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 h