knee, and the closed ring padlocked shut.
Sampara speculated on when the blacksmith had taken measure to adjust these irons to Tigerna’s measurements, and realised that, for such preciseness to have been attained, Tigerna’s mother must have been long in the planning loop.
Hinged to the front side of the steel shackle grasping Tigerna’s shapely ankle, was the presently opened upper for this iron boot. This upper matched in width the section of the boots’ sole, which Tigerna was about to discover was one and the same as its heel.
The upper was curved to dome the foot. The sole-cum-heel arched to take the foot, and if need be break the foot, till its toes pointed downward in parallel with the rigid steel sole-cum-heel.
The two, the upper and the sole, must be mated and married. But first, Tigerna’s toes were fed through a rigidly linked series of individual steel rings, which were the foot equivalent of a knuckle duster, mounted in the upper. This device spread her toes and made Tigerna discover that between each ring, and therefore now between each of her bare toes, this “foot duster” included one inch long needle sharp spikes.
The duster being in place through the rings being around Tigerna’s pretty toes, one of the brunettes screwed a long tapering steel bar to a threaded recess located in the duster between Tigerna’s biggest and next toe. This tapering bar was, in its form, clearly a mirror match for the heel-cum-sole that ran from the rear of the ankle shackle curved over Tigerna’s heel and then rapidly tapered to a needle-sharp point at the rear of her foot.
And how now did Tigerna squeal in pain as she was held fast, while one of the brunettes used two leather straps to close the upper of Tigerna’s steel boots so that her foot was bent brutally over the arch in the heel which was also to be, by the boots closing, the sole of this cruel torture.
Scream with pain though she may, the straps inexorably bent Tigerna’s foot till the steel upper and lower met and mated, and six small padlocks could be clipped through meeting holes in the upper and lower, three at each side of the boot, to hold the device closed, and the straps used in its initial closing, unfastened ready for use on Tigerna’s left foot.
Tears welled, tiptoeing on the precipice of Tigerna’s pretty green eyes, till they formed diamond bright pearls too huge not to fall and caress her sweet freckles when they finally toppled to wet her peach soft cheeks.
The agony over; through the unfocused distortion of the view through her tears, Tigerna could see that her tortured feet were padlocked into the boots such that they were broken back to become, in all essentials, a straight continuation of her legs.
In combination with the bar that ran up the outside of her leg to the ring that was padlocked under her knee around her leg just above her calf, her feet were held forced straight-down. It was as if she wore a splint.
And her boots had no soles. They had two “heels” but no soles, or rather, no soles that would ever touch the floor.
“Stand up!”
“Mummy!!” the poor angel cried when her imprisoners made her stand.
“Mummy!! Mummy!! Mummy!! Oh Mummy they hurt, they hurt!! They hurt me Mummy!!”
And hurt they indeed must, for Tigerna now stood as if on the highest of highest tiptop tiptoe, on two “heels”. Two heels at the rear and front of each foot. Two tapering heels that were not even one inch apart between them on each steel boot.
Two heels on each boot less than one inch apart front to back, with the front heels secured to Tigerna’s pretty feet by the needles that had once merely rested between her divided toes, her toes individually ringed by her toe dusters, and which were now by her 110 pounds of pure girl, driven hard upwards between her toes deep into her feet, causing her to screech with the terrible pain. As blood spiralled slowly around and down her front heels, such was the hellish cruelty she endured so girlfully.
Tigerna stood teetering on two heels for each foot, four heels tapering to needle points, each pair of heels less than one inch apart front to rear, and some twelve inches from the ground at the rear of each boot, with the length of the steel heels at the front of the boots sufficiently less to match the final ground touch of the rear ones, after the length of her tortured feet had been taken into account.
When Tigerna caught Sampara’s eyes compelled to adore the astonishing shapeliness of the young girl’s legs, now Tigerna was stood so mercilessly high heeled with her soft muscularity tensioned so tautly and her bottom clenched closed so tightly that her buttock hemispheres were scooped into sculptured concave hollows, Tigerna blushed. And thus Sampara knew that it must have dampened, and that that would be why Tigerna no longer cried aloud with the pain, though her pretty face still conveyed the strain and the shame.
The dress the blonde had borne into Sampara’s home, was rolled up in readiness by that same girl, and Tigerna was bid to raise her long slim arms, so that her dainty hands could be fed through its short puff sleeves, and the dress thus slid over her sparkling gold down blessed forearms and then her upper arms to her shoulders. The neck of the dress was then arranged around Tigerna’s own neck, and the body of the dress unfurled till it covered the flawless girl to the floor, even beyond her double-heeled shoes.
This done, Tigerna’s flame red curls were rescued from the rear of the dress’ neckline till they tumbled in all their radiant glory down below her bottom once more. And then the far more mundane chain of her tit-controller was drawn out of the dress’ neckline too, and left to dangle to her shoulder blades under her wonderful hair.
The voluminous dress, with its round neck high, made no shift at outlining Tigerna’s very feminine figure, but, nonetheless, her imprisoned breasts made it doubly proud to be on her, and her bottom, sculpted to the firmness of a marble statue marvel, by her tip of tiptoe stance in her steel boots, nearly matched them at the rear. Thus, though the dress was opaque so as to reveal no sin, there was no mistaking that a girl was within.
Samapara, of course, knew this to be the very gown that, with its near twin, which would be held back till needed, if needed, had been long a main feature in the village’s museum. And she remained amazed at the herculean labours of sharp eyes and dextrous fingers that must have been needed for all but endless hours to make and shape and sew its pure lace; its pure white lace; its pure virgin white lace.
The chain between the steel girlacles now being padlocked to each of Tigerna’s wrists, which, once padlocked, left her hands rested on the sides of her behind, was about one foot long.
Now the blonde took up an interwoven multiple-twined ring of rings of rings of freshly gathered wild daisies, and placed this as a crown on the golden glory of the maiden’s red hair, which was thus also now diamond dappled with droplets of dawn dew gifted by the daisies in praise of Tigerna’s beauty.
“You look so wonderful my precious angel!” Tigerna’s mother cried out.
“Walk” came the quiet quite confident command from the blonde clearly in charge of proceedings.
The brunettes opened wide the bedroom door, and Tigerna could see through, beyond Sampara’s lounge, that, after its short bounds, the outside door of the apartment was also ajar. And she could also see the sun, which was so bright to eyes still adjusted to the comparative cool darkness of the apartment’s insides. And she could hear the soprano and contralto murmurings of the village’s girlfolk, for some reason gathered in the street outside. And she knew where she was expected to go.
“Walk” came the repeated confident calm command.
...................
Had walking ever been such agony?
As she made step to make steps, and found that in her heavy steel torture boots she needed to learn to walk anew, Tigerna’s eyes welled with soft tears once more.
She staggered. She was so high on the steel heels; heels she teetered atop even when she merely stood, that to walk was terrifying.
She staggered. She squeaked with fear. She was sure she was going to fall. She was more unstable and unsteady and uncertain than a girl in her first high heels, but with double the heels with which to deal.
Tigerna had had her legs trained at St Innocents, where the girls did ballet for two hours twice daily. So her ankles were strong, and her feet and calves used to en-pointe and the pirouette.
But even this did not release her from fear of a fall, and neither did the recall of the time she had torn an ankle in dance lessons, and been told, that if she didn’t wish to be expelled for disobedience, she must continue.
Tigerna took tentative steps to step, her feet wobbling from side to side under her long white virgin white lace dress. Each step tortured her feet. Each step reminded her that she was stabbed inch deep between her divided toes. Each step was perfect agony.
“Lift your head up, and walk properly!” the blonde whispered in command.
Tigerna turned her pretty eyes to convey her soft sweet maiden’s charm on this source of control over her.
“Don’t you dare to look at me like that! Walk!” came the quietly assured response.
At this Tigerna’s teen rebelliousness, usually hidden below her natural sweet nature, found her with an attempt at a haughty look she did not really have command over, because her face was so very pretty, and she held back her tears, and stepped forward determinedly, and staggered and cried out in pain again.
“Walk, and walk properly, unless you want a taste of the whip!”
Tigerna’s struggles had yet to even take her out of the bedroom. She winced and cried out and her tears flowed, but she lightly bit her coral pink shiny-moist lower lip, and made steps to make steps again, and moaned with the pain, as at last she walked, in fear of a fall, but she walked in her tiptoe-top-topping steel torture boots.
Even so, she progressed snail slowly, and was stepping tentatively and unevenly, with a standing stance between each step, where she held momentarily still.
The group had travelled, behind Tigerna’s travails, at least as far as Sampara’s lounge by now.
But the blonde’s patience had expired. She nodded at the two brunettes, who grasped Tigerna’s bare arms above the steel girlacles around her wrists, and then reached down to roll Tigerna’s dress and red-gold hair enfolded within it above her thus bared buttocks.
“THWICK!!”
The bullwhip’s stroke cut her soft skin and blinding pain caused a red mist before her eyes. A livid scarlet welt was raised on the beauty of her buttocks, its agony echoing and even increasing after the vicious impact on her nude body. Tigerna screamed.
Then she slowly turned her tear-filled glowing greens on the blonde, before recalling she had been ordered not to look at her tormentor, and so lowered her lovely head in prayer that her glance would not earn her another lash.
Her dress and hair were lowered. Tigerna licked her lovely lips. She began once more to try and walk in her torture boots, only for the pain to make her cry again.
“Be brave my angel. We mustn’t let them see tears when you go outside, must we sweetheart?” Tigerna’s mother soothed, as she took a wet-wipe to her daughters pretty face, dabbed tears from Tigerna’s eyes, and then dried the residue of her previous weeping from her sweet freckles.
“Walk” came the order from the blonde immediately after, and Tigerna, having learned from her pain filled tuition, obeyed: she walked.
...................
As Tigerna bravely stepped outside onto the cobbled street, the girls gathered there, muttered among themselves audibly.
“Here she is, the Maiden of the May; our May Maiden!”
“Oh isn’t she lovely?!”
“She looks just like a bride!”
“What beautiful hair!”
Even before this, Tigerna had dried her tears and walked now with pain still, but also with pride, and with a blush evident on her youthfully fresh complexion. The reason was hidden. But Sampara knew. She knew that it was wet.
The naughty curl that was constantly falling over Tigerna’s right eye had tumbled again. But this fall from the grace of complete tidiness only made the stunning Tigerna all the more attractive.
Tigerna’s shy demeanour was an integral of her loveliness. So her blush was readily taken as pleasured shyness at the compliments.
That she was blushing because it was wet, did not even occur to Tigerna. For, for it to wet when she was pleasured by a compliment, or even a glance, let alone an admiring look, was natural for such a girl.
But was there a difference this time? Was Tigerna innocent that she was not innocent of a prospective effect for some girls, of her predicament? Unbeknown and thus unrecognised to her mind, which would have been overwhelming shocked and ashamed had it been consciously aware, did it enjoy her being controlled like this? Was that why it was so wet?
Then next.....
There is a saying in England, that “every village has one”. It is reference to the phrase, “the village idiot”. It conveys, succinctly, if indirectly, that such are considered still to exist in the person of the person being addressed with that phrase.... “Every village has one.....”.
It is an insult. But even in the mid-twenty-first century, the village of Milton Biden had one, in the somewhat distended outline of the obtuse Marna Moroney, whose strident voice now called from the back of a crowd otherwise stunned to silence by the sight of Tigerna’s pure beauty.
“Takin’ it for a mornin’ walk are yer darlin’?”
“Does it smell as nice as dem flowers on yer ‘ead, or ‘ave yer not washed it lately sweet’art?”
“’Ere look. She’s gone all red. She musta bin playin’ wiv it! Ave yer bin playin’ wiv it darlin’? Is your fingers all wet and sticky!?”
A corrective came from one of Marna’s regular companions, a girl almost as stupid:
“She’s one of dem St Innocent boarding school slags. She ain’t even ever bin allowed to fink abart touchin’ it!”
“Oh bloody ‘ell! Burra bet she’s playin’ wiv it now school’s out .....Ain’t yer darlin’?”, Marna now shouted loudly at the near tearful Tigerna.
A final corrective came from the village’s police constable, who had walked quietly over to the source of this loud interjection, the foul mouthed Marna.
The village constable now held Marna up to ridicule as she enquired aloud, so all could hear:
“You just caught up with the village news have you Marna? It’s been planned for weeks. You must be the only girl in the village who doesn’t, or rather didn’t till now, know! Our prayers have been answered. This lovely is of the birth. She is four and sixteen. We have us a May Maiden. Our crops won’t fail after all, not after today!”
“Oh fuckin’ ‘ell! Are day gonna mek ‘er ride der ‘obby’orse an’ all dat?!”, Marna puzzled.
And Tigerna heard, and knew from the words that something probably horrible was in store for her: something even worse than the painful pain-filling bondage she already wore and walked in.
.......................
The crowd now fell in behind Tigerna, who remained walking forward, in great pain, on the uneven cobbles that paved the main street of Milton Biden, with the three farmers controlling her, in closest attendance, and the blonde one, with her long cruel leather whip unclipped from her belt in readiness, in case Tigerna resisted, or fell to the ground and had to be assisted to stand back up on her steeple heeled shoes once more, with the lash.
With her forward motion and the drape and drag of its hem on the roadway around her heels, Tigerna’s white dress clung to the front of her young body and demonstrated that she was a very forward girl, and would have been, even without her breasts being gripped in her tit-controller.
But even though her white dress had thus become more voluminous to the rear than to the fore, her followers were all eyes for Tigerna’s clearly discernable natural wiggle.
The May Maiden with the crown of fresh daisies on her radiant red hair in the pure white silk dress signifying to the world that it was intact, obediently, painfully slowly, for it was slow pain for her so to do, stepped forward along the street, past the girl market where her poorer fellows were traded as servants, past the steepled church, with its cross inverted to depict its conversion to satanism, and it’s clock chiming the quarters, the halves, and the hours; to the main market square.
Tigerna’s wiggling progress left droplets of blood in her wake, for her feet were being tortured for obedience enforcement’s sake.
Tigerna now walked her wiggling way properly in her torture boots; boots in which, with their duel heels tapering to needle sharp tungsten tips giving her but minimally microscopic grip on the paving with her dainty steps, at all times she teetered on the top of a tumble.
As she approached the square, Tigerna became all too aware of the hum of conversation, and then from the clear sight of them, that there were yet more girls gathered to witness whatever it was that was going to happen to her.
And she also now caught her first sight of some wooden contraption that was parked in the centre of the main square.
On she walked. Despite her wiggle militating against such a thing being possible one would have assumed, two patches of the material at the back of her dress had adhered to the now dried blood of the whip lash that still stung her lovely bum.
Now she noticed the device that the girls in the main square were gathered around.
This wooden device, had all the appearance of being an overlarge, child’s wooden horse. It even had a long neck topped by a head with wild red eyes and black flared nostrils painted upon it.
The head was of flat board of perhaps two inches profile, as, insofar as she could see, was the body. Indeed the head and neck were of the same board as the body. Tigerna’s lovely greens read it as said that the depiction on the side of the head she could see, was matched on its other side; although perhaps the strands of leather that made mock of a mane on the neck of the “horse” were only on the side she could immediately glimpse.
To the rear of this playtime horse, were steps that led to a platform that was arranged at the toy animal’s nearest and thus more visible flank.
Stood by the play horse was a little blonde darling with her hair cropped boyishly short, an adornment which only emphasised that she was very much a girl.
This girl stood five one at the most. Her face looked a little smeared with, perhaps, charcoal or dust or soot. Her hands though dainty were dirty in the same way. And she wore a brown leather full apron, with its strap-collar around her neck, and its strings tied at her slim waist, after they must have gone around her fit midriff at least a second time.
Having never of course met her, Tigerna had no knowledge that this tiny dynamo was Colleana O’Nara, the village’s blacksmith and veterinarian.
Tigerna noticed that something was standing on edge at Colleana’s side... the side of the girl Tigerna was yet to learn was Colleana ... and that this blacksmith also had seemingly ready, a steel hoop, a hoop with flanged opened ends preventing it forming a complete circle, and with a pulley device exactly opposite to the opened ends. The girl also held a length of chain.
Tigerna’s half hour struggle to walk to the square ended with loud wolf-whistles and cries of appreciation of her loveliness.
“You are simply gorgeous darling!” came one cry.
“You have pure beauty!” came another.
“Now I know there are angels!” came a third.
As it became instantly wetter, Tigerna hung her head in a confirmatory blush. And then raised her pretty face and looked around shyly in deserved pride, and blushed deeper still as it became wetter still.
Then she squeaked with surprise when, while she, Tigerna, stood at attention as commanded, her mother pulled the dress off the dried blood of the raised whip’s weal across her bum.
“Thank you mummy” Tigerna whispered.
“Be brave my angel” came her momma’s reply.
The village crier waved a clanging bell and all fell silent, as she introduced the village’s mayoress, who unrolled a scroll from which she made a speech few could hear in the soft breeze, and fewer among the few among the many gathered, soon found too long and began to talk over.
“Ladies and ladies we are in the presence of the Maiden of the May, who has been summoned on this, the longest of our summer days, to save our harvest with surety with her purity.....
.....Our May Maiden, this gorgeous young woman, stands before us, assuredly verified as being as innocent as a newborn. Well may she blush. She is but a schoolgirl; untouched; unsoiled; unspoiled; unschooled in the wicked ways we all learn as we reach beyond her complete innocence.....
......This angel is of the age. She is four and sixteen but not twenty. She is, as required by the lore, born on 29 February; a leap-year child, knowing of sixteen full four seasons, but only four birthdays; the purest of pure Maiden of the May....
....By her pain will we gain the long longed for rain that our stubble-strewn yield-lacking corn is parched for want of, and has been since the harvest of last year.....
We must bear painful witness to her being removed of her innocence. Before the strike of midday from the clock of our anti-church, her maiden’s blood must anoint the fields of our farms, to save our harvest from the dread of harm.....
.....But she must fight or else the spell will not be right. and the fight must come in the ride, for she must trot the bounds the fields around so the dark gods will know what her sacrifice is for, and tell the rains she will bring for sure, where to pour....
Take her to the hobbyhorse!”
Even as a chill ran along Tigerna’s femininely arched spine, a cheer went up from the gathered crowd.
“Mummy! What are they going to do to me mummy?! Don’t let them mummy! Please don’t let them mummy!!”
“Fight them my angel. Fight them. I cannot stop this my precious one. It must go on.”
.......................
For poor Tigerna, the rush to get her to what she now knew to be “the hobbyhorse”, knew greater speed than she, on her pinpointed pin-sharp pinnacle heels, was capable. The blonde readying her whip terrified the angel. Was she not entirely obeying her order to walk to the wooden steps?
Among the baying of the crowd, she pleaded a whisper inaudible in the rising cacophony: “Please don’t whip me!”.
She was approaching the hobbyhorse now, and correcting her understanding of its construction.
Her mind was speeded. She was under terrible stress and equal distress. In such circumstances, a mind sees as if in the opposite of time-lapse filming, with the world slowed down so that the inevitable seems all the more escapable, only for the discovery that such is incapable to be all the more horrible to a gentle girl’s mind.
Closer Tigerna inevitably inexorably drew, and with closer inspection she knew, that, because she had hitherto only had a one-side view, she had been mistaken about the horse’s body being of a single two-ply plank; it was of two.
Its wooden neck and head were hewn from single planks, as was its wooden tail. But the body was of two such planks. To keep the parallel planks making for its body, apart, the neck was sandwiched between the body planks at its front end, and the tail at its rear.
Tigerna’s mind did not need to concern itself with whether there were corresponding spacers at the base of the body. But, of course there were – they were supplied by the wooden legs.
Through steel-lined holes smeared with grease to lubricate them drilled toward the bottom of the legs, front and back, ran steel axles. These had presumably replaced the ancient iron axles which had historically supplanted the even older wooden ones.
And fixed to each end of these axles, were six inch profile two foot “diameter” solid wood wheels, of a decidedly odd-looking shape, protected from wear by iron-band-tyres, heated and allowed to cool around the wood of the wheels proper, with nails driven through the bands at regularly spaced intervals, to double-ensure they stayed on the wheels.
The axles, both axles, were half as wide as the hobbyhorse was long. Thus it had stability; or at least it had while still standing as it was now, on comparatively level cobblestone paving.
As Tigerna was to discover, the wheels were fastened rigidly to the axles, so that as the wheels rotated, so did the axles. So the wheels were not free to turn individually alone in their own right. They would rotate in pairs, the wheels at the ends of each and both axles matching the motion one of the other.
Between the boards making the hobbyhorse’s body, Tigerna could spy a series of links the purpose of which she was unable to assess, because they went up somewhere into the hobbyhorse’s body. Nor could she see where these steel links were linked from or to. Each was of industrial strength, with little afforded to finesse about their construction or the crude greased bolts and split-pins where one link linked to another.
But her immediate concerns were narrowing to those caused by the approaching steps; the steps she was approaching that is. These rose one foot at a time before the redhead rose, starting with the first, and their stainless-steel-plated treads were one foot wide. Tigerna’s pretty legs, though as strong as they were lovely, would be challenged by the torture boots she wore, and that she was on pinpoint duel heels.
Walking had already stabbed the gaps between her toes, such that both her feet were bleeding, and each step was agony to her. But the threat of the whip kept her walking, as did the thought that she would seemingly be able, ere long, to sit on this mock horse and take the pressure of her perfect package of poundage off her tortured toes.
On the platform already was the blacksmith. Colleana was busied placing, just to the rear of centre of the hobbyhorse, what must be its saddle: Tigerna’s saddle soon to be. This Tigerna recognised as being the object that had been standing on one of its ends till now, at Colleana’s side.
Though they were hidden by her virgin white dress, the crowd somehowed that this delightful young redhead had a very shapely pair of legs and, to Tigerna’s horror, began to taunt her.
To the fore among them was the strident voice of Marna Moroney, whom the crowd would normally have mocked and told to shut up be quiet and make herself scarce. But now it seemed the women and girls saw her comments as something they too were thinking, but could not express so well allowed aloud.
“Oi: show us a bit of leg den darlin’!”
“Is you gonna give us a flash of it or ain’t yer?!”
“Hope it’s wet sweet’art! You’re gonna need a soppin’ wetun where you is goin’!”
At this latter comment, Tigerna distinctly heard cheers amounting to jeers among the crowd’s now cruel laughter.
Colleana had passed bolts through the back end of the saddle, and tightened the recessed nut, that mirrored the also recessed bolt head: the bolt having been inserted through the hobbyhorse’s flanks to hold the saddle upright and firm.
Two front bolts also supported the circular steel arch Tigerna had noted. The recess in the saddle at that end was large enough to include the flanges of this over-bar with pulley, and the second bolt through each of its flanges secured this over-bar from moving fore or aft.
The chain the blacksmith had held was now over the pulley, with its two ends left dangling loose.
Tigerna’s command was also her wish. She had tasted the whip the once and had no desire to wear another stripe from it. One of her brunette escorts had passed on her whip to the petit power-pack Colleana, and Colleana and the blonde chief of escorts had their whips very evidently at the ready.
To sweet Tigerna in here duple-steeple-needle heels, the short distance to the steps up to the hobbyhorse could have been a million miles. Her feet were causing her great pain. Being required to stand after having tortured them in her walk from the headmistress’ apartment to the village’s centre, had added to her pain. Her feet were being stabbed between the toes once more. For her moments without momentum, her mind had been allowed memory minimisation. Now her wiggle was ordered once more, her feet knew new ministrations from her torture boots.
What were these people after? Why was she, an innocent schoolgirl, being singled out like this? Why did her mummy not save her?
Think these thoughts though she may and did, Tigerna had always been a good girl, and therefore did as she was bid.
As she eased up the skirt of her virgin white dress, as best she could with her wrists being girlacled behind her, it was if the crowd were incensed by the bloodlust Tigerna had read was once accredited to hunters when they had been allowed to use hounds to hunt foxes and such. The thought, irrelevant to her circumstances, that since birth control measures had seen them become nearly one hundred percent of the population, horseback hunting had finally ceased when girls had taken the place of horses, because girls were abundantly plentiful, cheaper to feed, and readily disposable, crossed Tigerna’s mind.
The world-widespread unemployment was being cured by deploying surplus girls usefully. The women’s liberationists could have no complaints.
This scheme of distracting her mind from her pain did not work for Tigerna. Nor did her recollection of thanks for she herself being of comparative good fortune, since she was a daughter with at least one parent wealthy enough to save her from the fate of some of her poorer contemporaries.
Only recently, Tigerna had witnessed her best friend in childhood working in the village for the local taxi firm. Her two mothers had got divorced after their market gardening business had collapsed in the drought, only last year. They had been forced to take their daughter out of school and sell her. Zupeena now worked a cab. She had been broken to the reins used to steer ponygirls by their tits, when still only fourteen.
A moment of moment was fast arriving. Tigerna had to take the first step to take the steps’ first step. It was obviously not in question that her lovely ballet-trained legs, her two transporting transports, were strong and fit enough for so short a height; but in her torture boots.....?
Wolf-whistles sounded enthusiastically even at the exposure of her calves; calves supremely tensioned by her torture boots, but only a pair of very shapely calves with the calf muscles under the highest of high stress, that’s all.
The whip fell only lightly on her buttocks this time. It was but a shot over her firm dimple-hollow-sided wiggling stern, but not a stern one. It was a reminder that she was under charge of the village’s representatives. It was to urge her onwards as time was passing. It was a ranging shot by her additional tormenter, the petit blacksmith.
Tigerna the rose, rose up the steps as if in a dance, she was so fit and lithe and so alive. Colleana O’Nara followed her, and she, the blacksmith, seemed now to be taking the lead instead of the shapely blonde who had hitherto been so obviously in charge over the sweet redhead.
The saddle awaited Tigerna. This she knew just as she realised that, in order to mount it, she must somehow raise the skirt of her dress anew, and began to grasp its material materially in her pretty hands. No offer of help was forthcoming. She struggled alone. But Colleana’s whip coiled snake trail on the platform as if Tigerna had only to bare some of her soft complexion for it to take it as an invitation to kiss her.
Tigerna had never been allowed to own a ponygirl. Nor had she ever been allowed ponygirl riding lessons. It had not been permitted at her school. And a lengthy list of advice notes for parents, passed on through Tigerna when she had first started at St Innocents, had included a stricture against sporting activities in which:-
“....a girls legs may be unadvisedly too widely separated one from the other, to the risk of the preservation of the physical evidence of her purity, the loss of the wholesome status of which, is assurance of instant expulsion with no concomitant right of appeal”.
Yet now she must part her lovely legs giving air to the pinkness of its super-sensitive inner, and straddle a saddle, a wooden inverted ‘V’ saddle with the top of the vee lined with nailed-on strips of cold steel.
Tigerna flashed a wealth of shapely calf as she swung her right pretty leg over the saddle, the muscles of her left calf tensioning erotically as she feared a fall from her temporary tentative purchase on the platform from standing in and on her left torture boot alone. Her sweet face showed the concentration she must apply to the simple action of mounting the hobbyhorse. And her sweetly creased brow was matched by her pretty squeak of alarm as the platform was already being taken away, in the sense that she was sliding astride her ride, and thus losing her purchase on the mounting platforms boards.
And, now Tigerna straddled the saddle, Colleana O’Nara took Tigerna’s double-heeled left boot and the blonde with the whip her right. And they inserted the needle-heels of Tigerna’s iron boots through readied holes in a leather strap that straddled the hobbyhorse behind Tigerna, and fitted rubber ‘corks’ over the spikes and slid these down so the strap held the spikes irremovably. Tigerna’s lovely legs were thus bent at their dimpled knees and she was leant forward so that it sat, literally liberally openly astride the saddle and the weight of her body was on the insides of its parted lips.
And Tigerna was astraddle the saddle and it was open and its opened lips were kissing the pointed top of the upside down vee of the saddle’s peak with all the passionate might of her delicious one hundred and ten pounds of pure girl.
“Mummy!! It hurts mummy!! It hurts!!!”
This was not mere pain, it was the nearest yet to agony that lovely Tigerna had yet experienced in her tender young life.
The blonde fixed the chain over the pulley in the over-bar in front of Tigerna, to both Tigerna’s shackled wrists behind the gorgeous redhead’s back, and to Tigerna’s tit-controller chain, bringing the latter to Tigerna’s front, and padlocking the over-pulley-chain to the centre of the linkages with the cuffs that so tightly grasped Tigerna’s firm young breasts.
“Mummy!! It hurts mummy!!
“Pull yourself up by your titties sweetheart!”
As the blacksmith and the blonde rearranged Tigerna’s virgin-white dress’ skirt to ensure the angel’s modesty by covering her shapely legs, Tigerna pulled her arms down behind her. Tigerna cried out with the pain as she hauled down with slim arms now held strappado behind her, to haul the chain over the pulley in the centre of the bar over the front of the saddle and thus ease its lips off the vicious vee of the saddle by pulling herself up by her tits.
But her successful momentum was merely momentary; before she could hold herself aloft by her soft frontage no longer and felt it being divided and decidedly kissing the top of the V yet once more, and the dreadful pain caused tears to start in her glorious glowing greens.
The mounting platform had been removed, and Tigerna now experienced the mounting pain of riding the wooden horse with her most secret and most sensitive part parted by its saddles peak and crushed, by her mite of feminine poundage pressing it into a passionate kiss of the unyielding lover that was splitting her where she was already slit by that which divides a girl and defines a girl and rules over her.
There was a scrabble and scramble among the girls of the village eager to gain early purchase with their girlual-labour-roughened hands on the ropes with which the hobbyhorse was hauled.
Meanwhile, the blonde and the blacksmith padlocked three sets of two-pound lead weights to both of the rings just below the knees: the rings atop Tigerna’s steel boots, to haul the angel harder down and make its opened lips kiss the saddle more passionately still, till with a shrill whine from her sweet lips and her struggle to haul herself up by her tits, they knew that the huge weights attached to each of her pretty legs to hold her down on the vee had her in balance unable to stop its kissing. And a whip was cracked and the girls began to haul the hobbyhorse and Tigerna screamed with the pain from it.
As she discovered the wheels of the hobbyhorse were cam-shaped, with a larger diameter at one end than the other, conjoined by long curved “flat-spots” such that she now rode what rose and fell alternately front and rear, with the pink lips of the rose sliding. As it felt the bucking bronco motion of the hobbyhorse inside that which dictates a girl’s emotions, the redheaded sweetheart knew new agony.
“Mummy!! Mummy!! It hurts mummy!! It hurts!!!”
“Stop them mummy! Please stop them mummy!! Please stop them!!!”
As if the cobbles with which the village’s streets were paved was not enough, the hobbyhorse hauled knew wilful will to throw its young rider, with life injected into its wooden inertness by the cam-shaped-wheels, asserting wildness to the ride that Tigerna experienced with her supremely sensitive insides, her clitoris only saved from sliding back and forth on the bucking saddle by the crack between the planks making up the saddles inverted vee.
Among her long golden curls, Tigerna hauled her pretty arms down, but her girly strength was not enough now with the weights on her boots, to haul herself off the saddle by her tits for long, before it was decidedly divided by the vee once more and the wooden horse was rising and falling and she was sliding fore and aft on its opened lips back and forth and up and down the saddle and her most sensitive softness was being rubbed raw and bleeding as she screamed in pleading that this be stopped.
Tears ran from the angel’s eyes as her tormentors now ran with the ropes that hauled her hobbyhorse, and her strong legs fought to find release from the strap-stirrups that were not designed to change the fact she rode wracked on a horse she straddled bareback on her little virgins southern mouth, howling with the agony of having it ripped by the trip as she fought to pull herself of the pain by gain with her lovely white arms fighting to hang herself in the air by her titties, only to lose the fight and find herself right back with it kissing the cruel saddle that she and it both straddled.
But, all of a sudden a mile from the village, what was this about her cry?! Had she found salvation in lubrication?
The girls who hauled Tigerna’s hobbyhorse to the fields from the town did not notice the change in the sounds from the virgin enduring the ride. Was she now enjoying it being ripped inside? No longer did Tigerna’s slim arms fight among the long coiling curling tresses of her radiant red hair to haul herself off her torture by her tits. Was this a sign that she, sundered as it was, was wet and whetted? Always a girl as succulent as such beauty as she held made her; a girl preponderantly moistened with the juice of a girl’s nature, was Tigerna, was it, wet from the all but unendurable pain?
The edge of the fields had been gained, this where the local farmer for that locale sowed her rapeseed, and thunder rumbled as the wheels of the hobbyhorse over the arid ridges of the desert-parched soil of the first farm on Tigerna’s ride tumbled tumbrel adding to the vicious slide of the viscously lubricated insides of it riding the pony, divided and sliding on it as she was, as it was, and her sweet mind dedicated to the pain and again the gain as she, Tigerna, knew new wetness such that she had only experienced before when she day-dreamt of the head-girl of her school, and her teachers had noticed her distraction to the head-girls attraction even though both girls were shrouded in the mystery of their all-enveloping school uniform burkas, and realised Tigerna was arrived at full puberty, and had made sure it was shaved and Tigerna saved by joining the girls who must henceforth sleep tied face up on their wooden plank beds.
“The lever someone operate the lever!”
The shout was what Tigerna heard between the rolls that are the role of thunder, and the sky darkening and then the flashlight sudden daylight momentarily momentous on the moment of lightning’s loud crackle and then the thunder’s rumbles tumbling aloft anew.
Tigerna rode so bravely in her pain. Fight as she may to haul herself aloft by her titties again Colleana O’Nara and the blonde now used their whips and messaged Tigerna with unmerciful lashes shredding the skirt of her dress to benude her magnificent thighs and whip those majestic wonders leaving cruel bloody welts as Tigerna screamed with the pain but knew she was being naughty and would have her nude thighs whipped if she failed in her duty to ride on it with it being ripped now and not to save its pain and hers by pulling herself up by her titties again.
The lightning flashed: the whips lashed their target to further tear Tigerna’s dress and further nude a munificence of thigh. Thunder almost as powerful as Tigerna’s thighs rolled and lightning tore the air as the whips lashed her thighs and Tigerna was hauled on her ride astride the hobbyhorse as the whips ripped her nude thighs and it slid the saddle with its lips opened wide as the wind blew the clouds and her cornucopia of curl coiled flame red hair streamed behind the golden girl.
“The lever!! Will someone operate the fucking lever!!!”
The whips kissed her nude thighs beating into them bloody bleeding wicked welts as they cut her supremely soft complexion with stripes of furious fire and Tigerna’s cries were now of a joy she had never in her sweet life endured, a joy that she was a girl and that this was her fate and that the lightning tore the air and the thunder clashed and crashed and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and she rode astride the bucking hobbyhorse with her feminine juices lubricating it and sliding onto the insides of her thighs to mix with the blood from the stripes as her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped on their thunderous beauty as she was hauled in the duty of being the Maiden of the May. And a whip purposely caught the tail of the hobbyhorse and smashed it down. And it was lever to deliver what came next as the villagers hauled the redhead over the arid fields astride the rocking-horse hobbyhorse and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped on the bucking hobbyhorse with the whips kissing her nude thighs as the wicked wonky wheels made its ride on the saddle excruciatingly painful inside even though its pinkness was moistened by her copious outpourings of girlness. And the tail lever raised the top quarters of two circular blades up firmly high in the crack between the boards that made up the hobbyhorse’s saddle. And these blades in their risen and rigid state were razor in their mission, and Tigerna knew of them when she slid forward and her clitoris and hood were cleaved instantaneously twain and twin, as the thunder rolled and the lightening stabbed the now new known stillness, and her scream of agonising pain rendered the air and the wheels of the hobbyhorse slid her over the front blade and then back over the rear slowing cutting her to half her, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped. And the whips kissed her nude thighs to bloody stripes upon bloodied stripes on their supremely shapely strength. And her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped. And the thunder was louder but not as loud as Tigerna’s howls as it slid on the blades as she was sliding back and forth on the bucking bronco she rode. And she hauled on her titties to stop the blades sundering her, cutting her into halves neither less beautiful than the whole. But her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, the whips driving her to lower herself down on the blades once more. And so she fought to make a brake with the insides of her thighs on the hobbyhorse saddle’s sides. But her honey was lubricating the blades all too well, so she still slid, betrayed by her natural girl’s love-oozings to be preyed upon by the blades that were working down into it to get at her girl’s ring, her precious thing, the symbol of the girl that is not yet a woman. And her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped.
And her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped. Then the wheels of the front hobbyhorse hit a rock, and the hobbyhorse was stopped as were the girls hauling it, and its rear end leapt, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and after this sudden stop, the girls made tug-of-war to get the hobbyhorse rolling once more, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and Tigerna slid over the front blade again and it slid over the front blade again and her clit was slit deeper asunder and the blade cut her further under. And the lightening slashed the air once more and the thunder crashed and drowned Tigerna’s scream of pain extreme once more, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, as the front blade made her woman, cutting her god’s wedding ring in perfect twain so it snapped and the still tethered severed ends slapped her inside it and added derision as the whips lashed her nude thighs and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and the blood that flowed down the saddle’s outsides was from her sudden sundering by the blades and from something that was no longer replete on its insides and her lovely green eyes closed on tears of joy as the rain downed and drowned her redhead’s curls into deeper darker gold as it soaked her virgin white dress so it clung to her virgin white body, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and Tigerna realised that she was no longer a girl and was orgasm and was orgasm the more now she had been sliced into woman by the blades that had made her a maid unmade and delivered the rains for which the villagers had for so long prayed, and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped as her deflowered-virgin’s blood, bound for the arid soils of Milton Biden village, mingled with the long overdue down-pouring rains running river over her body making her bared thighs and legs mirrors reflective of their own beauty, and sparkling her angel’s face and glorious hair with diamond droplets starlit in sparkles inspirational, as her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped and her thighs were whipped, and her maiden-unmade blood on the wetted soils of the village farm impregnatingly dripped.
.......................
As a girl she knew all too well entered the apartment in early late afternoon, Sampara half stood, hidden behind her desk, to pull up her panties and straighten her skirt. She then switched screens on her laptop from what she had been reading and imagining, to a picture of a perfect rosebud.
“Hi!” came the bright giggle-bejewelled voice from under the all-enveloping white burka that covered this creature, and made her look more akin a bulbous babushka than a sixteen-year-old, when Sampara knew all too well that she, this girl, had a very womanly figure.
Even the girl’s laughing loving smiling green eyes were not visible. The pristine white burka, or more specifically its head component, included a narrow “letter-box” slit covered by triple-ply muslin through which the girl could see, but her eyes could not be seen.
From the school dormitory to which this girl would later return, it was only a short walk to this, the headmistress’ private apartment, but, nonetheless, to protect her from even the sin of temptation, her class teacher had girlackled her wrists behind her back as per the regulation for when girls were not in class learning.
Sampara thought she had noticed the girl seemed to have grown even taller of late, and could now see confirmatory evidence.
Even when she, this girl, was not up on her tiptoes in the front-heeled squared-off-toed ballet booties the students at St Innocents Academy for Girls wore all day to beautify their legs, she had for some time since been taller than Sampara herself was. But the toes and front heels of the girls ballet shoes were suddenly showing below the hem of her burka yet once more.
Sampara quietly quickly closed a briefcase next to her computer, before standing to casually slide some papers over a book she had been reading and taking notes from: ‘Medieval Barnmouthshire – Myths and Truths’, which lay open at a chapter headed: ‘The Harvest Hobbyhorse of Milton Biden’.
“You’re already getting too tall for that size of burka sweetheart!” Sampara voiced as an audible thought.
“I know mummy. What’s for tea? Have you got the fresh pears you promised?! I’m so totally starving I could eat a horse!”
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
‘They Also Serve....’
Synopsis: - Glasgow Scotland, and Natanobi Saharan Africa; both at some future time when.....
‘They Also Serve....’
by Eve Adorer
Aileen McAveen unrolled the dense denier olive green stocking over her very shapely left leg, and then stretched the elasticated suspender to reach its sparkling gold clasp, into clipping that stocking’s more opaque top in circumference caress of her handsome thigh.
The contrast with other parts of her uniform was immediate. And it illustrated one of the shortcomings of the British Army. Here she was in this godforsaken flyblown desert-dustbowl, with sand in all four directions, five when the four winds blew, and the naffing army couldn’t even come up with a pair of desert-camouflage stockings!
When they’d opened the crate fresh out from the headquarters stores on the northern outskirts of London, she’d giggled. Where did those lazy pen-pushing pay and pension counting cushion-couched morons in the quartermaster’s department back home, think the troopettes out here in Natanobi, actually were in point of fact?
The opened crates spilling over with packs of olive green stockings that had arrived time over time, despite the clearest detail in the repeat requisitions placed, suggested that a stash of surplus stores had been stumbled upon, and some civilian clerk, whose companions had over-ordered, and now over-lorded, had shoved aside her thirteenth cup of coffee of the morning for long enough to have them sent out to the regiment in which Aileen McAveen was, or had been till recently, proud to serve.
Aileen was getting tired of army life. Silly mindless blunders like this with the stockings, didn’t help morale one bit. Now twenty-four, she’d signed on at eighteen, straight out of school.
Up in the highlands of Scotland, her native land, unless you were lucky enough to get into a bank, there were few choices for a girl these days.
At school, her compatriots and companions had, some of them, been headed for college. But, though as bright as she was pretty then, and was even lovelier now, Aileen, though she had a very quick mind, had always been keener on sports and outdoor pursuits than slaving over a hot PC studying gerunds, genetics, Greek, or geography, or such guff.
Besides, there was the family honour, or was the word ‘tradition’ to follow. Her momma and her momma’s momma, and so on, and so on, even back to the mid-twentieth century, had served in the regiment local to the Glen of Glasgeen where Aileen had been born and raised.
Over the many passing years since her grandmother’s youth, there had been reorganisations of reorganisations of the army. With the majority of the population of the UK now being female, the one-time so-called infantry regiments, distantly historically called the regiments of foot, were now termed a little differently, and Aileen walked on two very shapely witnesses as to why.
And so time had seen Aileen leave school, pass her army fitness tests with flying colours, and end up in the regiment of her foremothers, the unit that proudly bore the name of her Scottish birth locale; the 1st Glasgeen Highlanders, also known as the First Scottish Regiment of Legs, or just ‘The 1st Legs’.
This was Aileen’s fourth six-month tour of duty in what had, till oil had been belatedly discovered there, become an all but forgotten outpost of the British Commonwealth of former empire countries.
Natanobi was neither here nor there, but, given a microscope with a sufficient enlargement facility, could just about be spotted on the western edge of the Sahara desert.
Even the majority populace of Natanobi didn’t seem to know that they lived in a country of that name. It was a state created after the squabble between the former colonists, the French, and the new occupiers, the British, when Napoleon Bonaparte had departed, defeated the second and last time.
Even the British Foreign Affairs Ministry had seemed to lose sight of it. The joke went that the British ambassadoress, or High Commissioner as she was known, since Natanobi was now a notionally independent Commonwealth country, after serving forty years out here, had requested she be allowed to retire and have her pension paid, and shocked the ministry who had clean forgotten they had ever sent her out!
Oh, and back to the populace, they were nomadic tribeswomen, known as the Babettes. And they didn’t give a cesspit for which country considered they owned and ruled Natanobi. They wandered across the desert and interstate boundaries, trading wild Arabian ponygirls in the main.
They had lived the way they lived now, forever and a day, and beyond even that long. Arabian ponygirls had become recognised in the west. They were much in demand. They’d fetched high prices at market, ever since one and the same one – Bristols Bobber - had won the Aintree Derby, Le Prix De L’Arc du Triomphe, the Phoenix Stakes, and the Melbourne Cup in the same calendar year. The British didn’t interfere with this trade. And nor had the French before them.
However, now oil was bubbling, for revenge and to get Natanobi back - they hoped - the French had stirred up the younger tribesgirls into recognising they had to fight the ‘colonialists’ - Britain in a word - to get the benefit of the money the oil was piling higher by the year. And it was against the Babette Revolutionary Army – the BRA – which was highly skilled at guerrilla warfare, that the 1st Legs, and other units of the British Army, had been sent out. Their arrival had supposedly been at the request of the Natanobi government; though in truth they were there solely to protect an element of Britain’s dwindling sources of cheaper fuel supply.
The mission had been glossed-up with some nonsense about supporting the people of Natanobi against the threat of a religious extremist government, if the BRA won power. But Aileen and her companions were no fools. They knew what they were really out in the middle of nowhere for, was fluid and brown-black in its crude form, and was pumped to the coast along a pipeline that they patrolled daily on leg.
As for the wrong colour of camouflage stockings, what had been sent was as if Aileen’s regiment of leg soldierettes had been on home manoeuvres instead of out here fighting the BRA uprising.
Aileen glanced over her shoulder to check her seams were straight. Thus she did not look in the direction of heaven, though heaven was housed in such a face, and its windows were such eyes.
She could say a lot more about the shortcomings of a British Army troopette’s uniform.
Because it made access ease for the passing breeze, the mini-kilt was cool, but, since her stocking tops were no great distance above the knee, it showed all of a girl’s legs up to and including most of her thighs, and thus deliberately left exposed an extent of the extra-long suspenders a soldierette wore at the outside of each thigh.
Even out here the kilt worn was, proudly, in the Glasgeen tartan familiarly displayed in Aileen’s homeland. At least out here the weather, save at night, was warm. But along with the rest of her uniform, what Aileen wore was traditional and ceremonial, not practical. It was meant to catch the eye of the London tourists when the regiment was guarding Buckingham Palace. But with all the financial cuts, the troopettes of leg only had the one design of uniform now, and midst all the mists and rain and snow at home, and the biting starlit nights out here in the desert, only a cloak was added to the kilt and top.
For a further example, the crop-top. It was a sort of sleeveless tee-shirt-vest that was ‘torn off’ just below breast level, leaving the belly bare. Bras were barred. It was not comfortable wearing one in this heat anyway. But, for a generously appointed girl, like Aileen, nor was it much fun that she perspired heavily under where her naturally pendulous breasts kissed her chest.
The crop tops were not worn at home in Britain; there, except on ceremonial duty, the troopettes wore full-length tee-shirts. But someone high up in command back in England had realised the troopettes in the desert day needed to keep cool or, more likely, had recognised that it was cheaper, material wise, to leave them semi-naked as these tops did.
They were just torn-off tee-shirts – tee-shirts that had otherwise been destined for disposal, or else had been ordered under contract to be produced with a reduced amount of material. Mere penny-pinching had nothing to compare with such meanness.
At least with these skimpy clothes Aileen could enjoy the mutual sunscreen smoothing the girls indulged after their pre-parade shower. The stockings hid the deep tan her legs had acquired off duty, and she’d boasted of to her girlfriend back home.
There Aileen went again. So as not to risk making it aroused before she went on parade just now, she’d been trying not to think of pretty little Beatrice abed alone and lonely, living at home with her parents in Barnmouth on the southern coast of England while Aileen was away overseas.
Aileen had put in the papers to request an accompanied tour of duty out here. But she was not married to Beatrice, and it had therefore been refused outright.
The suspender belt around Aileen’s waist showed above where her kilt embraced her very shapely body at her hips. It was also green camouflage, not desert coloured, as it should have been. It doubled as ammunition and personal needs belt.
At each of its sides were four replacement clips for the self-loading rifle a troopette of a legs regiment carried as standard weaponry. These were joined by a pair of grenades behind her back just above where her shapely buttocks were under her kilt.
Her lipstick had to be standard issue rose-red. It was in a pouch at centre-front on the suspender belt along with a small bottle of sunscreen in place of the blusher and application brush she would have been issued at home in Britain, along with some foundation.
Out here, a suntan must do for foundation and to put some colour in the cheeks. This gorgeous Italianate brunette tanned readily and, after but a fortnight in Natanobi looked just as dusky as the natives of the land; insofar as you could tell with them being so wrapped in robes.
With her dark brunette hair and her Italianate complexion, amid the sun on the sands, Aileen could and had been mistaken for a native of the lands she now inhabited. Several times in the souk – the market place – in her soldierette’s uniform, she had been spat at from behind, by girls assuming she was a traitor to Natanobi – by girls who sympathised with the BRA.
Out where she was serving, the eye-shadow was desert brown. A combination of combined mascara brush and eyeliner pencil completed the contents of the left-front pouch.
The other pouch at the front of a troopette’s suspender belt, contained a hooked belt and the strict ration of sanitary towels for her monthly that the belt when worn would hold snugly between her thighs, over it. In hers, Aileen had sneaked a handful of chewing gum packs she had bought at the local army store. She hated her teeth feeling unclean, and would chew gum as soon as she was out of sight of any senior who might discipline her for so doing.
The quartermaster’s stores had neglected to order a sufficiency of camouflage-coloured sanitary pads. The shortage was such that girls not in the front line had had to buy and use civilian ones out of their own pay. Those in the front line had to be sparing and could not change their soaked liners as often as they might wish. And nor were the army issue ones as absorbent as ideally desired by fecund young women such as the regiments of leg recruited, when they had a particularly heavy bleed.
Aileen had declined the standard-issue self-delivery vibrator many of the girls carried. She had tried one once. It had been a dreadful experience. It had settings, but even the lowest was worse than a crazed bulldozer on torrid tick-over, and Aileen was too sensitive for that. And besides, she knew the army, in reality, frowned on self-relief as it was considered to take a girl off-guard. It was better she be love-starved and thus tense and on edge, rather than lack that vital ingredient when push might come to bayonet shove.
At least the army-issue ballet booties were comfortable. Stiff black thick black leather they might be, but once bedded-in with wearing them and marching in them, they supported a girl’s ankles when she marched en-pointe as regiments of leg in the British Army had done by tradition dating back to the later 21st century.
The British army was full of tradition. You might have thought, when out here at risk of a fire-fight, a girl would be allowed to wear boots that’d let her put the soles of her feet on the ground. But no; the regiments of leg maintained that it showed the superiority of the British soldierette to any foreign opponent, that the soldierettes could march for mile upon mile upon mile up on tiptoe. It appeared to have been overlooked that the tribesgirl’s wives walked around on the tops of their big toes too; not that you could see that under their dreadful all-enveloping sand-draping burkas.
To top, or rather bottom out her uniform, Aileen arranged a white garter around her very shapely left leg just above her knee. On its outer side, that garter sparkled with a badge bearing the twin down-pointing chevrons that distinguished her as being a corporal of troopettes; a promotion of which she was justly proud.
The constant smile had to be hidden. Aileen could not prevent the glow of love in her dark-brown eyes, but must keep her pouting lips away from her giggles.
Nonetheless, as she arranged her green camouflage beret over the shimmering brunette hair she had drawn up into the regulation ponytail, before she wiggled out to morning parade inspection; their erotic music filled the air.
.......................
Corporal, Aileen McAveen headed a squad of ten troopettes who respected and loved her gentle command. Was it an accident that they just happened to be the prettiest and leggiest in the regiment?!
Even out here in Natanobi, what Aileen’s forebears would have called ‘spit and polish’ had not been forgotten by the army, and could therefore not be neglected.
The sergeant major would make sure of that. Her eagle eye found Aileen and her Section standing to very leggy attention. She would miss no detail.
The beret had to be worn to the left of the head, and, thus that way tilted, its woollen material gathered to droop over its leather rim ring in that same direction.
The kilt had to be fixed closed with a standard size and design of safety pin that must be inserted such that its fastening end was upright, its pin proper was driven through no more than one inch of material, and it was inserted exactly two-thirds of the way up from the kilt’s hem. The sergeant’s eager eagle eyes examined closely, but no troopette could breath freely yet.
Once clasped in her suspenders, where held by her suspenders’ suspenders, a soldierette’s stocking tops must be no more or less than eight inches below the hem of her kilt. And those tops must slope at no more, nor less, than 30 degrees across the front of her thigh from outside to her inner thigh.
Tucked in her own suspender belt at her waist, the sergeant major carried a 30 / 60 / 90 degree triangular standard army issue wooden set-square, cool to the touch on bare thigh flesh even in equatorial African climes. With this, each squad member was examined, both legs, and began to be cheered by the words ‘good’ and ‘very good’ spoken from the strict sergeant to her accompanying corporal-clerkette.
A troopette’s suspenders actual suspenders must be absolutely vertically at attention at the outside of her thighs, and her golden suspender clasps must outshine the sun itself. Hours were spent on polishing these ready for inspection on parade. And those endless hours rewarded with a ‘good’ and ‘very good’ as the sergeant continued her rounds.
A soldierette’s stocking seams must be impeccably straight, and her ballet-booties polished till she could, theoretically at least, have put her makeup on her face using her booties’ toecaps as mirrors.
Nervously eyes-front, those lovely eyes gazing unseeing-obediently at the distant horizon, or they would have been had the parade not been being held inside a fort, Fort Slim, Aileen’s squad had their admirable legs admired, to a muttered ‘good’ and ‘very good’, and Aileen fought her natural smile while the sergeant was behind her inspecting her stocking seams, risking what she knew could not, for the moment, be shown.
For any shortcoming in her dress at parade inspection, a troopette of Legs could find herself on a disciplinary charge. And that could result in her being spanked on her bared bottom by her fellow troopettes at the end of the week; a fate all the girls dreaded.
Another tour around by the sergeant major found her nodding approval of the turnout’s crop tops, the alignment of their berets, and the correct arrangement of the personal makeup, ammunition, grenades and sanitary pad bags attached to their suspender belts.
So, the inspection was over and Aileen’s platoon had passed with flying colours; but not quite yet.
As a Scottish regiment, the 1st Legs were subject to another tradition as well; one unique to regiments with recruiting bases north of the border with England; a tradition descending from the pride of wearing the kilt.
The sergeant major instructed the arrangements be made.
‘Order the girls to stand at ease corporal’, she instructed Aileen quietly.
‘Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am. D Squad, STAAAND AAAAAAT.... IZ!’ Aileen ordered, or so it sounded, and, as if one girl, she and her troopettes slanted their rifles at a forty-five degree diagonal across their left breasts, barrels uppermost, and parted their tiptop-of-tiptoes stood feet at the regulation one foot distance between big toes.
This arranged, the sergeant took from her corporal assistant, a device, the collapsed telescopic handle of which, she pulled to post-compressed full length, with it sounding a series of efficient and effective clicks as each sub-part met its stop.
She then took a cover off the device at its end; a device which caught the morning sun and answered it back with a sudden stabbing dazzle that would have momentarily blinded an eye even merely glancing it.
The sergeant then went along the lines, using the device at the end of the telescopic handle to make a final inspection of the girls between their thighs.
‘Good’
‘Good’
‘Good’
‘Shave it again troopette!’
‘Good’
‘Good’
‘Good’
‘Straighten your sanitary belt’s hooks!’
‘Good’
‘Good’
‘Good, Corporal’
‘Corporal McAveen, an excellent turnout once more. But, instead of lingering in her bed, Trooperette Blacksmithy needs to get it shaved in the morning. That’s one blot. Talking of which, make sure Trooperette Brown is not wearing a pad for more than the regulation four days, I’m sure it’s been three already. Do I make myself clear?!’
‘Yes ma’am! Clear ma’am! Thank you ma’am’, Aileen clipped-out in her horny husky mezzo.
‘I’ll record no spanking points for you or your girls this morning. But don’t let Blacksmithy or Brown let you down again. Clear?!’
‘Yes ma’am! Clear ma’am! Thank you ma’am’.
‘It’s the regular mission for you and your girls this morning McAveen. So get them out along the pipeline to Bablarka and back, covering the full twelve miles there and back, starting at no later than oh-nine-hundred hours. After the girls have breakfasted of course, and after Blacksmithy has found and used her razor at last!’
‘Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am’.
The sergeant major, who could not help but smile at the lovely Aileen, then moved off to inspect the next squad of soldierettes, whilst listening unavoidably to Aileen’s horny honey voice:-
‘SQUAAAAD AAAATTEEAARNSHUN!!’
‘SQUAAAAD SHOUUUULDER AMZ!’
‘SQUAAAAD LEEEEFT TUN.’
‘SQUAAAAD DEEEEISSMISS!’ Aileen barked by turn.
......................
Giggles of relief from the tension of parade were expected and allowed. Aileen’s squad, uniform in a uniform wiggle, giggled and chatted as they made for the combined corporals’ and trooperettes’ mess to have their breakfast......
Then afterwards:-
‘Listen up!’ Aileen instructed
‘What we’re about to do is routine. Routine brings its own dangers. We got two warnings for this patrol. The Special Girl Service, the SGS, says they saw BRA along the pipeline only yesterday, around the Bablarka oasis? And the meteorology girls say there’s a sandstorm due anytime....
.....If’n the storm comes, the BRA ain’t beyond using it as cover. Remember, they blasted the pipeline over the Moroccan border in dust-cloud conditions just a month back. So it’s goggles and face masks at the ready. And keep your eyes open for Abfana Lachmoored, the BRA’s commander-in-chief. The SGS are sure she’s somewhere around and reconnoitring for an attack on Fort Slim’
One of the troopettes wolf whistled, and the others giggled.
‘No more of that Trooperette Harnet! Aileen smiled, forgivingly. Sure, we’ve all heard Abfana Lachmoored is one hot chick. But don’t forget she is the BRA’s leaderette. And even if she went to school in England and ought to have learned the civilisation and respect she ain’t displayed yet, she’s a bitch whose snatch we want to get behind bars.’
‘How will we tell which one is Abfana corp?’ Trooperette McUnd enquired with a hint of knowing laughter in her voice.
‘She’ll be the one in the white burka McUnd; the one with green eyes I’m told’
‘But all the natives here wear white burkas, and the wife ones never show their eyes corp. So, if she’s disguised as a wife, how do we proceed from there?’
‘When you get hold of some wives to interrogate, just ask each one of them in turn, if they’re the one with green eyes, McUnd; ....and be polite!’
Nervous laughter quickly dwindled to a tension only soldierettes about to go on patrol know; and know only too well.
Then there was silence; that quietly-determined silence expected from these proud girls, lost in their fears but rising above them to go out on patrol as their bounden duty for their country....Scotland that is of course, not Great Britain.
‘Okay. So check your rifles one last time. Now, let’s go’, Aileen instructed.
................................
The irony of it was, that it didn’t happen when out on patrol. Among the mixed messages the British government conveyed to the people back in Britain, they wanted to be able to show British army troopettes in Natanobi, out among the native populace.
The pictures were the message these days. A growing anti-war protest movement at home needed a TV news antidote. Thus, engineered-film of girls dressed in the comfortingly familiar uniform of a Scottish regiment of legs, drifting around an unnamed Natanobi town and bartering in the market place - the souk - was the counter.
They’d even found that particular unit, desert-camouflage stockings and suspender belts to wear; because, after all, propaganda necessitated such ‘authenticity’. And the authorities didn’t want to risk the message being spoiled by a glimpse of the neglectful truth found in such as Aileen’s mixed garb.
In ‘real’ life, the girls did roam the markets when off duty. And Aileen was a popular accompaniment. A very bright girl, she had acquired a sufficient facility with the local languages, to be able to bargain against the best.
And so, if they wanted silks to send home to make that skimpy nightdress for their wife or girlfriend to wear on their first night back home in Britain, Aileen was the one to talk into knocking out a bargain for the troopettes.
But an equally comforting accompaniment for these foraging forays, were the armed guards that were always near at hand.
To the untutored eye, all the natives looked the same. So the armed guards were necessary for the obvious reason that the BRA renegades were hardly likely to be wearing a flashing neon arrow badge reading ‘I’m here!’
All the native girls were dressed head to below toe. With around half, their eyes were visible. But they only through the narrowest of narrow slits in the headgear of their all-enveloping white burkas.
However, with those who had married, and were in the role of wife to their wives, even the eyes could not be seen. Instead they had to look at the world through the same narrow slits, but with those slits covered by muslin; sometimes three or four layers thick.
Aileen had passed the particular alleyway that led to the red light district a thousand times. The area was out of bounds for troopettes. But she had once found some comfort there, in the past: an event accompanied by consequent subsequent guilt.
As she’d passed the alley opening that fateful day, she was grabbed from behind and the hand over her mouth had stopped her screaming. And then the prick of the dagger blade’s tip pressing into, and dimpling its locale in the soft sculpture of the underside of her left breast, had compelled Aileen’s submission to being dragged fully into the alley, and then a dark gateway, and then a courtyard open to the sky
The blade had continued to press urgently. She’d momentarily had the choice to chance a scream. But then the hand over her pretty lips had been replaced by a large ball of rough string forced into her mouth, followed by her part-opened mouth being gagged with a smelly rag, so that the ball was forced back, and was securely pressing down her tongue.
Her head was soon in a jute sack and that sack being tied at her neck.
As if her captors could not resist, she was now thumped in her belly, and doubled-up winded. And then a huge sack enveloped the whole of her jack-knifed body, its open end was tightly tied, and she was lifted, girlhandled, onto a higher plane, off the ground - as far as she could tell a higher plane - and could suddenly smell oranges.
Aileen’s absence was yet to be noticed. So, none of Aileen’s erstwhile companions saw anything unusual about the cart smelling of the fresh oranges, or its huge load of jute sacks rolling around in its rear as if there was someone struggling to escape inside one of them.
It was being hauled through the market place by one of the slightly emaciated ponygirls that were a commonplace of this country. So indeed was such a cart and such a cargo a commonplace. Nor, given her commonplace garb and its wifely masked eye-slit could they possibly know that one of the two girls leading the cart was none other than Abfana Lachmoored, the BRA leaderette, herself.
It was thirty minutes later that a soldierette from the Military Police, one of the on-duty guards that had been accompanying the off-duty troopettes in the market place, found Aileen’s beret in the ‘sand-dust’-strewn cobbled alley. But that was already thirty minutes too late.
..............................
Once out of the horrible nostril-flaring breath-grasp-gasping humidity of the all-enveloping outer sack, and the smothering smaller sack that had been over her head, and with her gag and string-ball removed, Aileen had tried several of the local tongues.
Despite the unremitting moist-heat that had bathed her in a halo-akin sheen of perspiration, including, as she knelt, making momentous mirrors of her majestic thighs, the journey out to the encampment, wherever it was, had not broken Aileen’s spirit.
In Natanobi terms, Aileen was limitedly multilingual. But, as she struggled to find a convincing threat as lever to leaven her predicament, she had to insert English, for ‘helicopters’, ‘satellites’, ‘drones’, ‘missiles’ and ‘the SGS’. And yet, all the time she felt she was talking to blank walls.
The girls around her were all dressed head to toe in burkas. Most showed their eyes. But there were a few Aileen thought she ought to know were wives in a particular tribe. Was it in their mode of dress? No; more in the way they moved perhaps?
Aileen knew she ought to know. But despite the propaganda fed to the dummkopfs back in civilian UK, the truth was that contact with the native Natanobi populace had been limited for years.
The language differences and cultural contrast found the British troopettes with nothing in common with the Natanobians. And few on either side had the lingual skills to even begin to break the barriers.
Of course, back sometime when, there’d been the odd soldierettes versus natives soccer match fixed up to aid a breakdown of the barriers. But, with the rise of rebellion and the advent of the BRA, the Brits had been obliged to take security within walled and gated barracks, and were thus even more cut off from contact with the country’s natives.
There’d been the lectures of course. The senior officers were concerned younger troopettes were taking the attitude toward the native Natanobians, that ‘they’re all the f*****g same’. A high-ranking girl, with a degree in geography and a PhD in the languages and culture of Natanobi, had been briefed to make an educational video.
Aileen had seen it as many times as she had come out here on another tour of duty. But she’d paid less attention each time. She’d taken lessons in the local languages to exercise her mind. But that had been a purely academic exercise.
There’d been something in that video about one particular tribe that never let its wives out of doors, or out of their encampments, or some such. She’d giggled when she’d seen the snippet of film showing them and the way they moved.
And there was something about the deportment of the girls here, the ones with their eyes covered that is. Aileen knew the name of the tribe. At least she thought she did.
Aileen’s fuddled mind struggled. Then the penny dropped. Yes, of course, they were Lachmoors. They were the wives of the clan headed by none other than Abfana Lachmoored. And, if Aileen was right, she was in deep water.
Her nervous jabbering continued unabated. The threats and promises she was trying to convey had an audience, but not one she could tell were listening.
She had no idea how far she had been taken out from the town. The cart - there must have been a cart, there had been no sound of a motor - the cart had seemed to speed after a while. That while had followed a stop. Had they added more ponygirls to its shafts?
Even if they had, allowing for her estimate of the time she’d been on the cart, she could surely only be five miles, ten at most, from Fort Slim.
Patrols would be out for sure. They wouldn’t leave a British soldierette in the hands of the BRA. They’d know, outside of the Lachmoors, the tribes, the other tribes, mostly didn’t give a hang for the BRA.
At least they didn’t as long as the BRA left the wild Arabian ponygirls to be inseminated in the villages and towns they visited when they were in season, before returning to the wild, to be corralled herded-up and market-headed.
But then again, nor were they tale-tellers. If they openly help the British authorities, they too would be attacked by the rebels. So most all of them played dumb, and answered continually: ‘Not understand, so sorry’, until frustration would cause their interrogators to leave them alone in the peace they wanted at utmost.
Eventually, the nerve-wracked Aileen ran out of threats and pleas. But she girlfully fought the longing to plead with tears.
Her eventual brave silence coincided with an arrival in the tent where she knelt on a groundsheet, still in her troopette’s uniform.
The burka-clad ‘presence’ that entered entirely overwhelmed those in the tent, including Aileen, who knew, just somehow knew, who this must or at least might be.
Aileen just knew too that her eyes, the eyes of the incomer, were on her thighs... her thighs made enormous; proportionately enormous, and thus erotically enormous, by her being knelt on the ground: her tanned thighs naked above her stockings up to the hem of her minimal mini-kilt.
Aileen now dared to dart a look up. But Abfana Lachmoored, if it was indeed she, had turned her head. So Aileen could not see her eyes. Could this be the notorious Abfana, or was this personage merely a delegated minion?
Then she dared a look again, and Aileen saw eyes of unbearably beautiful startling unmatchable light golden green, ice-sparkling from a glint of sun through the opened flap of the tent. Eyes so alluring, Aileen lowered her own and found herself surprisingly suddenly heavily aroused.
These were all she could see of course – the eyes that is. Abfana wore the traditional pristine white garb of a Natanobian tribesgirl. She had changed since she had disguised herself as a wife’s wife. But still, only her eyes were visible, and these only through the narrow slit in the headdress of her all-enveloping robes.
After the briefest glance at Aileen, now a prisoner, the muffled voice, the voice from the midst of the burka, Abfana’s voice if this was Abfana, monotoned unemotionally:
‘Whip her, and then bring her to my tent.’
Stunned and astounded though she was in the instant’s instant, Aileen more than understood the instruction all too well. Her immediate problem was truly believing her ears had heard what her mind was alarmingly confirming they just had.
For the moment her lovely brown eyes shot innocent-wide with absolutely total astonishment. Her nervous gabbling had ceased a while since, but was now doubly-silenced by her astounded shock.
Then she asserted, in a tone that rang of pleading more than she wished it should:
‘You can’t do that to me! I’m a British soldierette! I’m a British soldierette! You can’t do that to me!’
This Aileen shouted, firstly in the tongue she had heard the order issued in by the visitation, and then in English.
As the source of the order left the tent Aileen occupied, strong feminine hands lifted Aileen to tiptoes in her soldierette’s boots, and proceeded to strip her naked, including of her boots.
Aileen was so stunned; she didn’t offer the least resistance. Was she further anesthetised by the obvious appreciation of the beauty of her body being expressed by the wandering wondering eyes of the husband-girls among her captors?
When she saw the whip, Aileen’s own eyes widened wider than before, almost as wide as her mouth as it uttered a long ululating but completely silent scream.
The whip was, for its most part, a huge leather strap, which was frayed and worn and showed brown patches among the black to which it had originally been tanned or stained. It had a two foot long wooden pole as its handle, followed by a leather ‘tongue’ of some four feet in length, four inches in breadth, and one inch in thickness.
It was a two-handed lift, and Aileen a six-pair-handed one. She was face-up on the floor naked, then two girls grabbed her by her wrists and next to her armpits, two more at thighs and knees, and yet two further at her ankles, and lifted her stretched human-hammock, with her beautiful suntan-bronzed buttocks side hollow-dimpled with her clenching them in her fear.
Aileen’s six-strong six strong graspers next pulled her long legs apart. But, instinctively, she fought to press her knees together to close her superb thighs and try to cover and protect the heart of her very being, the epicentre of her existence, that she instinctively feared, given the evidence of her elevated position and the hauling apart of her legs, her torturers would be aiming for; in a word: ‘it’.
Aileen wasn’t wrong. Once the girls grasping and gripping and holding her aloft were content she was readied as required and desired; at a nod from one of the girls holding her legs apart, a separate girl standing behind Aileen’s head, holding the implement’s handle in a firm two-handed grip, brought the whip practicedly over her own head, from where its tail end had been, at its furthest extent, tapping the back of her burka-cloaked knees, with force so tremendous, that its stunning savage slap: ‘THWACK!!!’ at the mid top of Aileen’s parted thighs, drove Aileen unstoppably down to the ground before her body’s uncontrollable reaction to the action of the impact, thrust her, crutch far to the foremost, in a whore’s wanton come-on to the apex of the tent, while her lovely body arched at her back more adeptly supplely than could have a circus contortionist, and she screamed so loudly with the pain that her tongue danced dervish devil till her voice gave out to silence lest she burst her very lungs.
Breathless and panting afterward, her mind yelled ‘no’. She fought. She writhed; she twisted; she bucked; she dove. But the whip whistled once more and: ‘THWACK!!!’ she hit the floor and then uncontrollably her crotch was flung up in recoil, to offer it to the ceiling, as she hollered her horrible agony and uttered vile sexual curses that made none of their intended balm for her blinding pain nor hid the state of the shame that it conveyed in dismaying display, that she was, as all her tormentors could witness, in an overwhelmingly overt state of sexual arousal, as she twisted up-thrust like a whore on heat her back bent so the wonder was it didn’t break her spine, such was she arched in agony’s agony in her body’s reflective reaction to the action of the whip after it had struck her between her parted thighs where, were she not shaved, her pubic hair would have been at its thicket thickest, with all the force of its own weight and magisterial majesty, and all the skill of the girl who wielded its savage cruelty.
Once down in human-hammock hold again, Aileen struggled to fold her body, breasts to knees, to save herself from more of this brutality, and to protect that between her thighs; to protect it from this seriously serially searingly accurate missile with its missive of neo-Neanderthal love. And she closed her eyes. She’d lost her fight but must hide her mind from her shame as the whip came down between her thighs hitting it with laser accuracy yet once again: ‘THWACK!!!’ And her body reacted and anti-reacted; collapsing to the floor once more and then itself imitating a whip in lash as it crashed upward and thrust her wanton girlness heavenward once again, as if to reward the source of its begetting with the chance for heaven to kiss this creation of its earthbound representation with a blessing. And she squealed with the pain. It had taken the full utmost force of the whip once again. Her most sensitive, her most seductive, her most secret part, had again been unmercifully lashed, and all the nerve-endings with which it was armed to give her the pleasure of love’s physical charms, were screaming their pain more loudly than Aileen could vocalise in their and her pleading for mercy. And she came back from being bent-bow and once more bent low, in hammock and not hillock, yet again.
A nod, her eyes opened wide amid her tears, and her mouth moaned its pitiful pleading, and the whip came down between her thighs slapping it, slap-bang-on once again: ‘THWACK!!!’ And she shot aloft as if she had been shot and offered it to heaven once more as her body bent and her crutch tried to knock on heaven’s very door. And it squirted! Aileen came and it squirted! Amid giggles among her torturers, as Aileen concluded at her openly public shame, Aileen came, cumming in gain from her pain, and her shame feeding on her shame. It squirted, and her tormentors watched astounded as it spat at the ‘rafters’ of the tent while Aileen was arched-upwards-thrusting bent and hollering her horrible pain even amid her arrival at release and relief as it shot her love at the top of the tent, till on her bent body’s return, defied gravity splattered this evidence of her sexual humiliation on the insides of her naked bronzed thighs.
...........................
Released, Aileen now lay stunned on the ground, her legs folded sideways as she rested, panting as heavily breathlessly as a desperate asthmatic, on one thigh, her trunk held upright by one hand, with the long slim fingers of that hand spread with their double-jointedness evidenced by the way they were bridged.
Her tears had dried. The vomit-making pain between her legs was throbbing. Her face showed the shame of her surrender, but her lovely eyes still fought to hide her arousal anew, an arousal threatening to rob her of, even the very last vestige of her dignity.
Released from her tormentors’ grip, as they prepared to bathe her, Aileen once more knelt on the tent’s floor. Silenced; now suddenly no longer ashamed but proud that she had undergone the proceeding she had needed, as she now knew she had needed, to make her once more all natural girl: no longer the creature of human nurture and training, but that of nature: once more unworthy earth’s highest and only blessing from heaven. Aileen was once more and again fully and solely a girl.
.......................
Despite the desert location, the camp Aileen was in was not bereft of all modern facilities. For but one example, the hip bath being filled with rose-scented water from barrels left to warm in the sun, in readiness for her bathing, was of fibreglass.
Once she had stepped into it and folded her body to sit, flinching when her whipped crotch touched the warmed waters, somehow Aileen knew that, other than by moving herself as they gently indicated, she was not required to assist her bathers at all.
Now when they giggled at her obviously aroused state, she knew they were not insulting her, but praising her shear femininity. Their sponges lingered long over and under her heavy breasts, and they giggled at her easily erected nipples. But, when she stood for them to wash between her thighs, Aileen could not have asked for greater gentleness than they bestowed on her brutal bruises.
The towelling dry of her naked body, post-bathing, was equally as gentle. And, though she knew she shouldn’t, Aileen began to enjoy the pampering she was getting, not least, a little later, when it was busied about brushing and brushing and brushing her hair till it crackled and curled ecstatically with static, and shone as if it had captured moonlight its very self.
She continued to stand while they prepared her for presentation.
When her wrists were being buckled tightly together before her with a black leather purpose-made strap, Aileen was surprised she made no resistance. Her thumbs and individual fingers were then clasp together by individual double-rings, chosen for size, and then passed up to where each finger met its hand-nearest-knuckle. In consequence, her pretty hands were now formed into a prayer of supplication.
This preparation was all being carried out with the great skill born from years of practice. So too therefore was the strapping of her arms at their elbow-crutches behind her back. This drew Aileen’s hands back to just above her belly-button so that she took on all-the-more the appearance of a saint at prayer.
Were they of gold or some baser less basic metal? Aileen studied them with curiosity. Each was circular, no rounder than her closed mouth pouting a kiss, a ring that ‘grinned’ because its centre was filled with needle-sharp teeth.
The first was pressed. It opened, and its ‘teeth’ parted. She watched as it was passed over her left nipple and winced when it was pressed closed, so that the teeth bit into the base of her nipple, and its clasp clicked securely shut. If this biter-clamp was to discourage her arousal being expressed through her nipples it worked instantaneously. The other nipple clamp was fixed and her nipples’ excitement duly doused, even though their grip on her nipples made them pert and, to an expert, as if about to spurt.
The leather lasso loops that were passed over and around her breasts, were pre-prepared at each end of two straps conjoined at the mid-point of each loop. ‘Prepared’ was more than could be said of Aileen, who gasped open-mouthed when the nooses were tightened around the bases of both and each of her breasts. As they were tightened, her bosom took on an uplifting and swelling that nature would never provide and her nipples a further engagement with engorgement that the unengaged might have concluded was from her being with milk.
The loose ends of the lasso looped straps, having been drawn tight to pert her breasts, were presently passed behind Aileen’s back, in pretence they were a brassiere’s strap. And the loops’ tension was maintained by careful selection of the hole through which the buckle prong of the one strap was fed through the eye on the other strap. And so Aileen stood proudly with two exceptionally proud protuberances evidencing her femininity beyond all peradventure of doubt.
Through rings atop each of Aileen’s gold nipple clamps, long slim gold chains were passed and, for the moment, left to dangle at their longer ends. Each chain had a golden fishing hook attached to the shorter ends that were through the rings. These hooks twinkled in a shaft of sunlight. They to, as yet, loitered unemployed.
Aileen’s breasts were not strangled, but squeezed sufficiently to maintain complete attention by their erection in tension, with no opportunity for gravity to return any part of their new-found pertness to its natural soft-firm caress of her chest where they had hitherto rested as nature intended. And now her breasts were swollen by their strangulation, how the biting clips clamping Aileen’s nipples bit her teats!
Next she was obliged, by the holding closed of her nostrils, to open her pretty mouth so that her tongue could be clamped. Her preparers did not let her see what they were about to do. But a glance down past her nose spotted a hint of a glint of a sprung gold clip which, fingers pressing, held its toothed jaw ajar.
This was in her sweet mouth in seconds, its jaw allowed to flip closed, and her tongue bitten through by its needle sharp spaced-shark’s-teeth, so that her head jerked back and she shook her long dark moon-glowing hair in a ‘no’ knowing attempt to shake off this painful cruelty.
The fishing hooks at the end of the chains through the tops of her nipple clamps were now inserted through the very tips of the clamp-swollen nipples of her lightly strangled breasts, through where her milk would, were she lactating, secrete. And the long hitherto loose chains were clipped to a central ring on her golden tongue clamp. This gave her head, her tongue that is, rein and reign over her tits.
The six inch deep leather belt that went around her waist had a buckle with six tines, and needed the strength of two dressers, while two more held Aileen steady, to haul it sufficiently tight for its buckle to be fastened. And thus was Aileen’s already trim waist, reduced to an hour-glass’ simulacrum of the waistline of a dieting wasp.
Already whipped to femininity, Aileen adored this wasping, and just knew the wild wantonness of the wider wiggle it would give her when she walked.
Aileen nextly had two long leather belts attached to and dangled from golden rings on the sides of her wasping belt. Around her ankles, tight ankle straps were buckled. These two too had golden rings on their outsides.
Now the straps from her wasping belt’s side rings, were carefully tightly flatly wrapped and counter-wrapped, crisscross, around her thighs, her knees, her lower legs, and then tied off to her ankle straps’ rings, so that Aileen’s lovely legs were bound tightly, and she stood in such an alert state of attention, even her regimental sergeant major would have lauded and applauded her.
Her conjoined sandals came next. For these she was sat. For all Aileen could see, they were bringing over two eight inch high rectangular-triangle-profile wooden blocks: blocks of wood joined together by a single leather strap of the same depth as the sloping side of each wooden block: the side to which the strap was affixed. She also noticed that there was little to no space between the blocks where the strap nailed to them held them all but kissing side to side. And each block rose at 60 degrees from where it would presumably rest on the floor, and dropped off vertically at its rear.
On closer examination, at what she was to discover to be the lower edge of the steep sloping fronts of the blocks, there were individual hoops sewn to the leather strap, sized and spaced for each of her toes. Once her toes were through these, her foot was bent such that her heels were on the top edge of the eight inch tall wooden wedges, and her ankles were then secured to the blocks by the tying of individual leather straps from the rings in her ankle bindings, to rings in the middle-back of each block.
Now Aileen was, by gentle handling, bid to stand. And she cruelly tortured her clamped and bitten tongue, when her attempt to scream went wrong. But good cause for screaming she had, for her toes were now horizontal on the ground, bent at a crushing angle from where the sandal hoops in the wooden blocks individually imprisoned them.
A round white woollen-weave beret-like cap was next placed over Aileen’s moon-glowing hair, and the draw-ribbon that would be end-tied at the back of her head, pulled tight, so that the rim of the cap, which purposely fell onto her upper eyelids, was secured securely in that place, and she was instantly demured and blinkered by being only able to look submissively down with her gorgeous brown love-lanterns.
Thus she was unable to properly see the snow white woollen-weave burka until it was held before her bound naked body in a prepared state, a rolled up state. And she had no choice but to submit to its being raised, and the hood part arranged over her head, smothering her shimmering hair and adorable face in its all-enveloping, all-covering, all-disguising, all burying mask.
The remainder of this cruel adornment of this adoring adorable girl, comprised its voluminous robe. This was skilfully pulled and tugged out till it covered Aileen down to and beyond her en-pointe enforced tortured feet.
Her dressers arranged the mask hood of her burka so that Aileen could see through a slit covered with several ply of muslin. But, even so, her lovely eyes could no longer be admired.
Aileen was now bound as, and wore the garb of a wifely Lachmoor tribesgirl. A shroud in a coffin could have been no more cruel.
As she moved her head to strain to see through eyes in which the upper eyelids were lowered for humility, because her motion pulled on the chains that ran from her tongue and were hooked to her nipples, Aileen lifted and dropped each of her breasts by turn with the turns of her head.
But even this sexy enticement was invisible to the world outside her cruel garb. The clamping of her tongue and the binding and chaining of her breasts being solely to affirm her subservience and to remind her that she was a girl.
Aileen was now being bid to walk. Her lovely legs did their best, but they too were purposely tamed by their bindings, and her toes were incredibly painful. Her shoes being bound together so they were, though nominally a pair, as if they were one, all she could do was shuffle along like a Chinese girl of the distinctly distant days when foot-binding had been legal.
Aileen’s progress was dreadfully slow. With her eyes lowered and shielded against their seductive powers being aglow, she struggled to see where she was going. Her hearing too was muffled by her headdress, but she was aware that the husband-girls who had dressed her, were giggling at her unpractised snail’s progress. Indeed, once out of the tent in which she had been bound and robed, Aileen’s shuffling wiggle walk made a snail’s snaking trail in the desert sand.
This style of dress was so alien to Aileen. She had never imagined it was so cruel and demeaning. To be curtained and draped and hidden from the world so, was so savagely uncivilised: so prehistoric. Yet, till she was rescued, she would, it seemed, have to suffer this. Perhaps once freed, she could use her talents and write an account of it for the online-magazines back home.
As Aileen shuffle-wiggled along in the direction she was being obliged to go in her burka-bondage, she began to feel a surprising arising. This was so shaming. A civilised, if not cultured at least worldly wise, western girl such as she; how could she possibly find herself being turned on by this primitive treatment of her body and mind?!
And yet the knowledge she was turned on by her predicament turned Aileen on even more. And the knowledge she was turned on by being turned on by being turned on drove her to a distraction she could not detract from as, invisibly beneath her garb, it demonstrated her femininity at its foremost.
As she approached the tent toward which she was being directed, two of the girls in the husband-girl burkas, strode ahead of Aileen and parted the flaps ready for her entry.
Once within, ashamed at her arousal, even though it was invisible, and her lovely blushing cheeks were hidden even from heaven beneath her burka, Aileen stood.
Once she had troubled to rise from a table scattered with what looked to Aileen, like hand-drawn maps, Abfana’s gorgeous ice-green eyes looked her over.
‘Leader most high, this is imprisoned the western girl. She has been whipped as you commanded. And she is now wived for your disposal, Leader most high.’
Abfana casually walked over to Aileen, who instinctively lowered her head again, and then raised it again proudly. The chains tying them to her tongue, matched this lowering and raising with enforced echoes in her tethered tits.
To Aileen’s astonishment, actually using her name, Abfana’s surprisingly gentle voice enquired and sympathised:
‘I hear you came under the whip, Aileen’. You are not the first girl that that has happened to, and nor will you be the last. Take it as the introduction to your life as a Lachmoor wife.’
And, with a wave of Abfana’s hand to the lackey husband-girls, Aileen was dismissed from Abfana’s presence.
It was on exiting Abfana’s tent in her cruel bondage and demeaning burka, that Aileen came again.
She came as she wiggle-shuffled obediently back to join, she assumed, the other wife-wives in their tent. She came at the thought that, she hoped and prayed, she might be joining Abfana’s hareem. She came in consequence of her earlier flogging. She came because of her present bondage. And she came because she hoped and longed, that she would be imprisoned in a burka for the rest of her days.
..........................
And she came in her bed, and she came as she awoke and was half-asleep at her alarm clock’s abrupt reminder that she must awake and arise and face her working day.
Too late to avoid messing her bed with her squirt, Aileen closed her eyes and longed she could return to the wet-dream. It had been so vivid. And yet now she could hardly recall it.
Changing her bedding would have to wait. She stripped her under-sheet and removed her duvet cover ready for the wash. But, more immediately, she must get a shower and ready herself to face her day.....
.............................
Going back over what’s said above, strictly speaking, it hadn’t been the army or the army for Aileen. Family and local tradition had it that it should..... must..... ought to be. But Aileen was bright. Straight out of school she’d wanted to go into the army....almost straight following. But that was after she’d done time as an intern at Ursa Bows investment bank. ‘Work experience’ they’d called it. She’d been just sixteen.
After Aileen’s while whiling away there, her school’s headmistress had been the one to encourage her to apply for a full-time post. She was highly thought of, Aileen that is. The feedback from her erstwhile employers had been very complimentary. Ursa Bows decidedly saw a future for Aileen in banking.
Oh, the excitement she’d felt when she’d had the text and confirmatory email invitation for her to attend a formal interview at Ursa Bows! Tummy butterflies had been like more like pterodactyls.
Her momma had had her doubts. The family history had always inclined to serving the nation. But serving the nation was no guarantee of financial security. Despite the disasters of 2008 and the decades that had followed, now all ancient history, here in the later 21st century, banking was wild and free and bonuses bouncing ever higher by the year once again.
Aileen had spent two hours just brushing her hair that morning: the morning of the morning of her interview. Her momma had helped her with her make-up. She’d worn her school underwear out of necessity. She had no alternative to its cheap nylon. But she’d unfold-rolled brand-new shear-nylon stockings slowly up along her long legs.
A miniskirt with matching jacket in her favourite colour, ultramarine-violet, had been borrowed off an older cousin who worked in a fashion boutique, as had the crisp white pure cotton blouse with the genuine onyx buttons. Then she’d slid on her ‘best’ shoes with the two-inch heels. How she’d havered over those before buying them! Three or was it four or five times she’d passed the shop before she’d decided.
At the interview, she’d sat and was sure... the eye-contact was excellent.... so too the body-language. She’d done ‘interview technique’ in school. Such lessons began two years out from graduation, as did work placement / work experience - the internships such as she was back then experiencing. She’d known the signs to look for and respond to. And all the signs had been just great.
She’d expounded her theory of the causes and impact of the collapse of the US investment banks in the latter part of the first decade of the 21st century, comparing and contrasting with the events that had led up to and been the fallout from the great Wall Street Crash of 1929, adding-in the devastation of the preceding Great War, the subsequent and consequent New Deal intercession, and the question whether it and the approach to economics it had seemed to encapsulate in real-life, was practise of Keynesian theory, and if it had been a sufficiency to ameliorate the impacts of the Great Depression, and / or whether Keynesianism was proven more definitely by the rush to arms and fuller employment for which the second war of the 20th century had, arguably been the necessary compelling force.
Her exposition had been accompanied by nods and smiles, and looks of appreciation between and from her interviewers. And the momentary silence that had followed her seamless thirty minute presentation, seemed of the variety that, had this been a surreal dream rather than a reality, might have led to appreciative applause.
The chairwoman had then spoken: ‘Miss McAveen....’.
Aileen’s pretty face had broken into one of her sun-shaming smiles. Then she sweetly lowered her lovely brown eyes. She knew, she just knew she had wowed them. Surely the offer of a permanent post would be hers.....Surely!?
‘Miss McAveen; you have very shapely legs’.
Aileen had lowered her head and blushed.
‘Working for the bank, a standard uniform skirt and shirt are worn at all times.’
Aileen looked up, her pretty mouth agape, avoiding, only just avoiding, a scream of joy as she fought, only just fought, her natural urge to rush over and kiss the interview panel by turn to thank them for taking her into the bank’s employ.
The summation continued...
‘You will gymnasium for a minimum of two-hours daily – seven days of the week, concentrating on keeping your shapely figure. It must include pectoral exercise to maintain the natural uplift of your evidently large and correspondingly handsome breasts; and leg exercises to keep those excellent limbs of yours in their present splendidly elegant trim.....
.....You must shave it to complete innocence daily, and will never wear panties. You will also have to wear seamed stockings. And to additionally display your lovely legs, shoes with nothing less than seven-inch stiletto heels. Never any with platform soles, of course.....’
As she had rushed out of the room in a flood of tears embarrassment shame and disappointment, Aileen had heard the tapering off of the offer of ....... ‘a full time post as a uniformed bank-maid....’
.............................
Tears filled Aileen’s eyes. She now despised Ursa Bows. When entering her apartment back home, she’d brushed past her momma, who had been shocked at such completely unexpected and totally uncharacteristic rudeness, but realised, this being Aileen, it must have a substantial cause.
The sobs from Aileen’s room told her momma what must be wrong. Or so her momma concluded. She felt heartbreak and heartache for her lovely young daughter, but decided it was as well to leave Aileen to cry her disappointment out of her system.
Life would not spare her from some disappointments. Life was a series of lessons we all have to learn, and those lessons must include heartbreaking experiences. It must inevitably be that Aileen must be toughened-up by such events.
So her momma brewed herself a cup of tea and decided not to go to Aileen’s room to comfort her daughter; even though, and even so, she longed to do so.
The silence that followed from Aileen’s room, her momma attributed to Aileen having cried herself to sleep.
But Aileen was, in fact, providing her own comfort. Over and over in her mind, she tried to recall every word spoken by the panel after her interview, every single word, every phrase, every precise phrase, every tone, every intonation, and the looks she had got, the appreciative eyes running up her legs to her thighs, and the leering glimpses that sought to asses her breasts and just how big a girl she was; and with this repeated reheated rehashed reminder of her humiliation; she was eagerly masturbating.
...............................
Aileen’s lovely hair, soft and fragrant after its daily morning wash, trained down to below the base of her buttocks. And thus not much more than inches above the hem of the bum-hugging black spandex miniskirt she wore.
Both the skirt and the pristine white silk v-necked blouse she filled, with its buttons undone down to just above her belly button, were standard bank issue: Ursa Bows standard issue. Newly issued with more to match, at the start of Aileen’s seventh year in that bank’s employ: newly bought with her own pay.
She’d also had to buy her black nylon seamed stockings, her sinful-black suspenders and her satan-black quarter-cup uplift brassiere from her own wages. So too the eight-inch stiletto heeled ballet toed patent leather mules that stood her on her superbly shapely legs.
Aileen wore the uniform of a bank-maid. Her function was purely decorative.
She was often an attendant at meetings. There she was deployed for her legs to be ogled and for her cleavage to entice.
The latter was particularly deployed when she was instructed to serve refreshment.
On such occasions, when they could ogle what they saw as Aileen poured from a jug held by such pretty hands, even clients who would never before have dreamt of it, would find they took milk in their coffee.
Aileen was a show-stopper too. Many a meeting ground to a halt as clients of the bank were inexorably drawn to, as evidenced just beneath the parted frontage of the blouse her heavy bosom filled to such duel predominance, the shear erotic wonder of her merely breathing: breathing so breathtakingly wonderfully evidenced by the rising and falling and swelling and contraction in Aileen’s uplifted, three-quarters bared, breasts.
This day, Aileen had just returned from a mission to make some photocopies, when her immediate manager suddenly appeared on the scene, to give Aileen instructions on a matter which was also part of Aileen’s duties and routine.
‘McAveen?!’
‘Ah, there you are girl!’
Ms Frobisher, Aileen’s immediate superior, always addressed Aileen by surname alone when a client was present, and, come to think of it, unless she was being oleaginous because a superior in the bank was also present at the time, even when there wasn’t a client to impress. The presently present client was a Japanese businesswoman.
That ‘Frobisher’ and ‘frost’ share an initial letter was, in the case of Aileen’s boss, Ms Septimina Frobisher, no coincidence. So too do ‘Septimina’ and ‘spiteful’. Septimina, an aged dried-up spinster, though she was still only thirty in truth, had been jealous of Aileen’s beauty of face physique and soul, since day-one of Aileen’s engagement by the bank as a bank-maid.
Aware of her power over Aileen, in a world where she knew that finding re-employment was impossibly unlikely were Aileen to be dismissed, Septimina Frobisher loved to demean Aileen; and, to make her feel small inferior and embarrassed, was one of her favourite pastimes.
Though it was none of her business to know, Aileen knew, from gossip, that this young Japanese was a client the bank was particular anxious to take on, and steal away from a key rival.
Septimina Frobisher, who was but the messenger and not the interpreter of the pretty Japanese, took advantage of the visiting business-girl’s limited English to be spiteful to Aileen once again.
‘This, McAveen, is Ms Hai. She’s quite smitten by you. She’s asked all about you. Goodness alone knows what she sees in you; but she wants you. So go to the boardroom and wait till she’s ready.’
As Aileen bobbed a very leggy and lovely-thigh-disporting curtsy, she sweetly breathed: ‘Of course Ms Frobisher’.
This only riled up the bile of jealousy in Ms Frobisher over again. She wanted to be crueller still. And she had been storing up a nasty barb, and now joyfully deployed it:-
‘......And when that’s over McAveen, report to my office please. I have the bill prepared for the damage your stiletto heels have caused to the banks flooring over the past month. You will, of course sign for the cost of repairs to be deducted from your salary.....’
‘Yes. Yes, of course Ms Frobisher’
And, given the history of her two years working under Septimina Frobisher, it was no surprise to lovely Aileen, when Ms Frobisher added:
‘Ms Hai wants to jack-up your cock and give it a good hard hand-slapping. That will be alright I trust McAveen?’
‘Of course Ms Frobisher’, Aileen quietly whispered, as she bobbed yet another erotic curtsy.
And then she began to wiggle to the boardroom as supremely seductively as only a stunningly gorgeous shemale such as she, Aileen, possibly can.....
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
The Homecoming
Synopsis: - England, at some future time when.....
The Homecoming
by Eve Adorer
It is a truth, universally observed, that in any bouquet of pretty girls, in the absence of a negress, the outstandingly attractive posy will be the redhead.
Ellicia Jones was “just the girl next door”. She was the very attractive wife other girls’ husbands were keen to have at dinner parties. And yet she was also the lovely young woman the wives of those same husbands had no qualms about inviting.
The wives, of course, knew men found Ellicia – “Elly” – a honey-pot. At parties, she was always surrounded by so many of that particular sub-species that the wonder was she didn’t drown in men. But they also knew her attraction was nothing more than natural. She was a very pretty very shapely girl, with love and laughter in her eyes, and a gorgeous giggle. She did not set out to seduce. All Ellicia needed to do, was be, and that was seductive enough for any mere male.
There had been rumours of Ellicia having had affairs with one or more of the neighbours’ wives. But, those same wives had compared notes, found none who blushed at the question whether they had taken the stunning Ellicia to bed, and concluded that the gossip must be a fantasy concocted by one or more of their husbands.
Their husbands probably couldn’t believe that Ellicia could resist being unfaithful with one or more among themselves. To admit such a prospect struck too hard a blow to their masculinity. So they had let fantasy become the daughter of wishful thinking, and concluded that Ellicia, if she didn’t yield to masculine charms other than those of her own husband, and she didn’t, must: “like a bit of pussy on the side”.
Then one day, at a coffee-morning get-together, while Ellicia was out of the room, one of the wives had confessed she had indulged her husband’s fantasy, and admitted that, if she had ever fancied taking a girl to bed, it would have been Ellicia. And among giggling cries of: “Oh, and why not me then?!” a likely source of the rumours that at least one husband must have seeded among his fellows had been teased out.
..........................
On any day of the week, David and Ellicia Jones, “the folks next door”, seemed the ideal married couple.
David was ‘something in banking’. Nobody on the street was quite clear what. He clearly wasn’t one of those being paid an obscene annual bonus. But, even so, the couple were obviously well off.
Ellicia was known to have been in banking for some time as well. But, as the neighbours understood, a year back, because of the long-distance commuting it had involved since she and David had moved with his job, here to Skenton, she had given up her career to become a full-time housewife; and loved being just that.
Yet today, just after breakfast, there seemed to be a little tension in the household of David and Ellicia Jones, loving man and wife.
David was about to go to a room in their home set out as an office for him to work at home; Ellicia dressed to go out.
Ellicia was deliciously shaping-out a well-tailored clearly top-price designer apple-green pure wool miniskirt and matching jacket combo. Beneath its jacket, her off-white silk blouse was tensioned attentively by her more than generous bosom.
Her shapely legs, in suspender-supported white nylons, had their calves sculpted to erotic tension by her seven-inch-stiletto-heeled two-tone green patent leather strappy slingbacks.
Her glorious straight radiantly red hair flowed to just below where her buttocks rearward rotundity counter-balanced the pronounced prominence of her breasts.
Under her clothing, Ellicia wore a full-cup underwired brassiere. And, contrary to the wishful thinking of the men in the neighbourhood, she did wear panties; or, rather, a tiny g-string, in which it made a pouch with a clearly delineated close-closed-lipped Giaconda smile.
That the underwear Ellicia wore had been jointly chosen with her husband, with David having the casting vote, could be reliably deduced. An opened red rose embroidered at each nipple decorated her brassiere, and found their single echo in a tightly closed red rosebud at the crotch of her g-string in the area were its clitoris was secreted. Her g-string matched the pure white of her brassiere and suspenders.
There was nothing extra to ordinary there. But the slim elasticised straps dangling from her suspender belt till the slide-in studs at their adjusted adjustable endings clasped her stockings’ tops, took a straight path at the front of her thighs, but, at the rear, enjoyed a slightly impractical but equally erotically scenic route, framing her heart-shaped firm smooth bare bottom.
Outstandingly attractive, but, for some reason this morning, almost as nervous and unsure of herself, Ellicia made her standard enquiry of her loving husband:
“How do I look?”
“Just wonderful darling; but then you always look wonderful!”
“Oh David!”
“Elly, sweetheart, we’ve been over this over a dozen times. It’s just a letter from the local police back where we lived for four years, four years ago. I don’t know why you’ve got so anxious about it. It just says they’d like to find if you can help with enquiries.”
“It’s probably about that poor little shoplifter girl you saw stealing, when was it, six months back when you were visiting over at Hill-Pinset? There’s nothing at all sinister in that.”
“It was your choice, a sensible choice, to call in on the police while you are at your mother’s again for the week. They said in their letter, that if you phoned and made an appointment, they’d have willingly come here”.
“But why wouldn’t they say on the phone, what it’s all about?”
“Confidentiality darling. Would you like your case discussed with an uninvolved stranger, just a potential witness, over an unsecure phone line?”
“Sweetheart, we have been over this. That bloody insider-dealing business is long since out of the way. It’s a year since Henway Marshall let you and your team go. And you know perfectly well that you were personally assured there was no question of you yourself not being other than entirely innocent.”
“They got rid of the team as a whole, and therefore you as well, because you were its leader, so as to prevent even the remotest possibility of a stain on the bank that would have lost them clients. They had to be seen to take the ultimate action with you all without exemption, else The Business World, and that grubby little bitch of a reporterette who broke the story, would have annihilated Henways.”
“Am I being so annoying?”
At this, David Jones swept his beautiful flame-haired wife, a girl he had adored since their college-days together, into his arms and kissed her gently on her ever-willing soft lips.
He then held her by her slim trim waist with her leaning back at arms’ length to admire her lovely face, as he teased: “And besides; mother said she’d come round daily, and clean and cook while you’re away.”
“David Jones! Is that all you’re going to miss me for?! I hate you!”, Ellicia outraged with a giggle, lovingly swinging a pretty hand at her husband’s face to slap it, while making sure he would catch her wrist before she could make impact, and knowing that she would then be made to surrender, once more, to a kiss.
The two lovers, lovers still after five years of marriage, parted reluctantly.
Ellicia located and sweetly angled on her head before the hallway floor-length mirror, her warm-cream-coloured broad-brimmed low-dome-crowned soft-felt hat. This had a hatband-ribbon of jacket-and-skirt-echoing apple green tied bow at its rear, with long tails from the ribbon that would flutter in the lightest breeze.
Now she took off a shelf and drew on, over very pretty hands, a pair of white silk gloves, unfurling them to just below each elbow. She then worked her fingers to the extremity of the gloves’ fingers, with presses by the opposite hand’s fingers on each “gusset” of her gloves’ finger stalls by turn, before finally ensuring they were fully drawn up her slender arms.
And last, she took hold, from a hall stand, of the white parasol she would always carry in the warmer months to protect her supremely white supremely soft lightly freckle-kissed complexion from over-exposure to the sun.
As his wife still thresholded the doorstep, before he could stop himself, David added:
“Now, are you sure you’ve got everything sweetheart?” and metaphorically wished he could bite his tongue off for asking, knowing that Ellicia would always want to pack more changes of outfits, shoes, underwear, hats, makeup, brushes, skirts, blouses, dresses, more shoes, and what you may, and more shoes, and was relieved when she didn’t seem to hear that particular enquiry.
So he then speedily added, as cover: “See you at the end of the week darling .......Friday ..... I’ll be at the station..... Promise....”
Outside her home and shared love-nest, Ellicia unfurl-raised her parasol whilst also taking gloved-hand grasp of a large wheeled travel case containing barely enough, in her view, to see her through the week she would be visiting her mother, and began to exit down her marital home’s front garden path to wiggle the quarter mile to the train station.
“Hurry now darling, or you’ll miss your train. Give my love to your momma, and my regards to sleepy old Hill-Pinset.”
“Take good care my love”, David soothed sincerely.
“Bye sweetheart!”, this latter mouthed by David, after a blown kiss, as he waved his adoring adorable wife on her way from the gateway of their Skenton home to adorn and bless the pavement sidewalk with her steps to Skenton’s rail station.
Merely by walking Ellicia gave meaning to the words “spice” and “entice”, her bottom’s roll role in her seductive stroll being the apotheosis of the dance.
..........................
By some miracle known only unto she who must also have created the sheer wonder of girls, Ellicia’s train arrived at Skenton Central exactly on time, to the very second. Both English Railways and god truly moved in mysterious ways that day.
Once safely aboard, after being adored by a station porter who longed she would grant him the honour of helping her with her luggage, which she politely did and which he eagerly did, Ellicia texted ahead to her mother that she expected to arrive at Hill-Pinset’s train station at 11.30 – this being confirmation of last evening’s final arrangements phone call.
..........................
An hour and a half later, after all the slow-train’s other station stops, alighting her delightful presence at the station in the village of her birth, some fifty miles north of her new marital home in Skenton, Ellicia’s honey-glowing hazel eyes espied that nothing had changed.
But that was hardly surprising. It had only been two weeks since she had last visited her mother, and therefore Hill-Pinset; Ellicia’s home before she’d married and the locale of her first home with David, was more “just” than mere “much” the same.
Ellicia just couldn’t wait to be with her “mummy” again. There was such a lot to talk about. That was, of course, despite that they had been on the telephone to each other for two solid hours only the previous evening; for Ellicia was a girl in every meaning of that most wonderful of all the words in all the world’s dictionaries.
A short wiggle to her childhood home, a loving embrace of mummy, a long chat before during and after lunch, followed by a quick look at her watch and discovery that Ellicia was already late, another lovely girly trait, to make her appointed time at the local police station.
..........................
Ellicia need not have worried. The appointed hour was 02.00 p.m. By when she got to the precinct house it was 02.30 p.m., and yet at 02.45 she still stood in a queue, waiting to make her arrival known to the pretty blonde desk sergeant.
The sergeant’s endless patience was being tested by an elderly gentleman whose short-term memory was challenged to retain the directions she was giving him. He wanted Hill-Pinset’s bus station. Unfortunately, for the length of Ellicia’s wait, it needed for him to be directed across the other side of the village from where he now was, and to recall his turns left from his turns right, and the order of the distinctive buildings that would act as his landmarks.
As she waited, Ellicia found herself unusually nervous. And, as she flexed her very shapely legs, with her constantly shifting her feet where she stood in line, the musical clitter-clatter of her stilettos on the station house’s mock-marble floor, eroticised the air.
At long last, the previous customer was satisfied – he held a hurriedly drawn diagram - and left, leaving Ellicia now at the front of the police station’s counter.
Free at last, the desk sergeant smiled her apology. In that smile and its accompanying look, which had already unconsciously run up Ellicia’s legs and body as she stepped forward, before it found her exceptionally pretty face, Ellicia recognised that this blonde found her sexually alluring.
Ellicia was used to other girls being distracted by and attracted to her charms, and, as reward for the unspoken compliment, simply smiled back with eyes aglow.
“How may I help you Miss.....?” the pretty blonde sergeant enquired, leaving a silent query-ended gap to inviting Ellicia to orally fill in the name she should be addressed by.
“‘Mrs’ actually”, Ellicia responded sweetly, but nervously.
The sergeant smiled indulgently. She knew this very attractive woman was not seeking to be rude. She wasn’t ‘trying to be clever’ as the teen girls so often were on like occasions.
“I have an appointment with...I had a letter from a Lieutenant Envers?”
Ellicia passed the unfolded A4 letter over, face up, pressing its former folds as flat as she could on the counter between the sergeant and herself with her gloved fingers, and at the same time turning it the right way around for the pretty blonde to read.
“Oh I see. Righty-ho. I’m afraid Alarsanta’s..... the Lieutenant is out on a case at the mo’ Mrs er...” [the sergeant’s eyes sought Ellicia’s name on the letter] “.....Mrs Jones. She’ll be back afore an hour and less. If you’d be kind enough to take a seat [‘so I can have a good look at your lovely legs’ thought the sergeant, hoping her eyes didn’t tell what was on her mind]. I’m sure she won’t be long, not what with you and ‘er ‘aving an appointment like....”
When Ellicia sat, the surreptitious glimpses from the sergeant were not disappointed or disappointing. Indeed, the brevity of Ellicia’s miniskirt displayed, as well as her shapely calves, her handsome thighs as a double-bonus. However, though it was not for want of trying prying looks, the sergeant’s eyes failed to satisfy her perfectly natural subliminal ‘yes or no’ enquiry in regard to the presence or absence of panty.
“Mrs Ellicia Jones?” queried, suddenly, a stunning brunette, who seemed to have appeared on the scene from out of nowhere.
Ellicia rose and blushed.
“How do you do, Mrs Jones..... Lieutenant Alarsanta Envers? Step this way and we can talk in my office.”
Alarsanta Envers was forty something in the lower numbers. As a detective, she was in civilian clothes: crisp white blouse and pleated black miniskirt, black stockings - stockings rather than tights Ellicia guessed - and practical and clunky one-inch heeled lace-up black leather shoes. It would have been no great deduction that Alarsanta was a gymnasium freak. Her body was youthful lithe and clearly exceptionally fit.
Ellicia suddenly found herself with a feeling she hadn’t had since she had been at school: the onrush of a crush. When she, Ellicia, had been but fourteen, she had fallen in love with her French teacher, a Miss German. And that strange feeling had just come over her again... some tummy butterflies, an urge to display her attractions... almost to overplay her femininity.... The age difference with Alarsanta Envers here today, and Miss German back then, was about the same.
Ellicia decided that she would go along with this urge, this feeling. Lieutenant Alarsanta Envers was a very attractive woman. By all appearance she was as cool calm and collected as lovely Ellicia was often a tad ditzy. And Ellicia had an innate attraction to calmness at the helm in the stormy waters in which she lived her emotional life. That was why she adored David. That was also why she felt drawn to older women; not least those as good looking as Alarsanta Envers.
Given this subconscious need had become conscious attraction; when she sat as bade by Alarsanta, Ellicia felt compelled to display a little more leg, and to look down at the mating display made with her bared thighs with a look that said to the sad looking life-experienced dark brown eyes of the Lieutenant: ‘Why don’t you “ease your eyes here?’.
“I’m afraid we’ve had a complaint, Mrs Jones.”
“‘Ellicia’.... please feel free to call me ‘Ellicia’.”
Well, it’s a sworn affidavit, actually, Mrs....Ellicia. It’s from people whose names I’m not at liberty to reveal. They’ve asked for anonymity. And that’s been granted by the court.” Lieutenant Envers announced, ignoring Ellicia’s invitation to admire her thighs.
“What could that possibly be about Lieutenant? I’m sure I’ve done nothing wrong. Are you certain you’ve got the right person? You must be mistaken surely....”
“I’m sure there’s no mistake....Ellicia. That is unless you’re not Ellicia Jones nee Lovepiece who married a David Jones here in Hill-Pinset five years ago this July? And you weren’t the Ellicia Lovepiece who was educated at St Angel and All Saints Academy for Girls here in the village? You match the photograph.....”
“That’s all absolutely correct. But what can this possibly be about? Did I ought to pinch myself? I can’t believe this! It’s like I was having a dream: a bad dream: a nightmare!” Ellicia begged, with pretty tears teetering as pear-shaped diamonds at the corners of her pleading eyes.
Lieutenant Envers had, of course, seen this kind of thing before. She’d recognised how highly-strung Ellicia was. It so often went with beautiful women. Girls such as Ellicia, were so often unsure of themselves. It was as if their stunning attractiveness made them feel constant prey; at least to doubts. It was as if it put them in torment.
Of course, that only added to their beauty. But there was a feedback circle there. Some girls, such as this, were tipped over into a nervous near insanity simply because of the wonder of their wonderful wonder. Alarsanta sensed that Ellicia, like many a thoroughbred, was constantly uncertain and on emotional edge. But that, underneath, she had a strong core; that she had the strength of a girl indeed.
“Please don’t get upset Ellicia. I’m sure it will all be quickly sorted. And I expect it will turn out to be nothing that can’t be easily resolved.”
At this the Lieutenant pressed a button on an intercom on the right of where she sat centred behind her desk...
“Good afternoon Vona; Alarsanta. I’ve got a Mrs Ellicia Jones nee Lovepiece here? Is the duty judge free?”
“Makepeace?” Ellicia heard queried from a long seeming distance.
“No....Lovepiece... L.... O.... V.... E.... Case number....hang on it’s here in front of me somewhere..... I know I’ve seen it.... Right.... Case number 38DD2037.”
“Okay, right.....Yes, yes, she’s free. But it’s Judge Smyth-Carter. And I better warn you, she’s in one of her moods!”
“Thanks Vona.”
“Let’s pop in on Investigating Judge Smyth-Carter, Ellicia. And take no notice of what you’ve just heard. Judge Cassidy Smyth-Carter is one sharp cookie, and Vona, the communal secretary for the duty judges, could sometimes try the patience of a saint.
..........................
For Ellicia, there followed a wiggle down the covered umbilical corridor that led from the police station across a one hundred yard gap to its semi-attached courthouse, an introduction to the judge’s secretary, Vona of the recent distant intercom voice, a knock on the duty judge’s door by Vona, who popped her head around its imposing oak substance while her feet still stood, respectfully, in her own room, and was heard to announce......
.....“Mrs Ellicia Jones, nee Lovepiece, with Lieutenant Alarsanta Envers, my lady”
.....before Vona stepped across the door’s threshold, still on her own office carpet, and opened the door wider, holding it thus with her back to it, to leave sufficient room for the two would-be entrants to enter, before she returned to the room her feet had only in this last action left, adding the obvious: “You can go in now.”
Investigating Judge Cassidy Smyth-Carter had Ellicia stand before her imposing green leather centre-covered dark oak desk, with Alarsanta at her side.
Cassidy Smyth-Carter was an astonishingly attractive negress of around thirty. A business-like smile passed over her generous lips. In her heart she wanted to reassure Ellicia. In her mind she knew she had the onerous duty of upholding the law. And that and that alone was why the smile, messaging a kind heart behind the austere visage, was so perfunctory.
“Who precisely is this young lady, Lieutenant Envers?”
“Mrs Ellicia Jones nee Lovepiece, case number 38DD2037 m’lady.”
“Ah yes. I read up on that one just this morning.”
“I apologise in advance for having to use such language, Mrs Jones. But we have a sworn affidavit from people whose credentials are impeccable, and they say that you.... well, to come straight to the point...... that you masturbated on several distinct occasions, for which they give locations, dates, and even commencement times, when you were at school. Would that be right?”
Ellicia was astounded. Completely taken aback, she exclaimed, unthinkingly directly, and without due respect for the court:
“Good god! I was at St Angels. It was totally forbidden. I would have been expelled if I had... I’ve never ever masturbated. It’s totally disgusting. I would never ever do it. It’s nauseating! Horrible! But, for god’s sake, I left school six or seven years ago.”
“Mrs Jones, though it’s not in the words you speak as such, your tone is saying to me that there might be some truth in the accusation. I read into your response that you could well be in denial of an underlying truth. Mrs Jones; you would be wise to be honest with the court.”
“No m’lady, I am not in any way saying I ever did it. What nonsense is this? The school has no hold over me now... not after seven years. I’ve graduated from college since then, and taken a post graduate degree. For god’s sake, I’ve been married for five years. My husband, David, likes to masturbate me. But I wouldn’t touch myself that way, even for him. It’s too...it’s so gross; it’s foul, it’s disgusting....”
“Calm down now, Mrs Jones. Calm down. I have to enquire. It’s a matter of law. It’s the Morality of the Female Act of course. I have to be sure.”
“Let’s be understanding here Mrs Jones. You’re not exactly convincing me that there’s no truth in the allegation. Indeed, your reaction is one I’ve seen very often, even in my few years on the magistrates’ bench; and every time it’s been the reaction of someone who’s guilty as charged.”
“Who is it that’s accusing me m’lady?!”
“There is no reason for me to tell you that, no liberty for me to do so, and no right for you to know. The affidavit has been signed witnessed and sealed. You, young lady, have no right whatsoever other than the right to prove to me, right here and now, that what it affirms is, in fact, untrue. I need irrefutable counter-evidence. And you have said nothing that, even reading between the lines, would convince anyone. The law is quite clear.”
“Mrs Ellicia Jones nee Lovepiece, I am arresting you on the charge that you did, while a pupil of St Angels and All Saints Academy for Girls in the Village of Hill-Pinset, in the County of Dortford, on one or several occasions, avail yourself of the opportunity to masturbate yourself, in contravention of the rules of that institution, the contract signed by one or both of your parents and / or guardians, and therefore both in breach of contract and of the Morality of the Female Act of June 2032 and Amendment 14 of the said Act of August 2034.....”
“Do you plead guilty? If not, it will be my sad duty to have you whipped.”
“Please!” Ellicia pleaded.
“Have her whipped please Lieutenant. Ten lashes....”
..........................
At that same moment, Ellicia, safe at home in her bed, shot up to sit still half-sleeping but full-screaming.
“Darling, darling, it’s just a bad dream.... it’s just that same bad dream, David reassured her as he wrapped his terrified wife in his arms.
“Don’t let them take me David!”
“Darling, you know I love you. I will always love you.”
Ellicia’s tears streamed and he held her.
“I know you’re frightened darling. But the law is the law sweetheart. You admitted your guilt....”
“They whipped me David! They whipped me!!”
As he wrapped the terrified Ellicia in his arms David could still feel the brutal ridges of the welts from Ellicia’s whipping; healed now in the month since, but still scarring the soft complexion of her back.
He had seen the truth of her interrogation when she had come home, completely unexpectedly, the day after she had gone to visit her mother in Hill Pinset. Her back was still bleeding then. It had taken an age to take her blouse off. It had stuck onto the scabs forming on her still fresh cruel welts as she had travelled home on the train. Removing it was agonising for her, and her brutalised back had bled the more once more.
It was part of the punishment. Sending Ellicia home was part of the punishment. Sending Ellicia home after they had whipped her, served to remind her that she was answerable to the law. Ellicia had then to choose the timing of her final punishment for having dared to masturbate when she had been but an early teen, thus adding the torture of anticipation of her punishment for that crime to her punishment for that crime.
David longed for the Ellicia he loved to return to him in spirit as well as corporeally. He was a patient man, but even the most patient among saints must have physical needs this side of heaven.
It was not that Ellicia had lost interest in making love. She had always been a passionate girl. But he knew he had lost that essence that turned mere sex into an expression of something on a far higher level.
He was no longer able to give her a cum with his cock. It was as if, since she had been whipped, she, or he, or they, had lost that certain something that tipped her over the boundary and made David proud of his prowess in responding, once in a while, to Ellicia’s passion and need for full satiation, with his cock alone.
But he seemed to have lost her. Since her whipping David seemed to have lost Ellicia.
If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought their love-life was challenged by a third party. But, then, Ellicia would never be unfaithful to him; that he was sure of. And besides, it had only been since the whipping that it had happened. She’d been healing and recovering and, besides that, it was surely too short a while ago for her to have strayed into another’s bed.
Of course she was frightened of the day she knew she must choose from a list of those available, to suffer her final punishment for that she had confessed to. But, for David, it was more than just that.
Ellicia had not lost her love of physical love. But it was as if her threshold, her trigger, that which was needed to tip her over to orgasm had moved to a different order, a differing plain.
To David this was a complete mystery. Why could he no longer satisfy her fully anymore? What had happened during the whipping to take away this loveliest aspect of their marital combining?
Of course he had not cummed her with his cock alone every time they had made love; not even when it had included her taking it up her bum, which she just adored. But the golden occasions when his pride in his manhood was renewed by her kisses after she had had a cum, or even cums, after a cocking alone, had completely gone. What did his adorable and adoring Ellicia now need to take her to heaven?
In the month since Ellicia had been whipped and confessed her guilt, the rumour mill had been at work. David had made enquiries of contacts at Ellicia’s old employers, Henway Marshall Bank. It was still only speculation. But it seemed that two girls, two former school contemporaries of Ellicia, had signed the affidavit before a notary public, as revenge. They blamed Ellicia for causing Henway Marshall to let them go. It had taken a year to work its way through the legal labyrinth.
They believed she had told on them for the insider trading they’d indulged. And this was their way of getting back at her. The contradictory fact that Ellicia had been fired too, they dismissed. They’d concluded she’d left with a handsome bonus pay-off – not just David Jones, but a financial one. And the opulence of Ellicia’s marital home, to them, was proof she must have told on them, and sold them as soiled.
..........................
Ellicia’s dream had been as vivid and as precisely detailed as if it had been a film of the facts.
The concrete floor of the room was tiled. Cold white square ceramic tiles covered the walls; larger irregular-rectangle brick-coloured products the floor.
Water hoses, neatly-evenly wrapped around storage-drums that looked like truck wheels sans tyres, were on each side wall. Their purpose might have been related to the prospective outbreak of fire. The floor rose to a slight central crown. There were also squeegee mops in buckets alongside each hose, and what was clearly a drain channel around the edge of the room.
The bare ceiling of the room was twenty feet or so high; and that fact, plus the room’s considerable volume, and the hard covering of its floor and walls, leant voices within its confines, an eerie hint of echo.
Lieutenant Alarsanta Envers was in charge of proceedings. She was assisted by the pretty blonde sergeant, who must have been relieved from her duties behind the visitors’ counter.
In the corner of the room where Ellicia was assembled with her guardians, was a large strong inverted-Y shaped wooden ‘cross’, standing in the horizontal plain, two feet off the floor, mounted on rigid supports at each leg of the upside-down Y bolting it to the floor.
Ellicia was presently standing at midpoint between the two strong prongs of the Y, and seeing, but in her terror not perceiving, the straps near the end of each of these legs, or their triplet at the distant end of the single leg, or the strap and buckle arrangement on the single leg, just above where the two prongs of the inverted-Y melded to become the long stretch of its single prong.
Was Ellicia contemplating the lack of wisdom she had shown in voting into power the Religion and Morals Party for their third term? Hardly.
Was she thinking that she had been foolish not to find time to vote in the referendum that had resulted in the Morality of the Female Act, with its clamp-down on lesbians, the banning of the employment of women in a list of occupations due to be extended over future time; in future time too on their right to an education, on girls’ rights to drink alcohol, and, through interpretation of the ban on lesbianism, the right of girls to use any form of stimulation to excite themselves sexually, especially in a way that could result in an orgasm? Of course not.
That law and its amendments had seemed eminently sensible when proposed. After a succession of recessions, it’d originally been introduced, under a completely different title, to reduce unemployment. Obviously, only girls could bring forth babies. So, in a transformation to the past from the future, girls were to marry and begat and raise children. Over the next ten years, they would hand over the few waged jobs still available, to men alone; thus halving the labour force and, concomitantly, the number of unemployed.
It was the Hetzarian Party that had added the morality elements and insisted on their precedence, including in the final title given the Act. Their votes were essential for the government to survive. Their will had won them their way.
And so here we were.
None of that was even in the furthest back of lovely Ellicia’s mind. She knew the punishment laid down for: “acts of direct indirect or capable of being construed by any reasonable person as of solo or joint or several lesbian deed style or thought in performance nature or direct or indirect intention”, and it was that she was in horror of; that and whether she could withstand what was shortly to come to persuade her to plead guilty to masturbating when she had been just a first-teen naturally exploring the glories of her burgeoning body.
In part, she was to be beaten to make her confess. Was this the 21st century equivalent of the ducking stool for those accused of witchcraft in days of long distant yore? Back then, if you survived you were guilty. Only if you drowned would you have had your reputation restored; though, of course, for you that would be of somewhat limited utility. Ellicia didn’t contemplate that thought either.
The punishment she was about to get, was not only to persuade her to plead guilty, but also for troubling the court by not having already done so. That was why it would not stop even if she pleaded guilty during its administration, or, indeed, even if she pleaded guilty now, before it had yet started.
And, if, after this whipping she had not changed her mind about a guilty plea, the court could, if it so chose, order she be whipped again.
Ellicia had therefore to take her punishment and, if after or during it she decided to plead guilty, be awarded the statutory fait.
Or, if she resisted, hope that, rather than decide she be whipped once more so the court could be sure that it was not being mislead or unduly lenient, instead the court would enter a “not-proven” verdict.
“Undress completely, but you can keep the panties......the g-string on”, Alarsanta Envers quietly ordered.
Ellicia found herself all fingers and thumbs and terrified and tense, and fumbled, and tried to smile through her teetering tears.
“I’m afraid we haven’t got all day, Mrs Jones.....Ellicia”, Alarsanta sympathised without her words soothing the terrified to near petrified Ellicia.
The whip was four feet long. Black leather, it had been skilfully plaited from six original gradually tapering strips, now expertly inextricably interwoven, and intertwined too, with three strands of sharpened-edged spring-steel wire. The far distant tip of its business end showed six short tails beyond where its interwoven leather length and strength had been knotted-off.
The strips at its thick end were the core of a leather tube, which made them into a foot long still flexible handle that was an ideal handful for a woman’s smaller hands. This type of whip was a device popularly referred to in the more sensational news websites, as a “girl-tamer”.
When Alarsanta picked up the curved toward coiled whip and then sought found and wrapped a loop attached at the handle end for that very purpose, around her slender but strong wrist, Ellicia listened to the ‘creak’ of the whip’s desiccated leather.
Now she was naked bar her g, the two women who were to whip Ellicia, tried their hardest not to look at her lovely body, and especially not the reverberations in Ellicia’s very ample breasts, caused by her quaking in fear.
It was the blonde sergeant who bade Ellicia lie face down on the Y, with her head and body down to her bottom on the straight, and her shapely legs parted to align themselves on each of the two branches off from the straight part.
It was the blonde too, who strapped Ellicia’s ankles, and then encouraged her to stretch out her slim arms, with the down on Ellicia’s forearms glistening gold starlight-like in the unrelenting fluorescent lighting, till she could strap the wrists.
And it was the blonde who arranged Ellicia’s glorious red hair aside to one side, and her breasts astride, so that they were divided by the long part of the inverted Y, such that Ellicia’s trunk crushed their soft firmness and made their coral-pink nipples take on very conspicuous “suckle-on-me” pleading conicals. All this before she arranged the up-from-centre-strap across Ellicia’s wisp of a waist, to finally tie her down.
“Sorry, Lieutenant”, the sergeant then explained; displaying something Ellicia could not see, try as she might.
“This one here has been bitten clean through. We need to change it. I’ll have to look in the store”, the sergeant apologised, before she was heard by Ellicia, walking away somewhere beyond.
A seeming age followed, and then Ellicia was able to look up the blonde sergeant’s uniform skirt as she squatted with a device smelling of rubber held near Ellicia’s pretty mouth. And Ellicia saw her fine strong stocking-ringed thighs and her eyes unconsciously sought to see if she could see it, only to find that police issue knickers were of too opaque a hue of dark blue.
“Bite on this Mrs Jones, or else you may bite your tongue. It’s to help? It’s for the pain.”
Ellicia admitted the thick black rubber-bit beyond her coral lips between her wonderfully white teeth, and puzzled how she was to admit guilt as she now longed to, with this gag being tied behind at her neck.
Alarsanta Envers must have whipped other girls and learned from that, or practiced elsewise very assiduously, for she whistled the whip from the floor, where she held it trailing while she stood with her body side-on to Ellicia, nextly neatly through the air, with such speed it must have burned a trail and left a vacuum behind its flow.
And she put her whole arm-strength, full-arm-length, backed by the bending at her waist and the consequent swinging forward of her shoulder and back into the stroke.
And the whip slapped Ellicia’s bare back, cutting her skin leaving a rising ridge welt that burned like agonising fires even after the terrible pain of the lash in its own right, and Ellicia’s soft skin was torn and her wound bled red and the stroke was so excruciatingly painful that Ellicia’s scream spat out her bite-on-gag and she howled and howled with the horrible pain.
But the whip whistled down again, and then rebounded with the ferocity of the impact on her shoulder blades, and Ellicia squealed and screamed incoherently that it had hit her titty, as if that excused her nipples dancing with a sudden excitement of wholly holy feminine origin. And it was true and her right nipple was split and bled as so too did her welt-ridged naked back.
And the whip cracked its echo off Elicia’s poor bleeding back a third time hitting her bare flesh so cruelly hard that it found rebound to from whence it had come; and Ellicia’s body arched in its bonds and then crashed down and crushed her titties on the Y, and blood made mock of maiden’s milk as it squirted from her split right nipple, and Ellicia screamed so loudly and clamped closed her pretty mouth so suddenly after, to ease her pain, that she bit her tongue and blood made crimson spittle from the corner of her succulent lips.
And the whip whistled and lashed and cracked on her bare back a fourth brutal time, and Ellicia merely moaned while she fought to close her legs, to hide the evidence that the whipping of her soft girl’s hide had sounded out, found, and suffice surfaced something deeply hidden even in a very feminine core. And her eyes closed with the savage searing as her skin was cut and a flaming fiery dreadfully painful welt was ribboned across her soft complexion yet again. And yet her tears had dried and her lovely eyes were wide and looking lovingly lengthily in a lengthy direction.
Again the whip’s sigh scorched the air and echoed off the hall’s walls, and it kissed Ellicia’s bared body caressing her with the loudest yet crack on her totally naked back, and cut her skin in an instant’s instant, following the terrible pain from the lash with the fire from the trail it had cut across her silken skin, and the rising of the bruised flesh at each side of the welt it had scored her body with, and the roar of its raw soreness and the blood with which the welt wept while Ellicia yelped akin a helpless whelp and then moaned and closed her eyes and begged that her tormentors should not espy that her nipples were hard as diamonds, and there for all to see was a growing wet patch in her g-string’s crotch, crowing that this was indeed the most feminine of girls.
And now Alarsanta Envers walked around behind Ellicia’s legs [‘Oh god don’t let her see I’ve dampened my panties! Please don’t let her see my moist panties!’] Ellicia muttered in her mind as she closed tight her eyes in her plea, as she fought too to close two pretty legs.
Now she was aware that the whip was to come down from the other side, and she turned her head to look longingly at her snaking new lover, and must do so, peeping with her golden eyes through a curtain of her disordered glorious hair. [‘Let it kiss my other titty! Please let it kiss my other titty’].
And the whip whistled anew and Ellicia knew anew too the crack on her bare flesh the agony of the stroke the fire of the welt the pain as the bruise grew walls aside the welt’s uncaring path and the blood that wept and the growing pain of the lash that cracked across crisscross where her naked nude skin had already been once twice and even thrice before lashed. And was that her voice screaming “Harder! Harder!!”?
And the whip scorched the oxygen from its path so fiercely that the wonder was it was not followed by a thunder clap, though Ellicia could testify and did with the arching of her body that the crack on her bare back was louder by far in her mind and that her mind screamed more loudly with the pain than her lovely mouth with her throat hoarse with her previous hollering of its horror and the pain again and the stripe across her bare flesh that burned red hot after the savagery of the whip’s kiss and then the welt’s rise and the look in her lovely eyes when her mind finally gave in to her being shear girl and her horny hoarseness hollered “Harder! Harder!! Harder!!! Harder!!!!”
And the whip sighed and Ellicia cried out with joy that was from her very soul and it cracked on her bare back and traced its brutal impact-path and striped her flesh passing path to crossroad with former tracks that spat with blood where Ellicia was cut twice and thrice deeper, where the pain was impossibly on a higher yet plain, and she didn’t recognise the voice though it was her very own uttering vile words to make balm for her terrible agony and then reverting to full-on fulsome girl again as she longed to direct that which had made her g-string so wringing wet and so begged “Whip my tit! Whip my tit!! Whip my other tit!!!
“Whip me for masturbating! I masturbated!! I wanked myself till I came!! I’m a filthy whore! I masturbated!! Whip me! Whip me!! Whip my tit! Whip my tit!! Whip my other tit for masturbating!!! Whip my cunt for masturbating!!! Whip my cunt!!! Whip my cunt!!! Harder! Harder!! Harder!!!!! And the lash cracked on Ellicia’s bare back turning her girl-mind-disordered-ordered pleas into another howl that again fell short of expressing her terrible pain, and she shouted and screamed obscenities to ease the horror of her bloodied and bleeding stripes.
And Ellicia’s lovely loving eyes were closed, and so too were her coral-pink lips silenced, as she waited for her lover to express devotion to her with another kiss. And she longed and patiently waited for her lover’s return, and she spurned all other would-be lovers while the love of her life was away, nobly sacrificing her life serving her country in the air. And then Ellicia’s silent celibacy was answered by her lover’s savage return home landing and the passionate kiss that only a girl who has waited so patiently for her lover’s return and the ending of her voluntary abstinence, can get from the girl who has sacrificed her all for the same; and the crack across Ellicia’s bare back was so savagely brutal this last time, that the girl-tamer larruped back at Alarsanta, who only just avoided having it hit her in the face, and Ellicia’s body having stiffened to a rigidity that a long-dead corpse could not possibly have matched, she screamed and screamed and screamed, the final lash having cut her sweet flesh almost it seemed through to her ribs, and then so suddenly were they filled with an agonising sensation of fire like molten metal had been poured within their cores, that Ellicia was sure as sure can be sure, that her tits would burst, and, all of a sudden, with a single singular combination, she squirted in her panties, and worse, more did she pour, as she twin-hosed the floor with endless fierce jets of liquid that she had never ejaculated before, and she cried out till her voice went beyond hoarse on its course to being the sound of a whore that has met her match and fate and mate, and Ellicia came and came and came from her cumming and from her cumming from her cumming as she squander-squirted a three-legged-stool, pissing triple pools, that met and melded and flowed one into one and into one another under the Y frame......
.......And then she turned her head and smiled with her lovely mouth and her golden eyes up at her torturer, and whispered, mouthing with her sweet lips to the completely bewitched Alarsanta Envers: “Thank you.”
Recalling she had her duties to perform for the court, Lieutenant Alarsanta Envers reluctantly drew her eyes away from the bewitching Ellicia, who, anyway, now appeared to be lost in totally exhausted bliss.
And so, Alarsanta, removing the handle loop of the whip from her wrist, and looking for the towel she had left ready to bathe from her brow the perspiration produced by her efforts in the flogging, instructed her equally bewitched assistant:
“Hose her piss and milk off the floor will you please, Sergeant.....”
..........................
On a Saturday morning twelve days after Ellicia’s latest nightmare, David rose and went downstairs alone, leaving his lovely wife to catch up with her fitful sleep.
Downstairs distracted, he could find no occupation that absorbed his concentration for much longer than the time he found himself spending looking at his watch and subsequently seeking confirmation of what it told him, from a clock; or vice versa.
Instant coffee he made five times, and poured away, gone cold, by the cupful three out of the five.
Eating was impossible, and not just because, in his distraction, David twice made toast of a hue recognisable to the chefs in hell.
From this, the kitchen stank with the burning. So David tried to find an aerosol air freshener can, he well knew the whereabouts of, only to kneel on his haunches routing around with his eyes alone in the cupboard below the kitchen sink, and suddenly find himself asking that same self what it was that he was looking for.
When the doorbell rang it was it was 10.00 on that morning. When the doorbell rang it was not unexpected. Yet when the doorbell rang David jumped as if he had as suddenly stood on the sharp end of an upended carpet tack.
Answering the ring, David let into his and Ellicia’s home, a strikingly good-looking brunette of around forty, who introduced herself as a Lieutenant Alarsanta Envers of the County Dortford and Skentonshire Police. With her was an attractive blonde.
The brunette wore civilian clothing. The blonde, a uniform with jacket sleeves bearing the three down-pointing chevrons of a sergeant.
The latter politely doffed her cap. But David had already subliminally noticed and unconsciously noted, as if he didn’t already know, that it bore a badge with the running hare that was the County Dortford heraldic device, leaping the queen’s crown that symbolised Skentonshire.
“Ellicia is taking a shower.... I....I’m sure she’ll be down any minute. Would you like to take a seat?”
“Thank you sir”, Alarsanta whispered politely.
“You have a lovely home. The...” the start of Alarsanta’s second sentence clashed with David’s intended “thank you” for the compliment to his and Ellicia’s home. And both would-be speakers stopped at their unintendedly coincident and congruent “Th...”
“Sorry – You go first”, David offered.
“I was just going to say, that....there appears to be quite a crowd gathering in your street. I hope you have nice neighbours. People can get very.....they can be very cruel when.....”
“....I’ve distributed a number of constables on the route from here to the park. So, while we obviously can’t deprive the public of its right to see justice being carried out, we can at least stop any undue interference.”
“Must it be today?” David suddenly blurted, as if he’d forgotten he knew: but more in evidence of his obviously wound-up tension.
“Your wife...Ellicia chose....She’s is on her bleed I trust”
“Yes.”
“And the equipment....still in your garage?”
“Ah..yes....I’ve unlocked the door. There’s a door through from the hallway...that door and the garage door as well, I’ve unlocked them both...”
“.....They use the same key you know”, David added latterly and completely irrelevantly, with his tension thus further on display.
Then, as they suddenly stood in respect when the redheaded beauty announced her lovely presence at the foot of the open staircase that entered the rear of the lounge where they and David sat: “Good morning Mrs Jones”, the two police girls chorused.
Darkened by it’s being still damp from washing in her morning shower, Ellicia’s crowning glory, her radiant hair, was mostly wrapped in a towel. In addition to the white towel as a ‘turban’, she wore only a towelling dressing gown with its waist tie-cord emphasising the beeline nature of her central shapeliness, and heelless slip-on bedroom slippers also in white both.
“Would you like coffee?” Ellicia whispered nervously to her guests.
“That would be just great.....Black with no sugar please....We both don’t.....we neither of us take milk or sugar.”
While Ellicia went into their kitchen, closely followed by Alarsanta, David sat and lowered his head slumping forward with his elbows resting on his parted thighs, his forehead on the heels of his palms.
“It will be alright sir.....Soon be over....” the sergeant ventured as an unsuccessful comfort.
In the kitchen, Alarsanta was whispering firmly to Ellicia: “Forget the coffee Mrs Jones. We’d best be getting on with it, don’t you think?”
“Times moving on I’m afraid. I’m glad you managed some sleep. It’ll make you feel better....help you look your best?”
“Let me have the head-towel and the towelling-dresser and the slip-ons.”
“Are you wearing a tampon or a towel? Either way, get rid right now. When we’re out there, I’m afraid you’re going to have to let the whole world see that you’re on your bleed.”
“Please may I keep the robe till we’re past the lounge...till we’ve passed David?”
Seeing that it was little enough to let Ellicia off one small indignity in the circumstances, “Okay” Alarsanta conceded.
A moment or two later, as Ellicia passed her love in the lounge, she looked for his look of comfort, but saw only the way he lowered his head even more to stare at the carpet. She knew he was aware she was there, but could find no ease for her.
..........................
A few minutes later, as three girls were in David and Ellicia’s garage, and one of them was presently completely naked, while two wore, additionally, thick leather gloves.....
“Try and keep this one between your teeth, Mrs Jones. We’ll have to take it out after we’ve dressed you though....”, the sergeant instructed.
Back in the lounge, even the hands he now pressed to his ears could not save David from the cries of Ellicia’s pain. Or was it pain? Was it just distress? He could hear an insistent buzzing and Ellicia’s loud wordless but far from soundless despair and sad sobbing.
Then he began to hear her cries, indisputable cries of unbearable pain.
[‘What are they doing to her in there!?’] he asked himself, as if he didn’t know.
He knew for confirmed certain though, when, thirty minutes later, he heard the garage’s vehicle-access steel door being raised, that Ellicia had been prepared.
But it was not the silent glide of the rising door that bore into his mind, but the cheers of the neighbours, the jeers of the wives and their teenage daughters in particular, that told him Ellicia’s punishment was proceeding.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking bitch!!”
Through the window David watched what, for him, was a tear-unfocused scene.
Nobody had told him that Ellicia’s head would be shaved bald! They’d sheared and shaved her head completely bald. Gone was her glorious golden hair! Her fabulously alluring red hair had been shorn and shaved from her head!
“Whip her! Whip the whore!!”
She was shod as per tradition. Her feet were bare, but for that around each of her big toes she wore a stainless-steel tube-ring, of a length sufficient to circle her toe down to just above the first joint down from her foot.
Her “shoes” thereafter made mock of mules. The tube-rings were where a big toe containing strap might have been in some design of sandals. But the tubes were in the vertical and not the horizontal plain. And the stainless-steel “mules” sole that was behind it comprised a bed of needle-sharp up-thrusting nails of rising lengths, with a final broader nine-inch nail that made play of being each shoe’s heel.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking slag!!”
These torture shoes were buckled to Ellicia’s ankles, by means of a vertical stainless-steel riser just behind the base of the heel nail. This rigid riser was strapped at each of her ankles, with buckled and padlocked leather straps that were attached by rings around the round riser, so that they could slide up as far as a preventive stop, or down as far as floor level, if, in the latter case, Ellicia cared to impale her feet.
And Ellicia was thus encouraged to walk on the very tip-top of her painfully bent big toes, or skewer her pretty feet on the merciless soulless spitefully spiked soles and heels of her torture shoes.
“Whip her! Whip the bitch!!”
Ellicia’s shoes were inseparably-twinned by a two-inch-long hobble-chain between the tube-rings on her big toes.
Bars extended sideways out just beyond each of her shoe-imprisoned feet. These extensions beyond her toe rings, being rigid, and ending in horizontal-plain fixing-rings.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking tart!!”
Around Ellicia’s slender neck, she wore a stainless steel yoke. It had a hinged tubular neck-brace; the hinge of this being behind her neck, the neck-brace closed to contain her neck, and the closed brace then padlocked at where her Adam’s apple was, like with all girls, discreetly hidden.
“Whip her! Whip the whore!!”
This neck-brace also held her head rigid, and obliged her to look exclusively forwards, head up, as she walked.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking slag!!”
Out from the bottom edge of Ellicia’s neck brace, to complete her yoke, were the stainless-steel shoulder covers. These long “epaulettes” went a little beyond each shoulder. They were shaped like an inverted-U to cup her shoulders. At the ends furthest from her neck, they were secured by straps under each armpit.
Padlocked horizontal-plain rings at their far outer ends beyond her armpits, clamped Ellicia’s slender wrists, leaving her pretty hands waving helplessly in the air at just above her shoulders.
“Whip her! Whip the bitch!!”
Oh, and of course, she was wrapped in barbed-wire.
Ellicia’s legs, thighs, buttocks, belly, back, and trunk, wore an ankle-long “dress” comprised of two tight-taut lengths of brutal multi-barbed barbed-wire: wire barbed at one inch intervals, essentially throughout its length.
These barbed-wire strands were wrapped around her in two slowly rising corkscrew coils, one anchored to her left steel shoe’s toe ring, before it embraced her naked flesh with no more than one inch gap between its “paths”, as it coiled helter-skelter around and up her bare body in a clockwise direction. And the other, crossing the first coil’s ‘paths’, as it did the same cruel service in the counter-clockwise direction.
“Whip her! Whip the cunt!!”
Each of these coils ended under her armpits; her arms and hands being outside of, and not imprisoned in the barbed-wire. And for their last two feet of length their endings lacked barbs.
And the tips of their top ends went through holes in her yoke; holes next her armpits toward the front of the yoke. And each coil at its top end, was secured securely to a strong steel ring that rested above the holes in her yoke, and thus stopped the coils slipping back through the holes and coming loose.
“Whip her! Whip the fucker!!”
And they had not neglected to provide Ellicia with underwear. For she wore a barbed-wire thong, the single strand gusset of which was firmly pulled up inside it, so that its soft outer lips gently kissed several brutally sharp barbs.
And thus that which already seeped with the monthly blessing that distinguishes girl as the highest form of existence short of angel, was kissed by savage barbs.
So too did the barbed-wire run up between the cheeks of Ellicia’s firm bottom. This was arranged so she was arraigned such that one barb rested within her anus.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking bitch!!”
And both of her tits were multi-wind barbed-wire wrapped with tight coils that bit into their soft firmness nearest her chest, making the unwired tips of her tits bulbous.
Her tits pronouncedly pronounced their very pert presence beyond the confines of the barbed-wire that wrapped her body’s trunk. Her breasts were imprisoned in barbed-wire in their independent right, not within her helical hell-dress.
And the individual single strands of barbed-wire apiece, in which her tits were wrapped, were crisscrossed such that they doubled-back, so that, for each tit, two ends apiece were near her chest at the top of each breast. And these ends, four in total, ran for a two foot length without barbs, and again finished fastened to steel rings, after they, the loose lengths, had passed through holes provided for that purpose in Ellicia’s yoke: the same holes as the barbed-wire of her hell-dress.
“Whip her! Whip the tart!!”
And nor had they neglected her nipples, for a single stand of barbed-wire was fastened to the criss-cross wraps around the base of her tits, such that it fashioned its path over the top and under the bottom of each of the otherwise bulbous bulging end of each tit, and ensured a barb bit into each nipple.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking bitch!!”
To finish Ellicia’s barbed-wire binding, the rubber bite-gag that she had been allowed her for the pain while they had wired her up, had been removed, and she now had a barbed-wire gag, with a barb in her pretty mouth right over her tongue.
“Whip her! Whip the fucking slag!!”
And to denote that this girl was the prettiest of pretty princesses, she wore a four ply weave barbed-wire crown pressed down over her bald-shaved head onto her brow.
“Whip her! Whip the cunt!!”
But could even this latest barbaric barbarous brutal torture tame a girl?
Ellicia had struggled to wiggle onto the path that led down to the front garden gate of her love-nest and home. But she had a mile yet to go.
“Walk Ellicia; walk sweetheart, or we will have to whip you” Alarsanta gently insisted.
Both the lieutenant and the sergeant carried girl-tamer bullwhips such as that Ellicia’s back had already tasted months since.
Ellicia’s agony echoed with agony as she merely stood. To use her legs, her extremely tightly barbed-wire wrapped legs and thighs, had ripped and would rip her bare flesh.
“Walk Ellicia; walk sweetheart” I won’t warn you again.
And Ellicia re-began her walk, ripping her calves, ripping her thighs, ripping her buttocks, crying out with the pain, and therefore thereby ripping her tongue, as she slowly sidled her womanly wiggling way down the path to the paved sidewalk before her home, watched by her friends and neighbours, there to witness the punishment laid down in law for any girl who, at any time, dared to masturbate herself.
“Whip her! Whip the whore!!”
Unable to bear the pain of walking, Ellicia stopped, and tried to rest her dainty feet, only to receive multiple sharply-spiked spiteful reminders that she must keep up on and walk on higher tiptoe than if she wore mere ballet-heeled boots.
“Move, Ellicia, move; I don’t want to have to whip you, sweetheart!”
Ellicia pleaded with her gorgeous eyes, that she could not move, and...
‘THWACK!!!’ Alarsanta whipped her across her barbed-wire crossed and crisscrossed buttocks and nearly knocked sweet Ellicia of her teetering toes.
And Ellicia began to walk, and she ripped her calves, ripped her thighs, ripped her bum, and tore her tongue as she keened a scream of agony, and closed her eyes fighting the mental constraints of the dreadful pain from the barbed-wire restraints wrapping her beautiful body, and the urge to refrain from walking, and the knowledge that the whip would drive the barbs deeper into her soft sensitive flesh if she did. And so she wiggled her enforcedly minute steps onwards.
“Yer ain’t so ‘igh and mighty now is yer, yer slag?!!
Ellicia recognised the voices, overwhelmingly women’s voices, some the voices of those she had considered not mere neighbours but friends, loving friends. And now, as she struggled to wiggle in her barbed-wire hug-gown, they shouted vile insults to add to her agony.
“Can’t get yer ‘ands on it now, can yer, yer fuckin’ bitch?!!”
Tears teetered at the corners of Ellicia’s lovely eyes. Gentle sparkling tears of perspiration bathed her inspiring body. With her every step the barbed-wire dug deeper into her flesh. The pain was beyond even the unbearable.
The whip was swung and ‘THWACK!!!’ she was made to cry out and tear her tongue again.
Ellicia’s progress was so painful and so painfully slow that she was followed by women who all but surrounded her, bar that the kept out of reach of the swing of one and both of the whips now being used frequently and even excessively to drive Ellicia along.
Even, in a sense as regards her senses blind and deaf from her mind’s sole concentration on her pain, Ellicia could still hear what the women were saying about her. And they meant her to hear. And they meant it to be cruel, as if her suffering excited them to a new-found or re-found profound depth of crudity that would have made them ashamed in any other circumstance.
“She’s on her fuckin’ bleed! Look, she’s on her fuckin’ bleed, the filthy cow!!”
Ellicia emitted a cry of agony stopped short by a squeal of pain as the barbed wire gag tore into her tongue, and that resulted in another trickle of blood from her sweet mouth.
“She’s der only one’d wanna get ‘er ‘ands on it in dat state! Would yer wanna finger it when it’s seeping ‘er filthy monthly like dat?!!”
“Bet even her ‘usband wouldn’t wanna get ‘is cock in that! Wud you?”
“If I had a cock you mean?”
“Well yeah, if you ‘ad a cock, wud yer wanna stick it up dare? I know I bloody wunt, not if I ‘ad a cock.”
“No. But, tell you what. If I had a cock I wouldn’t half like to shove it up that gorgeous bum of hers!”
“Yer dirty cow! See wot yer means doe. She ain’t ‘alf gorra wiggle on ‘er.”
Two more female voices, one-time close friends and still near neighbours to David and Ellicia Jones, joined in.
“I always fancied licking her out. But I wouldn’t want to have my tongue in that!!”
“You dirty cat! But I must say, I often thought I’d like to suck her clit! I bet she squeals like a banshee when she cums!”
“You’re a ‘dirty cat’ yourself then!”
“Well yeah, but I wouldn’t want to even touch it now, and not just cos girl on girl is against the law, as of course it should be!”
“I ‘ope day fuckin’ whip ‘er agen!”, came another voice.
Why was all this oral cruelty being thrown at Ellicia? Was it to hide that, when these taunters and tormentors got back home later in the day, there would be as many pairs of girl-juice-sweetened panties tossed into laundry baskets?
Ellicia’s torture continued. The distance she had to wiggle to what she knew awaited her on the common grassland used by the locals as a games-park seemed to get ever longer than the mile it was in statute and on sat-nav.
‘THWACK!!!’
“Did that ‘urt you darlin’? I fuckin’ ‘ope so!!”
“That’ll teach ‘er not to play wiv it!......Woanit darlin’?!!”
‘THWACK!!!’
This latest blow nearly felled Ellicia. Her body snaked from where her lovely legs nearly gave way via her knees thighs buttocks and back as she fought to right herself whilst not impaling her poor feet.
Throughout her walk of public shame, the whips would be purposely deployed and be deliberately employed to further pain her and to drive the brutal barbs of Ellicia’s twin-wrap of coiled cruelty deeper into her soft flesh.
But such was the concentration she had to apply to prevent her falling forwards on her pretty face or backwards on her shapely bottom, that she lost another battle she had been grappling with with increasing urgency; and she pissed herself.
“Ergh! You filthy filthy slut!”
“Fancy bein’ reduced to dat?! It’s fuckin’ disgustin’!”
“Watch out wiv doin’ dat darlin’, or you’ll mek dat lovely dress wot yer’ve got on, go all rusty!!”
This final indignity, this degradation even on top of her being made to go naked in public in a state of menstruation, tipped a balance for Ellicia, in the sense that it renewed her strength.
The harmonious homonyms ‘tear’ and ‘tear’ knew congruence in Ellicia’s eyes and body. The barbed-wire tore her flesh and diamonds of perspiration mingled with those ruby red of differing origination; tears from tears in her supremely white supremely soft complexion; and so to her soul lanterns, and so too her soul’s lanterns leant ‘lachrymose’ its mournful meaning this morn.
On she must walk on legs combining beauty with power that even their barbed-wire binding could not constrain nor the heavy whipping of her barbed-wire bound body contain.
“Yer ain’t even ‘alf way dare yet, yer slag!”
Eye’s so pretty pleaded. Did Ellicia’s eyes know and show more beauty in pain than in joy? Could eyes show more appeal for punishment to be repealed? What glowing glory might such heavenly orbs show if this were dream and release were instant and instant upon her being out of harm and in love’s arms?
In exchange for this unendurable pain she must endure, what more than mere mite of earnest eagerness might Ellicia show in enthusiasm in the bedroom fight to allow a cock up it in reward for the man who would prince valour be and free her from this excruciating pain? Would she wish she had more than but a mere three orifice offices of love to offer up for it to glide up, even if those she did have included her bum for him to deep shaft and sperm hose within his white-hot cum in the ultimate intimate consummation of man consuming a girl?
Would that, in place of the barbs that tore her innocent flesh in this cruel punishment for her making love to the loveliest of girls she had ever in the mirror seen, prince valour would ride in with his spear and would ram it up it and impale her on love, and, if his own mining of her consenting shafts was considered inconsequential and consequently an as yet insufficiently sufficient sufficiency of a forceful fucking to suffice to exchange for this torture and sacrifice, give her too to his stallion to ride with its rod inside it.
“Move, Ellicia, move! Move yourself faster sweetheart!”
‘THWACK!!!’ Alarsanta whipped Ellicia across her barbed-wire crossed and crisscrossed buttocks yet once more, and rocked her into a rumba of snaking with her barbed-wire-bound body to find purchase from her ripping on the barbs that wrapped her and the whips that lashed her by finding some purchase on the tortured tips of teetering toes.
The pain was horrific and yet she must a million miles walk within the mere mile of what the talk was as being the confirmed distance to her destination, dropletting the thus appointed anointed paving with her blood her menstruum tears and perspiration.
The pain minded her to remember that she was a girl being tortured for pleasuring her burgeoning body in an insubstantial instance of, in a sense, innocence, when but a schoolgirl.
The humiliation of parading her menstruating body publicly naked and having pissed herself publicly naked combined with Ellicia’s pain, and she must divert her mind as she walked in wiggle and tore her lovely long strong legs on the brutal barbs.
Did it have to be a prince on white charger; a stallion and satyr saviour, to savour and save her? Was not deserved a calmer balm for the brutal harm of her distress in this barbed-wire dress? Would and could it ever be so, that only the gentler gentle hands of another girl on her beauty was that she, as she had for so long longed for, needed to know? Was it not now ripe that lovely Ellicia had done her time as wife in the ‘man and wife’ life and needed new the higher love, the highest love, the love heaven made girls for, the love that represents heaven on earth and reduces the higher locale of that name to the same degree its seduction succeeds on the lower plain thus raised by it to the highest height though it might be; the flawless love of adored adoring adored, the love of a girl for a girl, albeit the love banned by the prevailing salient law?
Dare dear Ellicia risk her eyes showing to the mocking wives that she was now ready to enter their lives and that it only ‘I love you’ needed by them to be said for to have her wanting wanton the while, willing wonderful wicked wild wiles in their bed?
What balm was this for her calm? Did the pain of the barbs not ease a little, albeit minimal and minuscule, when her mind turned to the love she had longed for at and since school? Was this torture intended the hetero-love to impose, giving bosom to the blossoming of love’s sweetest form of rose?
The whipping re-doubled on redoubled whipping of her bum her back and her thighs, and her mouth torn by its barbed gag trickled with the blood from her tongue ripped by her cries as the barbed-wire in which she was wrapped ripped her body her legs her breasts and her magnificent thighs.
But before her, before long, lay the long ramp leading up to a platform.
At the front of the platform was a tubular steel framework akin a soccer goal post. And from the crossbar of that, dangled the steel-rope hawsers and stainless-steel hooks.
As if it had ever ceased, let alone ceased so to do, the whipping increased; not because Ellicia’s impossibly slow pace could possible slow or speed, but because Alarsanta and her assistant had become carried along by the blood-lust of the crowd.
The women in the crowd in particular, were unleashed from all pretence of civilisation. Indeed, the women’s bloodlust was as unconstrained as Ellicia was constrained.
Once Ellicia was under the arch, the hooks hanging from the crossbar of the “goal-post” gallows were swiftly attached to the rings that held Ellicia’s wound-and-contra-wound ankle-length barbed-wire dress to her wounded body; the rings where the wire went through her yoke. So too were the hooks attached to the barbed-wire wires that bound Ellicia’s breasts.
Then her two torturers stepped off the platform and pulled a lever to collapse it from under Ellicia’s feet.....
.....And the crowd jeered and cheered and shouted and laughed and pointed to prompt neighbours who were already staring and cheering and jeering too, as Ellicia, the helplessly bound Ellicia, fell fully six feet from where the platform had supported her, to one foot from the ground, and screamed and howled and hollered her pain as the barbed wire was ripped and whipped tighter in its unmerciful grasp and grip of her naked body, and tore her already torn flesh and bit into her unmercifully cruelly as her delicious one-hundred-and-ten pounds of barbed-wire wrapped pure girl dropped, her barbed-wire dress ripping her flesh savagely cruelly as it tautened its tension with her fall and her delicious poundage, until Ellicia dandled dangling in the summer breeze.
.............................
And perhaps the real cruelty was, that the rumour that Ellicia had a massive orgasm or even, some said, a series of unstoppable constantly repeating orgasms rising to a crescendo akin with a roll on all the kettledrums in the world, followed by the synchronised ejaculation of all its cannons and howitzers; was and were untrue.
Ellicia hung there in the agony of all agony, denied even the orgasm that she had experienced under her interrogatory flogging. Denied her only hope; the hope that had determined her to keep walking in her barbed-wire dress, the hope that determined her that she could survive this torture for having dared to masturbate: the hope that she would again be delivered to earthly heaven by a cum or cums that would give her the joy of this unendurable pain......
“Ticket sweet’art: only an ‘undred dollars?”
“What on earth for?”
“For yer ‘usband darlin’. So dat when day cuts ‘er darn..... ‘er wot iz ‘angin up dare.... When day cuts ‘er darn and tek off ‘er barbed-wire gift wrappin’, ‘arter midnight, ‘e can ‘ave ‘iz turn to give her some cock, soas to teach ‘er what she’s really got one for!”
“No! No! No thank you! No.....” the girl questioned replied knowing whom she longed she would lay in her bed beside, if only Ellicia would forgive her when the cruel wounds healed, and let her love be revealed, and allow her to take her to some foreign clime where the love of a girl for a girl was and is no crime, and in place of this sacrifice in savagely cruel strife, a girl can take and make a girl her life-for wife.
Such suffering as Ellicia had so far endured was not considered sufficient suffice and time must see her hang in pain in view plain for endless hours till midnight’s chime came.
She would then be cut down and her barbed-wire coils cut from her tortured torso and tits so as to available her, her final lesson to learn, with the alluring lips between her legs, as the men of the town would take turns, as many and as many times as they saw fit, to ram their cocks into it and up it to fuck it.
Although and despite knowing this, experience-wearied dark brown eyes looked up at the suffering Ellicia and saw the unswerving affirmative answer she knew she was of undeserving, and the attempted smile on the tortured mouth’s lips.....
......And, in case fate had out its spies and love might thereby thus be denied, against the chance this one long longed for love might from her finger tips slip, Alarsanta Envers made tense pretence, as if busy about re-coiling her whip.....
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
Biankiss Roseborn
Synopsis: - Barnmouth on the south coast of England at some future time when.....
Biankiss Roseborn
by Eve Adorer
Biankiss, 5 foot 4 inches of adorable twenty-two-year-old mischief, was used to attracting. She was extremely distracting. The eyes, the dark brunette hair and the ‘tanned’ complexion were from her inheritance. She was a so-miscalled ‘half-cast’ from the melting-pot of the nations that had seen England joyed to be joined, by the midpoint in the 21st century, by a mix of the many, including such exotic creatures as Biankiss; who comprised one-fifth each of Chinese, Italian, Nubian, and French and Finnish to furnish finesse to her finish.
Her petit stature was oriental, her eyes’ iced-diamond-blue occidental not accidental. Her naturally light-white-coffee hued silk-soft flesh and pout posed lips were from a mix and match with North Africa’s passionate far fires; her twin burden of bold bosom a gift of generic Italianate generosity to her generation. Her lovely legs echoed French influence from her momma’s momma. And her constant smile spoke of the love she conveyed from the very heart of her artless heart.
Biankiss, 5’ 4’ of adorable twenty-two-year-old mischief, was used to attracting; and so it was now, as she stepped out from her apartment, to turn the heads of a group of labouring girls mending the paving of the sidewalk, who spotted her walking past, just down from her home.....
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell’s bleedin’ bells; ain’t you der little darlin’ doll?!!’
‘Give us a kiss sweet’art!! .......Oh alright den. But if you isn’t kissin’ der girls today, dat’s a shame innit? ‘Spect somerem won’t know wot day’s missin’. So, tell yer wot; if yer gives me a kiss, I promise I’ll tellemall wot it were like!!’
And as the blushing Biankiss continued to cause all work to stop while she walked on, not yet out of view; or hearing....
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell! Did yer see der fuckin’ tits on dat?!!’
‘If yer asks me she want wearin’ no bra. She kuntabin, not der way day was prancin’ abart in dare! I reckons as ‘ow dare was more in dat shirt of ‘ers, dan even you could ‘andle Jo’?!
‘How’d yer like to get yer ‘ands in ‘er panties eh?!!
‘Not me; I wanna be ‘er knicks! At least I does as long as me nose is on der insides!’
‘Just look at der fuckin’ bum on it!! Jeese, is dat a wiggle or is dat a fuckin’ wiggle?!!
Then came the shout from one of the admiring rough but genuine-hearted work-gang girls:
‘When you’re dun tekin’ it for a walk darlin’, be sure and drop yer sweaty knicks off wiv us, woan’yer!!!!’
Followed by a shared sotto voce thought to get a giggle from her mates: ‘Dat is if’n you is wearin’ any o’ cause!’
........................
As she entered her regular bar at the Dolly Damsel public house in Barnmouth’s Girl Market Square, a little late for the daily lunchtime gathering, Biankiss raised a hand and swiftly flexed its fingers and then its thumb in turn, as a pretty wave, before joining three friends that awaited her; the three being assembled at the usual table.
As she approached the brunette Sandra, Sandra rose and held the back of Biankiss’ chair for her, sliding it under the angel as she lowered herself to sit.
Biankiss blushed and lowered her head. In parallel, she felt a distinctive tingle in her panties. She fought not to blush. But it was integral to her beauty that she would so do, just as was the shy smile, with the lovely ice-blue-eyes diverted from a direct look at Sandra, and the whispered ‘thank you’ for the courtesy.
‘I do love your hair Kissy!’ Sandra confided openly. She’d known Biankiss had had a hairdressing appointment, but hadn’t seen her since the Monday before, and this was Friday.
‘Oh, thank you’ Biankiss responded in a whisper, as she looked down not just with sweet shyness but also, subliminally, to be sure her micro-skirt was exposing sufficient reward of stockinged thigh.
‘That boyish cut....It suits you perfectly.’
Biankiss blushed again. All the gathered girls found making Biankiss blush irresistible.
Biankiss’ look at Sandra was particularly sweet. She found the brunette devastatingly attractive, and longed to be asked by her, if she was date. But Sandra was, as ever, soon sat back down, lovingly holding hands with Pamela: the pretty blonde with her curl-crinkled corn-gold hair: the girl who, just last week, had been showing the quintet, of which this was but a quartet, the engagement ring Sandra had given her two prior weekends back, in Paris.
‘Hi’ Pamela smiled. She knew, of course she knew, how Biankiss felt about Sandra – about Pamela’s girlfriend: Pamela’s husband-girl to be. She was pleased and proud that it was so. Her smile was loving and sincere. She had no wish to be unkind, let alone cruel to a girl as delightful as Biankiss.
Dora now touched Biankiss’ hand across the table. This pretty negress had the hots for Biankiss, and found all the opportunities she could to touch her, so as to convey her longing and her love.
The fifth corner of the quintet, the redheaded Marina, was busy behind the bar for the present. It had been she to whom Biankiss had waved on entering the Dolly Damsel.
‘Still no win on the job front then Kissy?’ Pamela sympathised, knowing Biankiss had been looking since the quartet had graduated college, now nearly a year back.
‘Not even an echo of an echo! Not a single solitary response out of one hundred and more applications this last month. It’s costing me a fortune printing CVs..... ‘The Grisly Gorgon’, my landlady, is after the rent too. Every time I leave my apartment she’s standing just outside her door where I have to pass her. I’ll be on the streets if I don’t get a job soon. I’m maxed-out on plastic as well. So I can’t borrow any more anymore. I’m seriously thinking about Marina’s proppo’.’
‘Barmaiding won’t make you enough to pay the bills Kissy. You just ask Marina. She only does it to pay for her cigarettes and her nights out with us.’
‘It’s not the barmaiding I was meaning.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Sandra interjected. ‘Marina was just joking. You can’t do that. How much do you owe? We can pass the hat around. I’ll chip in to help you out. There’s always a couch for you at me and Pam’s place, you must know that...’
The quartet looked up as Marina approached.
‘Hi Marina.... You free to join us?’
‘Not right now Kissy. But I’ve squared it with the boss, Chamita. She says you can do tonight. I’ve found an outfit for you, including shoes. It’s straight pay for topless, and double-quadruple for you if you’ll go both. Both will mean you wearing a toggle-thong.... And I’ve found one of those for you too.’
Sandra now warned, lovingly: ‘Oh jeese Kissy! You can’t be doing that! You know what the girls get like in here, after they’ve downed a few glasses of girl-pee! It’s just not you; not Nudie-Night for cripes sake!’
‘Sandra has a point Kissy. You know that don’t you sweetness. It’ll be a bit rough-and-ready here tonight, especially. For one thing, it’s pay day for those girls mending the paving down your way. And they’re always in here pay-nights, goosing the barmaids. And there’s a hen-night for a girl who’s marrying her former school teacher next week. And they’ll be getting soused good and proper before they fly out to chase the girls around the streets of Prague..... But, look, I gotta get back to the bar, or I’ll get fired....What shall I tell the boss....tell Chamita?’
‘Please tell her I’ll go with it...’
‘Yes, but go with which and what Kissy?’
‘Top and bottom both’, Biankiss whispered.
‘Sorry Kissy, I didn’t quite catch that.’
Biankiss swallowed, before confirming a little louder, ‘Top and bottom both’, and then lowered her head in the sweetest of deepest blushes.
‘Okay Kissy’, Marina confirmed, ‘‘Top and bottom both’ it will be, if you say so loveliness.... See you at six-thirty here, for seven. Okay gorgeous?’
‘Okay’, Biankiss answered, with a tone that did not convey the strength of conviction she had meant it to do.
She then quietly enquired of her dearest friends: ‘Can you be here for me please?’
The three that Biankiss made four, briefly looked concernedly at one another, before answering, in just short of unison: ‘Of course’, mixed with a ‘Yes’ that heard the other responses in mid-say, and changed instant course to another ‘Of course....’, ending its answer a microsecond beyond full unity; but in one and the same cause.
........................
‘‘Ere, Jo! Be’ind der bar dare. Ain’t dat der gorgeous chick wot we saw dis mornin’ on der ‘igh Road?!’
........................
Biankiss had been on time. Marina had never seen her lovely friend looking quite so nervous.
‘Are you certain sure you wanna go through with this Kissy? It’s gotta be a pretty tough one for a shy girl like you...I mean the way you’re made...’
The two girls were in a back room of the Dolly Damsel.
‘Honestly. They’ll treat you like meat. It’s bloody demeaning’
‘I need the money Marina’
‘I’ve not seen you in ballets before. Are you sure you can do permanent top tip of tiptoe?’
‘Just watch me’, Biankiss responded sweetly nervously. She had already rolled the virgin-white stockings up her lovely legs, and clasped them to the virgin-white suspenders at the side of each of her beautifully bold thighs. And the pure white shone its erotic contrast with her latte-coffee complexion.
Marina ruminated as Biankiss blushed: ‘Isn’t it funny how a girl always seems more naked, dressed in the way you’ll be, than if she really hadn’t got a stitch on?’
Biankiss worked the superfluous garters to just above her knees.’
‘You must wear them just above mid-thigh. And remember if they’re pleased with you, they’ll slip their dollar notes in them. All the dollars you earn that way are yours to keep. But you gotta say ‘Thank you very much miss’, individually, to all the girls who put dollars in your garters, and give them all a smile a curtsey and a blown kiss too, the last two when you walk away from their table, when they’ll no doubt be following your wicked bum with their eyes!’
‘It’s all ‘hands off’ or else they get thrown out. But some of them will pinch your bottom for sure, if they get even half of half a chance!’
As Biankiss fixed the buckle on the virgin-white inch-wide choker-ribbon she would wear around her slim neck, she subliminalled with her ice-blue eyes Marina putting the ballets she, Biankiss, would put on next, on a stool readied.
Now, as Biankiss sat on the stool with her ballets momentarily on the floor, she slipped their soft virgin-white calf-skin leather over her dainty feet by turn, and tied their long virgin-white laces tightly, wrapping their extensive ends around the soles of each shoe and finally around her slender ankles.
‘Wowee!’ Marina all-but wolf-whistled, as Biankiss stood thereafter; ‘Have you got legs or have you got legs!’ she whispered for Biankiss to hear, as Biankiss did a tiptop-of tiptoe slow twirl on the steel-tipped squared-off toes of the ballets, and showed she could dance deftly in them.
Nextly, along her long slim arms Biankiss drew the virgin-white cotton-mix gloves that caressed her and dressed her up to just below her armpits.
Then she picked up the virgin-white bell-hop-style pill-box hat, with its little virgin-white puff-ball centre-top decorative ‘bobble’, and arranged its elasticated virgin-white strap under her chin, before arranging the hat to her left side and slightly to the front of her head, to make it look even more impractical, and consequently subsequently even more saucily sexy.
‘Kissy; you look absolutely bloody gorgeous!’ Marina reassured, as Biankiss blushed scarlet.
‘Shall I put your barbells on?’
‘Please Marina. And would you very much mind helping me with....with what needs doing before you fit my toggle?’
‘Of course sweetheart; but surely you’d want to do that for yourself’
‘I really do need someone else to do it please....Please Marina...’
As Marina fitted the barbells she deliberately pressed her thigh into the groin of the gorgeous Biankiss. Biankiss knew what Marina was doing this for, and tried to relax and enjoy it.
The barbell nipple-clips, hollow tubes with hollow bulbous ends; tubes and bulbs of two-inch duration, one-inch either side from the nipple to which each was clamped, were quarter-filled with mercury. Each was clipped so it hung horizontally just below one of Biankiss’ very pert teats. And she winced as any would, since the clips deployed employed a needle tooth in each jaw, and bit her nipples sharply right through when their maws closed on her sensitive pert pink peaks.
Now, as lovely Biankiss merely breathed, the mercury within each barbell hesitated where to flow; where to go. Each hollow ball end could contain all the heavy slippery silvery mercury within its cavity. But the mercury must answer gravity. And so, as the gorgeous Biankiss moved, and her lovely titties matched her emotion-inspiring motion, the mercury followed in flood back and forth, in the hollow tube between the barbells, in a complete tizzy about which end it wished to wind up in. And thus the barbells twisted and teased Biankiss’ generous nipples in a way that her blushes already showed made her pleasurably pleased.
‘I’ll have to use my hand’ Marina apologised.
‘Mmm sorry?’ Biankiss whispered before adding, ‘Oh, that’s alright’.
Miranda began to press and then to rub. At the pressing, pretty Biankiss giggled, ‘You’re tickling!’, but the start of the sought outcome, tentative but not temporary, evidenced itself.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this for yourself?’ Marina asked.
‘No. I’m sorry Marina. It’s so much nicer when someone else does it. I’ve always wanted you to do it for me...’
At this, the result required suddenly showed itself decidedly definitely. Marina worked away gently so as not to have the spell lost through excess of brio.
‘It’s very beautiful’, Marina conspirited.
‘Thank you’ Biankiss answered shyly, and responded even more fully.
A few tentative and then more insistent but always gentle movement moments later, and the result was more tent than tentative.
‘You’re gorgeous! You know that don’t you Kissy!’ Marina sincered, and consequent conspicuous finality was suddenly very evidently to the fore.
Now Marina grabbed and applied a vital device to the matter, and Biankiss lovely ice-blue eyes momentarily conveyed distress.
‘Oh gosh! Must the toggle be so tight?’
‘I’m sorry Kissy sweetheart, but it makes you so incredibly beautiful, and keeps you the way they’ll want to see you. And believe me Kissy; you look way beyond seductively sexy that way!!’
‘I know you’ll be nervous darling. Any girl would be; any first-timer on Nudie Night at the good old sordid old Dolly Damsel. We’ll start you off behind the bar. I’ll be there with you. But I rather think they’ll be wanting to be served by you. I know I would!’
........................
A few moments later some highly appreciative eyes were focused on the simply stunning Biankiss, fascinated by her all-but bare breasts which, with her petit stature, were not much above the bar-counter behind which she stood in tiptop-of-tiptoe in her ballet shoes.
‘‘Ere Jo! Be’ind der bar dare. Ain’t dat der gorgeous chick wot we saw dis mormin’ on der ‘igh Road?!’
‘Oh fuckin’ ‘ell! I dint know she served ‘ere! And by der looks orit, she ain’t got nuffink on! Nuffink but dem sexy gloves, dat ‘at, and dem funny little bars on ‘er lovely nippies’
‘‘Ere quick! Wotderyerwanna drink? Beers allround irrit?’
The surprisingly shy deputy gang-leader from the road crew operating on repairs not far from Biankiss’ apartment, took herself to the bar, trying to look casual, as if she was served by demi-naked bargirls every night of her life.
‘‘Ello darlin’. You’s a fuckin’ beauty ain’t yer?!’
‘Please be polite to the nudie-girl. She may be your servant for the night. But that’s no reason not to be nice to her...’ Marina interjected.
‘Sorry like. I dint mean no insult. She’s such a gorgeous babe.’
‘Her name’s ‘Biankiss’. But everyone calls her ‘Kissy’. Kissy can serve you here, or it’s twenty dollars each drink, to have her bring drinks to your table. Cash only for the table trips. No change given. And you slip the notes in one or both of the frilly garters she’s wearing.’
‘I knows dat. I’ve dun dat afore ain’I?’ the gang-girl asserted, to convey supposed sophistication and worldly experience; and to disguise that the procedures were in fact completely new to her knowledge.
‘Look. I know you and your friends like to have a good time on pay day. And your work must give you a thundering thirst. But it’s Kissy’s first time out on ‘Nudie Night’, so please be nice to her’, Marina added, to protect her delightful friend.
‘Dat woanbe no problem. Not wiv a gorgeous chick like ‘er’
‘‘Ellow Kissy sweet’art. I’d like five foamin’ dark-girl-pee-beers please; one fer me, and one for each of me mates. And willyer bring ‘em over ter der table just over dare please, sweet’art?’
‘Of course miss’, Biankiss assured, unsure how to pour a beer, and very self-conscious as this labouring girl ogled her every deliciously delightful move.
‘Youse bootiful, I ‘ope yer knows dat Kissy darlin’.’
‘Thank you miss’, Biankiss blushed as her slender gloved right hand and arm reached the handle to draw the first beer, lifting her right breast, and so disturbing the flowing heavy mercury within its nipple-clip, and thus leaving its enticing barbell dancing up and down at alternating ends, teasing and pleasing her right nipple into distinct arousal.
Under the beer tap Biankiss placed an empty one pint glass mug, and pulled the handle down forcefully fully, with the inevitable result, that the pressurised gassy beer hit the bottom of the glass too hard and fast, and spat up over the glass’ top, causing pretty Biankiss to squeak with very sexy surprise and step back in her tiptoed ballets.
‘You ain’t not poured a beer afore ‘ave yer darlin’’ the gang-girl sympathised.
‘Yer needs ter ‘old der glass tilted, an’ let der beer pour on der insides onit, till der glass starts ter fill, and den yer slowly straightens der glass. Oh an’, if yer don’t minds Kissy darlin’, me and me mates we only drinks der ‘Twin-Milk’ brand, the working girl informed, while she suddenly blushed at the sight of Biankiss’ lovely soft firm bare breasts when she said this. ‘Yer dint get no beer on yer nice clean gloves jus’ den afore did yer darlin’?’ she sweetly added.
‘No: I was a lucky girl there. But thank you for asking’, Biankiss smiled.
The gang-girl was instantly in love with this angel.
‘It were nuffink; not for a pretty girl like wot you is....’ the gang-girl added lamely.
‘There are other customers waiting for Kissy to serve them. Would you please go to your table’, Marina requested, politely but firmly.
‘Alright, alright; keep yer bra on! Dares no need ter get uppity!’ the work-gang-girl responded, to hide that she was blushing, because of Biankiss’ lovely smile which seemed solely for her.
To show that she felt no concern at the gang-girl’s directness, Biankiss smiled at her again.
The five beers poured, Biankiss looked up and saw that the bar was now suddenly becoming very crowded. And it was time for Biankiss to take her tray across the floor of the public house to the gang-girls’ table.
‘Will you be alright, Kissy? If you prefer to stay behind the bar I’ll take them for you’, Marina offered, kindly.
‘That’s alright’, Biankiss responded, but with a very anxious look on her face, matched by a familiar but highly inconvenient urgent urging in her lower bowels.
‘Here goes nothing!’ she then added to herself, as she lifted the tray in her long-gloved hands and took tentative steps, tiptoed in her ballets, to where the bar access hatch had been lifted open for her. But then she paused. She’d lost the necessary nerve.
‘I can do it! I know I can do it!’ she whispered to herself, between her negress-inheritance pretty-pout lips.
‘Two white girl-pee wines over here when you’re ready gorgeous!’
‘Sorry miss; white pee-wine you say?’ Biankiss queried, putting down the tray of beers, relieved to be able to stay behind the bar a little longer.
‘Where’s dem beers darlin’? Weese dyin’ o’ first overeer, ain’t we girls?!’
‘Will you bring the wines to our table please...‘Kissy’ isn’t it?’
‘Certainly miss; y..yes I..I’m Kissy, but I must deliver these beers first’, Biankiss answered, with what she hoped was a sufficiency of renewed determination.
And so Biankiss took the beer loaded tray again, and took the plunge, fought the urge, from her highly-strung nerves, to emit a little feminine fart, and wiggled out on her lovely legs onto the floor of the Dolly Damsel, across the wooden parquet floor, weaving her wiggling hips between the tables and chairs and signalling ‘come-hither’ front and behind, rearmost with the side-hollowed dimples in her firm bare bum; her buttocks being tensioned by her stance and her walk in constant en-pointe in her ballets.
And, she held her pretty head with its saucy bell-hop’s hat high, and blushed because she was so near naked and so very shy, and it surely must come, and as surely did; the inevitable cry:
‘Oh fuckin’ fuckin’ fuckin-fuckin’ ‘ell. She’s gorra cock!! Dat gorgeous chick ‘as gorra cock, she’s gorra fuckin’ little-girl, she’s a girl with a fuckin’ little-girl!!’
Biankiss was in two minds whether to continue to the table with the work-gang-girls, or to run back behind the bar.
All eyes turned her way, and she began to panic. Loud wolf-whistles, cheers and jeers followed one on another, louder and louder, with stomping feet and table’s rattled by slapping hands to applaud both her and her cock – her ‘little-girl’ - thrusting up to heaven from her groin. And then whistles of appreciation turned to clapped hands in adulatory applause.
‘You’re an angel!’ shouted an anonymous girl.
‘Yea and how!!’, came another cry, and more wolf-whistles, as Biankiss blushed and shy tears cornered her ice-blue eyes.
Her cock, her totally shaven erotically stunning ‘little-girl’, was near bolt upright, stiff and erect, paying full attention, with its veins swollen, as was its slightly exposed pink head, which was bared above its drawn-back foreskin.
Biankiss had a constant massive erection courtesy of Marina’s gentle handed handiwork, and the very tight toggle-thong she, Biankiss, wore at the base of her little-girl, above testicles presently tensioned by her terror at parading her nakedness, and that of her shaven little-girl, this way.
Biankiss had a proud little-girl to be proud of. It saw nine-inches readily erected and possible approaching even an even ten. She was a petit girl with a big little-girl standing proudly up and curving just slightly back toward her belly. Imagination, if not ascertainable fact, might conclude that, were it not so inclined at a curve, her little-girl would have been higher than Biankiss’ belly-button.
‘Can we give yer little-girl a kiss sweet’art?! Is she a naughty little-girl sometimes? Does yer ‘as ter spank ‘er now and den?’
Biankiss blushed, but was all too aware that her little-girl was getting stiffer still at this teasing. She approached the table with the working girls, who were sat there with their eyes out on metaphorical stalks.
‘Oh my god, ain’t you just luvly?!
‘Er names ‘Kissy’’, the girl who had ordered the beers proudly announced, showing off a claim of familiarity and closeness to and with Biankiss, to which she had no substantiable right.
‘Doesn’t dat ‘urt darling’? Yer little-girl is very stiff.’
‘Oh no, not at all’, Biankiss white-lied with her lovely smile, and her sparkling eyes: her eyes seeing that all the road-gang girls only had eyes for her little-girl. Then Biankiss flinched, a little shocked.
‘Sorry sweet’art. I weren’t touchin’ you none. I were jus’ purrin forty dollar in yer garter. Twenty fer you, and twenty fer yer gorgeous little-girl. ‘Ere you oughta get yer little-girl ‘er own garter ter wear! She’s so pretty!!’
‘Thank you’ Biankiss whispered, aware how close her little-girl was to the faces of the gang-girls, and feeling very nervous as they put more twenty dollar bills in her garters.
Her tray emptied, Biankiss curtsied to each of the gang-girls in turn, saying ‘Thank you miss’ each time. Then she wiggled back to the bar to loud wolf-whistles, and turned her pretty face over her shoulder and blushed and smiled and blew a kiss.
As she passed a table near the bar, a girl patted Biankiss’ bottom, and Biankiss squeaked seductively, and leggily leaped in her ballets, with, thereafter, her gloved hand caressing her bare bottom where it had been lightly smacked.
‘No touching or else you’ll be thrown out! I won’t warn you again!’ Marina called across, as she put the glasses of wine on Biankiss’ tray to save Biankiss time.
Biankiss thanked Marina with a smile and then turned to try and spot the customer who’d ordered the two white-girl-pee wines; only to find herself, and her little-girl, being admired by another young woman queuing to order a drink.
‘She’s adorable! Does your pretty little-girl go everywhere with you?, the sweet blonde girl queuing asked and complimented.
Biankiss giggled: ‘Thank you. That was sweet!’
‘I’ll be ordering a monthly-red wine, and a soda water for my girlfriend. If you and your little-girl will bring them to our table, there’ll be eighty dollars; forty for you, and forty for your pretty little-girl. What’s your name sweetheart?’
‘Biankiss, but everyone calls me ‘Kissy’’
‘And what’s your little-girl’s name, Kissy?’
‘Oh, she’s not got a name; but I suppose she’s Kissy too’ Biankiss gorgeously giggled.
‘Okay, so bring us our drinks, and it’ll be forty dollars for Kissy, and forty for pretty little Kissytoo!’
‘Oh that’s was so sweet!’ Biankiss whispered as she waved a gloved pretty hand in a downward motion to signal how nice the girl had been about her.
‘Yes you are so sweet: both of you!’ the girl answered and Biankiss blushed.
‘Get your little-girl to give us a wave darlin’!’ another customer called across to the blushing Biankiss.
‘No!’ Biankiss pouted as she called back. And then she giggled, to show that it was a ‘no’ that said she found the idea very sexy.
Biankiss now approached the table with the girl who’d ordered the two white girl-pee-wines sitting at it.
But not before yet another girl stage-whispered: ‘Hey sweetness! Did you know you’ve got a beauty spot on the right cheek of your bum?!’
Biankiss smiled, and blushed, obviously aware of the part of her anatomy that girl particularly admired.
‘Perhaps it’s god’s seal of quality approval!’, another girl joined in.
Biankiss squeezed a ‘thank you’ smile.
‘I’m sorry I took so long with your order, miss and miss’ Biankiss apologised to the white wine orderers.
‘I don’t blame you one bit. I blame your little-girl. She’s clearly very very naughty. We are strangely sure we recognise her. I think she’s on a list at the station house. We’re plain clothes detectives, you see!’
Biankiss fell concernedly silent. She bent forward and put the tray on the table, arranged two paper coasters, and placed the drinks on them, before curtseying to both customers, with the required: ‘thank you miss’ to each, all too aware that both women’s eyes were feasting on her little-girl, all the while. Somehow Biankiss felt both uncomfortable and a little excited in their company. But she wanted to wiggle away as soon as she could.
‘We want to talk your little-girl. We think she can help us with our enquiries’, one of the women whispered, as she fed two twenty dollar bills into Biankiss’ garters.
‘Bring her to our place...the police station....afterwards. We’ll give you guidance on how the pair of you should get there. You’ll have to go there just as you are, save that, to get your little-girl ready for our little chat with her, you’ll have to do the cigar-walk. And you’ll need to be disguised: for that…..yes, that’s it…..for that we’ll dress you as a bride I think!’
‘Two thousand dollars if she doesn’t confess. A thousand if she does!’
Biankiss looked astonished.
‘There’s customers waiting Kissy!’ Marina called over, distantly from.
‘Okay sweetheart. Since your little-girl is so very pretty, three thousand dollars if she doesn’t confess; two thousand if she does. She’ll need a responsible adult with her when we question her. So that’s why we’re inviting you as well!’
‘Biankiss! Kissy! We’re very busy tonight sweetheart!’ Marina concerned across the floor from the bar.
‘No’ Biankiss whispered to the white wine drinkers.
‘Three thousand dollars whether she confesses or not!’
‘What do you want to do to her?’ Biankiss found herself surprised to be asking.
‘We just want to have a little chat with her. Little-girls like her often go astray madam. It’s all part of growing up. We can’t make a fuss in here. So, as her parent, you’ll need to bring her to the station house. If she’s innocent, she’s got nothing to worry about.’
‘Okay. But only if my friend can come with us...Marina? the girl in charge behind the bar?’
‘No way sweetheart! It’s got to be just you and your little-girl.
‘Four thousand dollars whether she confesses or not!’
‘Oh hi Marina! We were just chatting up this little chick and her gorgeous little-girl’
‘What have they offered you Kissy?’
‘Four thou both ways’’ the leading girl among the two customers interjected before Biankiss could answer.
‘Wow! And what would that be for then?’
‘A cigar walk and interrogation of Kissy’s pretty little-girl’
‘Take it Kissy. You’ll have the time of your life with Kasandra and Aimee. I’ll hold the money for you. You’ll earn it sweetheart, or, rather, your little-girl will. Now come on gorgeous, there’s folk beginning to complain.
‘See you after the bar closes tonight Kissy, and your little-girl too of course’, Kasandra convidenced.
As Biankiss wiggled back to the bar with Marina, her titties’ natural motion emphasised by the bobbing mercury-filled barbells clipped to her nipples, she was all too aware of a mounting need.
But, as Biankiss wiggled back to the bar with Marina, she tried to distract herself and could not help but ask: ‘What’s a cigar walk?’
‘You’ll find out Kissy my angel. And believe me, you’ll do it exquisitely beautifully. And I want to be there when you do...’
‘But right just now, I’ve got a monthly-red and a soda for the two young ladies over there, Kissy’, Marina instructed as she put the iced drinks and two more coasters on Biankiss’ tray.
‘Hello Kissy and hewow wickle Kissytoo, you darling wickle-girl.
Biankiss’ constant erection was beginning to hurt her now. The toggle-thong was extremely tight, and she also feared she was losing circulation to her little-girl. But she smiled at the greeting, and giggled at the way her little-girl had been addressed.
‘Will your pretty little-girl give us a wave?!’ the attractive blonde asked.
Biankiss stepped back and jiggled her hips, and her little-girl waved side to side pendulum style.
‘Hey, sweetheart! We all of us wants a wave from your little-girl!’ the work-gang-girls called across. And shy Biankiss obliged them as they whistled loudly stamping their feet in celebration, while wolf-whistling Biankiss’ little-girl.
After her courtesy curtsies and her payment being fed into her now rather overloaded garters, Biankiss wiggled back to the bar yet once more.
‘Any chance of a quick pee please, Marina, I’m just dying to go!’, she enquired.
‘Well no; not really Kissy! Come on darling! You can see how busy we are!’
‘My little-girl feels very numb’
‘She’s fine. And she perfectly lovely’, Marina insisted, ‘Now I’ve more beers for the gang-workers over at table 2’: and Marina promptly planted five over-frothing pint glasses of girl-pee beer on Biankiss’ tray.
‘Let’s lend you a hand here’, Marina then added, as she took some of the money out of Biankiss’ garters, leaving a few notes to illustrate what the garters were for. ‘I’ll stow it in the safe sweetheart, along with the four thousand up-fronted by table 6?’ Marina assured.
‘Wow! Here’s der lovely little girl wiv der gorgeous little-girl comin’ our way agen! ‘Ellow Kissy darlin’ ‘Ellow little angel!’
‘‘Ere. Kissy sweet’art. Me and der rest of der girls was wondrin’....’
Biankiss smiled and waited before giving her curtsies. Meanwhile more twenty dollar bills were fed into her garters to pay her for bringing the drinks.
‘Could us girls buy you a drink Kissy sweet’art?’
‘Oh that is so thoughtful and so kind’, Biankiss smiled.
‘It’s nuffink fer such a luvly chick as you is. Hey, an’ we got us tickets fer later like. Yer know, when der ‘police?’ is gonna interview your little-girl?..... Marrer of fact Kissy, I fink der ‘ole of der custmers in dis place ‘as got tickets ter watch dat!’
‘Don’t you find all this rather demeaning Kissy; walking around more than half-naked with your erect bare cock on display for all to see, and god alone knows what’s been fitted on your nipples, or why; though one can guess?’, Sandra, the girl of Biankiss’ dreams, suddenly interjected from behind Biankiss.
‘Oh I don’t know. If you’ve got a lovely body, why not flaunt it?’, Pamela, Sandra’s fiancée, responded, ‘Kissy’s’ super-stiff little-girl turns me on, that’s for sure!’
‘I don’t like to hear my future wife talking like that, Pam!’ Sandra sniffily objected.
‘I’m only saying Biankiss’ erect little-girl is an incredibly erotic sight. And besides, we’re not married yet Sandy!’ Pamela retorted. And before Sandra could add reinforcement to her previous argument, Pamela added:
‘We’ve all got tickets for when your little-girl is interrogated, Kissy; all but ‘Miss Goody-Goody’ here!’ she smiled, as she put her tongue out playfully at her future husband-girl.
‘Who said I didn’t have a ticket?’ Sandra responded.
‘Oh so you went and bought one after all! You are a crafty little....ooh I don’t know!’ Pamela teased.
‘Kissy darling! We’ve got an overload at the bar sweetheart!’ Marina shouted above the general cacophony of the chatting laughing and cheering crowd around Biankiss.
‘We’ll see you later’, Dora whispered, looking into Biankiss’ twinkling ice-blue eyes, hoping to see love for her over and above the love Biankiss showed the whole world, the love for which Biankiss’ name alone should have been made a byword.
........................
The long evening ended, but didn’t finish for Biankiss with Chamita, the landlady of the Dolly Damsel paying her, and telling her she could come back and do another Nudie Night, along with her little-girl of course, at any time she wished...there was one every other month, on the last Friday....
‘And you’re doing some extra for us all tonight I hear....for all those who’ve paid that is; except me as landlady. I get in for free of course. Since it’s my place, I get to watch for free. Your little-girl is to star. Wow, I look forward to that! I’ve also got Marina an okay to stay and join in too. I know you wanted that Kissy, you gorgeous angel!’
Biankiss whispered sweetly: ‘Oh, I wanted to talk to you about that Marina. I’m so tired. I’m dying for a pee too. I’ve not been all night; not with my little-girl strapped up hard like this. And my cock, my little-girl....I’m sure my circulation has been cut off. Just look at the bulging veins in her!’
‘You aren’t going anywhere, Kissy. I’ve been put in charge of your preparation. When I say ‘you’re not going anywhere’ I mean you’re only going where you’re told. Take your garters off, and do it now!’ Marina commanded.
The three women, Marina, Chamita, and Biankiss were in the room behind the bar of the Dolly Damsel where Biankiss had originally been prepared for Nudie Night.
Chamita advised: ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ll just pop and tell Kasandra and Aimee that you are getting Kissy and her little-girl ready for her walk to the ‘police station’. And I’ll get the furniture rearranged next door, in ‘police station’ mode!’
‘Please Marina, I’m so tired!’ Biankiss pleaded.
‘You may be tired, but as a mother you’ve got responsibilities. Your little-girl is wanted for interview at the police station. At your little-girl’s age there has to be a responsible adult present when the police do an interview. So, as her mother, you must escort her there, and be there when she is interviewed’, Marina insisted.
Of course Biankiss recognised the beginning of some sexual role-play developing. But it was only now, when she could clearly hear the echo of Marina’s voice, she realised that, in sound at least, that what was going on was being broadcast to the drinkers next door.
‘Take off your hat. You will wear the veil for your walk to the police station. We do not allow girls, especially very pretty girls like you – ‘married’ girls like you - to bare their lovely faces when they are out in public. So you must wear the full veil, to show that you are as submissive and demure as a good mother of a pretty little-girl, such as the lovely innocent creature between your legs, should be!’ Marina asserted.
As Biankiss complied in taking off her saucy bell-hop’s hat, Marina brushed Biankiss’ boy-cropped hair, and gave Biankiss a parting on her left side.
‘We must prepare your little-girl for you to escort her to the station’
Biankiss looked at Marina with eyes that said ‘Oh please, I’m so very tired!’ adding, without saying, that she’d been on the top-tip of tiptop-tiptoe in her ballets all night, and her calves, the compellingly curved calves of her very shapely legs, were murderously tired.
‘Don’t you dare look at me like that, you bitch!’ Marina shouted, and, of that very sudden instant, Biankiss found a new wave of stiffness in her little-girl.
Marina now took a long string; a long cotton-mix string, alike with that deployed in the side-ties of a bikini’s bottom half, or a beach-thong. And then she gently and deftly lowered Biankiss’ cock, pressing it down from its swollen insistence at pointing essentially heavenward, as if to indicate its origin.
And then she put the string through a metal ring that had always been in place on the top side – the side furthest from Biankiss’ testicles – the top side of the toggle-thong-strap that was strangling the base and just above the testicles of Biankiss’ little-girl – the part of Biankiss’ lovely cock that had hitherto been hidden by her consistently insistent and startlingly starch-stiff erection.
This done, having evened out the length either side of the ring as centre, Marina took each loose end of the ‘string’ around the backs of Biankiss’ firm fulsome thighs, around to the front, passing the ends under Biankiss’ suspenders where they dandled at the outside sides of her thighs.
She then motioned Biankiss to stand, very close-legged; indeed lightly crossing her superb thighs, with her little-girl pointing down – hauled down by the ‘string’ - and lodged snugly between her slightly crossed thighs, with its distended head between Biankiss’ stocking tops.
Now Marina, having drawn the string around the front of Biankiss’ thighs, pulled it very tight to haul Biankiss’ little-girl into a definite downward pointing state, with its swollen head between the tops of Biankiss’ virgin-white stockings.
This done, and holding the string’s ends tautly, so as to keep Biankiss’ little-girl pointing down, Marina wound the two ends of the string over each other at base-of-cock height at the front of Biankiss’ thighs, twice, as if in the preliminary to tying a finishing bow. But, instead of bowing to a bow at base-of-cock height, Marina tied the two ends in a tight knot, and instructed Biankiss to unwrap her thighs from each other. This tightened the knot even more, and the string pressed quite hard into Biankiss’ lovely thigh flesh.
Marina now once more passed the still lengthy loose ends, around the outsides of Biankiss’ thighs, over her suspender belt, around Biankiss’ back, above Biankiss’ lovely bottom, where she intertwined the strings’ ends once more in pre-bow-tying style, and then brought the two ends around Biankiss’ belly, at a height just above Biankiss’ suspender belt.
Now Marina looked at her handiwork and checked the string – the cock-thong – was still pulling Biankiss’ naked nude little-girl into firmly down-pointing status between Biankiss’ handsome thighs. And then, she – Marina – tied the string’s ends off in a secure double-bow at the base of Biankiss’ belly.
The look in Biankiss’ glorious ice-blue eyes told of the shock Biankiss felt at this weird bondage, and her mystification as to its purpose.
‘Let’s check your nipple barbells, you little slut!’
At this, Marina flicked one end of each barbell in turn, and Biankiss gasped sexily as the rocking commotion from the interminably flowing mercury, seeking alternating homes within each end-bell, taunted and teased and, if truth be told, pleased her very sensitive nipples.
‘Keep up on your toes in those ballets, you bitch!!’ Marina commanded when she thought she’d noticed Biankiss relaxing her legs.
‘Ooh! That’s so, so lovely! Is it for me?!’ Biankiss squealed delightedly when the veil she was to wear was revealed.
‘Of course it’s for you to stupid slut! Didn’t you hear me say you were to walk to the police station in the veil required by the customs and practices for ‘married’ mothers going around in public in this very religious nation?!’ Marina somewhat clumsily rehearsed, as a scene for the public listening next door in the main bar, to the acting out of the fantasy they had bought tickets for.
Marina now handed Biankiss a rose, a pure white, a virgin-white, a real rose, barely open beyond bud.
‘You will carry the rose in your gloved hands at all times. You will hold it in both hands, holding both hands flat together with your fingers pointing heavenward, as if in prayer. You will never ever use either hand to touch yourself in any way whatsoever, no matter what may occur or arise!’.
Biankiss obediently took the rose and held it at just above belly button height, with her pretty gloved hands in the required supplicatory pose, wincing when one of its thorns bit a finger through her arm-long virgin-white gloves.
Marina nextly swept up the copious translucent rose-patterned lace-net veil, a veil so enormous, that, as Marina centred it on Biankiss’ head, it formed not just a veil alone, but also an all-enveloping dress, that trailed the floor around Biankiss’ tiptop tiptoed feet, not just, since it was square, at its corners, but also in some part of its four sides.
To keep the veil in place, Marina crowned the lovely Biankiss, with a virgin-white elasticated headband interwoven with two dozen perfect white fresh real roses, these with their thorns removed, pushed down lightly but tightly halfway on Biankiss’ momentarily sweetly furrowed brow.
When she was shown herself in a mirror, Biankiss blushed and gasped open-mouthed, and felt a tingle in her little-girl that reinforced its extremely engaged engorged state between her thighs.
No bride could possibly have looked more wonderful than sweet Biankiss in this ‘wedding gown’. Its folds flowed, teasing and pleasing, as it masked more, and yet less, and thus never completely, her feminine charms, or her gorgeous face. No virgin bride could have looked more en-prise for the altar and the altered state of her innocence on an upcoming wedding night. Were she not a hundred miles away and, perhaps blessedly, oblivious to the real proceedings her daughter was involved in right now, Biankiss’ mother would surely have shed tears of sadness and joy to see her lovely daughter in such a veil and such a dress as these folds of lace framed and formed and enfolded her for her sacrifice to love.
But Biankiss was soon snapped out of love’s longing dreams, and could hardly believe what was ordered her next.
‘Dressed only as you are now throughout your walk, and always holding your bouquet rose before you under your veil dress as you do right now, no matter what happens, you will walk out of the Dolly Damsel, Kissy, by its back door. You will then walk around the side of this public bar to its front on Girl Market Square.....
......And you will then walk all around the outer paving edge of Girl Market Square, visiting every corner in your walk, till you return to the front of the Dolly Damsel, which you will enter as if it were a police station and you were bringing in your little-girl, by appointment. The police will then ask your little-girl about her possible involvement in shoplifting during a lunch break at that very expensive and exclusive school you are paying to send your very bright and very pretty, but rather wayward, little-girl to, for her education....
.......And I can see that look on your face you slut; and yes, you will do the walk, and yes, you will do it entirely on your own and therefore, as would be obvious for anyone with more than your apology for a brain, without any escort. Is that clear!!?’
Biankiss’ stunning eyes appealed for clemency. But she both knew it was hopeless and that she wanted it to be hopeless, and not because she needed the promised money alone either. And so she began her walk…..
........................
And so Biankiss obediently began her walk.
Biankiss strode and discovered her stride was restricted by her little-girl’s cock-thong stringing, and that her little-girl was rubbed by her thighs and her stockings’ tops when she walked. She paused; realised that this was meant to be, and walked toward the rear door of the Dolly Damsel with trepidation and tiny tears cornering her lovely eyes. And she saw the darkness outside and realised some relief; she would be hidden by the comfort-blanket of the moonless midnight. But that was before she saw the shadows from the street lights in the main square at full night bore bright. And she wiggled as she walked and her thighs rubbed her little-girl and rolled its foreskin back and forth, and forth and back, and it was exciting for her little-girl.
And Biankiss found that she was ‘Kissytoo’, that she was her little-girl. And she and her little-girl were walking up the dark alley toward Girl Market Square. And she could hear the clatter of the ponygirl hoofs as ponygirl-drawn cabs and omnibuses hauled the girls of the town home for the night or to hotels to make love with their girlfriends, or to night clubs for more foreplay-fun, this being the weekend.
And Biankiss’ fear rose and she let go a tiny girly fear-fart. And she wiggled into the entrance and exit from the alleyway. At every step, at her every wiggle her thighs rubbed her little-girl. And all her courage it took for her to emerge into the open and turn right to teeter on the top tips of tiptoe in her ballets in her veil and cock-thong around the square.
And her steps were giving her little-girl a cigar-role roll and Biankiss loved it. Her distended little-girl was having its foreskin rubbed and rolled by her thighs and her stockings’ tops, and her little-girl loved it too, and Biankiss loved it for the love of her precious little-girl.
And Biankiss and her little-girl were in the open on the square and: ‘Hello darlin’. You lost the way to a weddin’ ‘ave you?’ and wolf-whistles and cat calls and jeers and cheers as she wiggled and rubbed her little-girl as she walked, rolling her little-girl’s foreskin back and forth, and back and forth, with her thighs’ strides, and talking to herself in her head that she mustn’t cum she mustn’t have a cum and piss her stocking tops with her little-girl’s love-seed.
And her little-girl was getting harder as the cat calls grew louder, and Biankiss was loving being exposed under her completely transparent veil-dress; exposed and so vulnerable and yet so protective of her little-girl as she walked along in her little-girl’s cock-thong.
‘Wow sweetheart aren’t you just a picture! Have you just got married? That’s a perfect wedding dress. Is your honeymoon at one of the local hotels?’
Biankiss wiggled on rubbing her little-girl as she walked; rolling her little-girl’s foreskin on her stocking tops between her striding thighs. ‘Oh my god, you’re a shemale! Oh how wonderful! What a big little-girl you’ve got darling! Are you giving it a naughty-rub?’
Biankiss wiggled on, her distress returning. She longed her walk was over and people would just ignore her. Then a girl she knew from schooldays passed her: ‘Kissy! It is Kissy isn’t it? Oh for god’s sake Kissy? Don’t you feel ashamed walking around in public like that? It’s bloody disgusting! You’re disgusting Kissy! I’m thoroughly ashamed of you! And you should be bloody well ashamed of yourself!!
Biankiss wiggled on, her titties tormented at her every step by the mercury flowing in the tube between the hollow balls of her barbell nipple clips. She tried to prevent her titties’ natural motions with her gloved upper arms. But she must obey her order to hold her rose bouquet in the supplicatory prayer position her pretty hands were held together in. And she realised the compulsion for her to keep her hands held together this way was to prevent her doing anything to stop her walk rubbing her little-girl. And the prayer position of her hands did at least aid this independently minded little beauty to pray that the rubbing of her little-girl would not cause her to cum, and to shame herself, and her little-girl, in public, by spurting love-seed out in the open on the street.
A crisis was coming. Biankiss had wiggle-stepped in her ballets the first side of the square, and her little-girl had found the rubbing and rolling of its foreskin too exciting and was threatening to spurt. Biankiss must think of something she must think of anything that would stop her little-girl spurting in the street.
And yet the teasing of her nipples by the barbells and the rubbing and rolling and rolling and rubbing of her little-girl’s foreskin between her thighs as she processed in her every heavenly step....oh god!!
She could think of nothing but her little-girl in its cock-thong and the rubbing of her little-girl between her thighs as she walked; and the rolling of her little-girl’s foreskin back and forth, and forth and back, between her thighs as she walked with her little-girl in a cock-thong; and the rubbing of her little-girl between her stockings’ tops as she walked; and the rolling of her little-girl’s foreskin back and forth, and back and forth, between her thighs on her stockings’ tops as she wiggled on her tiptop tiptoes in her ballets with her little-girl in a cock-thong, the rubbing on her stockings making her little-girl’s head hyper-hot and tingling ecstatically with static from the incessant unceasing increasing friction.
Biankiss was half along the long far side of Girl Market Square now. And, oh god, she was going to cum, her little-girl was going to cum. ‘Oh please god don’t let me cum. Oh please, please god don’t make my little-girl cum in public on the open street and shame me for all my days as the girl who let her little-girl spurt her thighs and stockings walking in a cock-thong in her wedding dress to take her little-girl to the police station for an interview.
Now Biankiss began to more fully take on the role she was to play for the money she was to be paid for having her little-girl interrogated by the police at the Dolly Damsel ‘police station house’. And she began to give her little-girl, her stiff little-girl, a stiff talking to in her mind: ‘If it wasn’t for you little lady, I wouldn’t; we wouldn’t be out at this time of night! Whatever did you think you were up to?!’
But that didn’t work, and reality interrupted and intervened and the reality was the mounting excitement in Biankiss’ little-girl, and the certainty that her little-girl was going to spurt with all this rubbing and foreskin rolling from merely walking in her cock-thong.
As Biankiss wiggled the corner for the walk down the third side of Girl Market Square, she knew the meaning of a ‘cigar-roll walk’ with a vengeance. Her little-girl was rubbed and rubbed and her little-girl’s foreskin rolled forwards and backwards and forwards and backwards and fore and aft and fore and aft, as Biankiss tiptop tippy-toed in her ballets with her lovely titties dancing and prancing and her barbell nipple clips rocking and rolling with the mercury flow tolling a tale of excitement in teats tensioned to high pitch excitement and arousal by their never-ending ministrations, and her little-girl in her cock-thong rubbed and rubbed and rolled and rolled as she strolled, and her little-girl’s foreskin briskly rotated forwards and backwards and forwards and backwards and fore and aft and fore and aft, as Biankiss obeyed her order to wear the veil for decency and as she took her little-girl for an appointment at the police station.
And the crisis of a cum spurt was mounting impossibly higher still. And Biankiss didn’t know what she could do to stop her little-girl spurting love-seed as it was rubbed by her thighs and by her stocking tops, and its foreskin rotated back and forth, in her cock-thong and its head burned from the friction of the incessant foreskin semi-rotations and the friction from her nylons. And Biankiss was sure she wouldn’t be paid if she, if her little-girl came in the walk of shame she was enduring.
And the wolf-whistles and cheers told her some girls had stepped onto the pavement sidewalk outside the Dolly Damsel to urge her on. And Biankiss bit her pretty lower lip to stop her little-girl spurting. And she could not look and see but she knew the rubbing and the cigar-roll-role her little-girl was performing between her thighs as she walked with her little-girl in a cock-thong, had exposed more of her little-girl’ bare head, and the rub on her stocking tops was making the head of her little-girl very sore. And her little-girl’s foreskin appeared to have been pulled back so far by Biankiss’ walk with her little-girl in a cock-thong, that her wiggle-walk was now rubbing her cock proper without her little-girl’s foreskin protecting her from the hot rubbing on her stocking tops. And Biankiss could feel mounting even greater tingling in her little-girl. And she knew it was from the stockings constantly rubbing the head of her little-girl. And she longed for the tingling to continue it was so incredibly painfully exciting to her little-girl.
‘Wow! An angel in her wedding gown! You’re gorgeous darling you know that don’t you?!! What lucky girl married you?! You’re absolutely stunning!! Ooh, look, you’ve got a little-girl! How perfectly wonderful. She looks very sore. Are you wearing a cock-thong for the cigar-roll walk to get your little-girl ready for your wife on your wedding night?’
‘She’s bringing her little-girl in to help the police with enquiries - a little sexual fantasy we’re indulging’, Marina informed. It’s two hundred dollars if you want to come in and watch’.
‘Well’ whatever that’s going to be about, if it involves this lovely chick, and if you take plastic, count me in, and how!’ the stranger enthused.
And, at last Biankiss and her tormented little-girl re-entered the Dolly Damsel; and there were wolf-whistles, long low and then loud one-note whistles, feet stamping, hands clapping and banging tables, and feet stomping the floor to greet the return of the thoroughly humiliated Biankiss, and her little-girl, to the Dolly Damsel, and a talking to for her little-girl from ‘the police’.
........................
As the walking stopped and Biankiss momentarily stood, a tingling pain in her little-girl from the rubbing and rolling of her foreskin, and the static electricity built up from that foreskin rubbing and foreskin rolling back and forth, and to and fro, between her thighs as she had walked around Girl Market Square, grew gradually to a very painful throb, and Biankiss adored it, as too did her little-girl. And she lowered her head to hide the deep shame she felt from this deep and deeply embarrassing pleasure in public shame.
The ‘play’ began immediately.
‘Ah, you must be Mrs Biankiss. Have you brought your daughter...’Kissytoo’ isn’t it....have you brought Ms Kissytoo with you?’ Aimee in the role of a policegirl detective enquired.
Marina removed Biankiss’ crown and the veil dress and took the rose Biankiss had so faithfully carried in prayer around Girl Market Square. Then she cut the strings of Biankiss’ cock-thong, whisking away its loose ends; and Biankiss’ heavily cigar-roll-walk, teasingly tormented little-girl, sprang up to instant attention.
‘Ah good! Now, little lady, we need to have a chat about a shoplifting incident a week last Friday, at a location near your school, during what would have been the luncheon break for you, and the other little girls who go to that very expensive and extremely exclusive establishment.’
The audience were wrapped up in this weird extemporised play with the gorgeous Biankiss and her cock not as the one and only, but as its two leading ladies.
So as to indicate that they were ‘police detectives’, Aimee and Kasandra wore miniskirt-short raincoats for this performance.
‘Perhaps we can appeal to you through your poor momma’s struggles’, Aimee added, as she nodded to Marina to hand Biankiss a sweeping broom.
‘Sweep the floor you bitch!’ Marina spat. And Biankiss began to sweep between the tables.
Aimee came in again: ‘Your poor momma has struggled to afford your school fees, Ms Kissytoo. She works every night at the Dolly Damsel public house, thinking only of her little-girl, even as the landlord’s chief barmaid bosses your momma around cruelly. And the customers smack her bare bottom as she moves among the tables, and some of them pinch her pretty bum, and she has to put up with all that for the sake of her little-girl and her little-girl’s expensive education.’
‘Oh yea!!’ came a shout from the work-gang girls, and Biankiss squeaked and leapt when her pretty bum was pinched. And no sooner had she turned from that, than another girl slapped Biankiss’ bare bottom resoundingly hard.
‘Stop distracting the customers and sweep the floor you damned useless bitch!’ Marina ordered, and Biankiss guardedly complied, trying to keep her bottom from being pinched or slapped again; though she must have known that such a lovely target would not be resisted for long.
‘And sometimes she is visited at her nightly work by the landlady of the Dolly Damsel, who is really nasty to her, and has tried to assault her little-girl: yes you Ms Kissytoo, though that was when you were very young, long before you began going to your present school, and you may have blocked the horror of it from your memory!’
Biankiss turned at a tap on her shoulder and gave the landlady, Chamita, her prettiest smile, only to find Chamita’s hand ineffectually grabbing for her little-girl, making Biankiss double at the waist to avoid her little-girl being touched, and to receive a harsh slap hard across her very pretty face, in consequence.
‘Oooh please! That hurt so!’ Biankiss protested, and as she rose it could be seen that a spot of blood was at the corner of her lovely mouth.
‘And now your momma has had to take an evening off from the only work she can find to pay your school fees, Ms Kissytoo, to bring you here to this police station for questioning.
Marina moved a chair before Aimee, and took away Biankiss’ broom.
‘Do please sit down Mrs Biankiss.’
Biankiss sat, with her little-girl highly heavenly high and hard up-thrusting from between her beautiful thighs.
‘Thank you for bringing your little-girl in Mrs Biankiss. We appreciate that you’re having to lose pay bringing her here for interview. And, unfortunately, we have to add to your cares. You see we are absolutely sure your little-girl was the lead mischief in the shoplifting spree indulged a week since. We have recent street-security-camera pictures of your little-girl walking around Girl Market Square, wearing a very expensive, and equally exclusive, designer cock-thong, from a range we know were stolen from ‘Cocky Girl’, the emporium in question.’
‘Now, all we need is a confirmatory admission signed by your little-girl, and she will be let off with a caution this time......
......Yes, that’s right. If your little girl signs the confession we have drawn up for her, she won’t go to an all-girl’s reform prison, that’s guaranteed. Indeed, if she signs, she won’t even go to court, and therefore she won’t get a criminal record. And so, she can graduate school and go to college with no record anywhere to say that she was anything other than a good little-girl. But if she doesn’t sign right here and now, nothing is ruled out.’
‘My colleague has the confession paper here.’
At this, Aimee turned to Kasandra, who carried a stiff black card with the words ‘I am Kissytoo and I did do the shoplifting: I’m sorry!’ printed in large white lettering upon it. And she took it over to the flinching Biankiss, and pressed the bottom right corner of the page against the head of Biankiss’ little-girl, sliding it across the septum of her cock in a ‘cross’ motion fore and back and fore and back, before withdrawing it, and showing it to Aimee.
‘Has your little-girl not learned how to write at that expensive school you send her to? If it’s all she’s capable of, she can just mark a cross. Will you try again please Detective Kasandra.’
Kasandra repeated the sliding of the stiff card over the top of Biankiss’ little-girl, with the same lack of success, the same absence of mark. She again held the card up to show Aimee, and then the audience.
‘Your little-girl, your little Kissytoo, is being very stubborn. She is clearly very full of ink. She’s carrying two heavy sacks of ink with her. She must have more than enough ink in her lovely balls, to write a mere cross on her confession.....
.....But, since she won’t oblige in response to a polite request, indeed two polite opportunities have been turned down by her..... It seems she is sulking like a spoilt brat, and it looks as if we are going to have to beat a confession, and some white ink to sign it with, out of your little-girl!’
Aimee nodded to Marina and Kasandra, and there was a mumble rumble of curious excitement in the audience, and a look around the Dolly Damsel revealed girls outside gently nudging each other out of the way, and pressing their eyes shaded by one hand, up to all the windows to see if they could see for free, what was to happen to the pretty girl with the pretty little-girl they had not long since witnessed in her beautiful veil, walking around Girl Market Square.
Those who could not manage a view were being given a giggling running commentary by excited exciting soprano voices: ‘They’re tying her up with her back to a post: one of the ceiling supports!’
And so they were. Biankiss made a struggle, but only prettily, and ineffectually. Her wrists were behind an oak upright. They were tied to a horizontal peg behind that rigid upright, so that her gloved arms were high above her head.
Now her legs were being drawn back behind the upright as well. And her tiptoe-stood feet were placed together and her ankles tied tightly first to each other and then behind the upright post. The position was very uncomfortable. But it meant that the cushion provided by Biankiss’ ample posterior was prompting her very erect little-girl to stand out outstandingly.
And then, without more ado, Marina, Biankiss’ friend Marina, began to slap Biankiss’ little-girl with her bare hand. And she hit Biankiss’ little-girl from side to side. The little-girl springing back erect, centrally erect, at each slap, only to be slapped the opposite way from that she had just sprung back from. Biankiss’ little-girl was being beaten like a boxer’s gymnasium punch-ball.
‘All those who have bought tickets to slap the little-girl, queue up please. And don’t forget. We are looking to beat a confession out of her. So show absolutely no mercy whatsoever!’ Aimee ordered.
The love of sweet Biankiss’ life, Sandra, took over next, and slapped Biankiss’ little-girl harder still, thwacking its head with fearsome blows that made Biankiss bite her lower lip and cry out with the pain.
Sandra made the most of her beating, by spacing her smacks such as to allow Biankiss’ little-girl to settle back from her previous whack, and then time the next slap of the little-girl to follow a lining-up of her hand with its middle fingers slightly more backward of the two outer ones, so as to increase the pain. Biankiss’ little-girl was thus being slapped as if the girl beating it wanted to slap it right across the room in either direction.
‘Please; oh please, it hurts me so!! Oh please, please stop!! Please stop!’ Biankiss pleaded.
‘Apart from your being her mother, what has it to do with you, you stupid woman? It’s your little-girl that is being beaten, not you!’ Aimee hissed, to loud giggles from the audience.
Chamita was waiting her turn, watching Biankiss’ little-girl being unmercifully slapped from side to side, and showing decided swelling from its cruel treatment.
Aimee prompted: ‘The little-girl is looking decidedly arrogant, Chamita. Beat her down. Slap her down to the floor where she belongs. Then she’ll sign the confession!’
And, when Chamita took her turn, this was the pattern Biankiss’ little-girl must endure. And the vicious slapping down of the head of Biankiss’ little-girl hurt more than the slapping from side to side.
‘Don’t let her know which way you are going to hit her. Slap the little-girl any which way you choose. And hit hard for goodness sake! We are after a confession here!’ Aimee instructed.
‘Blindfold the mother!’ Aimee then instructed, and a cloth was tied around Biankiss’ head to cover her lovely sparkling ice-blue eyes.
And so terror was now added to the torture of Biankiss’ little-girl. And the beating of Biankiss’ little-girl continued endlessly, endlessly. The little-girl was mercilessly slapped from side to side, and then sometimes hard down, and she sprang back from each swipe, no matter how hard or gentle or cruelly savage the slaps.
Half an hour passed, then a full hour, and still Biankiss’ little-girl was being slapped, and slapped, and slapped, and slapped.
Girls were still waiting to beat the little-girl. Some were on their second turn. These had watched what others did, and had thought out new cruelties. And so Biankiss’ little-girl was hit with closed fists, or exclusively with the back of the fingers of the torturer. And her little-girl was extremely swollen and evidenced some blood.
And, the first hour melted into the second, and far beyond even that, surely beyond savage duration. And even still yet, even yet still, Biankiss’ little-girl was being slapped, and slapped, and slapped, and slapped. And still she returned to sit up and beg for more.
‘What’ve you got there?!’ Aimee whispered in the blindfolded Biankiss’ hearing: hearing that included the sound of a curiously familiar rattling Biankiss knew from home life, but could not locate in her mind what location in her home it was familiar from.
And the long handled pliable-plastic brushes that were against each seat in the public house’s lavatories had been brought into the bar-room. And Aimee seized one, weighed it in her hand, and began to whip Biankiss’ little-girl brutally side to side, slapping the little-girl’s swollen head with the stiff bristles in one direction, and the hard back of the brush’s head in the other. And Biankiss squealed with the pain as the bristles multiply-grazed her little-girl’s foreskin and the foreskin began to bleed.
The savage beating of the little-girl continued, with bare hands, the toilet brushes, and other implements including wet towels for another hour of the little-girl being slapped, and slapped, and slapped, and still sitting up for more.
By now every single girl in the bar had taken several turns to beat the little-girl. And still there was no sign of her being inked-up to sign her confession.
Girls who hadn’t paid had managed to sneak in too, and to take their opportunity to slap the little-girl from side to side to and back and forth.
‘She’s a tough little-girl, but I’ve dealt with harder problems than her. We’ll beat a confession out of her if it takes till a fortnight of dawns’ Aimee threatened.
‘Did we ought to beat the little-girl’s mother?’ Kasandra enquired, deliberately for Biankiss’ hearing.
‘No, Detective Kasandra; it is the little-girl that did the crime, so it must be the little-girl that confesses. Keep beating the little-girl. Believe me, she’ll give in eventually.’
The brutal slapping of the little-girl continued, with bare hands and even two table tennis bats, for yet another hour of the little-girl being slapped, and slapped, and still popping up for more.
Biankiss’ little-girl was swollen and bleeding but still defiantly erect in its toggle-thong strap. And the still blindfolded Biankiss was well into the third hour of having her little-girl slapped, and slapped, and slapped, and slapped. And still there was no sign of a confession: no sign of the white ink needed to sign the confession.
All this longest long while of cruel beating of Biankiss’ little-girl, the girl who loved Biankiss beyond measure had sat through, her watching misted by tears initially, her love having her little-girl slapped, and slapped, and slapped, and endlessly beaten to and fro, and hit so hard back and forth, and forth and back, and then slapped down and then to and fro, and to and fro, and back and forth, and back and forth, and then slapped hard down.
‘Please may I have a turn’, Biankiss heard sweet Dora’s voice enquire.
‘Of course Dory sweetheart! But you didn’t look as if you were enjoying this as much as we all are!’ Miranda whispered.
Dora smiled shyly. ‘I’m ready to take a turn now though.’
And she stepped forward and placed her gentle hand on Biankiss’ little-girl, and stroked it once gently, before she bent and sweetly kissed her terribly bruised and horribly swollen and profusely bleeding head. Then she drew back her pretty hand, and slapped Biankiss’ little-girl with all her might, back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, faster and faster and faster; then she paused and slapped the little-girl back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth,; and then she paused a little longer still, and then again she slapped Biankiss’ little-girl as hard as she could. And of that same sudden Biankiss howled with the joy of the pain she had endured and the humiliation her little-girl had suffered and the hour upon endless hour of her little-girl being thrashed and slapped and beaten and slapped, and slapped, and slapped, and her body went immensely rigid as the whole of her lovely soul left her gentle heart and entered her little-girl, and Dora slapped the little-girl back and forth, and back and forth, as hard and as often as she could and the little-girl went as immensely rigid as lovely Biankiss, and Biankiss screamed inhumanly with the heaven of the highest of high joy, and Dora slapped the little-girl back and forth, and back and forth, back and forth, and the little-girl spurted and squirted her love-seed in defiance of gravity and the force of Dora’s slaps, and the spurt anointed the bar’s walls left and right, and fountained forth toward the oak beams of the Dolly Damsel’ ceiling.
And, finally, the cardboard document was drawn across the pretty little-girl‘s head, in the two motions that would secure a bloodied-white cross as the little-girl’s mark; the little-girl’s ink signed the confession, and the little-girl was free to go home with her momma and then, maybe, just maybe, back to her school; her crime perhaps now history and her future just remotely possibly secured.
Amidst applause and cheering and wolf-whistles, Marina removed Biankiss’ blindfold, untied her from the post, and finally removed the toggle-thong that had forced Biankiss’ little-girl into a seven-hour constant erection.
Biankiss’ little-girl was dreadfully sore and bleeding, and she winced and cried out with the flood of extra pain that shot through her little-girl’s nerve-endings as, at long last her little-girl could and did relax toward its flaccid state.
Now lovely Biankiss turned and smiled shyly at Dora.
‘Don’t even begin to imagine that it is over for you and your little-girl yet, Kissy! You are going to be my wife; you bitch!’, Dora whisper-hissed, determinedly.
And Biankiss lowered her sweet face, and averted her eyes, and her little-girl shot up into an instant heavenly heavy harder than hard erection again.....
........................
As she entered her regular bar at the Nell Quim public house in Barnmouth’s Girl Market Square, a little late for a weekly lunchtime gathering, Dora raised a pretty hand and swiftly flexed its fingers and then its thumb in turn as a wave, before joining friends assembled at the table that awaited her.
As she approached the brunette Sandra, Sandra rose and held back a chair for Dora, ready to slide it under the angel as she lowered herself to sit.
Meanwhile, Biankiss, who had hitherto dutifully followed the required three paces behind her husband-girl, seemed to forget her place, and reflexed to be the one to seat herself, causing Dora to whisper quietly gently: ‘Who gave you permission to sit, sweetheart?’, and the thus reminded Biankiss to stay standing with her head hanging apologetically.
Biankiss very rarely joined the company these days. So it was perhaps her presence that prompted the question the answer to which never came up in Dora’s normal conversation:
‘How’s married life then Dora’, this from Sandra, who was still engaged to and yet to take the same plunge with Pamela. ‘You and Kissy must be coming up to your first anniversary?’
Dora initially avoided answering the first part of the question, merely answering: ‘Next month, the 13th Friday the 13th would you believe!’
‘Of course it is. That must mean today is the anniversary of your ordering Kissy to marry you....The anniversary of the fun we had with her when she did Nudie Night here at the good old ‘Dolly D’. And god, did we have some fun, or did we have some fun! Woo, and how!!’
The lovely Biankiss, ‘Kissy’ to all who knew her, stood obediently behind her husband-girl’s chair, blushing profusely and ruefully at Sandra’s reminder.
‘Kissy and I are blissfully happy. She knows her place of course, as a wife should. She’s got used to living at home, doing the chores. We can’t both go out to earn a living, and, to be honest, Kissy was never going to find a career....Surely few do when they are still looking for a first job a whole year after graduating college.’
‘She’s looking very pretty, don’t you think?’, Dora admiringly invited.
‘Our Kissy was always a stunner!’ Pamela interjected.
Dora responded: ‘She’s devoted to her looks and her body, of course, just as a girl should be. She gymnasiums daily for three hours. And she costs me a fortune in hairdressers, hand girlicures, and her pedicures, not to mention her full-body waxings. And as for makeup! My goodness me: it certainly gets no less expensive!’
It’s all for love isn’t it sweetness?’ Dora whispered turning her head to Biankiss, to be answered by Biankiss’ lovely eyes telling the universe that ‘love’ was too weak a word and so too ‘deepest devotion’.
Biankiss looked stunning indeed. On her head, with its boy-cropped hair, she wore a soft felt dome-crowned broad-brimmed hat, in brilliant mauve with matching hatband ribbon. Her hat slouched slightly to the left of her head at an appealing angle.
Her beltless A-line dress was in clearly expensive bright mauve pure silk.
Her fine denier seamed nylons were in today’s mauve theme too, and so also, it could be guessed with certainty of winning the bet, were her suspenders. The seams of Biankiss’ nylons were impeccably straight.
She stood on her very shapely legs in a pair of mauve ballets, holding her on tiptop of tiptoe, tensioning the muscles in her delectable calves deliciously.
On her negress inheritance lips, she wore lipstick to echo the same theme as her dress, her stockings, and, at the aforementioned guess, her suspenders. Her eye-makeup completed the seductive scene.
Biankiss’ choice of makeup could have been clumsy and juvenile for a mature girl like herself. But she had overcome even the thought of that, by employing subtle shading differentiation.
Her ballets were of the latest design out of Rome. The squared-off toes ends on which the wearer, pretty Biankiss, stood, only embraced four toes of each foot. Biankiss’ big toes protruded, naked but for mauve toenail varnish. Her stockings were purposely ‘holed’ to take account of this.
But, back to the new style of kid leather ballets Biankiss wore; her big toes were those she had primarily to stand upon. Her shoes curled her other toes out of the way, so that she stood and walked on four toes curled painfully backwards within her ballets and her bare big toes bent painfully forward. Pain and fashion are so often bedfellows. And this was very painful for her.
Biankiss’ dress was sleeveless, and her lovely arms and hands were consequently bare. And, as she stood, she held her hands up at bosom cleavage height, with their palms and closed fingers held flat together as if she were praying.
That was because she wore ‘butterfly cuffs. She had tight gold rings on her thumbs mid-thumb, with a half-inch golden chain linking them. Her ‘butterfly cuffs’ were the reason, when not carrying anything, she walked with her hands held in submissive prayer to her husband-girl Dora. When she expressed her adorable self, Biankiss’ hands’ essential inseparability made her flutter them like pretty butterfly wings.
Biankiss, of course, wore through the septum of her nose, her gold wedding ring. This had been welded closed, after her nose had been pierced on the morning of the day of her wedding to Dora.
All in all, Biankiss’ dress and appearance were for achieving what Dora adored her wife should do. Biankiss turned the head of the girls in the street. She was a bewitching beauty, carrying out her wifely duty to be a devastating doll.
‘Please let me buy a round of drinks’ Dora insisted, ‘I’ve just had my annual bonus.’
‘Sweetness: please go to the bar and order...... will it be the usual?’ Dora looked around and her companions nodded that ‘the usual’ was fine; ‘Sandra and Pauline’s usual girl-pee-white wine, one for me too, whatever Marina would like when you ask her at the bar; and you may have a glass of water if you so choose.’
‘One moment sweetheart’, at this caution, Dora stood and released the clip at the end of the leather leash by which she had led Biankiss on the walk from Dora’s apartment to the Dolly Damsel.
Biankiss wore a leash thus whenever she was out of the house. Now she was married, permission for her to go out alone was in Dora’s sole power, and Dora had not granted authority for such, yet.
Dora unhitched the leash by dethatching its clip from the strong gold-coloured sealed circular ring just outside of Biankiss’ sweet lips; a ring that Biankiss wore, linked to a further sealed oblong ring that passed through the broad-flanged grommet driven into the middle of her tongue.
Biankiss then wiggled obediently to the bar in her ballets on her tortured toes, seeking to be served by the other friend of Dora, Sandra, Pamela, and Biankiss too: the red haired Marina.
Biankiss’ steps were, of course, restricted by the tight gold rings around her big toes between her big toes’ with the two-inch-long golden hobble chain that linked these rings to form her toe-cuffs. The cuffs’ rings were high up where the toes joined the foot. The rings gripped her toes courtesy of in-facing spikes that dug into Biankiss’ flesh. These spikes performed the additional service of encouraging her to step with her big toes higher off the ground.
That her other toes were curled back on themselves within her ballets and thus very painful to put even her delightfully delicious perfect poundage down upon, was further incentive for her to walk on her big toes alone, as far as possible, and despite how painful that too was.
‘Hi Kissy! Long time no see angel. You are looking absolutely gorgeous! Marriage is clearly suiting you! And Dora too of course’, Marina greeted as Biankiss finally completed her erotic struggle to the bar.
‘Way why wav fwee gwirl-pwee wipe wines, and a gwas of wawer pwease Mawina….. And Worwa wed for woo to wav a wink on wer, worselth pwease’, Biankiss requested and informed in the sweetest of lisps she had acquired since her tongue had been pierced and fitted with the huge linked obedience rings, the circled one of which even now protruded beyond her lips.
‘Of course precious!’ Marina assured.
‘Way why wav wem on a way, woo welp we wawwy wem pwease!’ Biankiss added as an afterthought of the obvious knowledge that a tray was necessitated by her ‘butterfly cuffs’.
‘It’s a hot day Kissy! Marina observed, using the absent-minded pleasantry deployed by all barmaids, more usually with strangers, as their customer’s order they pour.
‘You’re dressed to keep cool though. What a lovely outfit!’
‘Wank woo!’ Biankiss responded, and instantly blushed at the offer to masturbate lovely redheaded Marina, her enforced lisp had obliged her to utter, and then giggled goldenly prettily and sweetly helplessly.
‘Wow! I’d just love that sweetheart!’ Marina replied, with a laugh.
It might be wondered why Biankiss could stay friends with Marina, or, come to that, any and all of the girls she was fetching drinks for, including her wife, Dora. But Biankiss had learned her place since she had been a child at home with her mother’s husband-girl. She had been brought up ‘to know her place’. The experience she had had at the hands of Marina and her other friends, and Dora to whom she was not back then married yet; the painful and humiliating experience twelve months ago this day, was something Biankiss had been conditioned to expect.
Biankiss’ friends had just decided to have some fun with her. Biankiss had been paid for the event. She should count herself very lucky. There had been no obligation to pay her a penny.
Back in the present, on such a drainingly hot day, day-dreaming eyes looked from the table to which Biankiss was walking to return with a tray in her pretty hands, and then away, when the breeze caught Biankiss’ dress and pressed it on her momentarily, to illustrate her very feminine frontal attributes had a surprising triangularity, as against the norm of expectation of twins in the perturbing protuberances presentation present.
And the minds’ eyes of Sandra, and Pamela had taken in, not only a seductively co-ordinated movement beneath Biankiss’ A-line gown, but also a sparkle, from beneath the inadequacy of Biankiss’ hem, an inadequacy that equated with brevity and not with any shortcoming in the loveliness of the thighs it failed to cover; sparks of sparkle displayed by a shaft of sunlight from the open entrance door of the bar.
On this particular day, the sun shone a beam in the bar of the Dolly Damsel showing the dust dancing in its laser light. It could have been a spotlight for the gorgeous Biankiss. Bu it also glanced off the wedding ring in her nose, and, for some reason, off something else in a considerably lower region.
‘Thank you sweetheart!’ Dora rewarded after Biankiss had distributed the wines and come back to the table a second time, after having wiggling back to the bar to return the empty tray.
And Biankiss smiled when she saw Dora look at her face, and she stepped forward to hold her husband-girls left hand in both her hands, in absolute adoration of her wife.
‘What was that when Kissy was walking back the first time?’ Pamela enquired, making herself unclear.
‘What was what exactly Pammy?’ Dora asked.
The sun caught something under Kissy’s hem; both bar trips, but when she brought the drinks first trip back it was particularly noticeable. When I think about it, it’s happened before too, has that. It’s none of my business but....’
‘It’s just that you’re dying to know?’ Dora offered as a completion of Pamela’s sentence.
‘Well, mmm, yes. I am a nosey little girl aren’t I?’ Pamela giggled.
‘Yes you are!’ Sandra, her fiancée teasingly agreed, and all three girls with tongues free so to do, giggled in musical chorus.
And then, without any thought of first consulting Biankiss about it, Dora lifted the hem of Biankiss’ dress and Sandra and Pamela gasped loudly with astonishment.
‘It’s called an ‘Olympic’’, Dora explained, ‘...because of the rings, the five rings, gold rings in this case?
‘We had it fitted when Kissy had her nose ringed, the day of our wedding.
The rest of the scattering of lunchtime drinkers in the bar, pretended they were not really looking, but many showed their close companions they were, by checking those same companion’s faces, to see if they were also gawping...for it was not every day that you saw a girl with a cock, and Biankiss had a very beautiful and particularly large cock; a very beautiful and particularly large ‘little-girl’ as the commonplace slang had it.
The ‘Olympic’ looked dreadfully painful. One gold ring was extremely tight around the base of Biankiss’ little-girl, behind her testicles. Another was at the base of her little-girl’s shaft just in front of her testicles. Between these two brutally tight rings, ran a golden chain tensioned very tightly and thus dividing Biankiss’ balls. Even then, each of Biankiss’ testicles was ringed, such that its ‘ball’ was cruelly isolated.
And she also wore an extremely tight ring just below the head of her exceptionally swollenly-erect penis. From an integral tiny but strong ‘hoop’ at the top of the latter ring, a golden chain disappeared upwards into Biankiss’ dress.
‘All the Olympic rings are multi-spiked on their insides. After all, we wouldn’t want any slippage would we? And we’ve had your nipples pierced and ringed too, haven’t we darling?’ Dora added rhetorically, ‘That’s where the chain leading up into her dress from the ring on her little-girl, the one just below her little-girl’s head, runs to. It divides eventually, and each of the two chains from thereon goes to a nipple ring. So when my darling wifey walks, and her wonderful titties swing and sway, her titties’ natural movements make her little-girl dance, don’t they darling? And that teases your little-girl wickedly, doesn’t it sweetness?’
‘Since her Olympic was fitted at our marriage, Biankiss is in the eleventh...well, very nearly the twelfth thinking about it.....Yes pretty well the twelfth month of a continuous erection. And it hurts you very much doesn’t it darling?’ Dora said on behalf of Biankiss, who merely squeezed Dora’s hand to confirm her hopelessly besotted love.
Dora’s friends looked at each other with utter astonishment in their visages, and then looked at Biankiss to see her reaction to the revelation of her savage suffering. But Biankiss only had eyes for Dora, and she neither returned nor even seemingly noticed the soothing sympathy in their enquiring eyes.
........................
Some six months later, at Dora’s home, Biankiss waited upon Dora’s guests: long-time friends, Sandra, Pamela, Marina; plus old acquaintances Aimee, and Kasandra; and Chamita, the landlady of the Dolly Damsel.
For their enjoyment, Dora had ordered Biankiss to wait upon them naked. Naked that is, except for white tiptoe-top-walk ballet shoes with her four smaller toes curled under cramped, and her big toes exposed bare, ringed, and the rings linked by a half-inch long; a mere half-inch long, hobble-chain; oh and of course, Biankiss’ Olympic on her little-girl.
As Biankiss, with her legs looking particularly beautiful, dutifully totty-toddle-wiggled on highest tiptoe on her bare big toes, with tiny steps in her half-inch hobble chain, about all the errands her husband-girl, Dora, ordered of her, fetching and carrying drinks, delivered with very leggy curtseys, the guests watched fascinated, the effect from Biankiss’ penis’ head being chained to her nipple rings, causing the natural swing of Biankiss’ breasts when she walked, to tease her, as evidenced by the consequential swaying and bobbing of Biankiss’ hugely erect little-girl.
Despite Dora’s much earlier confirmation to some among them, that Biankiss’ tits were definitely the culprits in the tormenting, this was the highly erotic confirmation they had longed to see, being demonstrated so openly.
And to further tease Biankiss’ little-girl, on this occasion Dora had added a chain to the arrangement. The extra chain ran from the rings through Biankiss’ tongue to the rings in her nipples. So now, not only did the swing and bob of Biankiss’ tits tease her little-girl, but so too also did any movement of Biankiss’ head, and even of Biankiss’ tongue when she was given permission to speak.
Marina, had not seen Biankiss’ Olympic before, or therefore the way the calculatedly sized cruel rings bit into the base of her cock behind and in front of her testicles divided and ruled-over her widely separated and ring-strangled testicles, let alone the chain from the also calculatedly sized ring just below Biankiss’ little-girl’s head to Biankiss’ nipple rings.
Biankiss’ little-girl was extremely erect. She had nine-inches, at minimum, of a very grown-up little-girl, pointing toward the corner where a wall joins a ceiling, with, because of its strangulation, a dark red to purple head poking from her foreskin.
And her little-girl was clearly under great stress. All but as rigid as rigour mortis, her lattice-work of fine filigree, and more especially her defiant bolder veins, stood out painful-looking proudly.
Her testicles were divided and ruled over by the taut chain that ran between the two cock-base rings, and were clearly delineated in her scrotum sack, because they were stretching that sack; and because they were quarantined in each testicle by the extremely tight circular gold rings pushing them to her scrotum’s furthest and lowest extremity, permitting them no movement whatsoever.
Astonished at the magnificent beauty of this, but also suddenly sympathetic to the girl she always called ‘Kissy’ and regarded as her friend, even though she had led the public punishment of Biankiss’ little-girl at the Dolly Damsel some while back now, Marina mused aloud: ‘God! How much must that hurt?!’
‘Eighteen months’ worth’, Dora giggled.
‘Oh my good god!! Kissy has had a hard-on, a continuous erection, for eighteen months?!!!’
‘Yes; haven’t you darling!’ Dora clearly enjoyed reminding.
‘Oh dear god, that must be excruciating!!’
‘Well, I can certainly testify that peeing is hell for her’, Dora laughed.
‘It must be great for you in bed though...when you and Kissy make love’, Marina slyly added, her phrasing meant to hide her overwhelming curiosity.
This being the same question several other girls present had long since wished they’d dared ask, they tried to appear disinterested in the answer, as if they already knew what the answer must and would be.
But they were to be even further astonished as the answer came: ‘The eighteen months obviously includes Kissy’s complete abstinence. We never..... we’ve never ever ‘made love’, as you put it. Kissy isn’t allowed any physical love; she’s had, with one absolutely hilarious exception, she’s had none of any kind whatsoever since we wed, eighteen months ago. But Kissy doesn’t mind do you darling?’, Dora teased, with a follow-up giggle.
‘Normally, here at home, we keep her hands chained behind her, except when she’s doing the household chores of course……
…..I have very trustworthy maids. I can leave it to them to organise her, oversee her; and of course to give her little-girl a good hard smacking if Kissy slacks at all....’
‘.....I have a couple of particularly trusty maids who shave her legs and her little-girl, or wax her from time to time, and bathe her twice daily in the shower. And Kissy sleeps on her back, naked, with ankles and wrists spread-eagled and chained to the distant corners of her bed.
‘We don’t need to make love, because we have an open marriage you see; Kissy and I. She likes to stand and watch, even all night long sometimes, while I make love with my girlfriend; my mistress.....don’t you precious? But we always chain your hands behind you, so, while you’re watching, you can’t play with your little-girl, don’t we eh sweetness, mmm?’
‘But would you believe that Kissy had an orgasm once; just the once. It was on the eve of the day we wed: on our wedding night?! It would have been when she accidentally saw me naked for the first time!......
…….She’d so obviously been anticipating the wedding night; the silly bitch. Her Olympic stopped her little-girl issuing seed of course.... There must be gallons of seed in your lovely balls after your eighteen months of sheer bliss since then, mustn’t there darling? None’s ever escaped yet, has it angel?.....
......Imagine that! She had a cum on the very day; the very night of our marriage, wearing her Olympic!!!....’
Dora had to stop, she was well on her way to doubling over with laughter, clutching her belly because of the pain her laughing so hard was causing in her stomach muscles, and she was helpless at the memory....
‘.......On our wedding night!!!!!’ Dora screeched all but incoherently through her laughter, as she only just managed to get this reminder out, and then just couldn’t talk. She was laughing so much; tears were running in rivers down her face, and she nearly peed her panties. Were rolling on the floor not so undignified when one had guests, she would have rolled on the floor in hopelessly helpless laughter.....
‘.....The stupid bitch was in total agony for a whole week!!!!!’ Dora screeched, and just had to extract from a nearby box, a four-deep compilation combination of paper handkerchiefs to wipe the laughter-tears from her eyes and stop her screams of memory mirth.
Even after eighteen whole months of this extreme humiliation and exceptionally painful torture of her little-girl, and even following this mocking revelation of the disastrous wedding night for poor Biankiss; Biankiss looked only the deepest adoration at Dora.
Then, even as peristaltic-like waves were still paining Dora’s stomach muscles, and Dora busy blowing her nose whilst still fighting the slowly receding bubbles of laughter, ‘What are you wanting to say, precious?’ Dora gently enquired, whilst pulling out three more fresh tissues, and handing Biankiss the soiled ones for her to dispose of; ‘You may speak....’
‘Why wuv woo Worwa!’ Biankiss desperately lisped with her chained tongue, and all the sincerity in her gentle soul, cruelly mocked by her speaking being, via-chain, communicated to her little-girl, which danced prettily with her every word as it was teased by the links to her tongue.
‘I know you do darling. I know you do...’, Dora soothed, and then blew Biankiss the sweetest of sweet kisses, before the memory of the wedding night orgasm overcame her again, and she collapsed into completely helpless laughter once more.
Hard as she now fought to banish the memory of the wedding night, waves of giggles continued to overcome Dora’s will:
‘Where...oh god I can’t stop!!......
…..Where....I’m...God stop it!!....
……I’m sorry!!....
……Where....No.....
……I must pull myself together!!....
……Oh jeese!!....
……No!.....’
.....I’m under control!!.....
…..Now where...erm!!....
…..I’m under control!! I’m under control!!....
…..Where....sign?!! Oh god!!....
…..Where....Where on here was it that you wanted me to sign, Aimee?’, Dora finally enquired, when she could, at last, see through her laughter induced tears more clearly.
........................
Some six months later, the swept-dunes of the breezeless desert evidence recent and historic perturbations. Other else the camera shows the vast emptiness. It then briefly studies the unrelenting pitiless sun. Now back to the desolation, and the vastly distant horizon, and the scorched air in the deep empty distant, shimmering akin wavering wavelets; though river rivulet nor rill wished for is truth fulfilled.
Of a sudden, we see a speck on that hazy horizon. Our eyes focus on this. It fascinates alike with a minuscule insect scurrying across the leaf of a book, displaying speed and determination without visible means of motion or apparent origin or destination.
No speed applies to the horizon speck we speculate upon through the camera’s eye though. Only ‘slow’ applies to that which catches our eye. And what gradually appears has vertical more than horizontal dimension.
The camera has telescopic scope. This deployed, distance finds focus as clear as our standing there as well as here. And we see a very pretty face with eyes of ice-blue, and a head topped with a dome-crowned raffia mini-sombrero in dazzling white.
The figure comes further up beyond where the sand dips below the skyline. The face has already tolled and told that this former speck is a lone girl.
As the vision, who is a vision of loveliness and loneliness, rises to full-length in our unaided sight, we see that her A-line dress is in pure white too, that it has long sleeves, that that is far more than can be said for its hem; and, consequently, our red blood magnets our eyes on her legs. And we are not disappointed even once, let alone twice, as her shapely bare bearing bearers, in impractical white ballets digging her tiptoed toes into the dunes, bring her nearer to eyes and longing arms.
If this were not morn, this girl, the only creature visible in the world, would be from the ribcage that yielded the ever-first-girl’s name. But though our presence must confirm she could not be she, the she she is surely shows why the one that was really Eve set far Eden aflame.
As she closers still, we are astonished at the dazzling sparkle between her slender ankles. Then the dazzle ceases to defy the eye having espied what the mind would prefer denied; that we did indeed see chain on the damsel.
Her hands are behind her back, a hint that they girlacles are not in lack. An inverted triangularity of erotic motions under the front of her dress puts out hearts in commotion. What fool has concluded that with chains she can control a girl’s number-nine potion?
........................
‘That opening scene puts me in mind of the Davina Keen classic, ‘Laura of Arabia’? I ventured.
‘You’re out here to edit the rushes, Eve’, not to show off your quiz question knowledge of movies!’, a smiling Marina insisted, before she giggled charmingly and brushed my hand with hers, to show she meant no hurt.
As she moved for the exit of the tent, she gave me a wiggle, and looked back to check that her rear reward had charmed me.
‘Dora says you’re coming out with us to watch some of the filming?’
‘That’s right’, tomorrow’, I answered, not prompting Marina, who couldn’t have spotted me there, since I’d already been in the background today.
‘You do know that you mustn’t interfere, no matter what?
‘Sure: I’m just here to do the editing so Dora has a compressed product for the distribution rights’ bids on O-bey. I know my place’, I assured her.
........................
The camera lies of course; we know it does. So there were in fact a whole host of folk out there where the ‘film’ rushes showed emptiness and the lonely girl struggling over the horizon, suddenly proving there’s no complete vacuum. Hell of a job well done to sure there were no tell-tale human footprints vicinitying on the video though!
Shortly later in yesterday’s fuller takes, Biankiss came across tribesgirls herding goats.
They jabbered away in a language Biankiss obviously knew not of. Then two of them began to point at her and at something beneath her very skimpy dress which appeared to be pointing very hard back at them.
Maybe to point so forcefully is rude. But the tribesgirls were surprisingly cruel back.
Clearly hot and extremely thirsty after an hour struggling through the dunes, and with her very pretty legs, the lovely legs of a fit girl, about to give out from the strain of walking three miles on unsupportive shifting sands wearing tiptoe-topping ballets, what did the tribesgirls do? Pausing in their herding, they took bottles of water out of their all-enveloping burkas, lifted their headdresses a sufficiency to suffice, and sipped, without offering any to poor pretty Biankiss.
The two girls that had spotted something swinging excitingly enticingly in the region of Biankiss’ groin, now went over to her. And, caught between her want of human company, and her fear at these visages in sand-sweeping gowns, with their faces shrouded to just below their startlingly brown eyes, and their heads covered to just above their eyebrows, Biankiss moved to shy away, only to be tangled by the three-inch-long hobble chain between her ankles.
Jabbering in a tongue foreign to Biankiss, and having, as fellow actresses in this event, failed the hospitality for which Arabs are justly famed, the two girls whisked up the hem of Biankiss’ dress, and cried out in the international tongue called ‘astonishment’.
The discovering uncovering of Biankiss’ little-girl, was a source of amazed delight and humiliating laughter and much pointing. And Biankiss only understood the western word ‘camel’ being repeatedly discussed among the women gathered around her. That this word had been planted in the apology for a script for this movie, was not in Biankiss’ ken. Had she been able to understand any of the rest of the conversation, she would have heard this approximation to translation of it....
‘She’s gorgeous!’
‘The way her cock is ringed must be hell for her! I did not know that they also do that to the camel-girls in Europe, where she clearly comes from.
‘In England they call the cock of a camel-girl, a ‘little-girl’’
‘If you know that, do you know why this camel-girl wears such tight rings on what you say is called her ‘little-girl’? Is it, as with us, to ensure a camel-girl concentrates on her work?’
‘Why do they call a camel-girl’s cock a ‘little-girl’ when this one is so big?’
Giggles followed, while they stripped Biankiss, while, as Biankiss read it, laughing at her.
Eager hands were soon on Biankiss’ very generous apportionment of breasts, and squeezing them, and some more jabbering, and eyes expressing surprise. Then a head cowl was lifted the necessary needsworth, and lips applied to Biankiss’ left nipple taking the nipple-ring through it, into the eager mouth.
‘This Bactrian has arid humps! For so mature a camel-girl that is a surprise. Perhaps she has yet to have her humps injected.’
‘Or she has been thrown out by the tribe that reared her because she remained arid.’
‘With no milk in her humps to drink to sustain herself out here in the open, it is no wonder she looks so thirsty.’
‘The Europeans use camel-girls in races with ponygirls. They would not need to set a racing camel-girl to milk. And for a camel-girl to be milk-yielding is not so important in Europe, where it rains twenty-four hours of every day; unless of course a camel-girl is being farmed for her milk. Some say it is healthier than ox-girl milk which is the most common form of dairy cattle on European farms. It is much favoured by fashion models in Europe because it keeps them slim....’
‘Where did you learn all that? You have never been to Europe!’
‘No. But I go to the internet cafe in Hulujee and read the blogs on Europe from the websites.’
‘Let’s cut this chatter shall we ladies’, one of the elders among the Arab girls instructed. This camel-girl looks extremely thirsty. Offer her water’, she added as she passed over a plastic bottle containing a full pint of the same, with its cap unscrewed.
‘Wank woo!’ Biankiss whispered with her cruelly ringed tongue as the opened bottle was gently introduced to her lovely lips.
After that, two rope loops were loosely tied under Biankiss’ armpits. These were then linked by a single rope tied across the front of her chest and another across he back just below her neck.
Through the loops at her shoulders were inserted tent posts, and then, dangled evenly, from both loops, guy-ropes and tent pegs for ten tents. All these had hitherto been strapped to several of the goats; the more placid ones. The tribesgirls were relieved to have a camel-girl to use. Even a compliant-seeming goat could wander off with their tents and other paraphernalia.
A large goatskin sack was next tied by means of a hoop around Biankiss’ neck, with two straps at its base fastened around her slim waist.
Then the women began to disburden themselves of the blankets they used for their sleeping-over in the open on bitterly cold desert nights. They was followed by a copious quantity of the western-style water bottles they carried on their persons. The full bottles were loaded last. The ones they were presently imbibing from they retained. As good natural environmentalists they loaded Biankiss’ bag with the empty ones first.
The larger goat-skin water containers came in pairs with a strap linking each pair. Ten of these were taken from the backs of the same number of goats, and all ten, five apiece, placed even-numberedly over Biankiss’ left and right shoulders.
This just left the cooking and eating utensils and the two primus stoves with their gas bottles. The pans had strings through their handles to tether them to the rope that crossed Biankiss back, leaving their business ends dangling over her back-sack. The metal plates and cutlery were in a bag loaded into the biggest pan and kept in there by a rope tied across from one of its side lifting handles to the other.
The two gas-fuelled stoves were in canvas sacks tied to the fastening of the main sack around Biankiss’ waist, so that she had a stove-sack at the side of each thigh. Two full and one used gas cylinder, each in its own bag, were then tied to her in the same manner, before and aft of each of the stoves.
Even the supremely feminine muscularity of Biankiss’ very shapely strong legs would be challenged to extremis to merely stand with this burdening, despite that she had leaned forward to counterbalance the rearward prejudice to the distribution of what she bore. Her bare body already shone with inspiring perspiration, giving her an angelic halo in the sweltering sun.
Biankiss had recognised the purposely anglicised ‘camel’ from the conversation that had preceded. But only now did she fully realise the descriptor must have meant her.
Finally these herders gathered their goats with Biankiss at the rear of the herd, and in front of the two girls taking their turn to drive the goats and the serendipitously acquired camel-girl, as they ordered the goats to, ‘Go’, and Biankiss to, ‘Go you bitch go!!!’
‘Hulujee five miles’, the leading elder resignedly observed, amid the thwack of the camel-girl whips, the four-foot long flat leather straps, with which two herdsgirls were driving Biankiss, aiming skilfully around the front of her from behind, as years of practice had taught, and experience had proved necessity, to, with their whips, flick Biankiss’ little-girl’s testicles to urge their camel-girl on.
The bright tribesgirl so full of questions and equal of knowledge; she who was worldly and wordy from her acquaintance with the new technologies, but also respectful of the wisdom of her elders, led the way with the whip. And she had a way with the whip. And she had her way with the whip; for her companions would yield to her superior skill, borne of practice to ensure perfection in practise. And Biankiss could nought do to defend her little-girl from the skill of this little girl, who seemed so gentle among her peers, though Biankiss knew nothing of the language and could only judge by demeanour and the eyes, the lovely shining brown eyes, above the otherwise all-veiling head and body covering and shrouding drapery hiding the wholeness of these women from the view of the world for religion’s sake, and that of practicality in the searing sun of days and the cryogenic cold of nights.
Under the unbearable burden borne on her shoulders and the skilful flick of the lash aimed so skilfully at her testicles, Biankiss felt a stomach-heaving nausea, the pain from her whipping, her whipping as a camel-girl, concentrated as it was on her most sensitive parts, was achieving its aim. She was becoming solely aware of herself and thus of her condition and thus of her status and that it was lowly and that she had tumbled below humble to become the exploited animal she was now; both as burden bearer, and as sex-object being filmed for the masturbatory fantasies of the girls who would watch the finished product of this torture on their cinema screens and personal media means.
And the little girl whipped her cock. And Biankiss wondered if this was a miss by the miss, till her little-girl was tip whipped again and against all reason that it could further so in its savage Olympic ringing, it stiffened and erected massively mast as it must from the sting of such stimuli. Was this torture to take her to teetering torment? The whip caught her little-girl at its tip a third time. And now next it struck her testicles, and Biankiss stomach churned with the dull echo of the pain from this latter and return to the former form of lashing, as she struggled before the tribesgirls aglow, with her complexion haloed by perspiration in the unrelenting heat under the unyielding lash and sun, till the lash caught the tip of her little-girl yet once more and its kiss instead of sting and echo of pain through-coursing from its causation vibrating via its distended veins, seemed the sweetest sweet Biankiss had in her lovely loving lifetime ever yet secured. And it ensured, and she knew she, who could never begat issue, not being that type of girl, was about to give issue, and she closed her eyes and longed that the next lash would not be, as was unnecessary now, to further prime her testicles, but would complete the urging urgency in her cock, in her little-girl, to spring forth the seed of its love, the seed of her love, the seed sown in her heart delegated delicately to her lowly lowest lonely organ to express expressly to the world her heart.
And the absence of the lash was more urgent urge than the application. And Biankiss knew all too well the throbbing sensation and that she was going to spurt, and it hurt, oh god it hurt, and she wanted the pain and she wanted the whip again, she wanted the tip of her little-girl to be flicked again so she would and could give to the world on this open plain, the potent potential of her onanastic seed falling to the sterile sands. And the abeyance of the lash was more powerful and empowering than its application, despite her in-mind supplication for its kiss a further time to match the kiss that had stirred her and her little-girl after so many long, so many endless, so winding a desert road in her permanent erection without affection other than that of her love for her wife, Dora.
And it was Dora’s breath she felt on her cock, and it was Dora’s whisper she heard as she awoke supine bound abed in the dawn of an England morn, and it was Dora’s breathy voice that whispered, as the lovely giggle echoed that the impact of the loving kiss of the living kiss on the tip had been recorded as resulting in the desired end more than if she had kissed Biankiss on the lips, and giggled as she, as Dora did now to her wife, to her bride, to Biankiss with her ice-blue eyes open agony-wide the dream awaking from her dream of a seedcake dessert in the desert full of seed made by she asleep, who now awake, knew could never from her ring-bound little-girl forth from issue: as Dora’s soft sweet-scented hair and zephyr of breathy whisper drew across the tip in whip replication and in opposition of such application in the softness of its brushing of her cock and the lips breathy whisper to and on her cock then post kiss as, for begging Biankiss, sans seed, sans repletion, sans anything, sans everything bar agonising pain; damned as she was dammed as her little-girl was at this dawn of this day at this the new dawn of the same old dawn with her cock and balls securely severely savagely strangled, in her, in their, in her little-girl’s Olympian rings….as Dora whispered ‘Happy second anniversary, darling!!’ began for Biankiss an ever-repeating never-completing never-ending for fully an unfulfilled fortnight-long orgasm.....
Disconnections
a series of stories by Eve Adorer
The Katiann Prokiss Affair
Synopsis: - The year was 2063, and the newsblogs of the time called Katiann Prokiss ‘trailer trash’.
The Katiann Prokiss Affair
by Eve Adorer
‘Statement by the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs - Ms Paton-Hicks!’
Madam Speaker nodded her way, and the very attractive brunette the Speaker had thus indicated to, rose confidently to her feet before the upper house of England’s London based Governing Assembly.
..................
Ten minutes earlier, and the custodian of the public gallery – the ‘Onlookers’ Gallery’ of the House of Ladies, had placed her own handbag at the end of the front row of the bench seats of that lofty location. She had decided that it was decidedly right to reserve a place for the ‘onlooker’ whose name was on every breath.
So many Ladies of the Land - as the elected members of this upper House of the Assembly were styled - were in the debating chamber below, that quite a number were having to stand.
Standing was not allowed in the public gallery: security was tight since ten years back, and the threat of the GLA – the Girls’ Liberation Army – now long gone – the threat that is – their leaders were still doing hard labour – effectively gone unlike the change in regulations they’d caused, which still remained.
No standing was allowed, and, as a result, many girls were being turned away from the public balcony today. The custodian knew it was right to reserve a seat so that the graceful redhead could slide her elegant figure into and onto it - talking of which she’d be sitting it on it wouldn’t she - lucky bench.
From the fuss at the outside front door of the building, the custodian had realised, that her suspicions the ‘notorious’ girl had been – indeed had had to be - sneaked in through the ‘secret’ tunnel that connected the House with the nearby Assembly Underground Train Station, were almost certainly true.
It was a regular deception that, so often used it was a wonder the media hadn’t caught on to how they’d been caught out so often ages since.
When the girl graced in, she was so cool and so elegant, that the custodian had to remind herself not to curtsy.
She dressed so smartly. How could a girl from her background afford Paris, New York, and Milan; the clear evidence of which clothed and shod her? And yet her smile of thanks was so sweet and so natural. How could this be the ‘demon damsel’ the yellow – the gutter press were pressing on the public’s collective mind?
And, oh my god, she was wearing front-‘heeled’ ballet shoes. Her incredibly long incredibly strong incredibly smoothly-muscular legs were encased in sheer nylon stockings, and she was naturally wiggle-walking on the very topmost tiptop of her toes, in shoes with a counterbalancing ‘heel’ in front of the part of the shoe containing her foot – the part in squared-off steel-tipped en-pointe ballet shoe formulation.
Her wool-weave jacket and miniskirt were in harlequin green; her blouse white pure silk. Her glorious red hair, her wonderful tight curls, kissed her jacket’s shoulders. Her skirt’s hemline was so short, everyone’s first glance was subliminally drawn to whether or not they could see it; so short indeed that the tops of her stockings and the grips of her stretched suspenders showed when she sat.
And when she sat, the seat was, for her, she being higher than average height, so low, and her legs so long, that her knees were higher than her lap, and her calves, in her ballet shoes, thus took on such erotic curvature, that the supervisor of the public seating just could not take her eyes off Katiann’s legs, and her monumental thighs with the ghost-white bare flesh above the stocking tops before the hemline crossed her lap.
And, as if they had been drawn by magnets, the custodian discovered the focus of both of her eyes was swiftly and unwaveringly focused on the shaded shadowed area betwixt the bewitching stupendous thighs within which it nestled.
And had they but realised their unity, it would have been known that every other woman and girl in the gallery was also of the decided view that, if the session being held on the floor of the House below was indeed questions of the prime minister of England, the first foremost and only question that should be asked, repeatedly if necessary, unless and until answered, was the matter of panty or no panty.
This lovely redhead had sold more newspapers – well these days it was online hits they counted wasn’t it – the ‘press’ – the media - knew their public alright. She was always ‘Katiann’, never just her surname ‘Prokiss’, as she would have been in the headlines were she not so attractive, and if she wasn’t - well - if she didn’t move in high-level - high-powered - much-moneyed circles.
Every article about her hinted at the impossibility of any mere mortal getting anywhere near it, as if it - as if the one she had got - was superior in some way to what any girl in the street had in her knickers.
Perhaps it was true though. The packaging was so lovely, that, it - what this girl had between her powerful thighs, was in higher demand than the run of the mill – you know - ‘thingy’ - of most girls. In consequence she, this girl, could sell access to it for a price - for the highest - I mean she’d been the girlfriend of Michelle Jaeger the lead singer of the Knowing Bones no less. Every teenage girl in the land had been jealous of that - well - till the Turtles had begun to top the charts with that blonde bimbo with the legs - what was her name now - And she was rumoured to have had it tongued by the bimbo too, out in the West Indies - waste of time that if she was after a tan what with her being a real redhead and that - so she shouldn’t risk being made all red and peeling in the sun - horrible that - Sweet freckles she’s got - Bet her skin is so soft staying indoors and covered up outdoors all the time - And bet too she has to wear her necklines high as well, what with her - with them - you know - so big and that - They say they’re all natural too - lucky girl - lucky girlfriends come to that, wouldn’t mind getting my hands on them, on one of them come to that. Bet they’re so soft - From the way they - you know when she walked in - of cause it’s natural - No point in buying a bra if you never wear - well if you’re - if they’re - well - firm - Those silly cone implants that they have done - some of them have done - ought to be a crime did that - I mean it ain’t natural - only real is natural - poking out stiffer than doorknobs, silly cone indeed. Silly cones. Silly name that - Don’t know why they bother - I suppose they think it makes them more attractive, hard tits - that and their god awful tattoos - They ought to be illegal as well - their lovely complexions ruined for the rest of their sweet lives - Fancy thinking you can improve on god’s perfection.
The press outside the front of the Assembly were, no doubt, after another picture of ‘Katiann’ the girl who was in all the headlines and had been for this past year and more.
All the existing pictures showed a girl with shoulder-caressing radiantly red curls, usually wearing a soft felt broad-brimmed hat pulled down at her brow and prow, in case the dark mirror-lenses of her sunglasses – her ‘shades’ – ‘The shades of shame’ as one of the press products that was against her called them – were not enough to disguise an evidently lovely face, as she was rushed by in the rear of a ponygirl-hauled private covered carriage.
Some of the press called her the new ‘it girl’ - No prizes for guessing what ‘it’ that referred to - Wonder if she shaves it - Most girls do now - Hygiene and all that - That so-seductive innocent look it has, when they’ve used the depilation cream around and on it.
When she arrived in the gallery, all heads turned; even those of some of the Ladies down below, supposed to be listening to prime minister’s questions - which was coming to the last question of this week’s session.
They weren’t there just for that. The House wasn’t full like this, for just a routine prime minister’s questions; even if the PM was in a bit of bother with one of her ministers, and her government might fall and a general election follow – married too she was with a lovely wife – ex-ballet dancer: the minister that is - the minister married I mean. Always in miniskirts - her wife; well with legs like hers you would wouldn’t you: must be that limbering up thing they do; and the dancing as well I expect.
Below in the chamber, timed to perfection with the arrival of the luxuriously long legs of the fragrant redhead into the public gallery, Belynda McJones, leader of her majesty’s loyal opposition, asked her last question of the session, of Hortensia Joynson-Johnson, the prime minister of England - A question she’d been storing. A question she and her aides had been polishing all morning in readiness.
‘Will the prime minister confirm true that which all the media are united in affirming, that the prime minister’s right honourable friend, the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs, has been giving alternate meaning to the title of the post she now disgraces, by bedding the notorious call-girl, Katiann Prokiss, a young woman whose beauty is as undoubted as her notoriety; a notoriety said to include her intimate knowledge of the bedrooms of a number of foreign ambassorderesses resident in this, the capital city of a free and proud country, and the recently former defence attaché of the Russian Embassy, Ms Petrova? And will the prime minister also confirm that her right honourable friend’s immediately previous career and consequent knowledge of a leading defence equipment manufacturing company and the products of that company; products vital for the defence of the English realm, must inevitably have risked intimate pillow-talk passage to a foreign power of intelligence damnably damaging to this nation’s security? And will the prime minister further confirm that she will, this day, demand the resignation of the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs, call upon the Royal Girl Police to interview Ms Prokiss, and pass her own resignation and that of her discredited government to her majesty the queen immediately thereafter?’
Satisfied with her portmanteau packaged question, Belynda McJones displayed a ‘that’ll flush it out in the open’ smile of quiet satisfaction, which she briefly turned to show her supporters sitting on the benches behind her, as they cheered her to the last girl and to the rafters.
The opposition then watched, with unconcealed excitement, as, at Madam Speaker’s invitation, the prime minister rose to respond - -
‘No.’
- and quietly sat down again.
The House was in uproar, with shouts of ‘Answer!’ colliding with one another, before coinciding in a chorus of: ‘Answer!’, ‘Answer!’, ‘Answer!’
Madam Speaker’s repeated calls of ‘Order!’ were barely discernible amid the racket. Indeed it might have been thought that, as she mouthed the inaudible, she too could have been in the chorus of: ‘Answer!’, ‘Answer!’, ‘Answer!’ - Till she broke step with that chant and her word - her repeated command, could at last be heard.
‘Order!’
‘Order!’
‘ - the House will come to order!’ she finally managed to assert. She then sat and nodded to the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs.
‘Order!’
‘The next business of the House - ’
Disgruntlement continued to find loud expression, such that it might well drown out the next contributor to proceedings.
‘Order!’
‘Order!!’
‘Statement by the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs - The Right Honourable Ms Paton-Hicks!’
- and the very attractive early-forties-aged shapely brunette rose to her feet, and began to address the House; but not before a sotto voce solo voice had audibly scoffed from her own benches – the government benches behind her: ‘Honourable?!!’ and incurred the speaker’s wrath in consequence.
‘The House will attend diligently upon the speech of the Right Honourable Lady, the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs, without recourse to ribald remarks such as that just heard, audible to all in this House, and thus to the outer world which holds this place in less than conspicuous pride in consequence of such behaviour.
‘Order!’
- ‘Statement by the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs - The Right Honourable Ms Paton-Hicks!’
The attractive brown-eyed brunette rose to her feet again, and many turned, and not in the public gallery alone, to see the reaction, if any, of the gracefully tall torrential-curls-blessed redhead, whose light-blue eyes were securely behind the dark glasses she now habitually wore in public; a public so populated by glaring TV spotlights and flashbulbs for her these days, that she was obliged to take such shelter; and in consequence of which she could look cool and calm without need of effort, as she too listened to her secret lover’s statement.
The custodian of the public gallery didn’t think it right. Not that matters had come to pass such that this statement was necessary from a minister; she didn’t consider it right that a girl from a background like that of Katiann Prokiss should have had any opportunity to advance so far in society.
‘Positive discrimination’ it had been called. The party that was now in opposition had introduced the means for trailer trash such as Prokiss to get to university. They’d privatised the universities, leaving them dependent entirely upon industry for funding.
Industry wanted a pay-off, and so, such as D’Evono, cheap scent and lipstick for teenagers – D’Evono had used their sponsorship for publicity – for advertising.
Prokiss was a graduate of Camford, the best university in England; she was an MA no less - if such a degree for such a girl had any value, and if that college she’d gone to was really a part of the university as they claimed, though Camford was taking them to court for misrepresentation yet again, weren’t they?
..................
The custodian could not have known it, but, as she sat listening out for the statement from her lover, the lucky woman who had kissed it this very morning, Katiann Prokiss’ mind was wandering back to happier times - times coinciding with the events the custodian was, even right then, condemning.
The culmination of five years of ‘study’; all depended now on the viva - the viva voce. Ninety-one percent of the marks needed to graduate depended upon the viva.
Selected and elected, nem-con, by the travelling community among whom she’d back then dwelt – Katiann’s birthplace and genealogical roots - her momma and her momma’s girlfriend, had both been in tears as the voting hands rose in unanimity for the flame-curl-headed English rose, back then of but sixteen sweet summers.
If it hadn’t been for the visit to the encampment of the ‘D’Evono Girl’ with her promises of ‘beauty on a budget’, Katiann might never have got the sponsorship needed for her to afford college.
At sixteen, she was outstandingly pretty, and already pretty shapely for a mid-teen-teenager.
Of course it had had to go beyond the vote of the caravan collective and assemblage of the traveller community, encamped in a small corner of the seaside town of Barnmouth that spring.
To assure D’Evono that they should grant her a bursary ‘because it’s so you!’ as their advertising punch-line (stolen after D’Evono’s takeover of D’Oriant ten years since) had it; Katiann had had to go through district and then the full county rounds, and there were any number of competitors for places.
The caravan community had voluntarily stayed stationary for the duration of the preliminary rounds, and the county of Barnmouthshire level win. They hoped Katiann’s success would lift them from the slough of despond to which the communal mindset of the popular majority had them in status wherever they went.
This tall, rather clumsy – as she then was – but oh so pretty teen, must win minds over from the constant dismissal of such as they, and therefore of she, as ‘trailer trash’, with its unspoken insinuation of ‘trouble’ in terms of dishonesty, dirt, and even disease-spreading, spread in the minds of the majority populace, who would as often as not cross to the other pavement sidewalk when a traveller-girl was recognised as such as she approached.
Of course Katiann had the basics already. It was for the basics she had been selected and elected. Once up at Camford University - well in the City of Camford, she had studied assiduously.
Despite the disruption to her education of the constant travelling of her clan, that Katiann was not lacking in intellectual gifts was evident from her schooldays.
Her studies at college, of mathematics and English literature, had gone extremely well, as had the far more important lectures that had necessitated the ‘hall of mirrors’, so cruelly satirised by the girls in the ‘Camford Spotlights’ review team in the theatre of the real university.
The practical courses in dressmaking, embroidery, hand sewing, cookery, hostessing, guesting, etc, had gone just as well too; along with elocution and deportment.
So also had the physical side of Katiann’s courses. ‘Men sana in corpore sano’ was the motto of St Puella’s College at Camford where Katiann studied; and five hours per day, seven days per week, had been spent in the gymnasium, and that after a five mile morning run.
Rising daily at 05.00 for a cold shower had become the norm for Katiann eventually; when it had been the corresponding challenge and strain upon her endurance of her courses, in the first six months: that and the cold shower that followed her run, and then another after her workout and aerobic routines.
But the culmination of five years of research and study and training; all depended now on the viva - the viva voce. Ninety-one percent of the marks needed to graduate depended upon the viva.
Just above her pretty left hand, Katiann bore the number ‘2’ on a circular plastic disc attached to an elasticised wristband.
Her thesis had gone forward some three months since. Her number two position before the viva was based upon her mark from that, and the assessment and the marks for her course work throughout the five years.
In all that time she had been second to only one. She and her foremost rival had been marked all-square on their theses. The course work markings were the only difference between their respective places; and the gap a few marks only. First place was still attainable by Katiann.
The viva could win that for Katiann. The viva counted for ninety-one percent of the marks that could be awarded. She had to get eighty-percent or more from within the ninety-one percent to get through to the top tier.
Her final position would depend on how far, if at all of course, the judges and the audience considered her to score above 80% in the viva voce element of the five-year culmination of her efforts – Katiann’s efforts and those of her still surviving competitors, that is to say.
The viva voce was her ‘finals’ her final examination – Katiann’s all and everything depended on the hour-long viva.
...................
An hour later; and Katiann was in tears.
Tears of relief mixed with joy. She’d thought twice about attempting a tan. She was a natural pure redhead and her complexion unsuited to the caress of the sun. Her momma and her momma’s girlfriend – now become Katiann’s step-‘poppa’ - were also in tears, there in the front row of the university’s theatre.
To counter her wish to stay indoors in the lead-up to the viva, she’d been allowed vitamin D. Even when she’d ventured out, she’d always dressed in toe-length-hemmed long-sleeved dresses, or likewise lengthed skirts with long-sleeved blouses, always buttoned up to the neck; consistently worn her trusty straw sombrero, and donned gloves even in the summer sun – all to avoid any signs of demarcatory boundaries in her appearance at the viva.
Katiann had taken maximum advantage of her height – now twenty-one she’d grown to six-one in bare feet. The seven-inch-stiletto-heeled mules she’d worn for the event had raised her legs, and consequently her calves, to new heights of long strong shapeliness. The shoes had cost her parents a small fortune.
She was so glad she’d opted to include ballet-shoe-shod tiptoe-table-tennis in her workouts over her five year course. She could now walk in any style and any height of heels as if they were nature to her, as indeed they were.
She’d been questioned on world peace and her desire to work to help poor children or sick animals; and her totally natural charm had shown through; her nervous giggles only adding to her winning ways.
After the hour on stage parading with her rivals, her five-minute-long interview, and then listening to her rivals’ answers in their interrogations, in their turns before the judging lecturers and the assembled families, and the audience of fellow St Puella students, and girls of other colleges, many from the real university.
A choice of shoes was the only variant allowed viva voce examinees.
But, of course, Katiann had filled the standard issue white bikini worn by all the contestants in the viva, to a superlative; both above where they promised to overspill, and below of course, where it clearly emboldened the crutch of the bikini’s thong.
And after the hour of parading with her gorgeous constant smile, and the five minutes of questioning - after the hour, had come the announcement she had longed for and worked so hard for, for five whole, for five long years.
‘And in second place - Number 2 - Katiann Prokiss!’ the news reporter who was this year’s celebrity mistress of ceremonies had announced, and the maids of honour had covered Katiann’s shoulders with a silver mini-cloak and, as sweet Katiann had dipped at her knees to aid them, reached up to place a silver mortarboard hat atop her flame-red curls, as the audience applauded and the wolf-whistles sang out for her, and Katiann cried and cried with joy at this attainment, and mouthed ‘thank you’ with her ever-moist lips in response to every whistler among the girls assembled in the audience. These, now that the formal ceremony was done and their metaphorical hair could be let down, wolf-whistled their favourites even louder than when their appreciation of the charms of the contestants had been part of the viva voce’s scoring.
Now Katiann sobbed with joy as she watched her best friend, Nufanda Namobia, who, amid her own tears and cheers and wolf-whistles, was receiving the golden mini-cloak and gold mortarboard hat to mark her attainment of the number-one place.
Katiann just could not believe it was all over. She had graduated!
She had just won her degree: the viva voce pageant had gone brilliantly for her. All those hours on the running track, in the gymnasium, playing tiptop-tiptoe table-tennis, swimming, aerobics, body-pumping, sculpting her pectorals to lift her all-natural but generous and correspondingly heavy bosom - and the endless studies of makeup, body care, hair care, clothing, shoes, hats - it had seemed endless.
But here she was now a graduate – with her lovely face, her stunning red hair, and her outstandingly shapely statuesque body in the white thong bikini she had worn as per the standard for the viva voce.
She had been awarded alpha-alpha-minus for the parade component - the viva voce that counted for ninety-one percent of the marks needed. Together with the alpha-alpha-plus awarded to her thesis on ‘Women’s Hair Styling in Shakespeare’s England’ and the alpha-alpha-minus mark for her course work, Katiann had attained her MA in Feminine Studies – through the viva voce assessment of her face and her body she had attained a Mistress of Arts, and the tears of joy rolled down her sweetly freckled soft cheeks.
Now she wiggled over in her needle-heeled steeple-mules, with the slim fingers of a pretty hand holding her saucy mortarboard from tumbling off her tumultuous red curls, to embrace the beautiful negress, Nufanda, who had won number one spot and thus the doctorate.
And both girls fell into giggles as the wolf-whistles from the audience implied they were made for each other; and Katiann blushed very visibly at the thought that, that very evening, she would be in Nufanda’s arms as her partner, as per tradition, for her to waltz it - for both of them to waltz them, around the floor in the opening dance of the St Puella’s College graduates’ ball.
And Katiann’s blush told the audience that it had dampened her bikini’s thong-panties, and they wolf-whistled Katiann all the more, all the more loudly, and all the longer - and so she blushed all the more, and dampened her thong all the more - and the audience knew it was getting wet and cheered Katiann yet more - and it got wetter still - And she kissed Nufanda’s sweet face to congratulate her on winning the Doctorate of Femanolgy at the viva voce, and, in Katiann’s minuscule white thong, it was sopping wet and eagerly receptive -
..................
After college, Katiann had become a party-girl. There had been no shortage of dates in her years at college. Although students at the main university looked down their noses at pupils attending St Puella’s College, they knew what the purpose of that establishment was, and so there was no shortage of girls hanging around St Puella’s gates at the end of lectures, hoping to win the favours of the exceptionally pretty girls selected to go there.
Unlike Katiann, Nufanda came from a very wealthy family. And it was Nufanda who, post college days, had begun to introduce Katiann to the lower reaches of the highlife. Girls as pretty as these, were wanted at parties. It was Katiann who had had the bright idea; but Nufanda who made contact with other top graduates of St Puella’s, and the pair of them that ran the escort service they soon formed.
..................
Two minds thought alike in the public gallery of the House of Ladies that day. A third also thought of Katiann. That third mind was on the government front benches waiting to make, what she knew, was the most important speech of her political career. This was Jofanna Paton-Hicks, the Secretary of State for Women’s Affairs, who let her mind drift off while she listened to her leader, the prime minister, responding to questions from the opposition - let her mind drift back to a first encounter -
..................
Lady Diverdon-Fansing was holding one of her famed weekend parties at her Barnmouthshire retreat. Members of all political parties were there; at least those members who loved a fun weekend and could keep a secret about who was there, and what went on.
The Diverdon-Fansings, Lady and wife, were so rich – ‘something in exports I believe my dear’ - they dismissively summarised the source of their conspicuous wealth – that, even though the highest society of all dismissed them as – ‘trade’ don’t yer know – many of the younger women among them found themselves at Diverdon-Fansing House. It had become such a regular haunt of the English establishment that the Diverdon-Fansings were all-but part of ‘the season’ now.
The Diverdon-Fansings were part of ‘the season’. This day, the weather season announcing it was spring, all the guests who wished to, had taken an early morning ride around their vast estate.
Jofanna Paton-Hicks had been out on one of Lady Diverdon-Fansing’s Arab ponygirls, her choice, but a mount made for swift acceleration and a short burst of sustained speed, and thus totally unsuited to hacking. So she had fallen behind; even behind those left hindmost.
‘I was miles away. So I turned her round and came back here to wait for you all to return.’
‘You chose the wrong mount there I’m afraid, Jofanna. ‘Minaret’ needs a tight rein and plenty of whip, and even the spurs, just to keep her on the straight and narrow in a walk. She was always a spirited girl. We were in the same class at school you know. Her mummy’s business went down the pan. Automobiles? There’s no money in autos now. Nobody can - well almost nobody - can afford the fuel. She was so pleased when I agreed to have her three daughters broken to the reins. Better they be in my stables than pulling an omnibus around the streets of London - She even chose their ponygirl names - ’
At this, the loud baying yapping yelping and whelping of the Diverdon-Fansings’ hunting hounds, some short time since returned to their kennels after morning exercise; turned the heads of both Jofanna and her interlocutor to see if they could see the cause of the racket.
‘My god, will you just look at the legs on that!!’ Jofanna thought aloud, whispering to no one in particular.
‘One of the escorts who’ll be gracing our table at dinner. That one’s ‘Katiann’. Six-foot-one in her stockings it seems. So it’s far from little wonder her legs are ten miles long - each’, Lady Diverdon-Fansing informed, before adding, ‘A thousand dollars an hour? She and her lovely negress companion; to hire them I mean. Katiann graduated MA from St Puella’s up in Camford a year back - Can you wonder at it?’
Katiann turned and shyly smiled, before stopping to dip long-long leggy curtsies, with a polite, ‘Good morning my lady’, to each of the conversationalists in turn.
It was her place and duty so to do, but it was also calculated to draw attention to her charms. And Katiann knew it had worked, as it invariably did, for, as she graced onwards to the house, she felt admiring eyes on her rear and up and down her very long legs.
At the present she was wearing a top-of-arms-sleeved tee-shirt-dress in dazzlingly florescent pink, with ‘St Puella Escorts’ advertised on it, front and rear; and six-inch heeled sling-backs. Behind her she trailed a wheeled suitcase grip, with the clothes she would need – or perhaps not – for the weekend. As she wiggled on past their enclosure, the kennelled dogs began to bark and howl louder yet, and some to leap against its wire fencing.
‘I expect they can scent it - ’, Lady Diverdon-Fansing answered, to the question Jofanna had not asked, other than by a look of puzzlement on her attractive features - ‘Especially as that dress is so wonderfully short - I mean, they’ll be able to scent it even if it is covered by panty - ’
‘ - I owe you for the tip - ’ she then added.
‘I gave you no tip’, Jofanna Paton-Hicks reminded.
‘Of course you didn’t - So I owe you for the tip you didn’t give me.
I sold just in time Jofanna. I’d have lost half a small fortune if you hadn’t tipped me off.
- So I’ll tell the butler she must sit the leggy one next to you at luncheon; and watch and see how long you can keep your hands off those wonderful long strong smoothly muscular thighs!
And if you want to bed her, it’s on me.
Aha! - I know that look and I already did research for you. Their calendars are on the St Puella Escorts’ website. She’s due on in a couple of weeks, and I’ll happily hire her again then. A room is always available for you in any of my London homes, if you want her when it’s bleeding, as I know is your joy - ’
..................
‘Madam Speaker, I welcome the opportunity to address this House on the matter of not one, but a series of wholly unwarranted, because totally untrue, accusations about my relationship with a Ms Katiann Prokiss, and, more importantly, the unsubstantiated, because unsubstantiable lie, that I have in any way at any time put the defence of this country at risk.
Taking the latter issue first, Madam Speaker, I challenge any member of this House, or of the media, or of the wider public, to inform the legal authorities of any evidence they have that I have ever, directly, or as more precisely accused, indirectly, passed secrets or even information of any kind, secret or not, to a potential or actual enemy of the state, or come to that, even a friendly power or powers. And given that they are able to convince, to the satisfaction of those authorities, that there is a case for me to answer-to in a court of law, I will face justice and take such punishment as court or courts impose.
- Madam Speaker, as we are all too aware, those of us in public life are particularly prone to the attentions of the media. And I hold that my record is beyond challenge in my forbearance from reaction to what the press, in particular, have taken it upon themselves to write about me.
Such forbearance as I have shown over the past year and more, is, of course, that necessary to ensure the freedom of the media. None of us wishes to have our lives solely dedicated to libel actions. We would none of us be able to perform any function in public life - for the people of this great land - were we not prepared to make the sacrifice that our lives, private as well as public, will, when we are in ministerial office especially, become a matter of scrutiny.
In the normal way of matters, Madam Speaker, tolerance has to be exercised, and so I have exercised the tolerance required. But the time for forbearance, for tolerance, is over. And, accordingly, I have today, instructed my solicitors to sue for libel, a list of newspapers, broadcasters and other media, that I need not trouble this House by reciting, other than to assure the House that it is comprehensive.
- My suit will concern, not only and foremost the accusation I have been a traitor to my country, but also the salacious gossip about my knowledge of Ms Prokiss.
- Madam Speaker, even were she able to afford to do so, I would not recommend Ms Prokiss to sue the media in likewise manner. Let us not beat about the bush here. This is no time for semantics. The press - the media - describe Ms Prokiss as an ‘escort’, or more often, a ‘call-girl’. Madam Speaker, a prostitute by any other name is still a prostitute.
I don’t deny, indeed I have never denied, having discovered that I was present at several social gatherings when Ms Prokiss was also there. You will note here, Madam Speaker, that, in respect of the congruence of Ms Prokiss’ presence, I did not use the term ‘fellow guest’. That is, of course, because I can only conceive that she was ever present in such circles as I move in, in a purely ‘professional’ capacity.
The discovery I have made that our two presences coincided, has been purely retrospective, Madam Speaker. Only after I requested my diary secretary to check dates and locations mentioned in the media, was I able to confirm that I was present when Ms Prokiss also was.
- But mutual presence is as far as it goes, Madam Speaker. To the best of my knowledge I have never met Ms Prokiss. Nor, given the distinctly considerable gap between our relative social standings, would I expect ever to have been introduced to her.
If I ever was, I have forgotten the occasion, just as it would be expected one would, when introduced to a servant or other underling, let alone someone suspected of earning her money via a profession honoured only for its venerable state, but still disgusting and abhorrent.
- Why I submit that Ms Prokiss would be unwise to sue the media, Madam Speaker, is because they accuse her of being a social climber. And, though it would be slander for me to say that she is, it would not be without the libel laws to say that, for what little thought I have ever given the question, there does appear to be a strong suggestion of it.
And I will therefore also be suing Ms Prokiss for using me; my good name that is to say; and so deeply wounding my dear wife in our happy marriage of twenty years, with her claim that she has ever, to use the usual commoners’ metaphor, ‘been to bed’ with me.
- However, it may be unnecessary for me to proceed with that course, because nobody with even the slightest knowledge of the matters I am responding to, denies that state secrets were passed to the Russian Embassy through their London Defence Attaché, since swiftly repatriated to Moscow and her wife and daughters. And I understand the English legal authorities wish to question Ms Prokiss about her alleged role in the matter.
- Madam Speaker, we are fortunate to have an ally in Russia. Their ambassadoress has served that alliance well these past few months. And I understand that an affidavit from Ms Petrova, the former attaché just before mentioned, who is also willing to come back to London to support her sworn confirmation that, Ms Prokiss did, on several occasions, offer information, of a highly classified nature, to Ms Petrova.
- So Ms Prokiss must answer where she got the information from. She undoubtedly got it by selling use of her body, so the question of how she obtained it does not need asking. And I have no fear, whatsoever, Madam Speaker, that Ms Prokiss can name me as the source, or can possibly prove the charge if she does name me.
Madam Speaker, I have spoken at length and without apology, for I have nothing to apologise for, to this House; or the nation I serve and love.’
At this, Jofanna Paton-Hicks sat down.
For a long second there was silence in the House.
But then a cheer rose from the government benches, a cheer, then cheers that got louder and louder as the women on the government side pointed at the grim faces and folded arms among the deeply disappointed and equally defeated opposition.
..................
‘And we have of course, as has been announced over the past few days, completely changed our schedule for this afternoon, and will join our radio colleagues in multi-station live coverage of the exit from gaol, expected at any time now, of Katiann Prokiss.’
‘Our outside broadcast team is led by Aileen Anton-Moores who, I believe, has with her, to contribute from her specialist expert knowledge, Barbara Bartonford, not long since White Staff in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen, no less.’
‘Over to you Aileen, and, as if anyone who hasn’t been in outer space these past weeks months or even years could possibly not know, please remind our viewers and listeners who Katiann Prokiss is. I’m sure there will be some detail your impeccable in-depth knowledge of public affairs will bring out, Aileen - ’
‘Thank you for those very kind words Sarah. And a welcome to both viewers and listeners to our mobile outside broadcast studio, stationed at; or, more precisely, for the better view, slightly above the location of imminent proceedings.’
‘Well, to start with a small diversion, I’m sure I don’t need to introduce you to the sight and sound of modern-day central London.’
‘But then again, perhaps I do, since London is different today. Much of the sound has gone. Certainly in Pudenda Square here, the familiar constant cacophony of running wheels trotting hooves, cracking whips, and gasping ponygirls, is not in evidence today.’
‘But the square is far from quiet in another way, since crowds have gathered, and women and girls, given the day off from their studies or employment, have come here to witness, live, the event; so many in fact, so many girls that is, and a smattering of men, presumably of retirement age, that, as we can see while the camera pans around for us, the Royal Girl Police are out in force. Not that the RGP need be concerned. The crowd is, so far at least, very well behaved. And I hope we’ll catch a word with one or two of them later; from the crowd that is of course, not the RGP who I’d guess will be kept quietly busy.’
Yes indeed; Katiann Prokiss, who is she and why are we here today because of her?’
‘Katiann Prokiss; what can I tell viewers and listeners about her that they’ll not already know? Well, Katiann was, is, from a poor background. Her family heritage is that of the travelling community. She was a very pretty teenager, and that won her an opportunity, under the scheme introduced by the previous government, to attend university.’
‘And it was her good fortune that, when she was just sixteen, St Puella’s College in Camford was being sponsored by D’Evono, the perfumers; and their agents were simply delighted to come across her. Katiann was unlikely, very unlikely given her class status, to have got to college any other way. And D’Evono were, one day, talent scouting in Barnport on the south coast of England, when her travelling community were, however briefly, settled there.’
‘Excuse me I have a message in my earpiece.’
‘Sorry - can you repeat that? - ‘I should have said ‘Barnford’? - Barnmouth?! Barnmouth, okay.’
‘Katiann won through the local, county, and finally the national rounds of the viva voce interviews, gained her place, spent five years at St Puella’s working daily extremely hard, and did so to the success of winning a Mistress of Arts for her face and body and some adorable giggles in her five minute interview in the traditional finals of her year.’
‘Since then, although the college training was intended to fit her for social advancement, an opportunity for a girl from a poor background such as hers to make a good marriage; marry a girl with a higher social standing, Katiann chose to employ herself, or rather, to be employed, as a call-girl. And with her stunning looks and her beautiful body, she was very much in demand, and very expensive to hire, I’m told.’
‘The rest we know from the recent trial; the scandal of being bedded by those who, allegedly, inadvertently gave her secrets she, allegedly, passed on to foreigners – friendly foreigners as it happens; but as her judge said at the end of the ten minutes of Katiann’s trial last week, that might not have been the case.’
‘And I’ve not forgotten Barbara: Barbara Bartonford welcome: ‘White Staff in Ordinary’ it’s an historic title, the position is unpaid; honorary; what powers does it convey; or I should say ‘did’ since, where you are concerned, you recently stood down? Did you actually have to carry a white staff everywhere?’
‘Ah yes, Aileen, they all ask that. No, the white staff is just a symbol. It spends most of its time in its case in the much larger encasement that guards the crown jewels in the Tower of London. Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve never carried it. I was, of course, touched on each shoulder with it when I knelt before her majesty just after the previous occupant of the office decided she would retire, and I was honoured to be granted the charter in succession to her.’
‘So, a white staff and a charter Barbara?’
‘Yes Aileen, and at least I’ve personally got the charter, and I’m allowed to keep it. But it’s only a copy of the very original course. It’s hand written on some very nice parchment with her majesty’s signature under my own. But before anyone asks it’s not for sale! Oh, and my duties were to oversee events such as today’s, and I did so for my five years. And that’s why the English Broadcasting Company – the good old EBC - has asked me to join you today.’
‘Because you’re an expert?’
‘I like to think so Aileen.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Now Safina Smith is in my earpiece - You’re our reporter-at-large down among the crowd today Safina - what have they been saying?’
‘- Hold that one moment Safina, I’m getting another message.’
‘We’ll have to come back to you Safina, because I’ve just been told the gates are opening, and Katiann is about to emerge, a little earlier than we had been expecting. But there’s definite movement, at least of the right gate of Alloway Prison, as our local camera shows us.’
‘We’re of course hoping that our intrepid Safina will be able to grab an interview with Katiann herself. But I promise we’ll not forget to get back to her, to Safina, so she can tell us about crowd opinion and reaction later.’
‘Turning back to Barbara, our expert, will she be naked Barbara?’
‘Well, Aileen, as you’ll have seen from previous events, a fair degree of nudity is usual for a client undergoing improvement. It’s used, of course, to put a little pressure on her through shame.’
‘I notice you use the terms ‘client’ and ‘improvement’, and not, for example, ‘victim’ and ‘punishment’ Barbara.’
‘Oh my goodness gosh Aileen! As I suspect you well know, the use of those terms went out ages since - with the Ark I shouldn’t wonder!’
‘Here she comes! She’s walking very slowly. What lovely red hair; though I’m sure I’ve seen pictures when she wore it shoulder-length, and not in that rather charming boyish crop of curls she now has. Tell us first about those rather curious shoes Barbara, they look as if they are made of iron. Are you a fashion expert as well?’
‘Not in my wife’s decided opinion Aileen?’
‘I think you look very smart.’
‘Thank you. I wish you’d say that where my wife could hear it! - The shoes: in fact rather than ‘iron’ Aileen, they’re almost certainly stainless-steel. From this distance it’s hard to be sure. Perhaps the camera can focus in a little more, instead of running up and down the client’s rather lovely legs?’
‘Yes. Yes. I introduced those; that model of shoe. They’re deportment-shoes. Stainless steel ballet shoes, with a front heel. The client’s feet will be naked within them. She’ll have been obliged to wear a pair at least two sizes too small for her, and to remind her that today’s event is for her improvement, the shoes have spikes in the toe-ends that will have inserted themselves several inches into each of her feet between each individual toe. They also have spikes in their soles. So the client’s feet will be impaled on one-inch long spikes within each shoe Aileen.’
‘She does have very beautiful legs, doesn’t she Barbara?’
‘Would that be from all that sculpting she did to get her MA from college, Aileen?’
‘I’m sure you’re right there. They must have been very shapely and pretty when she went up to college. And so, as one - or, rather, two of her many excellent physical assets, she would have been instructed in a five year programme for their development to the wonderful state they are now in. Not an ounce of misplaced muscularity. Absolutely lovely! And they’re so long. But then she is six foot-one tall according to my briefing notes. I see there’s a very short chain Barbara. Tell us about that.’
‘I’d prefer we continued to admire those really lovely legs Aileen! Don’t the ballet shoes show them off so well? If they do, that’s as intended of course, because, as well as to undergo improvement, the client is here today to give us an erotic treat. It’s so as to boost her morale that we do that. A girl always wants to look her best when she’s out and about, doesn’t she?’
‘But the chain: that’s a hobble Aileen. It will be no more than two-inches long, if that. The client’s walk will be restricted by that of course. It’s done to prolong what is called by the public ‘the walk of shame’ – the stage of the improvement of Katiann we are witnessing the beginnings of.’
‘Our law courts have found Katiann falling short in her attitude to society. So the shoes and the hobble chain are painful and problematic reminders; aids to her re-learning her duty to this world, to be not only as pretty as she indisputably is, but also to be a good girl at all times. No doubt her teachers spanked her bottom when she was a naughty girl at school. Well, improvement includes for correction of naughtiness in the adult girl, when good and proper behaviour has become harder to inculcate, and thus requires a lot more than a spanking to drive the message home to the naughty one: the client.’
‘I’m afraid we’re rather ignoring that huge log Katiann is struggling to carry on her soft shoulders, Barbara. It looks as heavy as a whole tree, and complete with its bark still on, that must be hurting her skin mustn’t it Barbara?’
‘The ‘log’ as you rightly define it, actually an ancient oak log, will be at least as heavy as the client, Aileen. Before she left the prison - I mean before she began what is properly called ‘the deportment’ – not ‘the walk of shame’ – Katiann will have had her shoes fitted and her ankles hobbled and then been flogged. The log will, all that while have been within her view, as a kindness, so she knows what is coming next.’
‘And after the flogging, she will have been obliged to squat under the trunk, up till then temporarily held between two ‘Y’ supports so that she can get under it; and lift it and stand straight as she can as she carries it in the deportment. Of course, while she was squatting, she will have had her wrists nailed to the ends, each end, both ends separately, of the log. She will then have been requested to rise with it on her shoulders. I’m afraid that sometimes a whip has to be used at that point.’
‘Carrying her burden thus - it just shows that her legs are not only exceptionally lovely, but also immensely strong, doesn’t it Aileen?’
‘I agree Barbara; the strain they are under brings out their beauty even more: beauty as strong as they are. I don’t know if our effects microphones are picking it up, but, in my earpiece, I can hear Katiann crying. Of course, we can hear the whips. They are whipping her very hard at almost every step she manages to take, Barbara.’
‘Not at ‘nearly’ every step Aileen: at every step. As you’ll see, there are a team of six girls with leather-tongued thigh-crops, attending to Katiann in pairs. That is, of course, a health and safety measure. With all the effort they have to put in to every lash of the client’s gorgeous thighs, those strong thighs, we wouldn’t want any of the girls to hurt themselves: hence the team of lashers have a chance to rest their arms and shoulders after every ten strokes.’
‘So they are beating her thighs with nothing more than what is used every day to encourage or chastise a run-of-the mill ponygirl then Barbara?’
‘Not exactly Aileen. As you can see, each stroke is drawing blood. The thigh-crops are, of course studded. A crop has been found to be the ideal device for teaching a subservient girl her place. Many owners use one on their maids. And, of course, the rescinding of the human-animal rights laws, means they can be used on such as ponygirls and pet doggy-girls without let or hindrance of limitation.’
‘But a routine crop is, as we have found from experience, insufficient to drive along a client under duress to the extent that Katiann, deliberately, is. Accordingly she is being whipped along with studded crops; crops also being a particular good design of ‘incentive providing implementation’ as the technical term has it: a particular good design for whipping a client’s thighs.’
‘Thank you Barbara - But I think we can see Katiann’s back now Barbara. My goodness! There’s not, there’s no skin on her back at all, yet it’s not bleeding. They must have flogged her, no doubt appropriately, but terribly. Why is there no blood though Barbara, when, now they are whipping her thighs to keep her walking, her lovely thighs are bleeding profusely? And her beautiful breasts, they’ve left them bare and they appear unharmed - and she wears some kind of codpiece – white plastic perhaps – a white plastic g-string over her naughty part. Why might that be Barbara? I’m sorry - so many difficult questions all at once.’
‘That’s alright Aileen. That’s why I’m here of course. My initial guess would be that the breasts were covered during Katiann’s preliminary flogging.’
‘Sorry Barbara - I hope you caught that from the effects mike at home: that was a scream. Katiann screamed with her pain just then. Will they whip her for that Barbara?’
‘I think they will if she squeals or screams again. I imagine they’ll double her whipping during the deportment if she does that, or they may add another layer to her improvement, such as including her breasts in the deportment flogging, though those may be being preserving for later, or fitting her with one or more razor-wire thigh garters.’
‘But, back to why the breasts were not including in the initial whipping of the client, and the state of her back. I would say that, from the look of it - salt - they’ll have salted her wounds after flogging her back. That’s why the blood will have stopped. They usually intoductorally flog the client by giving her some two-hundred spaced strokes. At least that is the minimum norm. And from the fact her breasts are still pristine and all her back has been stripped of its flesh; I’d say they used flails on her back rather than bullwhips. As it happens, I brought a flail with me to show the viewers. - Do please be very careful with your fingers Aileen - those spikes are razor sharp!’
‘As you’ll see, but as we need to describe for radio listeners, the flail comprises two round two-foot-long components of some three-eighths-inches, about one centimetre, in diameter.’
‘When they are used, the handle end of the flail is held in forearm-length protective gloves. Again, of course, because we these days have to think of health and safety. So the gloves are worn by the wielders who work in pairs, to beat the client.’
‘The handle is wooden; the business end strong but flexible rubber. The business end of the flail has what we term ‘rose-thorn spikes’. They were ‘built in’, so to speak, when it was manufactured, and are in circles around the circumference, those circles being no more than one centimetre apart throughout its length.’
‘And of course, there is a chain of around six-inches in length linking the handle to the business end.’
‘Flogging a girl with a flail is a particular skill; one I enjoyed learning, and was once lucky enough to deploy. I was a guest at a previous client’s preliminary flogging, and was lucky enough to have a turn. It is surprisingly therapeutic.’
‘She is making very slow progress and I think we can all hear her sobbing now. She looks as if she is struggling to bear that log on her back, with just her shoulders and her slim arms to hold it. Her legs, I’d guess, would never give way, she has trained them to perfection. I’m wondering, as I dare say many of our viewers and listeners are; what if she drops the log?’
‘If she drops the log or falls off her ballet shoes by collapsing or whatever, they’ll whip her to make her stand up and pick it up again, and force her to carry it on her shoulders once more. She has her wrists nailed to each end of the log, and it would therefore be extremely painful for her to lift it on her shoulders once again, from the ground.’
‘That being so, she may well need to be driven to an understanding of what is required of her. Localised pain can confuse a client. So as to overcome the localised distraction, flails are kept in reserve to deliver overriding pain. The thigh crops would not be painful enough.’
‘Of course, it would not be right to help her, other than by whipping her to make her be a good girl. To assist her in getting up from the ground or in lifting the log would, obviously, not be conducive to the client’s improvement.’
‘Excuse me Barbara - over to Safina Smith out there with a chance to speak to Katiann – Safina -’
‘Katiann: Safina Smith of the EBC: Are you in a lot of pain Katiann?’
‘I’m afraid Katiann doesn’t appear to have heard me.’
‘We’ll come back to you later then Safina, because we cannot get in the way of progress, and we certainly cannot stop them whipping Katiann as they deem necessary for her benefit. And, anyway, we must take a break here, for a word from some of our sponsors. We’ll be back in well under five minutes ladies. – Now then Barbara -’
‘Lovely legs deserve lovely stockings. Just look at gorgeous socialite Katiann Prokiss. Here at the races she wears seamed ten denier Clientele Caresses. And here she is out for a night on the town in sinful black forty denier seamless Winter-Warms - Is that a skirt or a pelmet Katiann? What a naughty girl! But what lovely legs! Ladies, like Katiann, get the girl you love to love your legs. Remember Clientele - the price is worth it!’
‘I read that you are entirely natural and never wear a brassiere, yet you have perfect uplift Katiann.’ ‘Thank you Mary,’ ‘How do you keep your uplift? Will you tell us your secret?’ When we could catch a quiet moment in her busy life, this is what we asked lovely Katiann Prokiss. And she told us: ‘It’s no secret Mary. I use the Lockheart duo-lift pectoral exerciser every day.’ ‘And has Lockheart’s patented duo-lift pectoral exerciser, locked a heart for you Katiann?’ ‘Ah, that’s my little secret Mary!’
Katiann Prokiss uses Swan Soap. Only a soap as pure as Swan could protect that lovely complexion. Look at the smile on Katiann’s pretty face as she enters the theatre on the arm of the girl that looks just like her ‘Miss Right’. You too can catch a ‘Miss Right’ if, like stunning Katiann Prokiss, you use Swan Soap. Swan Soap; the soap chosen by Katiann Prokiss, because it’s the soap of choice.’
‘Lips as lovely as these can only be wearing D’Evono lipstick. Ask Katiann Prokiss. We did. After all they are her lips. ‘Do you use D’Evono lipstick Katiann?’ ‘But of course I do Sally, I wouldn’t use anything else, and it comes in all the shades a girl could wish for.’ ‘But have you checked out its guarantee to be kiss-proof Katiann?’ ‘Ah, now that would be telling wouldn’t it Sally?’ D’Evono, sponsors of St Puella College Camford; college bursary sponsor of Katiann Prokiss MA.’
‘Welcome back viewers and listeners. The sound you can hear is the continuing continuous whipping of Katiann’s thighs as she continues the ‘walk of shame’ as I know from Barbara’s wise commentary, I shouldn’t really be calling her public progress.’
‘The deportment’ Barbara. To have to walk even a few hundred yards in her stainless-steel ballet deportment shoes with her ankles restricted by a two-inch-long hobble chain, and with that huge log on her shoulders, and with her thighs being whipped at every step, and all that after a preliminary flogging with spiked flails on her bare back - how can they punish – I mean of course ‘improve’ - Katiann more, Barbara? Or will it now be concluded she has suffered enough for actions which were never finally proven to have led to a betrayal of her country?’
‘Well, Aileen, proven or not, we must of course recall, that Katiann is also being improved in public here today, as a warning and example of what happens to girls of her class, if they get ideas above their rightful station. And - and, no, what we have witnessed so far is just the preliminary, and I can see that, shortly, she will have arrived at the centre of the square, where we can spot that an interesting development awaits her, and therefore us as well.’
‘While we were briefly away with our sponsors’ advertising; and by the way, we have been asked by the present Minister of Justice to thank sponsors for financing Katiann’s ‘improvement’ and thus save taxpayers’ money - while we were away, you told me there might be something in Katiann’s thong panties Barbara.’
‘Well now Aileen, what a lovely thought to contemplate!!’
‘No, you know what I mean Barbara; something extra to what god provided her – god blessed her and thus us with.’
‘Well, to be serious, and to save my hot flush at the exciting thought of what is in Katiann’s panties, I believe she will have an insert Aileen.’
‘An insert?’
‘The panties - her g-string - are - is of pliable plastic; pliable but still rigid enough to support an entertainer.’
‘All these technical terms Barbara, we need you to tell us what they mean. Do go on.’
‘Well, an ‘entertainer’ is a specialised dildo, Aileen. It will be some twelve inches long and one inch in diameter at minimum. Also of pliable plastic, it will be studded with sharp spikes in rings at close intervals all along its ‘penis’.’
‘I think we can see that, at close-to-crutch-level, she wears cog-garters? Those cogs, also of pliable plastic, engage with a cog at the base of the entertainer.’
‘The entertainer comprises an insert within an insert. The lengthy spiked ‘penis’ is free to rotate and counter-rotate within a base; the base, which is of course, inserted in it too, being rigidly fixed to Katiann’s thighs by garter ties, just above the cog-garters. The base’s garter ties are akin to those cable-ties some girls use to keep decorative hubcaps from falling off their ponygirl carts?’
‘The entertainer – keeping the entertainer’s base and thus its penis up Katiann, is one of the functions of the plastic g-string of course. The penis protrudes beyond her naughty part and engages with a cone-shaped spindle in the g-string to keep the penis of the entertainer in and up it. The g-string is also fastened around her thighs, by ties, to stop the cog-garters slipping down.’
‘The near bottom end of the ‘penis’ is also cogged. It protrudes beyond the entertainer’s fixed base insert, sufficiently for the cogs at the bottom of the ‘penis’ to engage with the immobile cog-garters, and thus be rotated by them, back and forth within her, so that, by the very act of her walking, Katiann has it scoured during her walk.
Her thong is designed to keep the entertainer up her, and to stop the cog-garters slipping down her thighs. Unfortunately, the cogs, garters and the entertainer’s cog base, will occasionally disengage. But the two-inch hobble restriction on her lovely legs will be an aid against too great a frequency of that occurrence.’
‘Of course, along with the log burden, the entertainer will be extremely painful for her. And that is why she has to have her thighs whipped with the spiked crops: she has to be incentivised to walk in the deportment.’
‘Thank you for that Barbara, such depth of knowledge and so clearly expressed.’
‘Thank you Aileen.’
‘I think we are getting close to what will be the culmination of Katiann’s improvement. So, although we broke only a short while ago, here’s a little more from our sponsors - from yet more of the generous financial supporters who are saving we much-burdened taxpayers from paying for today’s event.’
‘How do you cope with that time of the month ladies? Do you worry about being let down? Look at lovely Katiann Prokiss, so active and athletic here on the tennis court. She’s on, but who could possibly tell? We know because we asked her. And when we asked her, she unhesitatingly recommended the Thrust Pad and Thrust Tampon. Thrust, the choice of pad or tampon you can trust!’
‘How do you keep your oh so lovely, oh so long legs so smooth? That’s a question we longed to pose to gorgeous socialite Katiann Prokiss. Of course we struggled to find a space in her busy engagement diaries. But she granted time, because she wanted to thank us, and to tell you her secret; the secret of smooth legs, even legs as long as Katiann’s. Jonsen’s Depilatory Crème. Jonsen’s Crème, safe to use in that intimate area too. Jonsen’s, the crème of depilatory creams.’
‘Does she or doesn’t she? Is she or isn’t she? Has she or hasn’t she? Was she, as we see her here, in that naughty pelmet skirt? Well, was she or wasn’t she? We asked oh so pretty Katiann Prokiss, and she collapsed in adorable giggles. But we know that when Katiann does; and also when she doesn’t, she wears Phantasy. Phantasy: the scent sent from Paris.’
‘Welcome back again. We’ve come to some kind of change here Barbara. I’ll just be in the way, so I’ll hand over to you to describe for viewers, and obviously, more especially the radio audience, and just come in with questions?’
‘That’ll, of course, be just fine Aileen.’
‘Well, Katiann has reached the end of the - of her deportment, and is being prepared for the final stage - at least I would take an educated guess we are about to witness the final stage of her public improvement.’
‘At the moment they are just hosing off her thighs, to remove the blood, though as we can see in this close-up, she is still bleeding from the thigh-crops used to encourage her during her walk. The hosing will be so they can more clearly see the effectiveness or otherwise, of the crops, which are of a new design, on which, in exchange for loaning them to the authorities, fee-free for the day, the manufactures have been promised photographic feedback.’
‘We have to recall, that although Katiann may feel some relief from the huge log she bore walking - or rather, pleasingly sexily wiggling - in her tiptoe stainless-steel front-‘heel’ ballet shoes, having been placed - the log having been lifted so that - the ropes and pulleys having raised it to just above her lovely red hair, rather darkened now by her perspiration - though her stunning body confirms that she is a very fit girl - perspiration from the strain of carrying the huge log on her bare shoulders - the log hauled up - now hauled aloft in the middle of the overhead bar of the soccer-goal shaped gantry under which she stands, still in her stainless-steel deportment shoes of course, and thus on very-tip-top-tiptoe to give her the award - for improvement includes, of course ‘carrot as well as stick’ as the saying has it - the award of being able to display her particularly long - she is six-one in her bare feet of course - her particular long very shapely and very strong legs at their best. What was I saying? Yes, we must recall that her wrists are nailed to the ends, both ends, one wrist at each end, the ends of that ancient English oak log, traditionally used in the deportment phase of most clients’ improvement over many years now. A log donated by her majesty the queen herself.’
‘So her majesty herself actually donated the log?’
‘Well, yes Aileen, though I should really have said it was actually the present queen’s momma who gifted it to the nation. It comes from her estate - her country retreat in East Anglia - Barling Palace? - or rather the tree did. It’s a windblown faller. The log is from its lowest part, nearest the roots. But the rest of the oak has been saved in log-form-sections should they be required; perhaps when too many girls have had their turn nailed to this one? It’s just over two-hundred years old, according to analysis of the rings.’
‘I think we may be missing some action here Barbara. Do please tell us - continue to describe events.’
‘Well Aileen, I was wondering about why - the reason Katiann’s arms have been lifted not too high - she is certainly magnificently endowed - her breasts are astonishingly beautiful, with huge sunrise-pink nipples - I suppose the contrast with her driven-snow-white redhead’s complexion, makes for the contrast of the rest of her, with the pink of her perfectly-circular-disc nipples - they must be two-inches in diameter.’
‘For the moment, they are refreshing her lipstick. I do hope she really uses that brand she advertises.’
‘I’m sorry Barbara, I must step in there. We mustn’t speculate about that. And I’m sure the EBC apologises to the sponsor; that particular sponsor, for the authenticity of their generosity being questioned.’
‘Oh god, I’m so sorry Aileen!’
‘Not a major problem Barbara. You’re first broadcast after all - why the lipstick?’
‘Well, it’s again for the client’s morale; so it’s boosted by her looking at her best.’
‘I think we can go over to Safina, our roving reporter, who has a chance to talk to Katiann; at least she will have if she can make it through the crowds of cameras and microphones, because, of course, this is an internationally covered event. Safina –‘
‘Thank you Aileen. Katiann, Safina Smith of the EBC again? Katiann you have had your back flayed, and your thighs whipped; can you tell our viewers and listeners which hurts you the more?’
‘I’m sorry Aileen, Katiann is crying with her pain and doesn’t seem to want to talk.’
‘Try her with another question Safina; and I’m sure they’ll whip her for you if she won’t answer.’
‘Katiann, do you deserve what is happening to you today? And do you forgive the girls improving you?’
‘I forgive -’
‘Aileen, I do believe Katiann has fainted, and I need to step aside because they are moving in to whip her with the crops, to bring her round again.’
‘Okay Safina: not been the easiest day for you has it?’
‘Turning back to Barbara then: she’s - Katiann’s been brought round - I’m sure listeners won’t have failed to hear the particularly loud cracks from the use of the crops on her thighs to effect that - what’s - what’s happening now? They seem to be fitting her out with some transparent plastic odds and ends - very odd to my untutored eyes - what’s going on, Barbara?’
‘Well, Aileen, I think now I know for sure, what Katiann’s real improvement for treachery
‘Alleged treachery’ Barbara -’
‘- for alleged treachery, as you so rightly remind me Aileen - what it’s to be.’
‘I’m glad someone does Barbara - thank goodness you’re here! Do go on, remembering, as you have so far, that we have a radio audience as well.’
‘Well, Aileen, they are presently fitting Katiann with rings, large rings being needed for those beautifully huge breasts with the much celebrated ‘natural uplift’ - The rings are like a bra. There are, obviously, two rings that are large enough - only just! - to go over Katiann’s breasts - one each ring! - and then nestle on her chest. The two rings have a short chain to link them in her cleavage, and - as we can see now the camera has gone behind - are being tightly fitted by their ‘bra straps’ at her back.’
‘Size is important here. Not the size of Katiann’s magnificent bosom, but the size of the rings, and that the bra strap is buckled very tightly. The rings must just barely squeeze the base of the breasts, so as to form a seal, but not so as to spoil their natural beauty by distorting them. And they must press firmly on her chest.’
‘They have raised her arms, so she – still nailed to the log as she is – so that she, her breasts are lifted, and do not nestle on her chest, as they would, to the full degree they would otherwise, despite the uplift claimed in her adver – er, in some quarters.
The inside of each ring, and their undersides next her chest - did I say the rings are of stainless-steel? - their inside sides and undersides have a soft rubber sealing ring. It is actually those sealing rings that press lightly but firmly, into the breast on the inside of the rings, and onto the chest at the bases of the rings. More such seals are within the rings.’
‘Now they are checking the security of the entertainer I think. That’ll be to ensure it’s engaged with the cog-garters - I’m pretty sure of that. It will come back into play if - when - if Katiann begins to move - squirm, as she pretty surely will, I know I would, when -’
‘Are yes - these are the transparent domes; Pyrex glass rather than plastic Aileen.’
‘Oh dear, that’ll slow things down - it looks as if there’s a problem with the screw-thread on the first one, and they’re – no - no it’s sorted.’
‘Katiann looks completely puzzled. Of course, nobody, least of all Katiann, has been told what improvement method has been chosen for her - except those doing the job; they must know of course.’
‘As we can see, each of the domes.’
‘Not all of our customers can see; don’t forget radio, Barbara -’
‘Well, sorry Aileen - each of the domes is quite bulbous, and they, when they are screwed in place - start again, I’m sorry.’
‘You’re doing remarkably well for a first-time broadcaster Barbara. Don’t worry, just keep going.’
‘Thanks Aileen. Well, I should have said each of the bulbous bowls has a screw-thread at its base. And there is an answering screw-thread in the rings, the stainless-steel rings of the ‘bra’ Katiann now wears - and a rubber liner ringing the base of the stainless-steel rings so as to form a seal when the bulbous bowls are screwed firmly into the bases to full tightness.’
‘The bulbs - when they - when the bulbs are screwed down into the bases, are - need to end up aligned so they contain the breast and are shaped so they slope to contain the breast without unduly lifting it from its natural pose - when a girl is so big and so natural as Katiann - to take on the same slope as her bare breasts on her bare chest as if when – before the globes were screwed there, I think I mean.’
‘Go on - It’s fascinating. Do go on Barbara - take a sip of water.’
‘Thank you - That’s better - Thanks.’
‘Well, each Pyrex globe - if the camera could focus on them please - each globe, as we - as I can describe - each globe has two holes in their – nearer the rear ends – nearer Katiann’s chest.’
‘They are being very efficient. I wish I’d had this crew when I was White Staff! They are screwing into one pair of holes, the first part of the piping one pipe each hole, one pipe each bowl - transparent plastic piping, while another girl has fastened a support collar around Katiann’s neck.’
‘And the other two holes are having their pipes screwed in. Again, one pipe each hole, one pipe each bowl.’
‘There’s a difference in the pipes, Aileen. The ones in the front-most holes have no valves. The rearmost ones have non-return valves nearest – just above where they fit into the holes in the top side of the bowls.’
‘I’m completely lost here Barbara! I’m sure it will all make sense soon. Please, please do go on. And thank goodness the EBC hired you for today!’
‘Well Aileen, as we can – erm, the support collar now holds two transparent plastic bottles. One is a hopper, and the other - the other has that short length of spiral-tube coming out its top - the other is a condenser. The hopper is around one litre - say two pints? - and the condenser half that size. The hopper is below the condenser.’
‘The pipes from the hopper - the pipes without any valves leading up from the holes in the top sides of the bowls, both connect to nipples at the bottom of the hopper.’
‘The pipes with the non-return valves from the holes in the tops of the bowls over Katiann’s superb breasts - the ones with the non-return valves – sorry I’ve said that haven’t I – the - those pipes with non-return valves - both lead up - both those pipes lead up into that single spiral pipe, and the spiral pipe into the top of the condenser.’
‘And then a pipe runs down from the bottom of the condenser, which is above the hopper, so that what comes out of the condenser - the flow, after it’s cooled in the condenser, can go back into the hopper once more, and so back round the system. Easy really - when you think about it.’
‘I am thinking about it Barbara, and I’m still confused! There’s yet more piping being fitted to Katiann. My goodness. Help! Please continue to explain Barbara.’
‘Well, that device carries a supply to the back of the bra that holds the bowls. Look - I can see you’re totally lost Aileen. But it will all become clear when they fill the hopper?’
‘From that single pipe just screwed into place; built into the bra are two branch-pipes, they are arranging now. They are copper pipes and they fit in at the back of Katiann’s bowl-bra and follow – look they are setting that up now – they follow the contour around the outside of the bowls – one pipe each bowl - and have their open ends just short of where Katiann’s gorgeous pink nipples rest within the bowls.’
‘At the top of the corset they are fitting to her next - a waspie you could call it I suppose - to Katiann’s waist - not that she needs one, goodness knows - a corset I mean of course, let alone a waspie – they will fit two mirrors -’
‘Sorry to interrupt Barbara, but viewers wishing to see today’s ‘Coronation Farm’, and find out what happens to lovely Swedish blonde, Elke, who is on the run after finding a gap in the fence following the thunderstorm, should press their red buttons now - or they can, of course, catch up with it from nine tonight, when it will be available on the EBC replayer. And we’ve not forgotten you ‘Love’s Harbour’ fans; those of you who can’t wait till it’s on the replayer, also from nine tonight, should retune to Radio 16 now. And apologies for those hoping to listen to Play of the Week, ‘Maid in England’ on Radio 16; that will now be broadcast at a later date. Now please do go on Barbara - sorry for the interruption.’
‘Well, they have just been fitting mirrors - two mirrors - to Katiann’s waspie corset so she can look down and watch what is happening, both from above with her unaided eyes, and from below and front of her breasts via the mirrors. And they are slowly filling the hopper, and via the hopper, the bra bowls, with water – pure mountain spring water, and not town tap water of course - which will take a little while to complete.’
‘So, we’ll take another short break at this point then - Do please sip some more water yourself Barbara.’
‘Have you got sparkling teeth like these? Yes? But is your mouth really clean? As that stunning smile belongs to her, we asked gorgeous Katiann Prokiss, the secret of a clean healthy mouth. And she told us that she always uses Densino toothpaste, Densino floss, and Densino mouthwash. Densino: toothpaste, floss, and mouthwash, for a really clean mouth.’
‘What a body and what body! Hectically busy socialite, Katiann Prokiss, could only find time to chat to us when she was washing her glorious red hair. But we were so grateful for the opportunity. Our invitation from Katiann was no mystery. Busy girl though she is, she just simply couldn’t wait to thank us for Veline combined shampoo and conditioner. Veline gives hair body.’
‘Do you have a ‘deep pore problem’? As she approached a downtown nightclub, we went up to a gorgeous tall redhead with four lovely girls eagerly holding her hands. And she told us, that to remove her makeup, she always uses Adnan’s face scrubs. You guessed it: it was lovely Katiann Prokiss. ‘Do you have a deep pore problem Katiann?’ ‘After using Adnan’s face scrubs? No Jane! - no of course not!’
Does she or doesn’t she? Is she or isn’t she? Has she or hasn’t she? Was she, as we see her here, in that naughty pelmet skirt? Well, was she or wasn’t she? We asked oh so pretty Katiann Prokiss, and she collapsed in adorable giggles. But we know that when Katiann does, and also when she doesn’t, she wears Phantasy. Phantasy: the scent sent from Paris.’
‘And welcome back again.’
‘The bowls are filling – slowly - with water Barbara -’
‘Well, yes Aileen, the viewers can see in this close up, that they are ensuring both bowls are filling evenly, and that each breast is covered – over its top except of course nearest Katiann’s chest – with water – nearly filling the bowls.’
‘And look at the look on Katiann’s face. She’s fascinated and horrified. I think she knows what’s to happen. Look at the lovely eyes! Green. I’m sure she has light-blue eyes in all those advertisements. They are green with horror as when, sometimes when, a girl is aroused and it’s very wet they sparkle a different colour – She can’t help looking down into the mirrors.’
‘The camera-girls are doing a great job. They’re turning on the supply now - not the camera-girls of course; they are just lookers-on like us. But the improvers – the girls charged with carrying out the improvement - are turning on the supply at the valve at the back of Katiann’s water-filled bowl-bra – the flexible armoured pipe to there, to the valve there, comes from that pressure-bottle some distance behind her? And the two improver-girls at the front have lit the flames at the nipple ends of the copper supply pipes – the copper pipes – outside the Pyrex bowls of the bra at the nipple ends - Katiann’s nipples are within the bowls of course. And they are adjusting the flames so that the flames will deliver.’
‘And I suppose the pain of her back being flayed and her thighs whipped has dazed Katiann’s mind, because she seems only just to have realised, that she is going to have - her breasts are going to be – what’s happening.’
‘Just look at her dancing, still in her two inch ankle hobble chain, working her gorgeous legs in the struggle to escape! She must be driving the spiked penis of the entertainer in her panties; in her - in her naughty part pushed hard up it - almost in circles. How that must be ripping its insides! She’s clearly terrified. She seems to think she can shake off the bra bowls, or get the water out of them, or put out the flames heating them up so that her tits – sorry her breasts will be - er dealt with.’
‘And I think we can see the first bubble – some bubs – a bubble – more bubbles in the water near the flames. And Katiann is trying to make her breasts dance within the bowls. And it looks so incredibly sexy. They are wet like fish and look like leaping salmon, especially with her coral-pink nipples. But they cannot – she cannot escape – she cannot get them out of the water and the bubbles are increasing and we can hear her screams, she is obviously terrified.’
‘The crowd are cheering. Because the RGP have kept them behind crash barriers and at some considerable distance, at the very edges of the square, they are primarily watching on the supersize television screens relaying the EBC transmission – this transmission – just the pictures from it I mean, not the commentary.’
‘Now the water is clearly heating – the water in the bowls is clearly pretty warm already, and Katiann is begging for mercy, and they are turning down the gas, and she thinks it is out of kindness, but I know it’s so her breasts – so it slows the procedure down and ensures it’s done evenly and all through, and she does not lose her lovely-complexioned flesh, as she would were the procedure - if they proceed too rapidly.’
‘The bubbles are lessening, so they are adjusting the gas, taking it up a notch because they are concerned it was too far reduced just before now. And the look on her pretty face! As if they care that she thinks they have betrayed her. As if she thought the turning down of the flames was out of consideration of her, and not out of consideration of how to ensure the procedure leads to the proper end – the required end – the desired end!’
‘Look at her looking in turns at the mirrors showing her breasts amid the bubbles! And she’s dancing those fabulously long – those famous – those gorgeously shapely strong legs of hers and making the entertainer whip around to and fro within her - within it – and the spikes must already have scoured its insides flesh-less, and yet she is still tearing herself, tearing it in her terror. And her long strong lovely legs are well restrained by the hobble chain and she cannot – they cannot break the chain that binds and confines. And the bubbling in the bowls is increasing. And we begin to see bubbles over the surface of the water covering her breasts in the bowls. And the valves are beginning to work, with the initial water vapour becoming replaced by steam. And the steam will exit the one-way valves and is already beginning to turn back into water in the tube leading up to the condenser. And those tubes will fill and the water end up taking the path through the cooling coil – cooled by the outside air as it passes through the coil and the condenser bowl - to drip into the header hopper of water, which has already delivered droplets of cold water to replace that driven off out of the bra bowls by the heating of the bra bowls, but not enough cold water to cool the now fiercely bubbling water in the bra bowls, or therefore to stop Katiann screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming, and dancing her lovely legs and prancing her lovely legs and swinging her gorgeous breasts inside the bowls and making them salmon-leap and screaming and screaming and screaming and salmon-leaping her breasts in the bowls stirring the water and ensuring even-cover of her breasts, basting her breasts unwittingly or otherwise, and dancing her lovely legs and prancing her lovely legs fighting to escape and ripping her nailed wrists her wrists nailed to the log held above her head and screaming and screaming and screaming and salmon-leaping her breasts in the bowls as her breasts are being slowly but inexorably and inevitably taken to the end of the procedure – to the end of her improvement – Katiann’s public improvement.’
‘Well, now – next – I think – no, I’m sure now – yes – they’re reducing the flames so – they’re taking the heat down – reducing the water to simmer. But Katiann’s still screaming and she must have ripped herself to hell, the way she’s been working those glorious legs back and forth trying to escape the pain, she must have ripped herself to hell inside it with the entertainer, and she’s still making her breasts do salmon frolics inside the bowls of her bra, like they were some of those old-style – like they were a couple of goldfish bowls! But she can’t stop – she’s howling with the pain and babbling incoherently – she’s in perfect agony – I – we can hear her begging for mercy; at least that is the tone of her moans between her screams.’
‘But that’s a different sound now. You know I do believe she’s – put it this way, if I didn’t know better – she’s having an orgasm – she’s actually having an orgasm, a totally massive orgasm. She’s having her both of her breasts slowly boiled and she’s having an orgasm!’
‘I think we’ll come away from the outside cameras now please. And cut the sound! Thank you.’
‘That was brilliant commentary Barbara! Truly brilliant!’
‘But don’t you want to show the viewers Katiann’s orgasms?’
‘I think we can return viewers and listeners to normal programmes now, Barbara.’
‘But, before we go, I can’t thank you enough for your contribution. You made me redundant toward the end. I just couldn’t possibly have managed without you. Thank you again.’
‘Thanks also to you, Sarah Smith, our intrepid out-and-about reporter. Thank you Sarah! And thanks too, to our camera operators, sound team, and engineering team. Great stuff girls.’
‘And as one last thing before we go back to central, perhaps we can lighten the gloom that is inevitable when a girl, regrettably, has to undergo improvement.’
‘And perhaps we can cut the outside sound as I requested? Fully please - Thank you. Thank you. We don’t want to listen to that going endlessly on and on, those particular moans and screams.’
‘I think the lighter-mood-moment is that, if I heard you right, Barbara, you said you’d learned – before we came on air it was – in fact I’m sure now it was when we first met - you said Katiann had told you she was due at the Asparagus at 08.00 tonight? The Asparagus is that newly opened gourmets’ establishment everyone’s – the serious press have been raving about isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s the place Aileen.’
‘Well we’re looking at, mmm, 08.00 is two hours or so from now by the clock up there in our outside studio truck, so it really looks like Katiann was just a teensy weensy bit optimistic there doesn’t it?’
‘From what’s – from where she is now, she won’t make – well, that’s one engagement our gorgeous but ‘oh so busy socialite’ will miss for sure -’
‘Well, no.’
‘No she won’t Aileen.’
‘No she won’t.’
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’.
..........................
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.
..........................
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.’
..........................
‘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.’
........................
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.
........................
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.
........................
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.’
........................
‘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.
........................
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?.....’
........................
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.
........................
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.
........................
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....
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