View Full Version : Anastasia

Eve Adorer
05-21-2007, 08:19 PM
Synopsis: the true story of the escape and subsequent disappearance of the Grand Duchess Anastasia: the youngest daughter of the Romanovs, and the only female royal not found among the dead bodies found to have been buried after the 1917 Bolshevik revolution and subsequent regicide.

1917 and, for poor Russia, the Great War had gone supremely negatively well.

“Highness!” the peasant girl almost sobbed, as she knelt in the mud before the Grand Duchess: the princess, and lowered her head to touch her forehead on the ground Anastasia made sacred.

Princess Anastasia, in white furs, no more than five-two without heels, presently stood en-pointe atop the squared-off toes of her balletic-booties, sweet red curls, sweeping from under her bearskin hat, fluttering in the chill north-east-wind, mauve eyes smiling with genuine tenderness, as she bid the poor girl rise.

This was the only ‘front’ on which the Russian army had seen any success.

Before the Russian military had collapsed and threatened implosion, one regiment’s success had shone amidst the sorry series of defeats retreats and capture suffered in the face of the onslaught from Austria-Hungary and Germany.

But one regiment could not carry the war alone.

Anastasia, the Czarina Alexandra’s lovely seventeen-year-old and youngest daughter, was honorary Colonel-in-Chief of the Clitorian Guard: ‘the long legged witches’ as the Kaiser’s army had dubbed them.

The Clitorians had been recruited for palace guard duties, in peacetime. The individual soldierettes in the regiment had been chosen solely for their height - none was less than six-foot tall - and for their facial and physical beauty.

Each company of the regiment was defined by hair colour. The symbol of the blonde company was a ripe ear of corn; that for the brunettes was an Egyptian hieroglyph brown eye; the auburn company had a badge showing flaming fire. Those girls with less readily defined hair colour, were assigned to a company with a roaring lioness’ head as its symbol.

The girl kneeling in the near-frozen mud at Anastasia’s feet had a ripe corn ear on the badge fronting her red bearskin kepi. But she was so filthy and dishevelled, her lovely eyes looking up now from a mud-caked face, with their beautiful China blue dulled by constant strain, the badge alone telling that she was a blonde.

Revolution was in the air. Royalty needed loyalty. The Clitorian Guard had been singled out to defend the Winter Palace. The so-called ‘Mad Nun’, Rasputina herself, had influenced the Czarina to get them back to St Petersburg.

The dedication and fidelity to fealty of the Clitorian Guard was undoubted. But, even after only an hour in their company, Princess Anastasia knew she would have to report back to her dear momma, that this hope too was lost.

The all-girl regiment had been sextuply-decimated.

The pretty peasant down on her lovely knees before her, showed the best of the state this, loyal to royal unit, was in. And she was filthy, with her coat torn, her knee-boots evidently stolen from a dead German soldierette, her lovely long strong thighs bare in the bitter wind.

Her only armament was a pitchfork, her rifle having been abandoned long since, as it had been longer since that ammunition had ceased to be supplied. And her broken bayonet was still buried in some unfortunate enemy’s left breast.

Anastasia was feeling the Siberian breeze’s freeze. In honour of the uniform traditions: the dress code of the Clitorian Guard Regiment: the unit she was visiting this day to boost the little that remained of their morale: under her furs she was sans panties.

But, the tears that cornered Anastasia’s eyes as she looked down on what had happened to the motherland, as epitomised by the near-starving angel at her feet, were from more than the cold alone. She was crying in pity for the poor soldierette at her feet, for her country, and for the future of the Russian royal family.

Anastasia stepped naked as nature into the hipbath: a petite angel, her confusion of flame-red curls gambolling giddily down from her crown, to caper the mere five-feet two of her unsullied-virgin’s ghost white body, till it tangled with her dainty ankles.

Her figure and limbs were firm and gently strong beyond the superficial appearance from her China-doll delicacy.

Even as Anastasia had first begun to walk, she had also begun to dance. And Anastasia had danced ever since, twice daily, to trim her figure and shape her legs to the immaculate feminine muscularity, with which the highest of high pure artistic beauty, was combined with the mundane duty, her lower limbs presently lowered themselves to performing.

If only it had been allowed the blood royal, this daughter of Russia’s ruling family could have fronted as principle dancer of the most intricately delicate of corps de ballet stage displays.

As she stepped into her bath, her legs now displayed beauty beyond magic. Even the everyday step of a level walk can be made emotionally potent by the erotic romance of the means of the performance of that mere motion: the means of making mere motion passionate potion to sear the seer: a girl’s legs.

Anastasia’s face said ‘love’ without speech. She spoke love too when she used the soft lips that clashed their cherry-red with the gasp-making breathtaking glory of her abundant bundle-tumble of intermingling interminable autumn auburn curls.

The cherry red of her mouth poised moist pert pout on the phantom white of her freckle frolicked heart-shaped heart-breakingly lovely face.

Anastasia’s mauve eyes flashed lightening green when she sparkled champagne in her giggles of excitement. Girl’s giggles: an enticement to turn and look at heaven on earth in the only creation god ever made of any true worth. A girl in all her glory: a girl pure and simple: purely a girl: just a girl: as if the phrase ‘just a girl’ could ever be justified for its implicit dismissal of the wonder of all wonders that is girl: all girls or one girl: all wonders or one wonder: all just wonderfully wonderful.

Anastasia’s breasts were touchingly tiny. She: at seventeen just: she was a fully developed woman just; but still more a girl-woman than a woman-girl.

Her breasts were no less lovely for their being small. Visible only as smooth undulations that questioned if she had breasts at all when she lay on her back; or at least would have raised such a deliciously capricious question higher than her breasts did in themselves, were it not that the rest of her body was so unquestionably feminine, and were it not also, that her nipples comprised one-inch high teat peaks, peeking prominent cherry-pink circular tepee pyramid, from the soft smooth gentle hillocks on her chest.

Princess Anastasia stared fixedly in a daydream. Anastasia sat upright in the hipbath before the roaring fire: the fire striving to out-glow the florid flames of the glorious curls torrenting teasingly to the luxurious carpet. She a wet wet-dream of pure unadulterated girl, with her silken soft complexion shimmering with the flame’s flickering on the mirror wetness of the soothing smoothness of her thighs.

Though they were perfectly proportionate to her sweet petit size, her lovely legs bent at knee made her thighs look enormous to the worshipping eye.

As she worked to bathe her immaculately shaven nude naked, naked nude immaculate love lips, her nipples now caressed her shining wet thighs.

As Anastasia bathed, her patient maids looked on and longed to find champagne glasses to fill with the sheer intoxication of the water in which this nymph of nature slowly washed, so that they might drink her, and take her into their bodies to the same degree to which she was already in their hearts and souls.

Anastasia’s tiny ears heard the howls. The winter had been particularly early and cruel this year: almost as cruel as Russia’s defeat in battle, and the revolution it had assuredly fermented.

Word had been that the ravenous packs had entered the outskirts of the city. Word was too, that the packs were huge from the combination of smaller gatherings into armies, united by the single desire to satisfy hunger, and thus to unite as allies in their plight, where they would otherwise have done nought but fight.

Even in her warm bath Anastasia shuddered. She was on the verge of tears. Her lovely momma had ordered her to leave for England to beg in person for the intervention of the British Empire’s forces, or at least shelter in exile for the Russian royals, before they could, as they now feared, be imprisoned by the Bolshevik revolutionaries, and their murder might follow who knew what other initial indignities.

“Do please hurry Anastasia” the Czarina begged as she nervously scurried about the room handling and then setting down priceless treasures, as if assessing the shear impossibility of taking her palatial belongings away from their proper setting.

There was, as the Czarina full well knew, no greater treasure in that room than the girl in the hipbath.

“You must, but must memorise the message from your papa. It is to be addressed directly before his cousin in London.

We have readied a troika from the streets. We cannot use the royal vehicles. They are too readily identified. There is no fuel for the motor cars anyway. Discretion is the order of this day, as it has been of every day of late. You will drive yourself south to Gatchina, where we are assured the railway is free, and you may entrain for Tallinn”.

“Yes momma”, Anastasia reassured.

It was the tenth or twentieth time that her mother had rehearsed these details with her, but the dutiful daughter’s beautiful voice was loyal and true and sounded no sign of impatience.

“Colonel-General Natasha Lodst, once of the Redstreak Hussars, will meet you at Gatchina Station. She is to be trusted. She and her pre-descendents have been loyal servants of our family for ages past. Colonel-General Lodst is as wise as she is beautiful, and that makes her very wise indeed”, the Czarina thus tried to make light.

“I have known Natasha since she would sit me on her knee and tell me of the delights of the Japanese girls she fought against in the war of 1905”, Anastasia reminisced, trying to divert the subject away from the mission of high trust that she knew awaited her, in order to find some relaxation from the stress both she and her mother were sharing.

“She would tell me of how the naughty bit between their legs was horizontal, and not straight up and down like we Europeans. And I believed her too!” Anastasia tried to make humour.

As Anastasia rose from her bath, just after the tears of the water’s sadness at her departure had trickled their pearls from the imperial jewel, the warmth from the crackling logs piled high in the hearth, replaced a receding curtain of shining wetness on her delicate shoulders, with an advancing line of dry soft complexion.

Two pretty negress servant girls now surrounded Anastasia with a huge soft white towel, which they skilfully worked under the wonder of her hair.

When Anastasia took the fluffy flannel edges in her own dainty hands they curtsied. She then smiled her thanks to them by turn. They were thereby awarding with gratitude more valuable than mere gold: gratitude that had long since enslaved their very soul’s souls with love for their mistress.

The stockings were first. White silk with seam, the negress beauties rolled them up the swerving curvature of Anastasia’s pretty legs, as she sat, to the stocks cease at half-mast on her thighs.

The same two servants now waited patiently with the garters opened ‘O’ ready, as their mistress checked that they had, as indeed they had, got her seams straight.

White Chantilly lace garters, rose floral, next arose, and were slid up the legs of the rose, to the tops of her silk stockings, and tied in place by the interwoven imperial purple ribbons, tied in delicate bows at the sides of her delicious thighs.

The knee-boots were hand-stitched in mirror-mirage tawny calf leather, of suppleness that enabled them to be eased over the stockings, and take on a poor rendition, redolent of the shape of Anastasia’s curvaceous calves.

Both her maids blushed as they held Anastasia’s wolf-fur bloomers at the ready. Fur-lined inside, stitched fur on the outside, the blushes were from the passing thought about the sweet lips this nether garment would shortly contain.

After the waistband of the bloomers had halved the distance up Anastasia’s handsome thighs, she stood up from her seat, and had them gentled the rest of the distance, so that they covered her innocent intimacy, the apparition of her apparently pre-pubic pod, as well as the exciting elliptic enticements of her sumptuous rump.

Her boots being sans heels, Anastasia stood on the boots’ squared-off toes on big-toe tiptoe, her legs thus taking on the maximality of erotic shapeliness, her locked-back knees delightful dimples, and her buttocks scooped scallops, as her muscles were intentionally tensioned, and thus her bottom’s cheeks’ sides, were helloed to hallowed heavenly deep concave hollows.

As she performed the dutiful beautiful honour of drawing tight the imperial purple ribbon in the top of the bloomers, in the waistband now just above Anastasia’s hipbones, into a neat decorative bow at her lower belly, Anastasia’s senior maid blushed anew.

The pure white silk under-slip, was rolled up before the slim arms aloft, went through its shoulder straps, and it could and would slide down the equally silken smoothness of the soon-to-be wearer, till its hem flowed to and fro momentarily, before settling its rose-weave leaves-thorns-and-flowers trimming, just below Anastasia’s knees.

The pure white thick cotton dress had been chosen for its plainness, and corresponding contribution to half-hearted disguise.

As the maids worked its waistband up over the underskirt, its bodice hung forward loose. The waist in place and the skirt, which belled out down with its hem at the heels of Anastasia’s boots, had any tucks or creases straightened.

The dress’ bodice came next.

Anastasia’s pretty arms, with their minimal muscularity, were introduced to the long sleeves, which were buttoned at cuffed wrists. This after the peasant style dress, had had its bodice drawn over her breast and breasts, so that it could be buttoned up its mid-back, from where her curved spine swerved up from her bottom’s top, to the high collar at her slender neck.

All this under the splendour sensational of her ankle-length furious-fire-flame cascaded cavalcaded cape of confusing circinate circumcentred circumducting cupric copper circumfusing red curls.

Even as a girl, Anastasia had loved to touch her sweet cheek on the white wolf-fur of coats such as the garment being brought to her now.

And the maids, who had known her since she was a child, let her perform that delight and delighting little duty, before one lifted her golden tresses, and the other helped her into the double-fur-lined inner, and enfolded her wonder in the fur lined outer. So that Anastasia cuddled and snuggled safe and warm in the three layers of wolf-fur the coat comprised, as its double-breasted wings were overlapped and slowly buttoned, from her ankles to the wing collar at her delicately dimpled chin.

The porcelain pretty face, with its delight of dancing freckles, now smiled out with the confidence of its youth at her dear momma, the Czarina, who could not help a tear of concern cornering her eyes, as she looked on her favourite daughter.

Fine white tooled-kid-leather fur mittens the maids now pulled onto her pretty handsover the cuffs of her dress.

A wolf-fur muff was anchored to her left wrist with a slim slip-chord, ready.

A white wolf-fur hat, a fur fez: a large soft fez festooned with a peacock’s tail-feather for delight, and with ear flaps that, when tied down, linked by a ribbon bow under the chin, was placed saucily on the inspirationally sensational coiffure curls.

Anastasia was ready for her mission.

Anastasia’s pretty face flushed blushed.

“Are you alright my sweet treasure?” the Czarina coaxed.

After all the bathing and dressing, Anastasia did not like to say that ‘she needed to go’ – that she ‘needed to spend a kopeck’. Perhaps nervousness had prompted the need to liberate a libation. Anastasia told herself to control her bladder, and smiled at her momma.

“I’m fine momma. Truly I’m fine”, Anastasia smiled with the love in her heart shining from her sparkling mauve eyes, and her moist pursed confident cheery cherry lips.

The Czarina kissed her lovely daughter’s sweet soft cheek, and took her gloved right hand, to lead her to the stables.

A ‘jinkle’ ‘jingle’ from tossed harnessed heads, seeming to nod in signal of greeting to the lovely princess as she wiggled into the stables with the Czarina, told the two women that the ponygirls had been tacked out and were ready for the shafts.

The ponies, all ex-Clitorian Guard who had decided to extend the honour of serving the royal household beyond military service, now broken to nervous skittish ponygirl, were all-three consequently over six-feet tall, with legs of an incredulity of length strength and completely compelling curvature: fresh, and correspondingly friskily frolicsome.

‘Iskra’, the astounding, simply stunning negress, would lead the trinity as it pulled the troika, and would be accompanied by ‘Pravda’ and ‘Siberia’, two very attractive Caucasian blondes.

Anastasia had always marvelled at the near nakedness of ponygirls in winter. The only duty paid to the bitter cold of the October snows, was the fur garter the three ponygirls wore on their left thighs. It could only be assumed that the heavy load at high speed as they hauled the sleds, worked to heat their muscles such that they did not feel the sub-zero cold.

Anastasia’s lifelong love of all things pony showed, when she broke away from her momma, and wiggle-ran in her tiptoe topping boots, over to Iskra, and stroked the negress’ face with the pure innocent love of the pure virgin girl she, Anastasia, had been, and still was.

“We must act quickly now, Anastasia. The hostler will harness the ponygirls to the troika landau. The three chosen, are intelligent creatures and will take you to Gatchina with all speed”, the Czarina reminded, rehearsing, yet again, the vital details of the plan to get Anastasia to a port, and a ship sailing for London, with her message from the Czar, and the appeal of her very appealing self, to support it.

Even as the Czarina fussed over these final details, she stole an arctic fox stole around her daughters neck, and bade her enter the troika, thereafter pulling a white wolf-fur rug over the sweet child-woman’s knees.

The hideous haunting howls hollered as if in the same building. But such was it the normalcy of expectation that such dissonant discourse would be heard in the crisp air of the deepening Russian winter, that only the high-strung ponygirls seemed to register it: the Czarina and the Grand Duchess showed no sign they had even heard it.

Iskra, Pravda, and Siberia, aligned line abreast, clomped their heavy hooves: a line of six beautiful breasts, with the black beauty herself, Iskra, trusted to lead from the centre: all three harnessed ready, and longing to go.

Sweet Anastasia sat at the rear centre of the open-topped sled, with the three reins in her lap, knowing she would not need them, but could snuggle her hands in her wolf-fur muff against the clinging cold, and trust the proud ponygirls to deliver her to her destination.

Time was moving on so fast. The wish that she had spent the metaphorical kopeck had increased, but Anastasia could not disappoint her momma by delaying her departure for the leisure to fountain her golden treasure. She must be at Gatchina before dusk. She would have to stop off on the way. Some faithful peasants would surely let her use their cesspit.

Even with the snow compacted to blue-sky-white sheet-ice at the exit of the stable yards, such was the power from the six stupendous legs which the tremendous strength the pony girls pumped to ground with the pounding of their iron-shoe-shod wooden hooves: hooves that held their feet on tiptoe within them, that Anastasia was thrown back in recoil, as the troika was whisked away on its skis in the bitter biting cold freeze.

She was on her way. The loveliest daughter of the Czar and Czarina, was on her journey to make a personal plea to the king of England for help or sanctuary for her family.

With tears coursing down her proud face, the Czarina ran to the gated palace entrance her daughter had just left through, and called piteously after her youngest daughter: “Anastasia!!”

But a glorious golden-red curl surround crowned head had already turned her way, and the Czarina could see the cherry-red lips on the angel’s face whispering a pleading sad: “Momma!!!!” as Anastasia’s sled, sped her into and beyond the horizon of history.

Anastasia could not help but cry. She was alone being whisked toward uncertainty. She was so young, so vulnerable, and so laden with the trust her parents had put in her, to get the British Empire to help, or at least provide succour and shelter for the Czar’s family.

Yet, after five miles Anastasia’s lovely optimists’ smile returned, and her face glowed brighter than the winter sun that was wanly making the blue-white field of endless snow through which her sled was being hauled, blinding to the sensitive eye.

A pack of wolves was spotted on the horizon. Anastasia shuddered, and nestled her pretty hands deeper into her fur muff, after arranging the rug higher up her lap.

Anastasia smiled; despite that she felt soreness in her nipples from the arrival of a would-be familiar over-sensitivity: a prelude to an interlude that she, though now seventeen, had never yet experienced.

Even had she known what was happening, she had nothing with her to deal with ‘the curse’. Had she been aware, she must have hoped that her flow would not begin yet awhile, and that she could make Gatchina, where Colonel-General Lodst would help her provide for her woman’s heavenly cycle.

Though Anastasia could not recognise the signs telling her she was about to enter her period, she knew a more immediately pressing need. And pressing her pretty knees together was no longer getting the better of the burning in her bladder. Anastasia was getting desperate to relieve herself.

Seven miles out of St Petersburg now, there was nowhere for a girl to go except in the open. There was no housing; just the endless open road and the boundless fields to the visible edges of the world, where the curved sky kissed mother earth.

The distant woods, despite the wandering wolves seen just now before, seemed ever more attractive to a shy girl.

At the thought of dropping her knickers and peeing in the open air, as she had once been told off for doing when she had been a little girl, Anastasia’s musical giggles lit the lovely lantern of her face, and her eyes glowed with her irrepressible zest for zoë.

The ‘shush’ of the skis on which her sled sped with the thud of the hooves of her ponygirls, disposed Anastasia to sleep. But she must, but must, answer the pressing call of nature, before slumber’s sweet nurture would, or indeed could, approach further.

The edge of the woods had arrived. Anastasia took her gloved hands out of her muff, and gentled the ponygirls’ reins to guide them into slowing and then turning onto a path that would take them, she hoped, to a suitable place for a shy Grand Duchess of the Russian peoples, to have a sly pee.

“Slow now Iskra, you darling creature!” she coaxed, “slow now, slow Pravda and Siberia you faithful souls! How I love you for serving me so unselfishly”, she whispered after she had turned her ponies to trot the troika along the side-path.

The hoped for proximity to a place of relief, only increased the need for Anastasia to ‘go’, and she would have danced her lovely legs to increase her will not to pee herself, if it had not been so undignified.

As it was, in microseconds after her gentle call of “Whoa!”, she whisked the rug off her knees, and jumped from the troika, careless of the reins, as she trotted in her tiptoe boots, sliding twice on ice patches, but recovering her hurry to find a hide where she might drop her bloomers, and make true the saying that ‘a girl has to do what a girl has to do’.

The sound of Iskra’s pee thundering steaming to the ground on the spot, where the ponygirls stood and shook their bitted heads and leather reins, seemed to echo in the eerie silence, and its hiss increased Anastasia’s panic for her own chance to piss.

In the clearing there was a slope behind her. Anastasia thought she heard a noise, but was too distracted by her need, to pay it heed.

Her muff was cast off, hanging by the ribbon around her wrist. Her mittens came next, else she would never undo her wolf-fur coat’s buttons and hooks.

Indeed, there was insufficient time to undo more than those up to her knees and half her thighs.

She must lift the skirt of her dress, and her under-slip, and get to the ribbon tie holding up her knickers.

The panic with which she fought to undress, and thus increase a clumsiness not natural to her, would have made her giggle helplessly if she had been a witness of herself, rather than her actual self on the very verge of urinating in her panties.

Thank god her skirt was up, but oh the pretty bow tying her bloomers’ waistband! If she had known of Fort Knox, Anastasia would have concluded she could better have accessed its golden treasure, than get down her panties in time to piss her own more precious.

Her bloomers were undone at last.

Anastasia danced on her divine legs to stop herself from peeing before she could squat.

She lowered her bloomers to her ankles and squatted and, holding her coat and dress and underskirt up, parted wide her perfect thighs, and pissed a long glistering glistening sibilantly ‘sissing’ silently mellow yellow stream, made mildly rosé by her being on the cusp of her moon month’s cyclic intervention.

Anastasia sighed and giggled galore with relief, as she jetted a spinning spiralling parabola of her golden wine, till it slowed to the last spurts she squirted; then a trickle, then drips.

Yet there was so little! Had all that panic been for so small a drop of her pure gold?

The proud product of Anastasia’s sulphur-yellow stream, steamed in the bitter bite of the wind. Yellow in and on the compacted snow, before the cold could freeze it solid, it trickled back between her tiptoe-bootied toes, down the slope the stunning princess was making throne.

Realising she risked wetting her dangling bloomers if she did not stand and pull them up quickly, Anastasia rose and, as she rose, heard a noise which made the fine red hairs at the back of her swan slim neck hackle.

In her fear, her fur-lined fur panties hitherto braced by her delicious booted calves, slid to her knee-boots’ ankles once more, and she stopped her efforts to pull up her knickers and close and button-up her coat.

Anastasia had heard a noise of stealthy movement, and the lovely flaming-fire-fringed curl-caressed crowned head of this escaped favourite daughter of the soon to be slaughtered crowned heads of Russia, turned.

The lead wolf sniffed the snow she had anointed, and its cock crowed as it grew, bared red, throbbed, pulsed, and then grew more erect anew, because the intimate scent of her piss as he sniffed it, indicated Anastasia’s immediately imminent intimate heat.

As lovely Anastasia bent to slide up her bloomers, her gloved pretty hand, held up, begged for delay and time and pity.

But she had not dropped the hem of her coat entirely, and so flashed the innocent slit mid her thrilling thighs. Her hairless lips: the labia of her silk-smooth intact-virgin-tight closed slit, flashed hot in the clinging cold.

As the one wolf became ten, and seventeen, and twenty, with those hitherto hidden in the forest pines bidden to come into the open by the sweet scent sent by the silent breeze blowing over her pee as it slowly froze, Anastasia was too terrified to scream.

As in the worst of her dreams, she could not move. Even as the yellow-eyed evil-eyed grey-hide-flanked leader of the wolf packs, raised his greying muzzle to howl ear-splittingly spine-chillingly hideously, Anastasia’s eyes just stared in horror and terror too great for her even to tremble.

Time was accelerated and yet slowed down. As her fear fed her mind with the need for self-survival, Anastasia was seeing the world at whirlpool whirl; but with every detail of what was and was not happening as if in a slow motion film.

Now she heard the thunder of the hooves, as her terrified screaming ponygirls fled, and with them to the inaccessible distant horizon and beyond, dragged the rescue refuge shelter of the troika sled.

More wolves gathered. Count lost, countless, they slavered from their ivory-toothed maws as their cocks throbbed red and raw between their grey-flanked legs.

Called by the leader’s howl, they were hungry and starving in binary ways, with a flame-red-haired honey-harvest standing on wonderful shapely legs before them.

Anastasia adrenalin now kicked in, and she kicked her pretty legs and fought to run and run and run. And hide she would if she but could; but her fur-lined fur bloomers furnished her with a trip to end the kicks of her race back to the snow track traces of the fleeing sled, and a longed-for slide ride back to some form of amnesty and freedom.

And Anastasia fell.

Felled by her underwear, she slithered in the snow. And as she slid, her fur-lined fur bloomers unbid, slipped off her boots’ ankles: ankles below calves curved so thrillingly by the strong beauty of her lower legs, and lay discarded by default in the snows, just beyond a finger’s end reach by the lovely girl.

Anastasia scrambled to her knees too late to rise further, as the wolf packs’ leader of leaders had her by the throat and kept her knelt, and the leads among his followers forced their cold wet noses up the hem of her coat and dress and under-slip, and smelled the smouldering scent of essential desire central to the uncontrollable furious fires that burn between the legs of young girls.

The wolf packs were hungry. The wolf packs were starving. The wolf packs must have meat to survive alive.

But to eat could wait. There was another feast to be had before the rending and tearing into a bloody screaming mass, and the ravenous devouring of the fragrant feminine flesh knelt before them.

A hideous heart rending spine-freezing scream of: “No!!!!” was followed by the sound of growls snarls doggish howls, and the rending of nether garments to, never to be reassembled resemblance of shattered tattered shards, as the wolves fought to get clear access to the source of the exquisite fragrance that was driving them’ already wild, still wider wilder.

Anastasia cried in her helplessness. On her knees unable to move, the savage wolves were stripping her to get at her cunt, and she knew it.

Eager tongues slobbered as the wolves fought to lick between her wonderful thighs.

Anastasia murmured mumbled jumbled prayers as the wolves lapped her lips till her slit betrayed her, and displayed its minxish independence of her mind, by oozing the very scent that the wolves were seeking, and that drove them wilder still with unsated insatiable desire.

Anastasia’s cries of “No!” and “No!” and “No!” and “No!”, were sobs of a soul in a totality of tortured torment now.

The unspeakable horror of what was happening, was only made the more horrendous by the way her very feminine body was reacting to it.

To the ravenous wolves there was another hunger to be satisfied to satiation before food was met by hot fresh flesh.

There was another imperative of survival to satisfy.

The anomaly of satiation before destruction would prevent gestation and parturition, even had the genes been willing to match after the mating, knew no dismissal in the dismal dark of the animal heart.

There was hunger of another kind. And here was an intact virgin bitch on heat for the forty and more wolves to make themselves repeatedly replete, before Anastasia was torn apart by their terrible teeth, and voraciously devoured as red raw tender meat.

The scream as Anastasia was mounted and taken by the wolf pack leader, and surrendered her virginity with an excruciating snap in her vagina, and a spurt of scarlet blood, was more horrible than the one she had emitted when she first realised the wolves were out to rape her.

But the screams that followed the screams that followed the screams that followed the screams that followed, before a wolf’s huge filthy cock stopped her mouth, were hollow of horror, and told of a girl being repeatedly endlessly reamed, as she fulfilled her function; and her wildest and wettest of wet wet-dreams…

05-21-2007, 10:19 PM
Wow Interresting story...very well written...thanks for sharing it with us...:)

05-21-2007, 11:25 PM
Great stuff...thanks

05-22-2007, 03:27 AM
Thanx for sharing this with us.

05-22-2007, 12:04 PM
thanks Eve ---you always leave me wanting more of you stories :jo