View Full Version : The Fifth Blonde

Eve Adorer
05-20-2007, 08:29 PM
The Fifth Blonde
(by Eve Adorer)

The disappearance of three girls had Spindon Police in turmoil. Detective Sergeant Truly Winsome was sure she knew the source of all evil in Spindon. But to see if three-plus-one indeed equalled two, would mean putting risk before love.

The Fifth Blonde
(by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 1 - Muffled

Spindon, the Midlands, England, once upon a time….

The presto staccato clatter of high heels echoed the lonely all-but empty street: the tympani of an erotic symphony played solo by a duet of dainty feet.

Spindon was as warm as Spindon ever is. Rain had reigned not long since, with Thor’s bass drum rolls aperitif to jagged strokes slashing the sky blinding blue-white.

Prolific litter, latterly scattering the sidewalk, now cluttered the gutter, washed there by nature’s hopeless attempt to power-hose the Spindon Soho district clean.

The northern hemisphere sun claimed ascendancy over the town’s slatternly summer season. To be this dark therefore needed the early hours, with dawn, borne on and born of the earth’s rotation, starting its post gestation parturition.

There were lights, street, jaundice-yellow, apologising for their inadequacy. There were lights, shop, palsy-white, left on for security and to display the tawdry wares of this locale of despairs.

Boarded windows said shops that did not pay protection money, or else had died of market force’s divorce from custom, and custom’s practice of now going elsewhere.

In such shoes she could not run even though she wanted to. So she made onwards, head down.

By her not looking up, her hallow haloed blonde head played ostrich without the sand for such an inward outlook.

In a doorway ahead: silent shadows shouted their threat and shivered her spine. The hairs on her slim neck rose in reflex ripple. Thank god it was only two drunken girls drinking each other’s kisses.

But fear had demanded she assess if threat threatened, so she had dared to look up. The girls she saw in the doorway, would be called ‘fat’ by unflattering standards that did not see the cream of their complexions, and did not sympathise that to be so tired of life so young spoke of society’s deepest evil.

In so looking up, she saw that, shadows despite, it was safe; but stayed too long in stare, so the call echoed before her as she hurried toward the kissed-in doorway:

“Whadda you fuckin’ starin’ at?”

And the call echoed behind her as she hurried by:

“Seen enough den ‘ave yer?!”

Spindon Police had taken this one here as a summer casual: her and her equally pretty friend. They were still at university. Just nineteen. She was innocent of so much of life and, more so, of so much of love.

Why me; I don’t know.

She was tall, when I like them petite. She was blonde when I like them brunette. She had pale blue eyes, when I love them brown. She had a full bosom for a girl with such a slim frame, when I prefer them to contrast, not more than match my own. But she had the cutest bum, and she knew I could not help but watch her swing that thing when she was busy-bee about the office floor.

Plain clothes were allowed civilians like her. Me too now I was a detective sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Department – the CID.

She was a sunny honey, with love in eyes that gleamed dreams.

Why me; I don’t know, but I knew from the fact that she and her redheaded fellow-student silenced their chatter when I came near, only for its sweet music to charm the air when I had gone by, that electricity was current.

It was DC, one-way, till the day she wore the dress.

Angelina, for this was she: Angelina in her tight cotton, blue cotton, cool cotton, dress. The station house echoed bedlam as we busied with our business, but still the hush of Angelina’s dress’ hem on her sin-black nylons, as she slinked past my desk, charged me with ecstatic static.

On she wasn’t it trying, when she delivered my mail. Perhaps that was because she was shy without her friend to goad her to exceed her confidence’s certain competence.

Her voice was bright silk-honey with a tease of giggle.

“Only two letters today, Miss Winsome: you must be losing your popularity”.

In that instant she blushed scarlet. She was so embarrassed that the intended joke she had rehearsed, had sounded so rude now it was delivered, that she duly flushed pink dew rose from her forehead to her nape, and dropped her sweet eyes to say ‘sorry’.

Acutely shy in pink-faced consequence, she lingered only momentarily by my desk, but the brisk soft swish of her black nylons brushed by her dress’ tight skirt, was scent-in-sound in the sensuality with which the noise of its silence rose above the office fray’s bray.

“Truly”, I said. “Please call me ‘Truly’; not ‘Miss Winsome’”

I was disappointed at being so prosaic. DC was translating to AC currently. I was eleven-years older than this honey-pie, but she still made me shy, and my words thus stupidly inadequate.

As she turned away: “Thank you for the letters Angelina”, I said, following-up one inadequacy with another even worse, for which I mentally kicked myself again.

She turned and her bottom-of-her-bottom blonde flow, momentarily curtained one shy eye as she whispered: “You’re welcome Miss….. Truly”, and blushed again. And a name I had always hated, mine, had just sounded heavenly.

Angelina was, next day subsequently, both wrong and right in her assessment.

Subliminally sublimely she had sounded out, she thought, what had aroused my senses. That it had been the shush of static from her tight dress on her stocking tops topped thighs that had sent ‘scent’ to my ears, she had not realised.

She now stood, talking to her redheaded co-conspiratorial co-concupiscent, the titian tease Emma Eyeful.

As I walked by, Angelina stood chatting self-consciously with her friend and fellow student. Angelina stood in a miniskirt with her long slim legs displayed from her ankles all-but to her nave. She stood in what I guessed must be the first ever pair of heelless tiptoe-walk en-pointe-shoes she had ever worn. She stood thus on tiptop tiptoe with her legs, her calf muscles not least, in a tension of taut curves impossible to give inattention.

Angelina was thus both wrong and right in her assessment. Sublimely subliminally she had sounded out, she thought, what would arouse me. That it would be and had been the hush of the hem of her tight skirt on her nyloned thighs that had sent sweet music to my ears, she had not realised; but she was not wrong in concluding that I was a legs girl.

A significant silence descended over the vacation students’ chatter as I got closer.

As I drew close: “Good morning Truly”, an angel whispered, with a voice that spoke too of longed-for greater confidence.

“Good morning Angelina”, I answered, as I caught her eyes, eyes that said ‘please don’t hurt me’.

The two student-girls’ silence continued as I carried on by to my desk. Then a sigh, Angelina’s, and a sympathetic giggle, Emma Eyeful’s, told of love’s leaning to keening longing.

What courage it took for Angelina to come to my desk later that morning, I only thought about in retrospect.

She lingered by my desk, till I looked up at her shy eyes avoiding contact with mine.

“Please could you spare a moment Truly?” Angelina concerned.

From the nervous tone of her voice, I thought she had made a huge error in her work, and my heart went out to her.

“Of course Angelina. How can I help you sweetheart?” I asked.

I think I might have misplaced them somewhere in the historic records storeroom, Truly. Honestly, I’ve searched high and low! …..” Angelina honeyed. “I thought maybe with fresh eyes on the job we might find them… It’s so stupid of me: they were there earlier this morning…. I’d swear they were! ……..”

I pushed aside the files I had been prioritising on my desk, and followed her willow wand wonder, as she wove and weft her mystery before me, her breathtaking slim legs a little unsteady, because she was constantly tiptoe topped like a ballerina in the heelless pirouette shoes she was not yet used to wearing.

Her sensuousness was sensational to my nose and my ears. The scent from her burnished blonde rippling fresh washed hair, blessed the air. The ‘scent’ of her miniskirt caressing crisply on her nyloned thighs sent a swish wish to my aural nerves and my clit.

Angelina let me go ahead of her into the storeroom where she had been working alone, filing.

When within, turning to the sound of a well-ordered well-oiled ‘click’, I enquired: “What exactly is it that we are looking for Angelina?”

Of course she had locked the door. It should never have been left unlocked in the first place. She should have locked it for security after she had broken off from her work in there to come to my desk.

Angelina started shyly, seeming startled a little, taken by surprise.

“I’m only too happy to help; but we are very busy at the moment as you know. What exactly are we looking for sweetheart?” I asked again of Angelina, who still stood with her back to the locked door, and with her head momentarily lowered.

When Angelina looked up, the huge black pupils middling her China-blue eyes, were compellingly demanding of tutelage, as she whispered, sidling slowly leggilly shyly toward me, while she blessed the air with her sensuous sweet soprano supplication, offering me her mouth: “I think I’ve lost my panties. I’m not sure if I’m still wearing my panties. Will you search me Truly? …… Please …”

It was time for me to return to full duty. My twisted ankle, the ankle that had held me deskbound, was now mended. I would like to claim injury in the line of fire, but my tomcat would call me liar.

I love to wear heels. ‘Tom’ loves his fish. He got his wish that day, a month ago, after I had winced with the sharp pain. He had run and purred and weaved between my ankles as I was walking in my kitchen with his opened food can. And, in my fear of stepping on him, I had stumbled in my 12-inch-heeled sandals. Such is the risk for a girl paying the dues due to her beauty.

It was time for me to return to full duty. I woke just before the aid of the alarm sounding. It being no longer needed, I pressed it to ‘off’.

Bar panties, I was already naked for the shower to baptise me. Being but for butt naked, I was cool without the bedclothes too. Perhaps that was what had awoken me before the alarm went off.

As I moved to leave the bed, Angelina, deep asleep though she was, mumbled protest at the disturbance, and snuggled the duvet she had already monopolised, further over her exquisite body. Yet half her bottom was still cheekily bare, so I leant over and gave it another kiss, and she sleep-talked a slurred, “MmmNo!”, that even yet confirmed, ‘Yes’.

I left my love tumbled in the crumpled bed. It was not that she needed any beauty sleep. But she did have her first day back in her new term at college to face that day.

Later that same morning, at the police station ….

“Welcome back to full duty Detective Sergeant Winsome”, the Chief Inspector called from the front of the briefing room.

“Thank you ma’am”, I answered, controlling my hatred of that jumped up tart.

Fucking university graduates. What did they know about real policing? Book bashers! Frigging useless the lot of them! Had they ever tried to control the girls in the crowd when Spindon Vixens were playing Muncester Dikes in the soccer premiership? Had they seen the unemployed minegirls hanging around the street corners, living off handouts since the last colliery closed two years back? Had they walked the beat in Spindon Soho, and seen the skinny drug-dazed prostitutes, desperate for the money for another fix, being eyed-up for being ripped-off by the rich bitches out for a fling with ‘a bit of filth’? No. Of course they hadn’t. The cushy pen-pushers never went out unless it was in a chauffeuse driven car!

She could have been a catwalk model too. Perhaps that added to why I hated Chief Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt. She had graduated MSc at only sixteen of course. Her doctorate had followed six-months later. Her mind was sharper than a laser razor and her beauty could have centred the fold of ‘Pussy Cat’ or ‘Slit’ or any other of the nudey girls’ magazines that were top-shelf back then.

But I begrudged her flight to height without the shite I had had to plod through. The shite had started for me as a mere constable eight-years since. My mother could not afford to send me to college. I had worked behind the counter at Woolmart’s from leaving school till I was twenty-one, and old enough to sign on with the police force.

“Now listen up please!” Sonia called, and an attentive silence, punctuated only by Constable Divine Legges-Walker’s nervous cough, descended on the collegiate collectivity.

“Operation Moist Quim: you all know what it is about, and you all know its gone total rats”, Monica began, using the condescending ‘common touch’ phraseology that I found another reason for my unreasonable hatred of her.

“Operation Moist Quim. Three girls have disappeared now. We know the pattern. They are all under thirty-five, all around five-nine, all of them blonde, all with blue eyes, and all very beautiful…”.

“And all well endowed ma’am”, a sweet voice called from the back.

“Just so Constable Legges-Walker: an important common factor. Indeed, none of the girls gone missing was less than a thirty-eight double-D or E-cup”, Sonia agreed, with a look of embarrassment that this point – these points? – had been raised, when she would have preferred it – them? - inferred rather than actually said.

“Of course, they were all in their majority”, Sonia went on. “I mean they were all old enough to vote, and thus to vote with their feet and leave Spindon behind them.”

“But we know this is more than a mere ‘missing persons’ matter. We know, because all these girls were either happily married, or had a close partner. And we know, because the wives or girlfriends they left behind, are bereft shocked and distraught from the inexplicable disappearances.”

“A French girl, one Papillon Etalage, is the latest lovely to disappear. And this time we have fallen slightly lucky. We have got two witnesses who saw a girl answering her description, walking through the Spindon Soho area at three yesterday morning.”

“But first, her wife has loaned us footage, so we can see what Ms Etalage looks like”.

“Constable! ….” The constable thus nodded to by Sonia Berkley-Hunt, began to play a wall-screen projected DVD of a stunning girl playing basketball.

Sonia added commentary to break the eerie silence: “As you’ll see, Ms Etalage perfectly fits the common description of the uncommonly beautiful girls that have disappeared in their turn before her…..”

“…..She is keen on indoor sports …”

‘If that means lovemaking, my god I bet she is!’, I thought, as I watched the brief flickeringly visitation of the vision of loveliness that flashed onto the screen, leaped high sky, and netted the ball, before being surrounded by the other girls in her team, who seemed just to long to kiss her, as she shyly giggled, putting her sweet fingers on her lovely mouth.

“Unfortunately, the footage of Ms Etalage is very brief”, Sonia confirmed, stating the obvious, “So the constable will replay it in slow emotion …. I mean slow-motion … for you.”

Of course Papillon’s face was adorably lovely, but we all watched open mouthed, as her long strong legs loped slowly on to the screen. And too as the bounce of the ball that announced her approaching the net, was trounced by the double dive, and double-rebound-rise, of her heavy heaving breasts, in the effortless flow of these, her prodigiously provocative prominent eminences.

And the power of her legs when she leapt to basket the ball, shaped her calves to curves beyond categorisation, bar that they were the curves of a girl.

Papillon’s breasts flowed up to heaven with her leap, and dived and bounced within her top when the angel disappointed heaven as she reappointed heaven on earth by landing kitten cat with her svelte lightness.

The look of joy on the faces of her teammates as they ran to kiss her, showed how deeply she inspired love, despite that her beauty shaded every other girl in the arena.

“Thank you constable”, Sonia’s curt tones intoned as the film clip ended again, and as: ‘Thank you Papillon!’ went through my mind.

“Common factors with the previous two to Ms Etalage”, Sonia announced, indicating with a pointer, a list she had, pinned on a wallboard.

“Each received a gold garter through the post, addressed to them by name and with a letter with the epithet: ‘To the most beautiful girl in the world’, accompanying it.”

“The letter included a phone number, a different number each time, inviting the recipient of the garter to call for an appointment at a model selection interview.”

“The condition for admission was that the garter be worn on the left thigh, and that it be displayed for the purpose of absolute certainty of recognition by the interview team”.

“The phone numbers were untraceable beyond Buenos Aries, which they reached through god knows how many circumlocutions, and were anyway, dodo dead by the time we got that far round the world.”

“The interviews were at a restaurant. The restaurant was always the ‘La Belle Filles’, in the French quarter, and, lets face it, nobody in this room could afford to dine there unless she could spare a year’s wages!”

‘You could, you fucking overpaid overrated tart!’ I thought.

“The letter also included free admission to a cinema. The cinema was always ‘Les Demoiselles’, also in the French quarter, and, as we all know, on the edge of the Spindon Soho area.”

“The victims wore their garters, dined with their interviewers at the restaurant, and went with their interviewers to the cinema afterwards, presumably to relax and get to know each other with the film as a mere backdrop.”

“The reason for the invitation was stated in the letter to be: ‘The celebration of your exceptional loveliness. And, above all, the honour of your overwhelming beauty gracing the pages of our magazine’.”

“They were from non-existent addresses. A different fake address, and a different unheard-of magazine title each time.”

“We’ve checked out the restaurant. A different name footed the bill every time. The bill was always paid with cash, long since banked, and well beyond forensics being able to get anything from it by now, even if we could trace any of it.”

“As for the cinema, they have a twenty-seater room they hire out regularly to cine-enthusiasts, at one-hundred dollars a night, for a private showing of a chosen film. Whoever hired the IntimMateLips Studio on these two occasions, now three, did so over the internet, and left no traceable traces.”

“The films shown there are on DVD. There is no projectionist. The customers play the film as and when they choose. They can watch it ten times over if they wish to, as long as the room is on hire to them for the time it would take. Meanwhile there is a bar as a place to chat and network.”

“The pattern has been the same. The girl with the garter went into the cinema with a gaggle of other girls. These were, presumably, her so-called “interviewers” for the modelling assignment for the new start-up magazine. The garter girl never came out.”

“I say ‘never’, but of course we have the security-cam footage of Ms Etalage coming out of the cinema. We also have footage of other areas around the cinema and restaurant, but none that positively identifies, the previous girls, the mock-interviewers, or Ms Etalage. The locations seem to have been chosen for the minimality of camera surveillance.”

“Ms Etalage must have somehow evaded the girlnappers. Maybe she excused herself to the ladies’ washroom, and evaded their security by simply not returning to her seat. She is the only one not somehow disappeared inside the cinema itself. But they clearly got her later, in the street.”

“Only after the second disappearance did we get told. With the first one, the partner of the missing girl concluded that her love had wanted to disappear for some unknown reason.”

“The first two happened a week apart. This latest, only two days after the second.”

“Till we came on the scene, nobody saw that there was a pattern.”

“Unfortunately, the report of these events happening, and our investigation and conclusion there was a connection, came too late for a warning to have gone out that might have saved Mademoiselle Etalage.”

“Now: our new witnesses”, Sonia went on. “Our new witnesses are two public spirited citizens of Spindon Soho. I’ve promised them anonymity, as they are married; but not to each other.”

“Unfortunately, our new witnesses can tell us little. They saw a girl matching the description of Ms Etalage walking very nervously through Spindon Soho, coming from the direction of the French Quarter of Spindon. That’s all.”

“The route Ms Etalage was on, was her way home. She never made it home. The girlnappers must have caught up with her.”

“We appear to be talking girlnapping to order: hence the similarities in the hair-colour complexion height and vital statistics of these gorgeous young women.”

“The constable on the beat there was asked to retrace Ms Etalage’s route from the cinema. She did so, and had the good sense to look for evidence, in the unlikely places as well.”

“In a trash-can on one of the lampposts not a quarter-mile from the ‘Les Demoiselles’ movie house, she found some panties. They were thoroughly impregnated with the dried evidence of heavy petting.”

“Even as I speak, these are being flown to France for the intimate DNA they contain in abundance, to be profiled against that of Ms Etalage’s mama, a retired supermodel, now living in Paris. We expect confirmation that the discarded panties are indeed Ms Etalage’s.”

“We have no idea who cast them into the trash-can”, Sonia concluded.

“Any ideas about the case?” she queried.

“Ideas?! …. Anyone?” ….

There was a pregnant silence, till ….

“How about the Midnight sisters, ma’am”, I called out.

“I thought their name would come up”, Sonia dismissed.

“As we all know, Eve and Dawn Midnight flew in from New Edingow in the USA a year since, and have had the former Manor House in the Spindon Soho district refurbished, to make it into a home.”

“As we all know also, Eve and Dawn have a reputation for big-time crime. But the FBI assure us that they are cleaner than a hound’s tooth. Reputation is just that and nothing more. Besides, and, okay we did check it as a precaution, all the evidence is that they were out of town on every occasion of one of these occurrences. So, reputation or no reputation, Eve and Dawn Midnight are out of this.”

“And, as for you, Detective Sergeant Winsome: you keep off the Midnight girls’ grass. They’ve complained about you snooping around near the Manor House. If you want to continue a fine career, cut that out”, Sonia warned.

“Any worthwhile ideas? ….. Someone? Anyone?”

If shop dummies could have turned their heads to give each other dumber looks than my colleagues had on their faces at that final invitation, I would have been surprised to see it.

The briefing fell into a shambles, and we all shuffled out, dispirited.

Meanwhile, Sonia Berkley-Hunt called me to her office, and had me read a warning letter from Mesdames Grimm, Gavel, and Grave, Eve and Dawn Midnight’s solicitors, complaining of harassment by an off-duty plain-clothes police officer: to wit, me.

“Whatever you think you can achieve by poking around near the Midnight’s patch, forget it Truly”, Sonia insisted gently. “Forget it; or if this letter gets a follow-up to the Chief Constable herself, on the same theme, I won’t be able to save your career”, she warned.

Home after the day, feeling ******arine, tired, and weary, I turned the key in the door of Angelina’s apartment, only to have my heart mind and deepest soul lifted by Angelina rushing to kiss me.

“Guess what?” she giggled and teased, without being able to wait for me to answer her, as she danced around and spun like a top in her hyper-high excitement, and instantly answered her own question:

“Tonight! This very night!! What do you think of ‘La Fille Aux Cheveux De Lin’ the original movie, as directed by Eutille Joanbergen her very self; not the American remake but the rediscovered Eutille Joanbergen silent original!!?”

“Preceded ….. wait for it …..”, she pleaded, as she put her pretty forefinger on the tip of my nose to tease me, taunting me with her sweet touch to give punctuation to the point she wished to make in her lovely playful way, and telling me thus that I risked spoiling her joy if I even so much as tried to answer.

“Wait for it!” she teased again, this time putting her lovely finger to shush my mouth, even as I felt tears come to my eyes for my love of this wonderful girl prancing excitedly around me.

“Preceded by dinner at …… ‘tara’, ‘tara’, ‘tara’, she trumpeted, in silly imitation of a triumphant fanfare, “Preceded by dinner at ‘La Belle Filles’!!”

“I’m going to be a model! “I’m going to be a model! “I’m going to be a model!” she sang as she jigged about the room flashing a letter, she teased me by not letting me fully see.

Her angelic face frowned a little as she saw my serious look.

But then she brightened and frightened the sun’s supremacy, as she whispered: “Isn’t it just so gorgeous?!!”, as she innocently whisked up her pleated miniskirt to reveal a pure gold garter gently pressing the supreme wonder of her bare, unbearably lovely, slim left thigh. Then she teased me by dancing a silly knees-high foot wiggle cancan, before purposely falling helplessly into my arms.

“What we got here then?”

It had been totally stupid of me to go it alone.

I had left Angelina to get ready. I had kissed her, and lied to her, that I was going into work later, adding that I was sure she would bowl them over at the interview.

“Hope you’ll still want to know poor little me, when you’re rich and famous!” I teased.

She hugged me, kissed me, and sighed with surrender.

Back in my own apartment, three floors up from Angelina’s, it had been decision time.

Did I tell Angelina not to go to the interview, or did I let it go ahead so we could get the bitches carrying out this girlnapping?

How certain was I that the Midnight sisters were behind what was going on?

If I was sure I was sure, there was no use in my telling Chief Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt. My boss had already warned me to keep away from them. I would get no support from her. Yet, if I was convinced of Eve and Dawn Midnight’s involvement, this was my chance to prove it for once and all.

I had, of course, not been prepared to risk my love. I had made an anonymous call to a police helpline, and followed it up with a call to a trusted colleague.

Constable Divine Legges-Walker assured me that they had had a tip-off and would be following it up.

The word they had received – the word I had passed on anonymously – was that another beautiful blonde would be abducted that very night:

“You might recall her”, Divine prompted, “In fact you must have come across her since she left us to go back to college. She lives in the same apartment block as you do, sarge. Remember those two student tarts that filled their vacation working in our offices. The redhead and the blonde. Well, it’s the blonde of course. The tall one? The one that seemed to have the hots for you. Angelina Dream?”

“How are you going about it?” I enquired, trying to disguise my anxiety, and change the subject, as consciousness of the risk for Angelina struck me with fresh doubts about what I was doing.

“We got everything on it we’ve got available. That includes you sarge. The Chief Inspector wants you here pronto or sooner. We’ve been trying to raise you this last hour or more. Where the hell have you been?”

“You’re not going to believe this, Divine, but that bloody ankle of mine has gone on me again, damn it!” I lied.

“I’m sat here with a pack of friggin frozen peas over the swelling. I can hardly get to the bathroom, let alone out of this apartment”, I elaborated.

“Bloody hell sarge! We need you here right now!” Divine moaned, as much because she preferred others to do her thinking for her as to think for herself; unless she was being called upon to think with the mind she had between her superb thighs that is of course.

“No can do”; I answered, “It’s bloody agony. No more high heels for me. That’s twice I’ve twisted the same damned ankle”, I further lied.

“Okay sarge. I’ll tell Sonia, but she ain’t going to like it. For god’s sake, can you at least be ready by the phone?” Divine pleaded.

“Yes. Yes of course. I’ll help in any way I can. You’ll have to get me on this landline though. My mobile’s gone too. Battery won’t take a charge. I didn’t take a police-issue radio with me either”, I was heading for a ‘best unsupported actress’ award with these further elaborations of my fundamental lie.

It was true that I had not got a police radio with me. My mobile I had merely turned off so it wouldn’t give me away.

I had a plan. Now I was as sure as I could be that Angelina was safe, I had a plan.

I had the highest regard for my colleagues. I would trust Angelina to them. I had been on such operations before. The maybe-victim was bate and no more. There would be cops in the restaurant and hidden in the cinema. Angelina wouldn’t be touched. The pincer would close in before anyone so much as laid an eye on one of her lovely legs, or so I assured, and then reassured myself.

But the pinch was bound to be in the locality of the French quarter. My colleagues would therefore probably only get the monkeys. The organ grinders could only be tracked if one of their dogsbodies cracked in interrogation. That could take hours or, more likely, days.

The chances of the Midnights being nabbed by my colleagues I rated slim to scintilla. I was going to get the bitches I was certain sure were the mistressminds behind what was going on. I was going to nail Eve and Dawn Midnight myself, before they got word they’d been rumbled, and fled the country.

“What we got here then?”

The Spindon Town Hall clock was chiming half-past the hour as I struggled unavailing in vain with my captors.

The familiar peaceful sound of that clock knelled the end of my freedom as I was frog-marched into Spindon’s old Manor House, the house refurbished as a home by the Midnight sisters in an attempt to gentrify the sewer that was the Soho district of Spindon.

“What we got here then?”

I had been grabbed from behind. I had been snooping in the garden of the Manor House, and had been grabbed by two gorgeous strong and fit negresses keeping guard on the Midnight girls’ English residence.

I was now kneeling. My arms were out straight behind me. Each of the guard girls had a wrist and had twisted that wrist with one strong hand, while she held me above the elbow to keep my arm locked straight with her other hand. I had then been smart-marched into the Manor House, and my arms levered up behind me, to make me kneel.

As I knelt leaning forward, my long blonde hair had cascaded around my face, my heavy breasts were plunged within my white blouse to point profoundly to ground, my micro-skirt was ridden up my strong thighs, thighs given enormity by my squat, thighs revealing my sin-black stocking tops, and my blind-bat-black suspenders.

“What we got here then?”

With my dark-blue micro-skirt having sighed high, I felt pleasured-eyes admiring the feminine flow of the lines of my folded legs. Somehow I then felt them stop at the tops of my wicked-widow-black-stockings, and the exposure of my suspender clasps on the fronts of my thighs. The eyes, I sensed stopped to ponder if I wore panties, before adoring my breasts as they heaved heavy huge within my shirt with my fear.

“Let’s have a good look at her”, silked the same voice as before.

One of my captors pulled my corn crop into a stook on top of my head, and forced my face up, despite my pulled-up arms forcing my shoulders down.

“Gorgeous! Absolutely gorgeous!”

I looked up at the feline source of the purring voice, and saw to adore, the long slim exquisitely shapely legs of Eve Midnight.

Eve wore a black leather micro-skirt and a black leather jacket. The jacket zip was open and her size thirty-eights D-Deed the insides of a tight black tee-shirt, testing its tensile-strength to the precipice of asunder-rip. Her nipples were prominent nibs, readied for scribbling love-notes in white ink, if only her breasts had been charged with milk. The hem of her tee-shirt was fashionably tatty, torn-off at a 45-degree diagonal, so that her smooth firm belly was half bare.

Her cute concave navel guided my eyes up between her deep cleavage to her imperious face. Her dark-brown eyes shone with vitality and viciousness in competing measure. Her raven hair tumbled in helix ringlets, in the ordered disorder that could only have originated from the most exclusive of hairdressers. Her Everest-high cheekbones poured scorn on lesser majesty. And, oh god, her mouth, with its negress’ lips, posies pout-poised in permanent pose proposing: ‘kiss me’!

A door opened behind this astounding vision, and another girl walked in, talking on her mobile phone: “They’re all three sedated, bubble-wrapped, and crated. All we need now is Angelina Dream, and we can get then on the truck for the airport. That lucky Russian bitch will soon have her matching team of four blonde ponygirl-prancers….”

This speaker purred kitten too. This was Dawn. This was Dawn Midnight, the perfectly identical twin, of the equally perfect Eve.

These astounding girls were twins of twenty-two, but had different birthdays. They had been born either side of midnight, two minutes apart. Eve had been born the day before Dawn and after dawn. Dawn had been born after Eve and before eve.

Never had the surname ‘Midnight’ been given more wonderful meaning and reason. It was in their genes. The Midnight family had its genealogy, and their tree told of many midnight births, giving the derivation of the surname of these stunning beauties the same validity as the surname ‘Day’. One or both of the Midnight girls’ parents bore the gene, and they had been born around midnight as a consequence.

Dawn and Eve Midnight, both now stood before where I was still in enforced kneel, as if in worship of them. And I saw the full majesty of the truth that was beauty, and the beauty that was truth, as the white Eve in her black, stood alongside the negress Dawn in her identical clothing of contrasting white. For that too was true of these vixens of the demimonde, that they were completely identical twins, save the grace that had granted that Eve was white and Dawn a negress.

“What we got here then?” whispered Dawn’s divine lips, echoing her sister’s rhetorical interrogative, as she clicked off her mobile.

“What a beauty. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they’d delivered blonde number four.

“You don’t have a chance the place is surrounded by cops!” I painfully clichéd.

“I don’t like to see you getting hurt like this”, Eve whispered as she cupped my chin in her gentle hand, and ran her thumb sexually inquisitively over the soft lips of my petulantly pert, firmly closed, love longing, mouth.

“I’m going to tell my heavies to let go your arms Truly, but I don’t want no trouble from you: Okay?”

I felt the pain in my shoulders increase, as my arms were forced further up, and me further down, to remind me of the power held over me and: “Okay, okay, okay!” I gasped, my tone intoning: ‘Oh god let me go!’.

I was then released. As I rose to stand on my twelve-inch heeled booties, two exceptionally lovely hands, one black and one white, took one each of mine.

After the twins had helped me rise, I stood, rubbing my arms, in alternate turn, at their respective triceps, to ease the ache from my being girlhandled so forcefully.

“I am Detective Sergeant Truly Winsome of Spindon CID. I am spearhead of a raid on this house. You would be wise to surrender yourselves to me!” I winced unconvincingly.

Then the rest of my intended words were lost in an intense mumbled struggle followed by a silence enforced by a gentle black hand that caressed my face, and then held my neck at back to force me to kiss Dawn Midnight, and by my melting utter butter, as she moulded her mouth around my unwillingly willing lips, till the thrilling tingle in my racing pulses made my eyes close in complete surrender, and my mouth answer with all my heart’s passion.

“You’re a girl first and a copper way second”, Dawn taunted, confident in her alarming sexual charms, as she let me go and Eve took over the kiss. And the wanton wetness in my tunnel of love told the tale of my feminine betrayal, even as my clit tolled too like a wedding bell’s knell.

I was losing it fast. I had to get a grip on my physical and spiritual body. I had to have command over my heart from my head and not from between my legs.

Anaesthetised by their kisses I was in serene stun, as Dawn ran her inquisitively enquiring hands over my blouse and then patted my buttocks.

“She’s clean. She’s only got her girl’s weapons”, Dawn teased, as she looked at my eyes: eyes misty with mystification that I could so surrender at the behest of two of the best kisses I had ever tasted, and more so at my longing for more such, and a tonguing.

“You are under arrest….” I reflexed from somewhere in my subconscious, only to have Dawn lean forward and gently kiss my forehead to keep me poleaxed.

“Of course we are sweetheart”, she teased.

“What about the snatch?” Eve pointedly reminded, “She might have a shooter hidden up her.”

“Yea” Dawn agreed.

“Okay Truly, I want you to lower your panties, and no quick moves, cos if you do got a gun holstered up there, we’ll use it on you for sure”, Eve drawled.

As I slowly lifted the hem of my skirt up my thighs, to reveal my potent-purse-pouched translucent white thong, I watched the twins exchange affirmative glances confirmatory of their admiration of the longing of my legs, the sighs of my thighs, and their joy at seeing, through my panties, that there was nothing to see, but that I was shaven as smooth as a pre-pubescent innocent.

I was now proud that my body was arousing these heavenly satans to the parallel of the passion that their compassionate kisses had encompassed me hopelessly lost within for them.

As I stepped out of my thong after lowering it to my ankles, I prayed they would not feel me to find if or not I had a pistol hidden in my she, as I knew they would find the moisture, portrayal of my muff’s betrayal, as it prayed I might fall prey to these delectable devils.

“Are you packing a rod in your cunt, Truly?” Eve insisted.

“No” I answered.

“Shall she show us her pink, so we can be sure?” Dawn asked her elder twin.

“No. I think she knows where we’re at. You wouldn’t be so stupid as to lie, would you Truly?” Eve insisted.

“No. I’m not armed”, I hoarsed with my passion for another kiss unbidden unhidden.

“Why don’t we give her the old ‘spit-roast’? She’s begging for it” Dawn drawled, licking her lips to moist beacons beckoning for the reckoning of reckless reconnoitre of my betraying body.

“Yea” smoothed Eve, as she eyed me top to toe and toe to top, while I shook my blonde mop to let her see the grace of my face, and lowered my light-blue lamps in shame at the fevered feelings I was fermenting.

“You’ve got it coming you horny bitch. We’ll teach you not to nipple-in where you’re not wanted,” Dawn sneered, but with a slur inferring her own desires were as aroused as my own, even though, with me, it had taken the actuality of my captivity to make me realise my sexuality’s fullest capacity had this category of catalyst.

“Get yourself stripped bitch, but leave the heels on, so we can see your fucking beautiful legs at their very best”, Dawn ordered.

I was slow to obey. It was not out of rebellion or lack of wanting to be their slave. It was out of need to savour the flavour of the moment: the moment of my realising that I was submissive, and longing for a lesson to be taught me.

But new fervour entered my fever as my dilatoriness caused Dawn to rip my blouse asunder so that, with buttons ballistic, my gentle breasts were flung softly wide aside and side-to-side, exposing the super-erect stature of my nipples, confirming my growing arousal.

“One each?” whispered Dawn, and their mouths were on me and suckling on my virgin-firm breasts, even as I gently put my trembling hands on the backs of the exquisite raven curls of the twins’ pharaoheon heads, while I sexually mothered their desire for my body, by letting them suck my nipples to new lengths of height, and new heights of length, new peaks of stiffness, and new stiffness of peaks.

They could take the time they wanted in sucking my nipples. It would never be too long or too short a time for me. If they went on long or short it showed they had mistressy over me, and that was what I wanted in deed, and needed indeed.

I wanted these girls to rape me. I needed these girls to rape me. I wanted them to use me, abuse me, and discard me. I needed them to use me, abuse me, and discard me. If they wanted to slap me around, all the better. I wanted the rape to last forever and yet, at one and the same time, for it to be nasty brutal and short.

If they wanted to give me pleasure I would cum. If they wanted to deny me pleasure I would enjoy it just as more.

I wanted to be broken by them. I wanted to be soiled and sullied and slapped like a slattern slapper.

As Dawn undid the buckle of my belt to drop my skirt to my ankles and rip off the remnants of my blouse, I longed that she might whip me with the buckle across my bare back till it bled, but I was silent other than to utter the moans that utterly uttered the true meaning of me, as my nipples were sucked to eternity’s rapture by their second suckling from the eager Eve’s capture.

“Let’s have her mouth then” came Dawn’s honey purr from behind me, as Eve bade me step out of my ankle encumbering dropped skirt, and turn.

Somehow, despite my impassioned irrational arousal, even as I turned in eager eyes-closed dream, I heard the Spindon Town Hall clock chime the present hour, only to cream as I screamed with astonishment when I saw Dawn’s hugely erect cock.

Dawn had fifteen-inches of erect cock she was masturbating to attention, whilst gorging on the glory of my body! She wanted me bent forward so her cock could taste my hot virgin mouth.

Oh god I had not known this! I had not known the Midnight twins were hermaphrodite! They were girl-boys, more girl than boy except where it mattered right now. I was an all-girl girl, and, faced with Dawn’s massive matter, I backed away in shock and awe, but to no avail.

Eve took my hair and grabbed it to hold my head till Dawn’s cock was on my lips, and I was, microseconds later, choking as Dawn rammed it over my tongue and deep down my throat.

I struggled for air but my fight only excited Dawn the more as she worked my mouth with her cock, whilst her sister spat in my anus, to ready it for her cock’s intern in turn.

As Dawn grabbed my hair and twisted it to a knot in her fist, to hold my head steady so she could use my mouth as a tool for her sole pleasure, never had I felt such pain as Eve’s fifteen-inch penis forced open the tight ring of my sphincter. But my scream was muffled and only served to service Dawn’s end’s ends, as her end was still deep down my throat.

I was being ‘spit-roasted’. I was on the ‘spit’. I had one cock down my throat and another in my anus, and it was, and I was in, ecstasy.

Eve and Dawn took my hands and gently hammerlocked my arms at my shoulder blades as they played seesaw in slow session in their possession of my passion holes, with first Dawn down my throat and back to my tongue, and then Eve up my bum and then back to the rim of my sphincter.

And then they united to fill me in unison, so that I had their cocks down me and up me in union, and up me and down me as two and one, using me as a classic ‘spit-roast’ host.

I tried so to tell them I had lied, but my cries were muffled by my garbled gargled gurgles, as I choked and garble gabble gargled in reflex with Dawn’s huge cock with its rolled back foreskin filling my glottis with its throbbing head, so that its withdrawal drew the wind from my lungs, and my pretty nostrils flared in despair of air.

Yet, even as Dawn’s withdrawal drew up vile bile and I wretched with the shear size and length of her invasion, I wanted my mouth to please.

When my bile was sucked up, I wanted her cock out of my mouth so that I could spit this sickening salty saliva out. But I knew she was still going to ride inside me despite my protests, and even more so because I fought. So I must suffer as my hot tongue caressed the endless length of Dawn’s penis when it pumped back into me and drove my hot bile out of my nose.

My tears teetered brink my eyes as Dawn rode me without mercy let alone a chance to say what needed to be said about my lie.

With Dawn’s cock past my tonsils, I rose above the fear I would choke, even though she held my head hard up with her cock right down my neck so that I began to fight for my right to breath, as my tits shook and shuddered with my leaving of consciousness.

But, even as I thought I was dying, my tongue knew new pleasing measure for Dawn’s pleasure, as my head swam and my mind floated to knew heights of consciousness of the treasonous pleasures treasured by my sexual-self from my asphyxiation.

I knew I was being deliberately choked to a half-death to make me compliant with pleasuring the client that was using my mouth as if it were a she, so that my tongue would dance like an ululating snake on Dawn’s erect state as it plunged and plundered down and up, and down and deeper down my helplessly willing throat.

“Oh fucking shit, she gives great head!!” Dawn said as she wiped my wet and willing mouth lips with her dark red warhead, before plumbing new depths of my throat to choke me once more.

My mind blown by my slow asphyxiation, I felt the heaven of Eve’s cock sliding measuredly within my colon as balm and bliss as against the blitzkrieg kiss of the cock in my mouth.

Eve’s love was elemental and gentle as her cock savoured the chocolate flavour of the hole she favoured in me.

My bum had not known love before, and my sphincter was tight, even after it had given up the fight to stop the persuasion of Eve’s pleasure-ground bound fifteen-inch invasion.

My lovely bum had always excited the girls. And how jealous they would be to see that Eve had the tool with which to take toll on the hole that all of my girlfriends had lingered long in, longing with finger, as they wished they had Eve’s pole with which to rule and tell my bum not to be so sexy, if it didn’t nextly want to have a shit coated cock forced into my mouth to punish me for my wanton wriggle wiggles when I walked.

But even as Dawn fucked my mouth as if it were the she of a streetwalking trollop she would use without concern as a depository for her sperm, I longed for Eve’s more gentle penetration in my oral orifice and Dawn to slap my bum with her balls as she raided my anus like an irate pirate.

My bum and my mouth were not made for this kind of love. And yet, because they were not made for what they were being used for, they were just the right holes two too for the Midnight’s to take, to teach me my mistake of thinking I could take them alone: a thought I had soon forgotten as they continued to savage my mouth and my bottom, raking me with rape for my mistake’s sake.

The second round of bile pulled up by Dawn’s plunder of my mouth, was viler than the first. And yet the state of my surrender by now was such that I welcomed the foulness, as her cock syringed my throat again, and the bile pissed nauseatingly out of my nostrils.

And I began to wretch and my tongue to flicker like a dervish at death’s door.

“Oh god she’s a fucking horny whore!!!” Dawn hollered.

“Ride her cowgirl!! You got your cock in her saddle! What’s her beautiful fucking bum like for fucking? Fucking beautiful?” Dawn gasped between-whiles as she enjoyed my half-death choking on her poking pole far down my throat hole.

Eve’s cock still made cockhorse whore of my anus as she rode the range spurred on by her longing to jerk and spurt inside my sexy pert bum with her potent seed cum.

“She’s as smooth as satin and silk. She needs to be rode fucking bucking bronco pronto!!” Eve opined to insult my mind.

“You take her saddle while I feed her chocolate sauce as her next course!” Eve sneered, intentionally for me to have heard every word, so as to turn me on to the slut I was being taken for and used as: to abase me, and rouse me as they knew now my want to pleasure, was from my massive submissive need to please.

My need to tell that I had lied was forgotten as my plunderers withdrew, and I gasped for air: air that had never had more wonderful fragrance, as my swimming head was still filled with the circling sparkling stars that danced before my eyes from Dawn’s penis throttling me with its relentlessly deep and ever deeper choking poking.

I was unphased by the switch around. I was only too eager to taste my brownie.

As, lubricated by my spittle and bile on her hugely distended cock, Dawn slid slap deep into my bum to ride me hard, bareback bronco break, holding my hips, as Eve let me know what she intended, and what it impended, by up-ending her cock so I could smell my fresh shit on her shaft.

Eve swung her hips side to side and her cock slapped my face cheek as she hissed: “Lick it you whore. Lick your shit off my shaft!”

And where once I would have recoiled with nausea, I now moaned with joy.

Eve did not need to order me to be eager, for my tongue was on the tense tautness of her issue tissue, and my lips kissing the brownie off its tip, finishing with an extra succulent kiss to suck the shit out from the recess of her septum.

“There’s a good girl”, Eve menaced, to knowingly arouse me more, as she slid her now pristine clean shaft down my throat, and the twins once more seesawed and jointly worked me ‘spit-roast’ once again.

As Eve and Dawn Midnight rode me, time stood still; for what bestrode me was more compelling than love alone. I had grown to thirty-years and yet only now discovered that I needed this. This physical hell was physic of heaven. All I wanted now was that they cock my she.

All I wanted now was that they cock my cunt. I was pouring my musk in excess of largesse, but I knew I had no right to ask that they enter my sin.

In the hour for which the Midnight twins had been ‘spit-roasting’ me, an hour I knew only as an eternity I wanted to have endlessly without end, I had learned that mine was to be used and abused, and that the divine rights belonged only to these hermaphrodite queen-kings.

I could not define what I wanted. I had to pray they would divine what I wanted, and that what I wanted coincided with what they decided I needed divided, in their free choice of my three tight orifices.

At the bursting open of the doors, and the shout of: “Armed police: Freeze!” an angelic beauty with a gold garter around her tear-rendingly-beautiful slim left thigh, saw me eagerly bent over, in just my devil-black-suspenders, blackguard-black-stockings, and twelve-inch heels, with Eve’s fifteen-inch cock right down my eager throat, and Dawn’s just withdrawing from my red-hot bum-pot.

“Truly! Oh god Truly! How could you?! How could you?!” Angelina screamed, as she saw, and then ran straight back out of the door and into the distant shiver of the velvet night.

“Armed police: Freeze!” Chief Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt shouted once more.

At which call, as Dawn reflexed upright, her hugely erect enormity, held on the verge of at long last entering my she, slid into my sluts slaverings and met with the cold resistance of the butt of my secreted one-shot derringer: the illegal pistol I carried for self-defence: the seat and site of my lie. And the muffled sound of the explosion within my muff, told of the lead-semen that had instantaneously ejaculated from the barrel of that pistol, its cock-sure hair-trigger all too eager to complete my intense intercourse, by deflowering me with a bullet, so that I fell to the floor screaming, writhing my beautiful legs eye-compelling orgasmically erotically, in agony, even as I rode the rough road of my unrivalled unbridled unbearable cums: a cum for every stroke of the Spindon Town Hall clock, as it chimed out the coming of, and my cumming too, to murderous midnight…

Outside in the background-silent cold distant, the presto staccato clatter of high heels echoed the lonely street: the tympani of an erotic symphony played solo by a duet of dainty feet, as Angelina, her face an ocean of tears for her emotionally imagined miserable years, wonder-wiggled, wandering lonely into the bite of Spindon’s empty night…

The Fifth Blonde
(by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 2 – Etiquette

My stay in hospital was brief. As part of the diplomatic hushing-up of the incidents in the Spindon Soho Manor House, the Midnights paid for the operation I needed to remove a bullet.

The ‘Corps Diplomatique’ plates on the front of the Midnight twins’ her and his / his and hers matching Ferraris saw them granted immunity, where persona non grata should have played trump card.

However tentative the connection of Eve and Dawn Midnight with the US Embassy in reality, the English government again deluded itself that England mattered to the USA, and wanted no boats rocked, for risk of ties broken.

The two English Rose blondes, and the superlatively lovely blonde French girl, Mademoiselle Papillon Etalage, were released from the wooden crates in which their exquisite naked bodies were crouched foetus.

Bandaged in bubble-wrap so that ‘the fruit’ would not be bruised in transit, they had been injected to make them sleep for the road, flight, rail, and road again journey to St Petersburg. Had they and my lovely Angelina Dream been delivered by freight as per the Midnight twins’ contract, the four stunning blondes were to have been broken to harness, and made to pull a countess’ ponygirl-sled, naked in the Russian winter snows.

My stay in hospital was brief. As part of the diplomatic hushing-up of the incidents in the Spindon Soho Manor House, the Midnights paid for the operation I needed to remove a bullet.

My surgeon assured me that I was “a lucky wee girly”, as her cheerful Scottish accent announcedly pronounced it. Indeed, I had been lucky. Though at first the surgeons had concluded that they would have to infibulate me, microsurgery proved possible, and there was no irreparable damage.

Swimming and daily use of a vibrating dildo, to stimulate my nerve endings, were recommended for my recovery to full fitness.

And only that, almost only that, was how I found myself, my full-on bosom threatening to overspill my blue bikini’s bra, my breasts and my bottom as brown as my legs, since I had also sunbathed naked, lounging at the side of a pool in Neliga Spain: the pool of yet another of the Midnight girls’ residences.

Recuperation was one reason for my being in sunny Spain; the other was a visit I had had when in hospital.

Chief Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt began her bedside chat with me, with the understatement of any year:

“I know you and I have not exactly hit it off with each other, Truly, but I hope you know I respect your good old fashioned copper’s gut instincts”.

“You were right about the Midnight girls. But you were wrong to go it alone like that. I know it was only because you are the consummate dedicated copper that you did that silly solo on me.”

“You should have trusted us. We had it tabbed. I didn’t want you involved because we knew of your relationship with that lovely creature, Angelina Dream. I wanted you based at the police station so we wouldn’t have your understandable emotions getting in the way.”

“What do you mean, ‘we knew’? Who is ‘we’ ma’am?” I challenged, as my heart pinged a pang of pain at the thought of my loss of sweet Angelina.

“MI8”, Sonia replied, casually.

“What the hell would Military Intelligence be doing in on this?” I challenged.

“When we raided the Manor House, we had a squadron of the SGS on hand. The Special Girl Service troopettes were going to freight the Midnights out in two of the Midnights’ own crates, to a destination they would never reach, because their crates would, unfortunately, fall out of the aircraft halfway over the Atlantic.”

“But that’s just evil!” I whispered, aghast.

“No more evil than the Midnights. Sometimes evil is necessary in the defence of democracy”, Sonia responded in a resigned tone.

“If you hadn’t got wounded, we could have carried it through. As it was, the SGS arrival helicopter was diverted to fly you to hospital instead”, Sonia semi-concluded.

“With it all becoming public, the Midnights were forced to leave England for a while. Because of the diplomatic stink, they were obliged to pay your medicare, as the least gesture they could make.”

Sonia paused, but I knew I should not interrupt the gap. It was a conversational lull but a meaningful lull. Significance can often be communicated non-verbally. I sensed she was about to impart import. I was not wrong.

“To come straight to the point, we want you to do an undercover for us Truly. We want you to do a Jane Bond for us”, Sonia continued, as if I should have expected her to ask, indeed as if she had been easing me toward this, instead of her springing it on me mousetrap.

“Officially, you’re out of the police, retired on medical grounds. Not that there are any real medical grounds thank god. But that’s the front. In reality, you’ve got yourself a transfer to MI8 if you want to take it. I know we can rely on you”, she flattered to succeed, she hoped.

“They need someone on the inside gathering data on the next major caper the Midnight twins have lined up. You get to know the where, when, who, and why; and we, MI8 and the police that is, will catch those bitches red-handed.”

“You’ll have some training from MI8, and be taught how to communicate feedback. They’ll explain….”

“You surely want your own back for the Midnight bitches raping you like that. You’ve got an intro to their circle. They’re advertising for a chauffeuse. The interview is in London Saturday week. You’re old enough to have learned to drive before the petrol began to cost a life-savings per gallon….”

‘That was no rape’, I thought as I recalled my eagerness for the aggressive ingress and egress of the Midnights’ cocks shafting my front and rear. Nor, I thought, would the Midnights want anything more to do with me, unless they were convinced I was a convert to their side, or at least they could see through anything I might be set up to try.

But this ‘medical-grounds enforced retirement’ scene just might wash with them. They’d think it was at one with the diplomatic cover-up. They would be likely to conclude that my ‘retirement’ was a cover-up in itself: that I was not so much being retired, but dismissed from the police service for ‘conduct unbecoming a serving officer of the law’.

After all, if the police threw me out in a blaze of publicity, that would create the diplomatic stink that the English and US authorities were trying to avoid. Was this a double-bluff or a triple one? Whatever. It just might work!

Furthermore, the Midnights, if they thought about it at all, could easily conclude that, after all my years of service, I would be bitter at this disguised dismissal from the force: a dismissal being a dismissal no matter how it is excused. And that, in consequence, they could use me in their service without concern. It just might work!

It was not difficult to work out that Sonia Berkley-Hunt had reached the same multi-bluff style conclusions, even if she was saying everything else but.

“Okay”, I said. “I’m your girl. When do I start?”

Spindon was once more a railway town.

The coalmines had closed two-years since. It was not that coal had run out as well as the oil. England had plenty of coal. It was just that English Collieries Incorporated found the cost per tonne of extracting coal was greater in Spindon than the market sale price. The seams were too difficult for the miner-girls to get at with the pickaxes and shovels it seems.

The closure of the ‘Spindon Rump’, and ‘Spindon Minge’ tunnels had thrown a lot of girls out of work.

But government investment in re-establishing the steam railway-engine building factory at Spindon, was just beginning to bring benefits. One day, its trickle-down effect on the Spindon economy might even lift the depression in the Spindon Soho area; but it was better not to hold one’s breath in hope of that one.

Petroleum gas had become the new nectar for the gods. Nobody but the rich could afford it anymore. Even the English queen rode in a carriage pulled by a team of twelve ponygirls. It was not, of course, that English royalty could not afford gas, but rather that they must show their subjects that they too were sharing the suffering from the fuel shortage.

Spindon City Station was busy with commuter-girls, many in their Ahanemi styled business suits, with pinstriped jackets and matching micro-miniskirts.

Exposed stocking tops and visible suspender clasps were the new fashion.

I just loved the new fashion, especially since tiptop-tiptoe heelless ballet shoes, also now ‘in’ fashion-wise, had got all the girls walking permanent pirouette en pointe on the squared-off toes of their shoes.

At thirty, a girl can choose to look maturely beautiful or take the risk of going with the sweet young teens. I had the legs for the en pointe squared-toed tiptoe-top shoes, but I preferred my underwear under where it was a mystery, rather than have my suspenders running down the front of my thighs for all the world to see.

For my interview, I’d raided my wardrobe for a scarlet woven-wool jacket and matching miniskirt. This went with a pure silk blouse in saffron. Okay, so I was wearing no bra and only an itsy-bitsy scarlet thong, but you don’t need to tell the world about that, unless you really want to make me blush!

I could at least follow the new fashion panties wise. Madame Aesop’s fabulous underwear was all the rage. Whether I was wise to wear one of her little apologies for a thong, such as I had on for the first time that morning, was something I was wondering about though.

It was too late now. I’d taken a rickshaw to the station, a rickshaw pulled by a stunning brunette incidentally, and it was too late to go home and change. My train was near due. I had to get this service or miss my interview.

But back to my thong: I knew the teenaged girlies loved to wear these daring baring little strips of material, with the crutch that was worn inside one’s she lips, but when you’re fully shaven, as I always am, and it’s a cool breezy morning, one might as well be without panties at all as wear one of these so-called diphthongs to keep one’s purse warm.

I’d upped my hair into a ponytail. It enhanced the view of my high cheekbones. Girls have told me that to have my hair up like that makes me look haughty or severe, like as if I were a dominatrix. I do so hope not. All I intended was to look as if I was what I was, a mature and experienced woman seeking to pass an interview to become a chauffeuse.

Okay, so I was now working for Military Intelligence 8, the number eight’s curves telling the tale, that MI8 looked into the shapelier problems in the world: naughty girls.

But I was relaxed about my undercover mission. If I’d thought about it overlong, I’d have given myself away by acting nervous and obvious, as if I were on a lie detector already, even without actually having my nipples wired up to one.

The best choice for me was to relax. I had been to the gymnasium yet again that morning and worked off my worries boxing the punch-ball and running the treadmill. I was in great shape now. My injury from the bullet gave no problems at all. I was in great shape: and what a shape my shape was. My shape was all woman.

Now I was thirty, though I was still an all-o******** girl, I needed to exercise more to keep my figure the full dizzy eye site for the eyesight. Though I say it myself, no roller coaster could match the hills and dales the pupils would ride over my body. And none of my curves were in the wrong role.

Walking my natural feline swing-step along the station platform above the rail line that morn, my eye caught brief sight of the longest of long legs on the stoker in the cab of the engine pulling my intended train.

Charged as she was with loading coal from the tender into the fire to create the steam for the driver engineer, hers was hot physical work.

So hot and sweaty was she from the furnace she faced feeding with her shovel-loads of coal, she had stripped to just her g-string. Resting while the train was in the station, she presently had her coal-dirtied tee-shirt around her neck. As I passed by, her smile was adorable. Her face and near-naked body coated with the smears of coal and smoke mingled with her sweat, she was using her tee-shirt to wipe perspiration from her forehead; her thus uplifted breasts waved a warm welcome as I slinked cool-cat past her.

I had forgotten it was the school vacation.

She was on her way home from living-in at a private school. I saw the badge over the holy hillock of her gentle left breast. I willingly reminded myself of a familiar school motto scribed in red gothic script in a diagonal strip across the shield-shaped badge, embroidered on the vestal vest invested by her chest: ‘Non Possumus’. Under it, was the institutional name: ‘Thornyclit College’

She was ‘gaol-bate’. She was ‘old enough to know, but not old enough to go’.

She was a teenage teaser too. She was asleep with her ravishing red curls tumbled into a coiled copper whirlpool outshining lovelight on the spare seat alongside her.

A glimpse showed she wore no bra, nor needed one: she was affirmatively firm. Moreover, that glimpse saw too that her vest was not tentative about the tents that her tits and nipples teased taut tepee materially in its material, twice over.

If the girls in her class had been competing to see who dared wear the shortest skirt, she had surely won hands down and hem up.

Like me, she wore steel toecapped ballet-shoes. Her white smooth slim curvaceous legs were bare, and so, oh god, so were most of her fulsome thighs.

She wore only nature’s makeup. Her face was a frolic of freckles, her mouth a rosebud, with mirror moist lips: those lips the coral one just knew matched her nipples.

She was half asleep, or pretend-asleep, in the seat opposite mine, but I knew she had seen me slide into my place in the train carriage for the journey, and that she liked an older girl ogling her, because she reached up the loveliest of hands, and lifted her curls aside from curtaining one of her momentarily half-opened honey-coloured eyes.

And, as she did so, she smiled knowingly to herself and the world, and crossed her legs to show me her full left thigh, right up to where it became very cheeky. Was this to tease me, please me, and raise the question my fore-mind would not admit I was asking: the question whether she was wearing any knickers?

My pretence that I was not admiring this kitten only told her subliminal consciousness that I was captivated, and the smile that crossed her lips said she knew I was smitten.

I took out my book. I must pay my attention emphatically to it, and not the clit-tease!

I was reading an Eve Adorer novel: ‘Belgian Handmaid’. I’d read several of Adorer’s works. They were alright after a fashion: a bit of light reading; nothing special. I had problems with her use of English. More like abuse if you ask me!

And, talking of abuse, the tortures that the poor girls in her stories suffered! They were imaginative true; but hardly believable. I mean, for goodness sake, you would never come across that kind of thing happening in real life. Nothing like that would ever happen in downtown Spindon for sure. I mean, for example, such things would never happen to an ordinary girl like me!

I was just finishing the orgy chapter where the heroine is dipped head to toes in chocolate, so that her two-dozen lesbian lovers can lick her clean. I must admit that the idea of the Turkish delight in her mouth, the hazelnuts on her nipples, and the nougat in her she, was an incredible turn-on.

But concentration is impossible when one’s mind sees the chocolate coated heroine, not as the jade haired ethnic-Japanese schoolgirl of the book, but as the titian tressed, ghost-pale, frolic freckled English schoolgirl, dressed in white vest and almost non-existent uniformly-school-uniform-grey miniskirt, sat opposite you.

And it is more difficult still to concentrate, when you are just compelled to look for the evidence you want not to find any of. I was desultorily compulsively eyeing the stunning gaol-bate honey, when I could not keep my eyes on my book, which was mostly, to look for any sign that she wore panties.

The absence of the slightest sight told me too how tiny they must be if she did sport any. And the site would be shaven smooth in honour of her virginity. That was undoubted. Thornyclit College rules demanded it, I knew. I knew also that she would be severely caned and thrown out onto the streets naked if she ever let herself be touched. And I knew true too, that she would be additionally caned between her legs if she was ever caught touching herself.

Her hem was so short that, if she did not wear panties, she must be anointing the seat with her lick snick, and, for me, the thought of her honeysuckle-sweet virgin aroma leaving its subtle scent on that seat was causing love’s labias lust.

I’m sure she did it on purpose. The flash. I gasped. It was reflex. I cough-covered after, and pretended it was something I’d read in my book that had shocked me.

Her station came. She awoke fully. She did not look at me. She was all concentration to find her school satchel. She did not look at me, and so I now doubted she had been teasing me after all at all.

She had uncrossed her legs, and now kept her knees tight together as she gathered her glorious hair over her left arm. Then she was on the edge of her seat as she looked out of the window and parted her legs.

Oh god, she looked out of the window and parted her thighs. She showed me her keyhole. She showed me the gates of heaven. I knew her hymen was hymning guard as she flicked a flash, and then rose a pure English rose on her taut tiptop tiptoe standing ballerina shoes, letting her copper curls float off her arm to the ground, so that after they had swung side-to-side, they hung intricately swirled, inescapably breathtakingly coiled cape.

I could not help but stare at her hair and her wonderful legs. I am only a girl; she the saint. As she turned to ensure she had left nothing bar her aroma-Arabic on the seat, physiognomy revealed her light honey eyes alighting nowhere near mine, as she flicked her eyelashes and then turned to depart.

I watched her struggle to get her suitcase from the rear compartment rack. A brunette businessgirl, getting off at the same stop, helped her by carrying it to the platform for her. Oh god how I wanted to be the carrier of this sweet miss sweetmeat’s burdens.

I turned to the window: “Thank you miss”, I heard the schoolgirl lisp, and watched her bob leggy curtsy to the totally enraptured businessgirl.

“Well really!!” snapped an older woman sat across the carriage corridor, expressing disgust at my blatant lust. And I turned toward my critic, and I blushed. And by the time I had turned back to the coach window, the schoolgirl was gone. And that I concluded would be the last I saw of that devastating Delilah.

Oh yes. The interview. I passed the interview. No problems there.

I got a steamboat trip to Spain and now, here I was relaxing off-duty, a servant in the household of Eve and Dawn Midnight.

I mentioned the stunning schoolgirl, because I was having girl trouble out here in Spain too.

I had expected never to see Angelina Dream again. But she was here at the Midnight’s Spanish villa. Angelina was here, and so was her redheaded friend, Emma Eyeful.

Angelina was taunting me. She was sweet. She was sensitive. She had been deeply hurt by what she saw me indulging at the Spindon Manor House bust. Now, somehow, she was Dawn Midnight’s girlfriend.

I didn’t know how that had come about. All I knew was the way Angelina clung ivy around the fantastic negress, Dawn Midnight. So too did Emma clothe Eve Midnight veneer. But that did not hurt me as it did to see Angelina ever ready for yet another kiss. And the thought of Angelina riding slide on Dawn’s fifteen-inch pole, hurt me inside more than it must have hurt sweet Angelina when she was deflowered by it.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

In charge of the household staff was the Midnight’s butler Regretta Grieves. She was no more than twenty, but had the outlook of a woman thrice her age.

She wielded her cane with consummate skill. I’d had one taste of it, and decidedly wanted no more. For but one millisecond, I’d dared to defy her command for me, the chauffeuse, to take crated bottles of wine down to the cellar: something I did not consider to be my job.

For my cheek, she lashed me in the crease where my right thigh turns into my bum cheek, and oh god did it bite!

The Midnight twins had a huge cool cellar stocked with fine girl-wines, the most precious among which were vintages from the French wine growing districts in southern England.

Global warming had prompted the French to move north to England. The chalk soils of the South Downs now sported and supported the finest grapes. English girls fed on these grapes and distilled pure rainwater were a rival for their French and Italian counterparts in the superb wine they peed.

Of course, for the finest wine, the pee had to have been drunk by the girls so that it has passed through them a minimum of ten times. That was where the French girls still scored. Their wine-producing ancestry was somehow implanted in their genes.

The Midnights even owned ten bottles of a fifty-times single-girl-malt vintage 35. The appellation contrôle label confirmed it to be the wine of the legendarily incredibly beautiful French negress Olion De Crecy, back in the early twentieth-century. Fed on the finest red grapes and her own resulting pee till it had passed through her a certified witnessed fifty times, when she was thirty-five years of age. It had fetched twenty-thousand dollars a bottle at Girlages Auction House in London.

Girl-pee of that quality was rarely consumed. It became an investment. In another ten years, a 35 Olion De Crecy would double in value. Ten years on again, and it would have doubled again.

A lately identified single bottle of 35 Olion De Crecy double-red 50, produced during one of her monthly bleeds, was practically priceless. It alone would have sold for several times the Olion De Crecy red ordinaire.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

The crates I had been ordered to move that day, were of girl-perry: the cider-wine produce of girls fed solely on pears, pear juice, and their resultant pee.

It was for a dinner-party that evening, and I was to take it out of the crates, and stock it in a bank of six tall refrigerators, to chill it after its exposure on a delivery cart, hauled incidentally, by a charming señorita with her black curls tumbling tumultuously from under one of the huge straw hats the ponygirls were given in Spain to shade their lovely complexions from the sun.

“Not that fridge, and not the two either side of it either, you stupid girl!” Grieves had moaned resignedly, while I held two bottles of the perry looking dumfounded.

The refrigerators had all looked the same to me, as I busied with unloading the bottles. I now assumed, now that I had spotted them that is, that the padlocks on the three fridges Ms Grieves forbade me to stock, were to protect against theft of the finer girl-wine.

However, I could not see the sense of that since the cellar itself was already always locked, and only Grieves had a key. But, I assumed some idiot might mix a precious vintage with a mixed-malt that had no pedigree. A Cecile Dumauriere18 was unlikely to be mistaken for this comparatively cheap girl-cider, but the cellar was dark, and servants were unreliable readers of ancient labels I supposed.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

Grieves was encyclopaedic on proper etiquette. She had charge over everything, from the dining table, where she tape-measured even the spaces between the laid out cutlery for precision, to the hareem, where she would beat the eunuch-girls savagely, if she found they had been letting the hareem girls make love among themselves.

Later that same day, in the afternoon, I had, since I was near to hand, at Grieves’ command, readied a girl from the hareem for Eve Midnight’s bed in the coming evening. I assume Eve was planning a threesome with Emma Eyeful, or had decided on a change of perspective, with the little tart from the local Volmart that I had by her pretty hand.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?” Grieves had snapped as I led the pretty creature toward the Midnight’s sleeping quarters.

The only places Grieves’ rule and rod were not law, were the kitchens, where Mademoiselle Papillon Etalage, yes the exquisite French girl, was in charge, and the stables, where the ponygirls were trained and exercised by Jocelyn Trotter, an English ex private-schoolgirl and a delightfully shapely tomboy.

Regretta Grieves, the butler, was devastating. She was six-feet tall and of model model’s build. She wore her gold-blonde hair in a high ponytail that curved up and then back and down from the crown of her head. That ponytail swished emphasis for her silent ‘yes’ or ‘no’ nods and headshakes as she eyed command over the table servants working to serve food and wine in the chandeliered banqueting room.

Her face was never visited by a smile, save from the young girls who lusted after her, and there was no shortage of those.

Her haughty demeanour was only enhanced by her black tailcoat, with its wide lapels, her crisp white shirt, with wing collar and white bowtie, her tiptoe-top heelless black ballet shoe shod feet, and the fact that her mystery was only just covered by the black thong she wore over her black nylon tights.

To see Grieves about her duty, must inevitably show the sight of her jacket’s swallow-tails swinging, with her beautiful bum, bold and bare bar the hug of her tight tights, a site to behold.

My chauffeuse uniform was in crisp coarse white, save that the Midnights loved to see my full-grown woman’s legs in black stockings.

I too wore a white bowtie. My bowtie was a bit of a cheat, being preformed rather than performed as far as the act of tying it was concerned. It formed a choker around my neck, for I wore nothing on top bar a double-breasted uniform jacket, double-breasted also by the thrust of my bust, all 38 double-D-cup of which was uplifted by a cantilever brassiere putting all of my bosom on display within the V of the lapels of my jacket.

And you’ll be pleased to know that I wore black suspenders with my thighs, at the tops of my stockings at front, fronted, but not affronted, by saucy echoes of my necktie in the little white ‘bowties’ on my suspender clasps.

At my back, my suspenders took a decidedly cheeky route. They stretched over the mountains of the moons of my monumental rear, pressing on the firm smooth complexion of my bare bottom.

You can say that my stockings, black as crime, were exactly how they seemed, for my seams followed the flow of the backs of my long legs all the way to my witch-black suspenders.

It was wicked to expect me to drive in en pointe shoes. But the Midnight twins were wicked. They had hired me for my legs. They wanted my legs long. I did as I was told. I wore black en pointe ballet shoes and walked about on constant tiptoe in consequence.

My blonde hair tumbled down to the top of my bottom. I wore it long below my airline pilotess’ style white chauffeuse uniform peaked cap.

Oh, and I nearly forgot my uniform’s skirt.

That would not be difficult to do, there was so little of it. I am a full-grown girl with a bountiful behind. The skirt was no more than a white wisp whisper of a creation, just down to just above the crease where the flat back of my thighs becomes the foothills of my moon mounts.

It belonged on the tennis court, and, when the breeze blew, caught me shouting that I was a girl, without speaking, my lips being tight closed. Indeed, when the breeze would blow along the crease of my interned love-lips, it would carry my musk on its zephyrs, because I was forbidden panties.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

The black vintage limousine I drove as chauffeuse for Eve and Dawn Midnight, I was also to maintain.

I have a mechanical bent, and was bent over very cheekily, doing my daily duty by the oil and water checks, when I heard Angelina’s incredibly sexy innocent giggle.

I must about my duty, and even though I could sense two sets of eyes running the marathons my legs’ lengths outran on their curvy course, I could not look up from where I was eased over the open bonnet hood, showing everything a shy girl likes to hide.

“It’s a beauty. It’s so smooth and shiny”, Angelina’s sweet voice opined.

“Yes. It’s got huge headlamps with the sweetest bulbs you ever saw too. I love the more mature models”, Dawn Midnight responded.

“Is she powerful?” Angelina innocented.

“Yes. She’s naturally aspirated with big pistons. With that broad beam she floats along with the grace of an ocean liner. She has a muscular structure, but is every inch very much a she. Those superb lines are so streamlined.”

“Of course she needs firm handling. She is a bit wayward unless you keep a strong grip on her and steer her right. She also needs a good thrashing once in a while to keep her in tune. She’s a greater runner, superbly smooth in full stride”, Dawn drawled….

“…. And so is the car”, she then suddenly teased. And I heard Angelina hit Dawn with her gentle fists, followed by a silence I knew was another kiss.

My immediate duties done, I rose and turned to face my employer and her girlfriend.

Angelina completely ignored me. Leaning her long youthful slimness on Dawn, Angelina had her glistering blonde-downed arms around the negress’ waist, and looked lost in love and to love, as she lingered her head on Dawn’s shoulder her face a daydream, but her mouth ever ready for the next kiss.

“You’re doing a fine job with the auto, Winsome. Well done”, Dawn praised.

“Thank you my lady”, I responded, as I dipped a reflex long-leggy strong-leggy curtsy to my two mistresses, for Angelina, as Dawn’s lover, was now my mistress as much as Dawn herself.

“How would you like a ride in one of Hispano-Suiza’s finest creations sweetheart?” Dawn whispered to the wrap that embraced her with her innocent powerful passion.

“I’d prefer a kiss”, came Angelina’s soprano solo, so low it was less than a whisper.

Dawn moved to kiss the stunning blonde honeychild again, and then remembered I was there.

Dawn at least recognised that I was there to be seen, even if Angelina treated me as indivisibly invisible.

“You can go Winsome. See Grieves if you would”, Dawn ordered.

“Yes ma’am” I obediently responded, dropping another leg shaping deep curtsy.

As I slinked away to find the butler, and see what duties she might have for me, I felt appreciative eyes, Dawn’s at least, on my swinging bottom, and the curves and swerves of my luscious legs, following the seams of my stockings from my ankles to where they seemed to promise to lead: the promised land with the divided dividend.

Then: “Come back here please Winsome”, came Dawn’s purr. “We’ve changed our minds. We want to go for a little spin in the auto after all”.

“Yes ma’am. Of course ma’am” I responded, as I walked back toward my mistresses, and then dipped them the obligatory curtsy, before wiggling to the car to start her.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

I had to swing start her. I had the starter crank handle to swing in order to turn the engine over. It hung in its ‘L’ shape out from the bottom of the radiator grill.

Eyes never left my full-grown woman’s handsome legs, as I walked to the driver’s door, put my cap on the seat, and turned the auto’s ignition on.

Then too as I walked, all legs that was not legs, to the front of the auto, where I must bend over, standing en pointe in my ballet shoes, straight curvy legs legged, to whip the starter-handle round.

If I had been a free girl rather than an employee, I would have politely signalled that for me to bend whilst I was watched would be embarrassing for me. But I had no right to prompt my audience to move, and I knew that Dawn Midnight loved to watch my beautiful body just as too, I sensed, Angelina was enjoying my subservience to her.

As I bent over to wind the crank handle to start the vintage limousine, my huge breasts knew no compromise from gravity as they swung to try and escape my jacket. And my skirt knew no difference from a stage curtain as it rose on the show of shows, with my bum bold and beautiful giving a wow as I took a bow at the beginning rather than at the conclusion of my cabaret display.

But, although the horizontal curtain of my hem rose to reveal the players on my stage, the leading lady remained tight-lipped and protective, keeping her vertical virtual-curtains closed over the florid pink of the flower within her bower.

She was the magician and the top act on my stage, but she was going to keep the secret of the rose she secreted. Instead she was performing like a tormenting striptease, keeping close-closed what the compelled eyes feasted to see if she would feature, her flash of red. She that was the she of me, was centre-stage and worthy of the applause her act of secreting her secrets and her secretions merited, the applause being for the shear magic of her existence, and her entry on my stage, centre-stage, as a dramatic entry in herself into myself.

I was blushing the deepest of deep scarlet with embarrassment as I bent over, thankful for the curtain my gold blonde tresses provided for my distresses.

As their elasticity was tested, I felt my rear suspenders making sexy hallowed hollows hello below where they caressed and pressed into my impressively bare bottom. The pulling up of my black stockings on my smooth strong thighs, gave me the coolness and calm of the balm of the breeze as it kissed my zipped lips’ now exposed. My lips, scented sentinels centre signalling my indisputable beautiful sex, were siren to sucking, succubus to searing, lacking licking, but not onlooking leering, as my mistresses’ eyes were transfixed by the sight of the site of the tight doors of my girl gate.

On tiptoes in my balletic shoes, I bent and sent the signals from my sex, straight strong legged, long legs longingly parted, as I gripped the handle and whisked the auto into vibrating life.

Standing with the crank handle now removed, I curtsied to my two poleaxed mistresses, and wiggled to the rear door, to open it for Angelina to enter the limousine, my skirt still high on my bum, and my bum not shy to show its twin inverse moonrises.

“Thank you Winsome”, Dawn whispered, with a tone that strongly signalled her thanks were for my display that day as such, as much as for my holding open Angelina’s door, as was my duty anyway.

I curtsied my still fully-bare-bar-stockings legs, as my slid-up skirt still insisted it make my bum a flirt. I then wiggled my half-bare behind, before the divine Dawn, to open her door on the other side of the auto, before which I curtseyed submissively once again.

Once Dawn’s door was closed, with yet one more curtsey, I lissomely leggy-legged back to the driver’s door, managing to pull my naughty hem down over my escaping moonscapes, after I had stowed the crank handle in the auto’s boot trunk.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

I then opened the driver’s door, donned my chauffeuse’s cap, and took my seat.

It stuck up right up into my she like a round-knobbed penis. I felt every vibration of the auto’s motor through it. Dawn had watched me straddle it with my coot-bald pussy with quiet pleasure.

In the driver’s seat I was surrounded by mirrors angled, so that those on the rear seats, could enjoy my cleavage and the adage that ‘longing is longer when it comes to shapely legs’. For they could see my black-stockinged legs reaching dimple-kneed down to the pedals, my ample handsome thighs not despised by the leather of the seat also kissing my bare bum, as my skirt had betrayed me, and thus displayed me disporting my legs without disappointing.

Oh, and that between my legs and up my sin? That was the gearshift.

The gearstick came up through my seat. I could only just reach the accelerator, brake or clutch pedals of the auto even with my tiptoe-stretched feet, without sitting square in my seat. But I could not sit square in my seat without the gearshift inside my purse, within my sin, such was the tight spot I was in.

The wonderful vintage Hispano-Suiza had been modified so that the gear stick stuck up my she. The length of its lever, vibrating with the tick-over of the motor, was high and deep within the divine lips of my lovely love box.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

My predicament was with a stick meant as a vibrator to drive me as I drove and strove not to have the road to which I came a cause of my cumming.

As I looked down the long bonnet hood of the auto, it seemed the horizon met the silver figurine of the pretty girl with her skirt supposedly blown up off her delicious legs by the rush of the forward motion of the car: the mascot on the radiator top yet to come to this bliss, as we were still stayed in stasis.

This motif mascot model, the Midnight twins had had sculpted in mimic of the shear beauty of my legs. The silver mascot, had my legs, and my she, and my torpedo tits: a model of the marvel of my streamline breasts, breasting the wind with her ra ra skirt up-blown Monrovian.

As I sat with the enormous power of the majestic limousine communing with my body through the gearshift throbbing in the cause of my sighs between my thighs, I was only too aware of the willing struggle on the back seat, as Angelina had reached inside Dawn Midnight’s panties, and was now working Dawn’s mighty cock up to hard rock.

My mouth opened as I felt my musk ooze, thinking of the prowess of the Midnight twins and of the girl that Grieves, the butler, had had me prepare for Eve’s bed this coming evening, just after Grieves had whipped my right thigh with her cane that afternoon.

“And just where do you think you are going with her?” Grieves had demanded as I had begun to take that pretty little innocent shop girl to Eve Midnight’s bedroom.

My pain and jealousy as I sat awaiting my orders, when I could see from the emotional motions of her blonde downed arm, that Angelina was fisting Dawn’s cock, were only increased by the misery of my knowing I had lost Angelina forever, and that I was virtually a slave.

“My ladies?” I intoned, politely, querulously, for guidance as to where I was to drive.

I could feel Dawn’s eyes in the mirrors enjoying the shimmying of my heavy breasts never at rest from the auto’s vibration, my bosom made more huge seeming by the uplifting from my bra, giving me cavernous cleavage too with my two, as my bare nipples, excited by my tits’ joggling, jousted with the rough material inside my chauffeuse jacket.

“Oh. Just take us for a spin to the other side of town and back here again please Winsome”, Dawn instructed dismissively.

“Of course my lady”, I replied obediently.

And I pressed the clutch with my beautiful left leg. And was left no doubt what the lever up my she was about. As I eased my body and pushed it fore to first gear, we rolled road. My she astride the lever inside me, I legged leggy on the pedal once more, and pulled the lever back toward me, and into second. And I gasped as the lever gapped my she and parted my soft lips. And I long-legged the clutch pedal yet again, and reached my pretty hand between my legs to ease my pain from the lever, as I must now wiggle work it fore, side, and then fore again, to gain third, as if it was a cock I was grinding. I watched Angelina’s head go down on top of Dawn’s hard knob, her tiny mouth only managing to envelope the huge head it its hot box. And in reality as well as in the wicked mirrors, my cantilevered tits, displayed splayed splendid with cleavage, danced tantalising vibrato, with my nipples, ripe strawberries, rubbed raw on my inner coat, as the lever in my she smote, when I hauled it into fourth and top with my she. And my she spoke with moist mouth. I was being masturbated massively by she the auto, as the she who was my love, licked long a black cock that she longed would spurt sperm. And the mirrors positioned to display me played both ways. And as I shifted the limo into top gear and steered her on her course on the coarse roads, I could see Angelina’s tongue in the septum of the semen seeping crack of Dawn’s, whose cock she grasped with her dainty little fist, as she played mischievous miss with her innocent mouth and tongue. And I longed it was Angelina’s mouth on mine, and Dawn’s cock was up my she, instead of this steadily vibrating gear shift, giving me all the journey of the automobile; all the journey of arousals espousal; and none of the arrival of my rival, whose salt pearls Angelina was now sucking thirstily, to miss none and savour them oyster on her sweet young tongue, even as for any, but any, relief from my arousal without arrival I longed. And I once again thought of Grieves the butler and the girl I had had to ready from the hareem that very afternoon for Eve Midnight’s bed. And, as I thought of Ms Grieves mistressy over me, and the pretty little girl I was taking straight to the bedroom, till Ms Grieves had put me right on proper etiquette, the gearshift vibrating up my she at last made good its threat, and I jerked as with a millenarian’s kingdom come, with a cum I must not let my mistresses know I had won, as I replayed voices:

“And just where do you think you are going with her?”

“To Miss Eve’s boudoir ma’am”.

“You stupid slut Winsome. Strip her naked and lock her in one of the padlocked refrigerators. She has to sit for six-hours minimum in a refrigerator. She’s a blonde not a redhead or brunette. Brunettes are served hot, redheads at room temperature, Miss Eve always has her blondes served properly chilled….”

The Fifth Blonde
(by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 3 – Profound

I found myself, my full-on bosom threatening to overspill my bikini bra, my breasts and my bottom as brown as my legs, since I had also sunbathed naked, lounging at the side of a pool in Neliga Spain: the pool of yet another of the Midnight girls’ residences.

I knew it was overdue that I made contact with MI8 headquarters.

It had been as Sonia Berkley-Hunt had said. A group of SGS soldierettes disguised as workers had repaired a ponygirl corral in a distant corner of the Midnight twin’s estate. One new fence post included a solar-charged-battery-powered receiver and microphone. The wire of the new fence was one long antenna. A geo-stationary satellite would beam my message to London. All I had to do was to get to the literal listening post and report or ask as I chose.

The particular corral was used for breaking new girls to pony. I knew the Midnights traded ponygirls. They had some of the finest Irish fillies in their stables. The corral’s location was chosen for its distance from the stables. The sound of a fellow-girl screaming with the pain of a whipping when she had put a hoof wrong, could be very disturbing to the high-strung fully-trained ponygirls in their stalls.

I had watched Jocelyn Trotter patiently training a new girl to reins. She had the poor girl, new to her big toe gripping hooves after all, trot around and around and around in a circle over and over and over again.

The girl was fresh from school and clearly an innocent, shocked and horrified that, for merely failing her school examinations, she was condemned to be a pony for the rest of her existence.

Stripped completely naked and on open display in public for the first time in her young life, the poor girl had yet to take in that she had said goodbye to clothes for eternity.

Her lovely little virgin’s titties jumped up and down in unison as she trotted to get used to the hooves she would now wear forever.

She was a copper-tressed freckle-faced schoolgirl, with coils of cupric gold that rolled mesmerisingly miraculously shining sun-mirror, from her head to her heels. Her snow-white thighs were red weal striped where she had been caned for stepping out of line, her rosebud mouth filled with a bit, her honey eyes filled with tears.

She was, I instantly knew, the schoolgirl from the train.

She was finding it hard to learn, yet she knew in her heart of hearts she was going to be trained to reins no matter what it took to break her human spirit and find the natural pony within her subconscious soul.

Indeed she was going to be broken, for English ponygirls were in high demand. A delicious delight of a virgin like her would fetch a premium at market. She would probably spend the next twenty years as a decorative pony-pull for some incredibly lucky rich bitch’s gig.

Having been worked all day since crack of dawn, the poor schoolgirl was at a distance to me now, in yet another corral, being dragged around at a trot on an automated pony-trainer rotator. It had her lovely legs working as it dragged her by the rein from the bit in her mouth around and around on her fresh-fitted hooves. And as I passed I saw the evidence for the particular distress of this poor schoolgirl steed, in the red on the insides of her thighs indeed, for she, poor she, completely naked in public for the first time in her very young life, was oozing her shaming monthly bleed.

I knew I too was due on. I knew I too was due on, and it was as if the sight of this delectable Delilah suffering her pony-training, naked as nature, and bleeding her girl-confirmatory scarlet in open public shame, had drawn me on in sympathy and empathy.

But I was a week away that day and I was thus in randy week, when I was hot not from the ferment of my period, but from the high hormone fire that was this stage of my feminine cycle.

Wiggling out to the fence post I knew had the microphone in it, I was hardly dressed as an MI8 operative, in just my blue bikini and my balletic shoes.

To skirt the endlessly trotting naked schoolgirl, and hide my intentions from any prying eyes in the distant house, I decided to go through a field used for grazing cows.

Let me the first to admit that cows terrify me. There is just something about their big eyes and their lumbering stupid relaxedness that makes me want to turn my pretty bum and run.

The timing of my mission to send a signal to London could not have been worse where that day was concerned. I had opened the gate where the Midnight’s prize dairy cattle grazed, and turned to close it, before I turned again, to see the whole heard of cows slowly lumbering toward me.

The timing of my mission to send a signal to London could not have been worse. The herd were heading to gather at the gate I was at, in readiness to be let from the field to the nearby barn for their evening milking.

As the cows drew ever closer, I struggled and fought with the bolt on the gate, making the simple act of opening it to exit, the impossible challenge for even Hercules, had she been on hand.

Then something touched me, and I squeaked with pent-up fright, and my body goose-pimpled passingly.

As I dared to turn my head toward the touch I was staring into the big brown eyes and long lashes of a languorous cow, still chewing on some grass she had some strands of protruding from her mouth.

“Hi beautiful”, she mumbled.

I looked at this sun-blessed brown tanned ruminating cud chewer and her huge breasts like massive raindrops hanging from her chest to below her hips.

The fine filigree of sensitive veins centring on her nipples were of supreme delicacy. The nipples dammed to stop her milk seeping, she must surely have been in pain from her gallon-sized mammaries. And yet, in some way, she had become her tits. She was no more than a beautiful carrier of those enormously expanded breasts that swung pendulum with her every cloven-bootie shod step.

How old was she? Maybe twenty. She too must have failed her school examinations. But her fate had been different to that of the delightful Delilah, the choice of this girl’s post school future being set down by the original natural size of her chest.

Made to strip naked and stand in line side-by-side with the other school failures, she would have trembled with fear as the headmistress and her deputy went along the line and she heard: “Pony”, “Pony”, “Pony”, “Carthorse”, “Pony”, “Bitch”, “Cow”, “Pony”, “Carthorse”, “Bitch”, “Bitch”, and learned thus the harsh lesson that her tits, the tits of which she had been so proud, would soon be injected with hormones to bring her to milk.

To make her breasts expand, for months on end they would only have milked her on alternate days, so that her dammed breasts were damned agony to her, and her nipples hugely sore. And this would continue until she could produce two gallons of milk per day, a gallon from each tit.

“Hi beautiful” she said.

“Oh. Hello” I answered as, at long last, I was able to open the gate as well as my mouth, and escape.

I felt so sorry for the poor dairy-girl, but I just could not relate to her as still a fellow human being.

As I turned to look at her again, I saw tears in her eyes, and I knew I had caused her pain.

“Sorry!” I called softly, and then turned to find I was facing the butler, Grieves, with her cane readied for my backside.

“Get back to the house Winsome. Miss Eve and Miss Dawn want to talk to the servants. There is a spy in the household, and we are going to expose her for the traitor she is!” Grieves gloated.

My fear that I was the suspect: that they had discovered I was undercover for MI8, played darkly within my mind. Yet, somehow, the prospect I had been discovered and would be uncovered, quite literally if the Midnights decided to take revenge on my body, made me reckless.

I am a girl who needs sex. I constantly crave another girl adoring and exploring me. The reckless mood was therefore prompted, or at least promoted, by my randy state. I was horny for a honey. Papillon Etalage filled my daydream hours.

There is just that something the French girls give to the English language that no other nationality, unless also natively French speaking, can gift.

English is so cold and cool and calm, till a French girl accents it with the scented boudoir. A French girl speaking English says ‘bed’, and not for the purposes of sleeping. In her intonation, a language of cold calculation becomes the alluring lingua franca of love. A French girl speaking English is sex.

Whenever the household was to assemble, it was not as instantaneously as Grieves had implied when she had diverted me from among the dairy-girls back to the house.

As she had caught me out and about I could hardly continue my mission to make first contact with London. I would have to find another chance, or hope London would somehow make contact with me.

It was not that I had anything to report. I had no knowledge of the Midnight twins’ plans, or even if they had any, in the criminal line. I just wanted some contact with the outside world, as relief from the pressure of my secret mission.

Again, it was not that I had anything to report. There was nothing about the life the Midnights were leading in Spain that was in breach of local or international law or, therefore, that would be illegal in England.

The ruling in the ‘Bengal-Beauty’ case at the International Court at The Hague, where that stunningly gorgeous Asian-Indian girl, conducting her own case with ease elegance and eloquence, pleading that her employers had no right to make her into a ponygirl, had removed the last vestige of doubt.

The three female justices had declared that, in international law as it now stood, employers were one and the same as owners. By accepting employment, a girl therefore transferred the rights over her mind and body to her employer. She thus became property. As property she could not plead successfully in court. Courts only dealt with human affairs. By definition property is not human.

Furthermore, the question whether a girl remained property when her employment ceased with a given employer, or whether the ending of her employment returned her to human rights, was not the thorny question ‘Bengal-Beauty’ (previously known as the high-flying lawyer Ms Padinda Panita) had tried to argue before the court. As property, a girl could be sold or transferred to the ownership of another employer: period. The question of the girl giving consent did not arise. There was no case in law for an owner to seek the consent of her property, for anything, at any time.

The Midnights had all the appurtenances of the wealthy. A full stable of ponygirls, a herd of prize dairy-girls, homes in England, Spain, and the USA, and the vintage automobile for which I was their chauffeuse. All of these were reputedly ill-gotten gains, but nobody had ever proved it.

To all appearances so far in my undercover mission, the Midnights were content with what they had, and had no plans to go for more. The farm was for fun. Their investments were their real assets, and those were making a million dollars a day.

I changed from my bikini into a black bolero top and flame flamenco skirt. I decided to wear one of my chauffeuse’s uniform uplift bras, no panties of course, and slinked to the kitchens to try and attract the attention of the adorable Papillon.

I lingered over some melons ready waiting for some dish to be prepared from them. I was happy to show off my own melons, and leant purposely forward, trying to catch Papillon’s startling blue eyes, by taking a gentle interest in the feel of the two melon fruits, as an unsubtle message that my fruits were free to be felt if she wished to caress them.

Papillon blushed when she saw me. And I knew instantly that my mission had failed before it had really begun. It took only a few moments more to show that, lovely though she was toward me, I was getting in the way of Papillon directing the preparation of the Midnight’s evening meal.

Disappointed but still ravenously randy, I decided to take the air once more.

There was still no sign of the gathering. I had recovered my confidence too, on the question of whether I had been discovered. Nobody had troubled me in the least. Surely, if I were a suspect, Grieves would have been despatched to round me up and keep me till the Midnights could be bothered to deal with me.

The sun was in a cloudless sky. I decided on a walk.

In the distance, I could see the dust rising from the hay harvesting.

If nothing else, to go and watch what was going on over in that distance was something to do for the rest of my free day.

The alternative was to try and make it to the signalling post once again. But with the revelation of an alleged spy in the offing, I considered it foolish in the extreme to show I was one. That was still assuming of course, that I had not been found out anyway. If the latter were the case of course, to get myself caught trying to contact London would be the ultimate shit on the cake.

Still in my black bolero jacket and flame red and yellow flamenco, I added a silly straw sombrero to shade my balconied bosom from the searing sun.

Walking wonder-wander-ass-wave as my construction dictates, I tiptoed in my balletic shoes drawing ever closer to the idyllic bucolic scene. And as I did so, I found the shear relaxing beauty of what I witnessed, cooled and calmed my desire-fires.

From the nearer distance I had now wiggled to, I could clearly see the harvesting machine, with its rotating scythe blades, slicing the grass, that was already hay hue, off at near base.

The patient ponygirl in bit and reins seemed the personification of relaxation, as she plodded, her feet on tiptoe in the heavy iron hoofs on each big toe. Her legs were supremely dreamily strong and extremely shapely too, as she planted each footfall a measured distance and time between, walking on the stubble her previous passage had produced.

A pretty teenage schoolgirl, walking behind, held the reins of the ponygirl. The schoolgirl, perhaps helping out on the farm for money to buy a present for her girlfriend, had little work to do, as the ponygirl clearly loved her task.

A steel bit ran east-west across the ponygirl’s mouth. From the reaper, with its blades rotating at the sides, a taut chain ran to another cold steel bit, that ran north-south. That was the she-bit. The ponygirl patiently pulled the reaper by her she, a labyrinth of intricate straps holding the bit up into her intimacy.

She-bits were in common use. They calmed a ponygirl, keeping her mind on her task, instead of letting her dream of romance and sex, as most ponygirls were reckoned to do when they were not being worked hard enough.

At the end of the row just reaped, the ponygirl was turned to walk back the other way, so the blades on the other side of the reaper took their turn at scything.

The teenage schoolgirl had fashioned a switch from a stick to beat the older girl in harness, and gently tapped the bewitching bottom of the gorgeous pony, because it was such an irresistibly wonderful target. She was not hurting the ponygirl. But the tapping on the ponygirls bum reminded the pony how lovely she was, and encouraged her in her steady plod.

Having now reached the edge of the field where the hay was being reaped, I listened to the peaceful tinkling of the tease-bells dangling from the ponygirl’s nipples, and watched her ample breasts beat time with her gracious steps, as she walked with the ‘clump’, ‘clump’ of her heavy hoofs toward me.

Her dark Asian-Indian complexion was flawless. Her deep-brown eyes, though showing she was relaxed and resigned to her fate, somehow conveyed high intelligence.

A sudden shock ran down my spine: the shock of realisation and recognition. This incredible beauty was the London lawyer I had been reading about during my enforced stay in hospital.

It was surely she. I strained to read the name on her headband, and the sight of me looking intently at her, seemed to remind the ponygirl of another life, and to excite her.

I heard the whistle of the schoolgirl’s switch, and the ‘whack’ of its impact on the Indian girl’s potent posterior, and I felt the pain for her, as she regained her reminded submission to her ponygirl lowliness, and I moved away to leave ‘Bengal-Beauty’ to her slow slaving.

She was stripped naked; the negress wore a white g-string. The willowy blonde with the hair down to her buttocks, swung the hay up to the shapely negress who worked atop the haystack they were building.

The blonde was music to my eyes. She was tall, slim, and extremely feminine in face and limb, with tiny titties. Her chest was almost boyish; but nobody could possible mistake her for other than a girl.

Her hair was more straw in colour than the straw she was stacking. Indeed she had breeze-blown straws caught up in it. Her eyes were laser blue. Her face, was youthfully full of disarming charm, with an alarmingly inviting ripe-raspberry lipped mouth. Was she twenty?

She was busy as was her companion, and did not notice my approach. Her bare body, brown as proverb, she swung her straw loaded fork lissomely with long slim arms to go with her long strong legs.

In her tiptoe ballerina shoes, her legs went from zero to eternity, or at least from earth to the moons that glowed globe as her delightful side-dimpled derriere.

And then I saw it, and audibly gasped with astonished joy. For this creation’s pubic hair, blonde and as sun-kissed as her tousle-tumbled corn gold head, dangled down, all the way down, to her pretty ankles. Her she was in there somewhere, hidden within the jungle of spun-gold-spirals that was this adorable honey’s pubic curls.

“Careful with your pitchfork Aneedlina!” the Jamaican lilt of the charming negress called from the stop of the stack as I drew near, and the sweet honeychild with the amazing pubic twirls stopped her work, turned to me, and curtseyed.

“Good afternoon my lady” the blue-eyed angel whispered. “We are making progress as you can see, it was very good of you to loan mummy ‘Bengal-Beauty’. My little sister over there is doing the reaping. She loves ponygirls. She wants to be one herself when she’s graduated from college. Moonanza and I are stacking the hay so that mummy’s dairy-girls will have winter food….”.

And then it dawned on her, the look on my face telling her: “Oh. I’m so sorry. I thought you must be one of the Midnight twins. I’m so sorry. You see I haven’t met them, but they have been so kind to mummy with lending her a ponygirl for harvest and ploughing…. I’m so sorry. I’ve just come over from Oxton University in England to help mummy out with the hay harvest…..”

Her voice trailed off as she followed my eyes.

“I’ll put my panties on if you find it repulsive…..”

“No.. No Aneedlina……? Aneedlina….?” I began my response and turned into a query, just dying to know this incredible girl by her full name.

“Oh yes: of course. Over there, with ‘Bengal-Beauty’ is my, our, kid-sister Minoka, she’s just about to go to college. Up there is the middle of the three of us, our, half-sister, adopted really, Moonanza, and I’m the oldest: Aneedlina. We’re the Rickfound sisters ma’am. I’m Aneedlina Rickfound ma’am. … shall I put my panties on?”

“No.. No Aneedlina. Please no. Your love-hair is the most beautiful sight….”

Aneedlina blushed profusely, and I caught the eye of Moonanza who was clearly on the verge of teasing her beautiful sister, but for my presence.

Reluctantly, I turned to go back to the Midnight’s farm. I had not realised till now that I had gone beyond its bounds. In fact I had not. The Rickfound family were tenants of the Midnight twins. They farmed land they did not own.

As I walked away, I heard Moonanza call down to her sister in gentle taunt: “Who’s a pretty girl then?!”

“She was very nice”, came Aneedlina’s still embarrassed reply, as Moonanza giggled her sisterly love for the willow-wand wonder with the spun-gold head-spinningly-erotic ankle-length-long pubic coiffure...

“Where in hell have you been Winsome?!” Grieves demanded as I reappeared at the Midnight’s house.

“I told you there was a household staff assembly. Nobody gave you permission to wonder off again”, she intoned quietly threateningly.

“Get changed into something respectable, and then into the banqueting hall. And don’t take more than half-an-hour about it”, she concluded, with an inference that I would have tasted her cane, if she were not busy elsewhere.

Looking in the mirror after a swift shower, I realised I needed a shave. My she had a sex o’ clock shadow. The fine blonde stubble felt softer to my touch than its appearance would suggest it should.

That touch was a mistake. I gasped. A flash vision of the incredible pubic hair of the wonderful willow Aneedlina Rickfound made me cream instantly.

I took my hand away and went down on my shapely haunches, the fire of desire burning through the hole that leads to my very soul. If ever a girl needed, but needed, her vibrator, I was then she, as my she cried banshee.

I rubbed my enormously shapely huge thighs together, and then hugged my thighs against my tits with my arms, and rocked on the toes of my bare feet, fighting to get control over my second mind, the mind mid my thighs: my minx.

Rising slowly, thinking I had regained control, I stood, and then grasped a doorframe as a pain in my tummy doubled me over. My she was telling me she needed me. She that was me was ordering me to give her attention.

I stayed bare-legged. I donned a cool cotton micro-micro-skirt and matching short-sleeved shirt, both in white. Another passage of pain passed mildly as I strapped on my ballet-shoes, and wrapping their long ribbon-laces criss-cross around my lower legs, tying them off with bows just below my knees.

Rising to tiptoe, I looked myself over in my full-length mirror. My braless breasts were fancy free as they danced in my blouse when I slinked to the mirror. My legs seemed never to have looked longer nor more full-grown-woman in their powerful beauty. I tousled my blonde locks. I had no time for brush or comb.

I turned and looked at my reflection over my shoulder, pleased to see that my bum looked big in my micro-micro-skirt, as I smoothed my hands over it to stop the hem rising such that it showed sickle-moons.

I was ready.

I was ready, but I was not ready.

I was ready dressed to take my place in the front row on one of the banqueting room chairs. The table, huge and hugely heavy oak though it was, had been moved aside, and we servants sat, in chairs arranged in a curve, as theatregoers might, so we could see centre of the floor.

I was not ready for the device that was placed where the table had been.

Okay, so it was only an anvil. The anvil was raised on a wooden plinth. But, what was an anvil doing in the banqueting hall? The Midnight girls used a visiting blacksmith to shoe their ponygirls, so the anvil was used only once or twice per week. But, what was an anvil doing in the banqueting hall, why was it not in the blacksmith’s forge?

I put my pretty hands on my bare thighs as I heard the sound of Papillon’s supremely sexy voice.

I had turned around to try and see who was missing from among our number, when I heard: “Non! Non! Non!!” and witnessed the exquisite Papillon Etalage, naked as the day Paris first saw her, crawling with two bitch-collars around her neck, pulled by two leashes, one each being held by Eve and Dawn Midnight.

The poor girl had had her hair twirled into two pigtail plaits, and these were roped to her big toes, so that her lovely head was pulled hard back, and her fabulous legs were folded tight in a shape profoundly soundly only found with girl: a shape that redefined the curve.

Her bright blue eyes were unnaturally wide-open with the pull on her hair. Every step she took she took like a bitch. Bitch-tied girls were commonplace pets even in the poorest households. Their legs were tied ankles at top of thighs so they had to crawl just like poor Papillon, but their hair was not used in this savage way.

“Mon dieu! ‘Av mercy on me! I no spy!! Mon dieu! Non! Non! Non!!” she called as she crawled with her knees as her rear ‘paws’ being exhibited to us as an example of what would befall those caught even only allegedly spying on the Midnight twins.

I was not ready for this. Nor was I ready for the reaction of my she to the sight of the stunning French girl.

My eyes feasted and my she fed from her body. Her hourglass shape was unmistakably fully-formed in form female.

I knew for an absolute fact, that her lovely hair was genuinely fine blonde. And yet the hair of her she was the most exquisite titian auburn. Her head was blonde but her pubic hair was red instead, and with no reason to conclude that this was not the entirely natural state of things with this stunning wonder.

I looked too and feasted on the site of Papillon’s adorable slim arms. She was double-jointed at her elbows, and her lovely arms bowed inwards incredibly erotically as she crawled seeming all the more girl for her arms being so femininely formed.

Her huge firm tits swung belle bells to knell her road to hell as the sweet French doll crawled before an audience appalled by her being pulled along like an animal.

Yet my she was moist. Looking at Papillon’s blonde hair and redhead’s minge, her incredibly shapely legs, her beautiful bowed arms, her swinging breasts tolling totally silently beau-bell, my she distinctly dampened, and I longed to cross my legs and squeeze my lemon.

The midnights led poor Papillon to the anvil, and there they made her rise so she was ‘stood’ on her knees, her head hauled back by the pull on her corn-gold plaits and with her hugely handsome bosom resting platform on the unyielding cold of the evil anvil.

Grieves, the butler seemed only too eager to girlacle Papillon’s dainty wrists behind her and take one of the leashes, whilst Jocelyn Trotter took the other, to hold Papillon in place.

“Mon dieu! ‘Av mercy on me! I no spy!! I no spy!!” Papillon, incapable of escape, sexied the air with her inescapably potent-potion pronunciation of her Parisian’s broken English.

The Midnight twins stood either side of the anvil, each wielding a whippy Sarawak cane.

Then Eve Midnight walked behind Papillon and used her cane to gently tap Papillon’s she on its lips.

From where I sat, I could only be sure that that was what she was doing from the clear reaction of Papillon’s nipples.

Non!! Non!! Non!!!” Papillon gasped in rising seductive intonation, inducting further as Eve used the cane to slide slowly back and forth between the lips of Papillon’s red haired she.

Papillon’s nipples danced the devil’s jig as Dawn’s cane was slid along between the lips of her slice.

Eve played Papillon’s violin with the cane as bow till Papillon’s nipples had betrayed her by displaying their full flower, and the music from Papillon’s mouth was the sighs of fiercest fire’s desire.

Such were her crisis cries, still boudoir embellished by her cute, acutely sexy, Parisian accent. Papillon was now emitting and transmitting the international language of love, in moans of a tone intimating that she was virtually ripe for a cum.

Content that the orchestra on which she was about to play percussion, was fully tuned to Fuck-major, Eve lifted her cane, gifted with Papillon’s intimate scent, and sniffed the parfum-Arabic Papillon’s seeping willow had wept on the wicked weapon.

Grieves and Jocelyn Trotter now took tight grip of the leashes to hold Papillon’s chest at rest on the cold of the old anvil altar, and the Midnight girls whipped her tits without let or mercy.

It was sudden; swift; savage; and followed by silence.

Two stokes across the middle of one breast each stroke spoke. A left and a right in separate duet. The swift strokes compressed the soft flesh of the breasts, opening the nipples like roses. But the silence was eerie. The silence came from the pain of the cane. The whistle of their wipes through the air, followed by the ‘wap’; ‘wap’ of the slaps on the bare tits, was followed by silence from the violence, till the pain, from strokes initially anaesthetising, fully told, full toll, and Papillon screams unfolded and rolled raw roar.

From after the first two strokes and the pause for the pain to gain, the canes now whistled wickedly down on the proud flesh of Papillon’s bare breasts in alternation, with such rapidity of viciousness that Papillon could not scream as she wanted and was wonted by each wanton whip, but screamed unintelligible terribly in one long cry of agony’s agony as her tits were slapped hard down onto the unyielding bitter cold of the anvil and each cane stroke bit her flawless breast flesh afresh into vivid stripes of livid living pain.

Papillon was lashed long and hard and harder by the infuriated Midnight girls whose cocks popped out of their panties, as their fifteen-inch love-meat burst proud-giant out to meet match with the stiffness of the canes with which they whipped Papillon’s paps.

And Papillon’s cries of miserable horror from the hellfire of the stripes from the Midnight’s ire, were turning to tune tentative and then full-on sexual moans of the most lustful wanton wicked burning desire, as her fires caught higher and her she dripped her love lust lick-cream down her inner thighs till it pooled on the ground.

Then, in a moment of silence was heard the shameful shaming hiss, as Papillon pissed herself with her fear. And the canes whipped down on her poor striped tits twice more. And, so suddenly and shockingly ecstatically unexpectedly, she came with a scream of the joy of absolute joy in her pain of pain of pain.

And then a look of shock and horror flashed across Papillon’s gorgeous face. A look of total incomprehension at the tension she felt in her brutally whipped tits as the whipping was paused. For a flow was filling and fulfilling a function at a conjunction from the whipping’s unction. The whipping had cracked Papillon’s already high o******** octane to a gain of even higher refinement, and was having its fulfilment in that which was filling Papillon with white-hot fuel.

And the canes whistled down the while, and Papillon came multiply upon multiply complexly with her milk suddenly sputtering, teetering, trickling, and then spitting from her nipples even as her girl-wine pissed from her she and her honey pooled around her knees.

And they whipped her tits twice more, and the proof that Papillon’s heavenly body had been wholly hormonally transmogrified by her unholy flogging, shot two merging white streams from her nipples straight up my micro-micro-skirt onto me and into me, into my she, as she came again and I came too with her fresh hot tit milk as demon’s semen in my cunt, looking at her thrashed breasts at long last at rest, with her milk pouring under where they rested on her chest, forming tributaries of a single white river that gathered in her naked navel, before it rolled down to her betraying she and into her parted love-lips as if, if it could not flow to the sea, it would be would-be semen too for she as well as for me, before it dripped to ground to join her piss and her love-honey. …….And then she fainted.

In their khaki-coloured sweatshirts micro-miniskirts and panties, with olive-green stockings and suspenders, soldierettes of the Special Girl Service suddenly burst through the door.

Emma Eyeful and Angelina Dream, metaphorically and physically MI8 ‘sleepers’, assisted in the capture of Eve and Dawn Midnight.

Papillon Etalage, revealed as French Surette, was untied and wrapped in a wrap akin to a kimono.

“We can’t get you in the ‘copter for this trip Truly!” Angelina called, as the hit team dragged the Midnights out for the mid-Atlantic dump planned for them, albeit that it would now be the mid-Mediterranean.

“We can’t get you in the ‘copter for this trip Truly, but there’s a follow-up backup, and a couple of the SGS will take care of you meanwhile my love!” sweet Angelina sincered.

But then the hand of Regretta Grieves silently slipped into mine, and I knew that, if only we could sneak away, I would not be there when the next helicopter arrived….

The End

05-20-2007, 11:37 PM
Thanks for all the new stuff...glad you joined us here!

05-21-2007, 12:01 AM
thanx for sharing

05-21-2007, 03:22 AM
Welcome to the Forum...great new story...thanls for posting it here with us

05-21-2007, 09:14 AM
Fantastic ---thanks for coming here