View Full Version : Seraphima - Part 1 - Chapter 1-7

Eve Adorer
05-25-2007, 09:41 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

If next door was a convent, then eighteen-year-old Seraphima was just ‘the girl next door’. Like all young girls, Seraphima was compelled by the mysterious wonder between her legs. As her story begins, the question of the moment is, what is Seraphima, a convent schoolgirl, doing in the ‘Poolside Bar’?
Stay with the ride and enjoy what’s inside!!

(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 1 - Pool

Pool or pools? Alluring: brown: compellingly disquietening: electrically flashing golden heavenly inspirationally joyous kinetic lightening: momentously nobly omniscient: potently queenly: romantically spellbinding: truly unsurpassably visionarily wistfully xenodochium: youthfully zymergic, and these and those, alphabetically, just her eyes.

Pool or pools? Dark-brown. Long lashes. The lanterns of her searing soul.

Pool? She? No question. She is she. This is she. She that is she, bends with cue, supplant for penis, held erectly long in pretty hands, with caressing fingers, inept girly grip, aiming at testicular spheres, gently working the foreskin, would she, were it had had one.

Did she hear?

Billiards? Pole and two balls making male in intimation of intimate imitation. But then there is that third ball, so this is not a man’s at all. Even that stiff stick in her gentle grip is imagined not real in its masculine appeal.

Heels? Six-inches and what shape they give to already compellingly curvaceous limbs. Legs long and high as she leans lone over table, pool or billiards, with cue on cue to smack the balls haughtily, naughtily, dismissively, in manner seemingly unseemly, and certainly without semen.

Lips? Pouch or mouth? Mouth. Delicately small with upturned-to-flat curved upper-lip, and bold lower. Lips at rest in the pose of a pretty posy. For she is Nubian negro, and carries the beauty of beauties, that is the blessing of the black girl.

More on mouth? Mouth pouted pert in a kiss of concentration on smacking naughty boy balls, with pole her gentle fingers long, longingly masturbate, or seem to have in that unseemly state at any rate.

The beauty of her mouth is it’s all but circulararity: it almost forms an exquisite ‘O’, as in ‘orgasm’.

Legs? Naked. Summary? Summery so she is summarily at the summit of submission to sun’s solace, and wears cool clothes as near none, as would arouse monk monkey and nun, but never discompose none. Her legs long and black shine with the sheen of burnished mirrors.

Did she hear?

Snooker? A duly attentive erectness to the pole she holds pays service to her potency. Those naughty balls will get a poke from her for daring to erect the mast she appears to masturbate, and would be master over, but that she is so clearly a miss.

Hair? Curls coiled curlicue, Gordian knot not. Acutely cutely concupiscent whirls, whirring the wanton, wanting of nothing even whirlpool compared, to ensnare. Damocles long to blades, not swords as in soldiers, but slender, as in shoulders.

Face? A lantern of loveliness that is all. But consider and quiver at what such beauty delivers. The sun had just been worshipping her, not she it, after all. All of five feet seven tall, leaning long to smack those bauble balls.

Breasts? Of course! Girl! Heavy, full, unencumbered by brassiere, double-dangling doppelganger. Pyramid-point tipped, and the points poignantly pert and alert in the warmth of the summer. She must be forty-eight F-cup, to judge by the state of her green-and-black-hooped crop top’s swellings, telling of the totality of its fulfilling filling. Lolling belle bells with strikingly proud pulchritudinous clappers: her nipples: giving content, as in conical tent investment, to the content of her vestal vest vestment.

Pool or billiards? Skirt? Only just. Bent as she is, risen unbidden to leave her pouch unhidden, for she shy but so free to display and disport.

Bare midriff. Belly flat with cute concave third eye: navel. Blind eye ‘seeing no ships’ to pun quip. Fifth eye to include both her nips.

Arms? Disarmingly alarmingly long and slim, with too, glister of soft down sweetly down her two fores. Two fores not octopus, but achingly lovely to longingly look upon. Two fores not eight nor ten, but not tentative, indeed tentacle in loving embrace in the grace of her brace.

Did she hear?

Legs again? And how! How long can legs be and be legal? This is horny honey with legs let from ground to nirvana, flowing in two paths, righteous, and left too: the straight and curved but not the crooked highways to heaven. The eye follows their flow. The journey is long with many disturbing curves. Muscles are smooth but subtly supple and strong. Would the eyes rode these roads forever. No stockings to hide the flawless deep black shining complexion. The curves are eternal up to the infernal furnace in the radiant white pouch.

What does that white tell us? Oh yes, she is new, but she has bled her lunar bleeds. She is very girl indeed, and still with her snare drum tympanum untaught and taut. That sentry confirming no entry is elementary, but not eliminatory of the cues on the guys forming queues she might choose from, when she ceases to confuse, and deigns to lose.

Bum bottom buttocks butt buns? Inverted kettle drums two too. Conspicuously momentously muscular, beating time’s sway girls’ gait way either siding her gateway. Timeless metronome mounds. Rolling rodomontade silent of sound. Round full firm smooth monumentally mountainous.

Panties? Only just. Clearly seen as she leans keen to smack the white ball with tall pole to teach the testicular balls a lesson with her borrowed penis cue. White: they are only just this side of non-existent. A glowing white thong with pretty red decorative side bows, leaving bowing wowing bottom in clear air, entirely bare.

Inside thong? Her mystery. Her every heavenly wile. Her pungently potent musk the while. The wild-musk-rose pervaded pouch filling out her gusset with its purse lips closed: purse lips speaking of love in thunderous wondrous poetic-prose-silence, in its gentle repose.

Did she hear? She seemed to move in display of all her loveliness, and flash her long strong legs every sexy way scintillatingly. And a look said she heard and was disturbed but not dismayed at the words of the two girls eyeing her, one of them unintentionally braying above the heat of the DJ’d music dance beat.

As Seraphima played pool or billiards or snooker at the Poolside Bar, the silence unbid fell in a spell in the Afro-beat. And the words fell on her dainty ears though they hidden in the curls of her helical coiffure. Words not intended for her to hear, but surprised by the sudden silence in the thumping music: a girl’s voice opining pining opinion that Seraphima should be pinioned pilloried and:

“What she needs is a fucking good spanking!”

Snooker! Seraphima the cute copious curl-cropped girl forwards her cue on cue to address the white, and scatter the naughty boy balls as multi-coloured seed, imprudent impudent sperm, pissed impotent Onan by the ricochets off her stick poked white ball, as the cue, a penis parallel, on cue, drives the virgin white ball, just as a queue of cues should have been poking Seraphima’s pink, by turn, if at all.

And Seraphima pocketed an instant red, and would now go for the brown, but that her heavenly eyes were on the girls leering at her loveliness, and the words she had heard had disturbed in her, what she had thought, if she had ever before thought about it at all, absurd.

As the brown was nextly pocketed, Seraphima’s nether never pocked pink knew drizzle, and longed to know these girls who found her profoundly vamp or tramp. And, as she bent over the table once more, penis cue in pretty little hands, her panties gusset was daintily faintly fatefully damp.

The success with the brown, reminder of her devil deep anal tunnel, was followed by a second red, and a try for the oh so appropriate pink.

Need of rest for cue this long shot she, as her skirt hem shot up she, her long strong legs she, reached despite need for cue support for lack of her height, the brown via white to smite, and panties glowed bright white triangle pouched pulchritudinous ‘tween tensioned fit bare thighs, as her mind raced with the disgrace of the drips sipped by her gusset, when one of the staring girls had audibly called for Seraphima to be whipped.

But why did ‘whip’ come to mind all but butt? Seraphima had not heard that word used. She was deliciously confused. Her eyes, her soft calf eyes, looked doe-longingly brief-lingeringly at the lovely girls, whose eyes in turn were burning on the burnished bare dark black legs of she, that she brandished so beckoningly.

Willy, boyfriend gentle and innocent. Boy next door. Only boy had ever known she, as friend, not more intimate as in ‘boyfriend’ one word, was more ‘boy friend’ two words.

Seraphima and Willy only just re-met since not long. Seraphima, an orphan from the local convent.

In the interview in her office, so far, Abbess Mercy had told Seraphima, that Seraphima could no longer go to university, but would, nonetheless, have to leave the convent.

This was not Seraphima’s fault. The convent was in the midst of a financial crisis. It was regrettable, but Seraphima’s time to leave had come. She needed to face the world outside without chaperones.

The convent coffers were nearly empty. College was no longer an option for Seraphima, unless she could afford to fund herself. The abbess was sorry, but the convent could no longer afford to do it. The abbess was truly sorry, she wished she could do something about it, but things were as they were.

Now she was eighteen, Seraphima was no longer necessarily required to wear the woollen dress and knickers of the pupils under tutelage at the convent. Her school years were over.

So Seraphima sat with her beautiful bare dark black legs demurely but gently pressed together at her knees. She wore a micro-skirt. Seraphima did not cross her legs. To do so was forbidden in the convent.

In her micro-skirt, Seraphima’s hugely handsome thighs were compelling eye-catching. They were wholly proportionate with her lovely body, but somehow loomed very impressively and powerfully large in the eye of the lucky beholder.

As she sat demurely upright on a wooden dining-table type chair, Seraphima’s forty-eight-inch bosom was pushing out her striped crop top, with her conical nipples prodding up like circular arrowheads, stretching the material of that garment to near bursting rip.

In her complete sweet innocence, thinking as a girl in an all-girl environment, Seraphima had seen nothing wrong in coming to this highly important interview, sans panties. In consequence, the copious, completely coiled curls, of her luxuriously long pubic hair, tumbled in impossible spirals, between her thighs, to dangle on the floor below the seat she blessed with her beautiful behind.

One of the glories of the incredible Seraphima, was this luxuriance of flowing midnight springs: her pubic hair, was as soft and of as dark a brown as the hair of her head, and as curled to. But that it was in compound coils of incredibly confusing complexity, its long tail would have dragged on the floor as she swayed her heavenly way.

This erotic wonder dangled and dandled from her mons veneris and her labia majora. She shampooed, brushed, and combed it with the same loving care she imparted to her coiffure. If ‘crowning glory’ had an apposite opposite, this site and sight was it.

If the seven wonders of the world were rolled into one girl, that girl would be Seraphima, and a sub-wonder these profuse curls dangling down between her lovely legs to her shapely ankles, as if it were on the head hair of another girl with her lips permanently kissing Seraphima’s thus completely hidden love mouth: Seraphima’s pubic hair, her beautiful upon beautiful four-foot long pubic hair.

“My sweet and honoured lady, you are taking away my future. I beg you, my sweet and honoured lady! You know that I am an orphan. I have no access to other finance”, Seraphima begged.

“My sweet and honoured lady, I beg you to reconsider. Please, my sweet and honoured lady!” Seraphima pleaded.

Seraphima leaned forward at this juncture, her lovely negress’ mouth kissing the air with every syllable her sexual contralto sang.

Her heavy breasts therefore followed gravity, and flowed forward and down as they left their nestling places on Seraphima’s chest. Her firm nipples thus bobbled up and down, rubbing within her fortunate, and fortunately elastic, top.

Her gentle face was completely disarming. Her eyes glowed with her youthful vitality zest and vivacity. A stray of her head curls, swung a helix over her left eye, and Seraphima raised a long fingered hand to brush it gently aside, thereby lifting one of her breasts toward the heaven from whence she indisputably came.

“Are you packed for leaving the convent?” Abbess Mercy, responded.

“My sweet and honoured lady!” Seraphima cried out with overwhelming anxiety.

“Seraphima, my charming daughter….” Abbess Mercy continued, in a tone of mixed mild irritation and amusement, both prompted by the total innocence of her charge.

“Seraphima, there is a world out there waiting for you! Admittedly, the lack of university qualification will limit your marketability, and there is ninety-nine-percent unemployment among girls at present…. But you could….. or maybe… well, anyway…”, the abbess had run out of ideas for Seraphima’s future, even before she began her list of what Seraphima could do by way of a career.

Abbess Mercy knew that, in reality, Seraphima’s position was hopeless, unless Seraphima could find a man or girl to marry her: a man or girl with some money of course.

The alternatives for Seraphima, were working in the coal mines, or prostitution. Most English girls were sold into US, Russian, or Chinese brothels. Many sold thus, still fooled themselves they would make the money to be able to go to college. But the market for girls, even the highly prized English girls, was flooded. Most of them would be lucky to get even one meal a day as payment for selling their bodies.

“My sweet and honoured lady, please may I take the vows? Seraphima asked in her despair.

The Abbess laughed gently. Seraphima hung her head amidst an emotionally stirring slow-motion springing and coiling of the curls of her dark-brown hair, as they flowed to shade Seraphima from showing that the glowing sun of her gorgeous face was turning to sweet rain.

“My sweet and honoured lady, why do you mock me?” Seraphima sobbed.

“My daughter: if I had any, but any, vacancy for a nun, do you not realise that I would choose you above and beyond any competitor in the world?” the abbess soothed.

“I cannot create from nothing. That is the sole prerogative of the good lord. You would imagine that, with we nuns taking a vow of poverty, the convent would cost a whisper to run. But that, sadly for you my daughter, is simply not so”, Abbess Mercy sighed, resignedly.

Throughout the interview, Seraphima had been aware of the abbess’ eyes on her legs: legs given particular loveliness by the six-inch heels Seraphima wore.

Seraphima’s loving mind considered the shocking idea that she could win the abbess over by using her sexual charms. It was but a microsecond’s thought, and dismissed in the next instant. The consequences of failure were dire. Seraphima knew she would probably be bullwhipped. Five hundred lashes was the minimum punishment. They had given one girl one hundred lashes every day for a whole week, bar on the Sunday, when she had suffered two hundred.

“Let me be straight forward with you my daughter”, the abbess continued.

“You are a very attractive, and, consequently, a very distracting young woman. Quite honestly, I cannot afford to have you hanging around the convent. I have seen with my own eyes, the way the other girls look at you. And, yes, I know you have never encouraged it, but I have heard the wolf whistles?”

“You are a disruption. A truly lovely one, but a disruption nonetheless. That is one factor. The other, as I have already mentioned, is cost.”

“We need your cell. Come the winter celebrants, there will be a surfeit of nuns in the convent. That is why we do not need new initiates Seraphima.”

“Because of the dire state of the country’s economy, I am keeping more nuns on than we strictly need, so you see I can be charitable. But we just cannot afford to have you hanging around…. I’m sorry, Seraphima, I am truly sorry, but that is the way it is for all of us these days”, Abbess Mercy concluded, to the sad sound of Seraphima’s heartrending sobs.

“My sweet and honoured lady…..” Seraphima whispered, by way of farewell, her head hung to hide her tears, as she rose from her chair to leave the room, stood with the copious curls of her pubic hair swinging gently between her shapely ankles, and curtseyed very thighilly to her de facto mother.

Seraphima’s loud sob as she wiggled from the room in an erotic ‘clitter-clatter’ of stiletto heels, would have broken any heart.

Abbess Mercy, found her own tears welling. To her own surprise, she now turned turtle in her torment, and called for Seraphima to come back.

Turned and returned: Seraphima stood trying not to let her radiant loveliness interfere with what she hoped and prayed might be a chance for her. She did not want her fantastic sexuality to win her favours. She knew she had to face the world without using that weapon.

“Okay! Okay!” Abbess Mercy suddenly resignedly sighed.

“Look: just so long as you continue to obey the rules of the convent, including complete chastity, then I will let you stay around. You can help teach, perhaps: as a classroom assistant. But remember, Seraphima, chastity at all times, and no leaving the nunnery without at least two nuns as chaperones!” Abbess Mercy warned.

Seraphima almost leapt on the abbess to kiss her. From the gentle diamonds of rain that had trickled from her dark-brown eyes, suddenly sunshine broke through the clouds.

“My sweet and honoured lady, thank you, thank you, thank you!!” she cried with her palms pressed together in prayer of gratitude for the abbess finding her a job.

“You will never regret it, my sweet and honoured lady. I will work so hard for Sister Faith. I know nothing of teaching, but I will learn. I promise on promise that I will learn. And you will never ever, but ever, regret giving me this chance, my sweet and honoured lady”, Seraphima gabbled with tears of love running down her sweet cheeks.

The suspicion started when two nuns reported to the abbess, that Seraphima was wearing scent.

If Seraphima was wearing scent, she did not get it from within the convent. Was she sneaking out alone?

The suspicion increased when the same two nuns reported Seraphima’s additional pride about her appearance. “I’ve known her take a whole hour just shampooing and pampering her pubic hair, my sweet and honoured lady. She brushes it till it shines. She divides it into two tails, ties it with ribbons, and coils it into her panties, and I’m sure that’s where she is wearing the scent, my sweet and honoured lady!”

“Seraphima is at a difficult time of life”, Abbess Mercy speculated, with an intonation which, if a hearer had not known better, might have been taken as indicating a wish she (the abbess) were Seraphima.

“It is good of you to call this to my attention. I share your concern that she may be sneaking out at times, and seeing boys.”

The two betraying nuns, portrayed surprise on their pretty faces. They had, quite honestly, never even thought of the possibility that Seraphima was consorting with boys.

“Yes”, Abbess Mercy whispered into the intercom, speaking to her secretary in the neighbouring office, whilst firmly waving the two betraying nuns out of the room.

“Yes”, Abbess Mercy whispered, “Ah. Got you at last Sister Mercury. Sister Mercury: please put me in touch with the Inquisition. I need two of their detectives. I’m afraid that my trust in a certain young lady has been serially seriously betrayed.”

The very same night on the day Seraphima had been told she could stay at the convent, as long as she never went out without escorts, she was in the Poolside Bar, playing snooker with Willy. Seraphima had shown great enterprise in escaping the convent. She had been seeing Willy for over a month by now.

Willy, though boyfriend in thinking in his mind, had never laid she, even hand on she, and was as innocent of she as she. And she completely no more than chased for chaste kiss on peach soft face cheek by he and no other ever. Even mouth only kissed at corner accidentally proximately.

Okay her eyelids kissed closed in moment of passion when he had ejaculated in his pants caressing her face. Then she had kissed his palm, and giggled golden, not cruel, but honoured that he had shot his oyster for her beauty incarnate carnal.

And she had offered her mouth, but he would resist that kiss wanting to save that savour for his saviour. And she had been honoured that he would not touch her and he had leaned forward her head to kiss her forehead in gratitude for his spunk, and his still hard issue tissue, and then her smiling eye with fluttering lashes, even as she sighed to say she wanted him inside where she was yet to give a cock a ride.

Back to here and now, Willy watched Seraphima’s hem rise over twin moonrise and tight white crescent star nestling bright in the shadow of deep black sigh thighs.

He would reach and remind her hem of its modesty, save that his sap was rising and she had her shot to make, would his not come first, in thirst of thrust at and in such an erotic sight and site.

And he saw too that the two ethnic-Chinese with the jade parade of unparalleled shine straight divine long down onto their laps, were ogling his Seraphima.

But that was so filthy. Girl was for boy. God did not provide that another girl… But such dainty hands. Them white on silk smooth ebony thighs: Seraphima’s. Imagine. No must not! Disgusting! They, surely not in her panties, or pretty lips kissing her lovely negress’ mouth, or touching-up her perturbing protuberances till her nipples danced.

Must not think that. Must stand between and hide her. Seraphima not, surely not, I mean not really showing herself, I mean her body, I mean her legs, I mean to two girls other, that would love to be her lover!?

Girl next door played as childhood neighbours. Propose tonight. Dressed white. Aisle. Willy’s mother in smiles and tears. Seraphima in pure white, fully qualified. Again too at night. And at pink dawn the red in the bed to show it had been shed. Sacred in her panties now as she leans to poke the cue ball white, into the pink, with her sweet mite of might.

And it is an extremely long reach for her. And she is up out her six-inch heel, left foot on tip top of big toe and right leg raised in a parable of prayerworthy parabolas, and her white gusset straining to hide the seat of her passion, which is showing a smile within the diaphanous. And her pink would glisten were it not for the grace of lace. And, oh god, the contrasting white of the under wonder of her delicate foot, as pure as her soul, as she shows the contrast of her sole raised foot’s sole.

And then she is all legs and legs and legs and legs and legs and giggles as she celebrates her pocketed pink and slinks to the scoreboard to add the six, as she thinks she must miss the next red on purpose to show she is just a girl, and let her would be hero know that he can defeat her at any game he chooses. Wishing that she could lose that to love that had lingered lifelong within her. Longing the strand that stretched to guard her praetorian, could be forced to yield to that she had saved it for: her boy. Longing a turnkey to unlock her cell. Her goal to break gaol on the cock of a male.

But Seraphima’s eyes told lies, as they smiled at Willy, only to gaze past him and see the two Chinese ravens, seemingly ravenous of ravishing and rapine, were gone as suddenly as they seemed to have arrived: were they spies?

Were they spies in disguise? Seraphima had no right to be where she was. The convent had strict rules: no boys. Seraphima had sneaked out in clothes stolen for the night from the communal wardrobe. Clothes reserved for girls allowed out on trust for an interview or such, but not for girls out on a tryst.

Seraphima had not seen the Chinese lovelies before. They could be inquisitive, or Inquisition nuns in mufti. Either option was disquietening. Seraphima was curious. She had been lured by their leers. She knew new naughtiness between her legs.

Seraphima had to know. Her mind was in a panic! Was their look lust, or discovery of her breach of trust?

To wrest from her duo of soul-brown eyes, where her admirers had gone, Seraphima made as if looking for the cue she in fact knew where she had rested. They were not at either bar, and the street door was ajar!

Seraphima looked ill: so much so that poor Willy gently assumed she was on the verge of something uniquely female.

“Excuse me will you Willy, but I must go to the ladies…” Seraphima whispered.

An excuse made and Seraphima was now in the powder room, admiring her perfection in a mirror within the room of thrones, wondering if she was alone or had discovered her Chinese cousins’ coven.

The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

But there was no sight nor sound save the mirror’s futile attempt to capture the beauty of a negress with a constant kiss formed by her delicate mouth, and her eyes lighthouses flashing ‘come-hither’, siren for shipwrecks in the channel ‘tween the mountainous mounds of her bosom, when seeking shelter on the gentle waters of her belly, for sailors deceived into seeking calm, to find but alarm in the maelstrom ardour in her passionate harbour.

Surely illegally long, lovely dark-black legs transported the transparently torrid Seraphima back to her boy, and her hand, her gentle hand with its white palm in wholly holy contrast to the delightful dark upper, and the shine of her unvarnished untarnished long fingernails, her gentle hand pulsing with the vitality of this vivid vrouw, was held, as she swayed her graceful way, her every move signalling silently that she was significantly sex.

“We need the money. You are going to make the money we need. You are going to pay public penance for your sins.”

The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

Willy felt a pulsing in his pants as he held the dainty charm of Seraphima’s dark-brown hand. There seemed to be a new rapture to the way she swayed this day. This night there was a fight within her skirt as her buttocks rolled as they strolled to his car, and he opened the door for Seraphima to take the front passenger seat.

Then Willy watched, captured, enraptured, as Seraphima’s long legs were fully revealed by her rising skirt riding up her smoothness. And Seraphima’s lovely eyes smiled up at him for the honour he had paid her for holding the door for her, till she could settle her holy shrine on the thus sainted seat. And her sighs as she watched him watching her skirt’s hem slide up the vastness of her strong dark black thighs, told of the bells that tolled in Seraphima’s torment, the terrible temptation threatening snail trail on the seat she made throne.

As Willy sat beside Seraphima, her giggle when she dropped her removed panties in his lap flashed goldenly in her glorious eyes.

Then her dainty hands grasped Willy’s strong arm, and her sweet head was on his shoulder. Her unspoken message was in the token she had removed from covering her coveted curls. The white triangle that she had dropped in his lap, told him she was accessible, and that, if he wished, as who would not, he could savour the aroma-Arabic of her drip drop droplet dipped panties.

Seraphima’s mind whirled. She was girl. The two Chinese that had teased her with their emphatically wanting eyes on her handsome thighs and the bright white triangle between them besides, had reminded Seraphima’s mind, not for the first time, or in a revolutionary revelation to her sweet innocence, that she was as attractive to girls as to boys.

But the true revelation for Seraphima, was in her reaction to the discomforting rediscovered attraction. Her mind told her that to be so honoured by equally beautiful girls such as the raven haired charmers she had entranced so, was the higher of the two loves.

To be the love and lust of a boy’s would-be thrust, was a norm of expectation. But to be the allure of another girl was an honour higher. Another girl would know her desires and the source of her fires. Never yet kissed, Seraphima knew now she longed to be tasted on the butterfly wings of her prominent promise proud-pouted mouth, by another miss, who would not miss, but kiss her properly.

Yet, if we go back in time to the toilets of the bar the lovely Chinese had left, Seraphima was now waiting. She wanted to waste time in case the Chinese dolls arrived from elsewhere, having not been where she had entered to try and find them.

She would have gone off with the Chinese for sure, and handed them her panties as her calling card, when she was certain they wanted to make love to her.

She had sensed that the sentinel scent central to her gusset would signal her surrender as well as rendering her open to sliding entry.

Her curiosity had then taunted her. Feeling the yielding softness of her tiny shielding white lace thong, with no excuse for taking it off to show she was willing and ready, Seraphima had been overcome by shame and embarrassment that she would so speedily mentally surrender to total strangers.

Not in so many words did it occur to her, but she determined to punish herself for being so turned-on by being objectified by her fellow girls. She would, this very night she would, confirm her heterosexual credentials.

Eve Adorer
05-25-2007, 09:47 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 2 - Drool

And but minutes later, as Willy had walked front round to the driver’s seat, Seraphima had taken-off her scanties in a scurry hurry in the dark of the car. She would have Willy stamp her passport red. He must enter the harbour between the arbour of her bifurcated fur-forest, with his hard ardour.

She was decided on being divided. To save her stretch for the marriage bed was silly. The delicate diaphanous diaphragm nestling in the humidity of her horny hole was not wholly holy: she would give it to Willy’s wilful wanton willy.

Yet she knew it was sin to want it sundered. She had been told it would hurt and hurt all the more if it was split in sin, which, seemingly, was geographically located all-around church marriage island.

In the convent where Seraphima had been raised, an orphan: to keep the girls intact, they had even been forbidden athletic sports.

The nuns whipped girls found touching themselves. Those that gave full way to temptation, were ritually flogged, and thrown naked into the streets to henceforth earn their way as whores.

Seraphima had always passed the monthly inspection. The phrase “a snap inspection” bandied about among the convent girls, had made Seraphima giggle divinely when a teen. But she too had had to submit to the attentions of the abbess.

Seraphima lying on her back, tied with her legs wide splayed, the abbess had had a twinkle in her eye. Seraphima had turned her head in shame as she was examined once again. The cushion under her buttocks, the flashlight torch, the gentle enquiring finger’s linger, as Seraphima bit her lovely lower lip to stop her secretions from revealing her secret enjoyment of the moment of torment, had burned their brand in Seraphima’s very soul.

Earlier by far than now, she had wanted to become a nun. Seraphima had wanted to become a nun in the Holy Order of St Clitoris: the order that ran the convent she called home.

She had wanted to become a nun until the day she had accidentally seen Sister Matilda’s infibulated sex, and the crimson caps inserted into, to cover over her nipples. The realisation that a girl as sensationally sweet as Sister Matilda, had been sewn up so that she would remain intact forever, and her nipples too guarded against the temptations of the flesh, had told Seraphima that she was no nun, but had indeed compulsive needs.

The secret kissing among her then fellow schoolgirls, Seraphima had taken no part in.

In the drab greyness of the ankle-length gown all the convent schoolgirls wore, the growing magnificence of Seraphima’s significant bosom had signally double-filled its otherwise shapeless drape. Her tensioning of its upper front with her tantalising temptations, had also drawn its material materially tight over the rotundity of her rampant rear.

And, when her nipples had hardened with the winter chill, to poke and provoke and scribe a thrill on the rough woollen material of the dress, which had rubbed her to even harder distress, so as to make her bless her coarse woollen school knickers with her unction, Seraphima had blushed, and lowered her head in modesty.

The other girls had whistled wolf at her, and whispered temptation in her ear. They had tried to hold her pretty hand. But Seraphima had taken her teachers’ and their teaching preaching seriously.

She had back then, wanted to become a nun, and had covered her ears at the sounds of surprised pleasure and longing, when the head-girl took one of her juniors into her bed.

Way back then, Seraphima herself had always slept with her legs strapped together at the knees and ankles, and her hands held in the girlacles, sprinkled with holy water, that tied her to the bed’s head, till the nuns would release her and her fellow, as of then, would be novitiates, from their voluntary bonds, at dawn.

The clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death.

The drive was out of town. Seraphima clung ivy-vine divine to Willy’s comfortingly strong arm. He could see her mouth in the rear-view mirror. Seraphima knew he could see her mouth, and made no play to display, but just let its shear negress beauty have the say no mere words could convey.

Composed and closed, Seraphima’s mouth made a maid’s kiss not to be missed. Her upper lip’s uplifted curved flatness cried out to be kissed in its own right. Her lower lip’s breadth took breath away.

Unseen by Willy, Seraphima’s dark-brown eyes tried to look at her mouth in the mirror, to ensure it formed the informed flower of succulent pleasing teasing temptation, pleading passion with the wholly holy kiss it naturally formed in repose. She knew her lips were lovely: she had so often been told so by the other convent girls.

They parked up, as they always did on a date, outside the enormous hothouses that formed part of the farm that financed the Convent of St Labia Majora and Minora: the convent in which Seraphima had been raised and schooled.

Never had Willy known Seraphima so pliant and compliant; and yet so complaining with her moans, that he was not going far enough in his roaming of her randy raging body.

For a whole endless two hours, his right hand caressed her naked right thigh from knee to half-moon, sliding down its incredible smoothness with a ruthlessness provoked by Seraphima’s incessant sighs.

But Seraphima wore no panties and knew she was accessible and wanted no foreplay, but to be sacrificed on the spike of Willy’s swollen manhood.

She wanted no fingers within her. She wanted to be splayed and rammed in her clam. She wanted her hymen sundered split and rodded to irrecoverable raw ruination. She wanted to be sacrificed, her cunt lubricated only by the blood of her torn maidenhead.

Yet too, she wanted to stay whole and holy in her hole, and to give only unto him in the marital bed. Seraphima’s mind was as split as her hymen was whole. She was a girl in deed as well as thinking. She wanted but she wanted not. She was hot to trot, but not in hell to rot.

Yet why would he not hold her breasts? Were they too big or not big enough for him? Why did he not taste a nipple? Her top was off in their loving scuffle. Her profoundly huge right breast rested softly on his chest, its up-hard nipple zigzagging ‘L.O.V.E. M.E.’ with the apex of its huge brown-pink cone on his shirt.

Then the first ever kiss came, and Seraphima’s lovely eyes closed, knowing this was love and that Willy would never rape her. So she crossed her huge thighs to save him the embarrassment of having risen, but not to her challenge to take her and make her a woman.

Seraphima’s mouth was for the kiss. Seraphima’s mouth was made for the kiss. Seraphima’s mouth was the kiss.

Time stood still as Willy told her of his love with his mouth closed on her passionate petals, sipping the nectar of her femininity: the luckiest man alive: kissing very heaven: the mouth of a pure negress: the mouth that is the epitome of the kiss.

For the whole two hours of the foreplay, the infrared cameras had copied it all, till the pretty blonde director whispering into a microphone, called: “Okay Now!”.

And, with Willy’s mouth sucking her left nipple to heaven, Seraphima found the car door being suddenly forcibly swung open, and two lovely Chinese, in nun’s habits, grasping her slender arms and dragging her out in her shamefully fully fulsomely aroused state, as she screamed in her shock for: “Willy!!”

The cameras focused in on Seraphima’s high-lifted top and her bountiful breasts bare with their nipples, hotly aroused, a dark brown-pink on her negress’ ebony black. The cones mountainous pointing sharp as needles, bobbing and throbbing with her very heavy arousal.

Her mouth too, its gorgeous lips still moist with Willy’s inadequate kisses, was camera candy. And, could it have seen within her slit, it would have shamed her by filming the shine in her shrine, showing she was saturated with succulent nectar, for Willy to slide inside with his stiff staff were he man enough to take to heaven this distaff.

As they ripped Seraphima’s crop top off over her head, and pulled over her instead, the familiar coarse iron-grey roughness of a convent schoolgirl’s dress, they threatened her with a wire whip, should she even think of trying to escape.

As the rough woollen convent dress fell down her incredible curves, a hand reached up to pull Seraphima’s micro-skirt off.

And so, was clear glimpsed minutely-momentarily by the infrared in the near dark, all curls in a kempt unkempt kept bikini-line bordered triangular conjuncture: over four-foot long but that it was curled, dangling in mesmeric helter-skelter whirls, the hanging garden of this babe’s Babylon. Scattering helical springs swinging, blown by the cooling breeze, flowing down between her wonderful thighs to the insides of her ankles, hiding within their seemingly impenetrable jungle, her moist love-lips: Seraphima’s pubic hair.

Still hot and aflame with her natural desires, the fires of her love still shining in her gorgeous eyes, after the two hours over which her willing body had been caressed, Seraphima realised she had been taken prisoner by the abbess and was being returned to the convent from which she had escaped for that night, and those many stolen nights that had by now preceded it.

Seraphima had been followed. That she had found herself a boyfriend was soon discovered. The location of their meetings and of their follow-up petting sessions in Willy’s car, if such could be called ‘petting’, since, before that fateful night, it had never gone beyond holding hands, was soon espied.

The convenience of the darkness in the glade just outside the convent, for taking Seraphima in the heat of love, was ideal.

The chance to make a film and thus money from Seraphima’s punishment, had been serendipitous.

Her boy had been a pushover to get co-operation from. He had betrayed Seraphima in the instant he was offered a ‘front row seat’ to watch her being punished.

Bare foot under now, Seraphima’s borrowed high-heels having been removed, Seraphima’s lovely body filled the frumpy ankle-length coarse woollen dress with the burgeoning sexuality, in reality, it was designed to hide inside. With twin bulges to the fore, and to the rear, making four, two supremely smooth more, Seraphima’s body was all to adore.

Into the blazing lights of the main hall of the convent, the raven-haired Chinese dolls dragged Seraphima by her wrists, tied rope in front of her.

These were the same girls who had so blatantly ogled Seraphima in the Poolside Bar, where she had played snooker, flaying the balls. Those same girls now made her walk, her bare feet chilled by the cold of the marble floor.

Tethering her slender wrists with the ends of the rope by which they were already tied helpless, the Chinese devil’s angels, the nuns from the Inquisition, now stretched Seraphima up to an oaken beam, till she was standing in pain with her arms high aloft on the top tips of her big toes.

Seraphima was in agony. She could not relieve her arms. Her toes had little to no purchase on the floor, and she would dangle by her arms alone if she lifted but one lovely leg.

Let us but dream of the shape that her gorgeous legs must have taken on in this cruel stance.

We are denied a glance by her long dress covering her distress. But can picture her calves’ curves, the length and strength of her thighs tickled by the magical curls of her pubic hair, and the concavity of her tensioned buttocks, for a dream to be met in the sleeping waking wake of wet.

Seraphima looked around at the gathered nuns, novices, and schoolgirls, and into the lovely face of Abbess Mercy, the auburn haired wonder whose paleness and whiteness paid due duty in contrast the jade black beauty of Seraphima.

Seraphima’s eyes asked the question “Why the lights and the filming?”

“We need the money. You are going to make the money we need. You are going to pay public penance for your sins. You were selected and elected by the unanimous vote of the convent. Your boyfriend agreed, as long as he could watch. Your astonishing loveliness is also your Judas Seraphima. You are going to be broken on camera for our pleasure, and that of the public who will pay a fortune for the DVD download. You’re going to be punished for ignoring my express condition for your staying in the convent: that you never leave the convent without two nuns as chaperones.”

“Give her six while she is still hot and horny from her boyfriend’s clumsy strokings!”

Sister Faith and Sister Love, the Chinese with the raven hair trailing in train on the ground behind them, knew how to swing and bring a six-foot long single-strand wire whip to best bearing on a girl’s body.

Seraphima was clothed; but that would be no protection. The dress Seraphima wore, the coarse wool dress of a St Clitoris Convent schoolgirl, had her still hot. The rubbing of the rough wool on her sensitive nipples, had kept Seraphima’s sexual fires burning still bright.

“Oh god no! Please! I beg you please!! Don’t!!! Oh god, don’t whip me!!” Seraphima pleaded with passion in her naturally horny-honey contralto voice.

“Your body is still fresh with arousal from your boyfriend’s stroking your bare thigh, kissing your mouth, and sucking on your tit. You responded with passionate abandonment for over two hours. You have let your body be felt and stroked and stoked to the highest fire of desire. You are still freshly physically and mentally aroused. And you dare to beg not to be whipped?!” Abbess Mercy quietly sneared.

The Chinese angels were left and right handed, and wielded their whips in the whistling trips they took to slice the air like lightening shafts, following a path that was as inexorable as Seraphima’s bonds were inflexible, from coil on the ground gathered and weighed in the practiced pretty hand, to get the handling right, to a murderous whistling flow toward, and wrap around the poor victim, whose lovely body would stop its flight through the impact of its horrendous strike when it embraced her lovely body in its razor sharp bite, leaving its calling card: through her violently cut dress, a livid living breathing bleeding stripe.

The whips curled round at chest height, and Seraphima twice howled with the excruciating pain, as “THWICK” was followed by “THWICK” and her dress was twice sliced and her soft breasts’ flesh thrashed onto her unyielding chest. And her breast flesh seared as her tits danced with the vicious tentacle of the savage wire strand cutting her smooth sensitive skin for the sin of her wanting a boy within.

Seraphima’s screams, echoing off the convent hall walls, would have melted the heart, but were but the start, as the whips whistled again, spaced to have impact seconds apart on each of her deeply cleaved bosoms: “THWICK” and “THWICK” in an explosion of pain, left and right, and her screaming again, a soul without solace, as two more cuts were sliced in her breasts and she could feel her blood trickle from the brutal wounds. The sting and the after-sting of the savage lashes drying the tears in her delicious eyes with the surprise of its beyond painful savagery, in so swift follow-up to the first two that had made her sob so.

The heat from the hand that had caressed her thigh, the kiss on her mouth, and the suckling of her huge nipple, in love play, had never left Seraphima’s body, even as the six foot long pliable wire whipped up and round once more, to thrash her profound protuberances, potent pert and impertinent in their heavy thrust, to slice through the wool of her maiden’s dress yet again, and cut her nipples open for her distress.

“THWICK” and “THWICK”. And her screams were nightmare dreams as she danced in her bonds with her fabulous eyes conveying her astonishment that her admonishment and the administration of her punishment, had found her body in betrayal of her mind, as her split nipples danced anew and her slit flowed too with a new joy that she was no boy and that her sexual parts could impart a different and deeper arousal.

Seraphima controlled her face. Her tears welled anew. They were now from the pulsing of evidence in her cut nipples, that she had been turned on by her tits being sliced, and from her continuing pain as her cuts bled and the blood soaked into the material around the long holes the whips had torn in her demeaningly demurely chaste dress.

When the whips had sliced them open, Seraphima’s poor nipples had still been inspired and aflame with her love for Willy.

Realisation why Willy had come-on so passionately in their kissing and cuddling in his car, now tolled on Seraphima. Yet, though she now knew Willy had betrayed her, and why: she had forgiven him.

The cameras lingered on her cuts, and on the blood flowing from her split nipples, and the shame on her face, from the disgrace of being punished for being ravished by a boy, in an innocent and entirely natural kiss and cuddle in the dark of a park.

Then slowly, from the shadows Willy appeared.

Forgetting his treachery, Seraphima’s lovely deeply sexual contralto, called: “Oh god Willy. Help me! Oh please help me! Make them let me go! Help me!! Oh please help me Willy!!”

Behind Seraphima’s back, Abbess Mercy nodded, and Willy came close to the glorious Seraphima, who even managed a tearful smile for him, followed by a flood of tears and soulful sobs.

Through her tears, Seraphima was vaguely aware that Willy had some kind of ointment in the palm of his right hand, and she once more tried to smile among her tears and her dreadful pain. He had come to sooth her agony. He was sorry for betraying her. He wanted her forgiveness. He had brought ointment to sooth her pulsating pain.

Looking tearfully at her hero saviour, as she now saw her Willy, Seraphima did not flinch as he brought the balm in his palm up to the left one of her two split nipples.

But how she bucked and hollered with agony, twisting in her bonds, after he had smeared the white-yellow ointment into the savage split in that nipple. Too she fought not to have him caress the residue of that liquid into the deep split in her right nipple; but she could only swing in her bonds and torture her wrists if she twisted away so.

As Willy rubbed the supposed balm into Seraphima’s majestically proud nipples, her moans of pain from the sting, echoed through the hall. The ointment she had longed for to ease her pain, was in fact the proceeds of Willy’s love for the beautiful Seraphima.

The balm to calm Seraphima’s suffering, was in fact Willy’s semen. Whilst watching Seraphima taking the whipping, he had masturbated his excited cock till he ejaculated. At Abbess Mercy’s express instruction, Willy had then rubbed his fresh semen into Seraphima’s split-open nipples.

Still crying and sobbing in pain enhanced by the stinging semen, Seraphima was now untied, and led, blindfolded, into one of the huge greenhouses in which the nunnery grew its exotic fruits for the international market.

There, still in her dress, still bleeding from her slit-open nipples, she was sat on the floor.

In the imagery of the filmmakers, all these events were taking place in an African convent in historic times of the missionaries, and Seraphima now in the jungle, in a supposed clearing, outside the convent walls.

The ‘clearing’ heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death. The jabbering of monkeys and the call of exotic birds. All manner of sounds inappropriate to England filled the air, as the blindfolded Seraphima felt her big toes being tied, individually, either together or to either side of her, to something else at her sides. Which of these, she could not decide in the dark of her covered lovely lanterns.

Glad of the secrecy her blindfold seemed to grant her, Seraphima’s mind whirled girl as she tried to fathom the gain she had from the pain and humiliation she had just endured.

Why was her body so aroused? She had lost the boy to whom she hoped to have become espoused, but her punishment in consequence of allowing him to caress her, had exposed a new source, a frightening cause for her body’s applause.

The pain of Seraphima’s stripes stung like hades. Her nipples, cut open as they were, throbbed with astonishing agony, and yet danced the joy of being sexual toys tortured to turn-on masturbating boys, who would long to spunk in her body, and would see the whips as their penises, delivering the love they could only spatter on their bedroom floors, for a girl on DVD they could only enjoy but never enter, as much as they adored her.

Seraphima’s slim pretty wrists were now being tied behind her, where she sat on the hard soil of the hothouse floor, her legs, drawn up to her whip striped breasts, giving erotic shape to the grey woollen sack dress she wore, with the torn tatters that marked the tracks of her six thwacks from the savage whips, still soaking her seeping blood.

The cameras and lights were being prepared. Unseen in the background, the traitorous Willy stared, stirred by seeing the horny honey he had so recently stroked and stoked to fire, striped with the wire lashes’ fury. Some of his copious semen was still damp in his pants from where he had cum from a glance of Seraphima’s nipples being spitefully sliced by the kiss of the unerringly accurate whips, in a twice trice. But such was his enjoyment of seeing her suffer, his cock had still stayed stiff, and he had easily managed to masturbate into his palm, to provide the stinging balm rubbed to singing harm into poor Seraphima’s nipples.

Now he watched his helpless love make heaven the floor on which her flawless body sat. Her eyes blindfolded so she could not see, and therefore could not know what they were going to do to her next, and her hands tied hopelessly at her back.

At the removing of the blindfold, the cameras moved in on the magical dark-brown heaven of Seraphima’s emotion-stirring eyes.

Abbess Mercy started a Latin-language chant suggestive of coming sacrifice, and a coterie of nuns, schoolgirls, and novitiates, joined in her choruses, and answered her “Amens” with an “Amen” of their own.

“Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..
Res ipsa loquitor……
Probatum est……
Quis separabit?………
Medio tutissimus ibis……”

The dirge continued in plainsong monotone, as the clearing heard the multiple cries of a cornucopia of creatures: the sounds of love and terror; of peace and conflict; of life and death recorded and played back, for the noises to give authenticity to the story Seraphima was the star in, despite any of her wishes having even been sought.

Seraphima’s eyes went wide when she saw how she was tied, and knew what they were going to do to her.

Sister Faith and Sister Love stood with shining sharp axes, with their shoulders as the axis of the flow of their arms when the signal came, to Seraphima’s alarms.

Seraphima looked in terror at the tightness with which her big toes were wound round with strong silk rope and tied to the trees either side of her.

The trees, strong saplings, some ten feet apart, had been stripped of their branches and leaves, and advantage taken of their youthful willingness to bend without breaking.

They had been tied over at their tops and pulled in semi-circles inwards toward where Seraphima sat. Then the tops of these saplings had been tethered down with strong ropes. Each tied down bent over tree, was a stripling compared with the trunk of the chopped-down tree in the middle of them. The trunk the tight ropes to keep the saplings bent were tied to, was a very substantial anchor indeed.

The saplings bowed down in worship before Seraphima, as indeed they should.

Seraphima’s blindfold had been removed, and eyes now followed the flow of the bonds wound tight round her big toes, and saw that the silk ropes that bound her inescapably, led, one rope each, to the tops of the bent-over supple saplings.

Sat immovably petrified with terror, shaking uncontrollably with horror, Seraphima’s lovely mouth, mouthed silently a prayer, she was too stunned to voice out.

Her eyes closed, and her head then hung in terrible shame, for just as Willy’s appetite for seeing her suffer was whetted again, a significantly sibilant hiss could be heard. Seraphima’s dreamily delightful delectably delicious piss now trickled, unforgivably wasted, in an effervescently bubbling stream, as she wept in the skirt of her dress on the ground, the tangy tears of terror: the celebratory champagne of absolute fear.

“Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..
Res ipsa loquitor……
Probatum est……
Quis separabit?………
Medio tutissimus ibis……”

Abbess Mercy was the first to spit into the yard-long grail, a gold goblet filled with holy water, that she now passed to the audience of nuns and students, to spit into with equally lusty abundance.

Between the sound of the spitting the chanting continued, till Abbess Mercy had the holy grail back in her beautiful white hands, with their long tenderly gentle, and highly flexible fingers, caressing it, as if it were an erect penis.

“Quousque tandem abutere, Seraphima, patientia nostra?…..
Res ipsa loquitor……
Probatum est……
Quis separabit?………
Medio tutissimus ibis……

It was done with a nod of the head. Unseen behind Seraphima, Abbess Mercy nodded to Sister Faith and Sister Love, who took their axes back to their shoulder blades with practiced unity, and crashed them down with complete uniformity, to cut the ropes that held the saplings bent in bow.

And Seraphima’s hideously pitiful cry of “Mummyeeeeee!!!” screamed in the unscreened ears of the congregation, and shattered the sensitivity of the recording of her torture, as Seraphima was swished and ripped up off the ground by her big toes in a blinding flash, with sensational savagery.

As the saplings straightened, the poor girl was pulled from her derriere like a rocket into the air.

Seraphima’s beautiful legs were suddenly completely exposed, by her dress being savagely sundered at the skirt from Seraphima being pulled into an upside-down full-stretch horizontal splits.

Seraphima’s powerful legs’ majestic strength, proved no match for the pull of the ropes tied to the tops of the saplings that had ripped her into a horizontal splits impossible in nature, with a loud crack that told of her muscles sinews and joints being stretched horrendously painfully.

The straightening saplings, pulling Seraphima’s legs asunder, whistled the air with the whip of their trip back to the upright, with the sound of a thousand punishment canes. In milliseconds they flicked back to upright and beyond, with the force of their release from tied-over tension, taking Seraphima’s body to hell as she yelled in terrified torment that her legs would surely be ripped off by the force with which they would be parted.

Just as the saplings had gone beyond the upright in their return to their natural state. So too did Seraphima’s body journey, as if launched at the heaven from whence she came, fly beyond the horizontal the ropes on her big toes would eventually hold in her in. And the terrible crack as she reached her zenith, was from her straight legs being torn up, till her toes touched her shoulders momentarily, before the restraining toe-tied ropes stopped her upward motion, and the settling upright of the saplings left her now, swinging arrayed, her wonderful legs completely horizontally splayed.

Seraphima’s incredibly beautiful legs were stretched out with such excess of tension, that her lovely muscles were torsioned, totally tighter than steel hawsers.

Her upside down body formed a ‘T’ in which her gorgeous legs were the cross-member. Her feet were pulled so hard out that they were a mere continuance of her long legs, and her long legs thus forced into a cornucopia of careering curves that even the highest of high heels could not possibly have formed them into.

Her calves were lusciously long, and the calf muscle high and highly tensioned up to toward the back of her knees. And, even though her thighs were fantastically strong, they could not withstand the pull of the parting saplings that had shot her into the air like an arrow from a bow, so that as her beautiful legs were now so stretched into an unmerciful horizontal splits, it was as if she had become ex the arrow and now the totally tortured tensioned bowstring itself.

Seraphima’s gorgeous legs were so wide-stretched by her tortured big toes, that her slit was wide opened. And her hymen suddenly savagely snapped. And from between Seraphima’s impossibly beautiful legs, with her ankle length pubic hair coils dangling down at back and front of her, a holy wonder occurred.

This unparalleled wonder, Seraphima, was paralleled by the incomparable but compatible: a font of livid scarlet blood, shot up between her supremely beautiful extremely parted legs: the spout of a holy fountain, telling of the loss of her hitherto wholly holy intact virginity, on the cross that her body now in itself formed.

Then, in a second instant incident, uncoiling and electing to lightening erection, rising stiffly a full fifteen inches out from the top of her slit, and curving like a whip, was her powerfully painfully pretty rose pink proboscis.

Seraphima’s salivating clitoris was thrust hard out of its hiding hood, and, indeed out of her slit altogether. It was now shining in its pulsating dance, thrusting out from within Seraphima’s never trimmed dark-brown pubic curls.

This incredible child of the butterflies, had a secret she shared with their delicate wonder. She had a proboscis-clitoris. She had a clitoris that was normally curled and tucked away in its hidey hood, until it uncurled when she was sexually aroused.

At first it unrolled and extended to such length and curvature as to cause it to dip into her vagina to sip the sweet nectar from her honeypot. Then, if she got fully excited, it would flick right back on itself, and become a very sensitive and sensationally feminine erect ‘penis’, curving up and out of her, hard and high, in bright pink contrast to Seraphima’s polished ebony skin.

Seraphima had a proboscis-clitoris, four inches long and one-quarter inch thick in its flaccid state, and now swollen to fifteen inches by her sexual excitement.

Her incredible super-sensitive coiled clitoris had dipped deep down into her honey pot, to sip her secreting sucrose. There it lingered long and luxuriated in the sweet honey. For those long lingering moments, Seraphima was proto-hermaphrodite, and she cried out and sighed with astonished pleasure as her own clitoris pulsed and twitched inside her vagina, having gentle sexual intercourse with her. This goddess created creature was able to have coitus with herself. She was able to shag herself with her clitoris.

Seraphima moaned and closed her eyes with the unsurpassable pleasure of being gently loved by her own clitoris: the sweet pulsing of her clitoris’ thrusts, high up inside her vagina, made her want to sing with joy.

The sweet sensitivity of its throbbing was such balm for the horrendous agony of having her legs torn out into a straight line splits. Yet was it because her muscles were torn that the pleasure of her self-intercourse was so very high?

In all of her eighteen tender years, Seraphima had never masturbated. The one girl who should ever have been allowed to make love to her, had never touched herself to enjoy the fruits of her incredible body.

Even in the secrecy of her own bed, Seraphima had never ever once caressed her breasts let alone pinched her own nipples. The terror of being stripped stark naked and given five-hundred lashes with a bullwhip, under the strict rules of the convent, was not needed to ensure Seraphima would not touch her slit.

Seraphima had always been a good girl. She knew that her holy divide was a gift from the goddess: a gift that Seraphima must only give for others to enjoy. The nuns teaching her, had convinced her that she, Seraphima herself, had no right to expect pleasure from sex: that it was more holy to sacrifice her body without enjoyment, let alone fulfilment: and that, as well as the five-hundred earthly lashes for masturbating; eternal fire would burn between her legs in hell if ever she even touched her pussy in a naughty way.

As Seraphima’s incredibly lovely legs, in a horizontal splits, twitched in her agony, and her ankle tickling pubic hairs, in their fabulous long helical curls, nestled on her bottom, or dangled from her crutch down between her cleavage, Seraphima’s hymen’s blood having fountained out, was left in sufficient residue for her proboscis-clitoris to drink from the fountain’s source, as it was in the process of penetrating her more deeply with its gentle sensitivity, than it had ever been able to do before.

Seraphima’s wonderful moans and sighs of the deepest pleasure from the horrible pain of her torn legs, and the dreadful agony of the splitting of her hymen, had turned to uninhibited squeaks, and the heaviest of sighs, from the instant her clitoris had flicked, unfurled, and back flipped into her vagina to shag her.

But the pleasure of being fucked by her own clitoris could not last. As her sexual pleasure from her own body shagging itself grew, so it was inevitable, that her clitoris would become even more excited and even more erect. And her clit becoming more erect meant it bending back on itself.

“The tearful cry of “No!!…. No!!….” as Seraphima’s clitoris bend back on itself and thus pulled itself out of her eager nectar pot, told the tale that was true. That truth was that, not only had Seraphima never ever masturbated, but she had also, never in her eighteen sweet years, had an orgasm. This walking talking orgasm on long legs, had never had a cum.

As Seraphima’s honey and ex-virgin’s blood dripped from the tip of her clitoris after it had dipped into, sipped from, and flipped out of her vagina, to now curve up banana-bent and thrusting like a whippy penis. Her cries of disappointment that her self-shagging had ceased, were those she had echoed throughout her tender years.

Whenever Seraphima had had a wet dream, it had caused her proboscis-clitoris to fuck her: it had provoked her body to shag itself. And always this would take her to the very edge of the edge of orgasmic delivery, till the excitement caused her clitoris to swell further, and flick out of her honey pot, leaving her completely frustrated.

This, was a situation it was literally in her own pretty hands to redress, save that Seraphima, as a good girl should, would clasp her hands behind her back and pray, until her searing fires of passion faded to embers, aided in their damping by her tears of frustration.

Never before had such a delightful mouth uttered such obscenities as Seraphima now shouted in her pain and sexual frustration.

It started in the instant that her hymen had snapped, and its loose ends had whipped the insides of her vestal virgin’s vagina walls, with a stunning sting that had rung a ring through her brain, of more pain than even her whip split nipples or the pulling of her legs and feet to form the straight line from which her body now dangled, and thus erected her clitoris in the shock of the pleasure. Seraphima’s mind was denying she was enjoying enduring this, just as her slit was slavering in confirmation of the apposite opposite.

With her tangle of pubic curls dandling down to match the darkness of her coiffure ringlets in the impossibility of swirling twirl whirl curls, Seraphima was in agony and ecstasy. The splitting of her nipples with the whips and the pulling out beyond nature wide of her fabulous legs, even if combined, was as nothing in their pain to the sundering of her sacred sheath. And yet, even as her ex-virgin’s blood dripped down profoundly to the thus made holy ground, the sound of her cries above the continuing monotone plainsong dirge, were decidedly one-sidedly supremely sexual.

The ripping of her maidenhead had aroused Seraphima to a supervening sexual arousal evidenced by her rock-hard nipples and the slaverings bubbling in her slit, as well as by her clitoris dancing the orgasm tango. She was lost to the world as she hung helplessly in her upside-down splits, enduring the agony of her stretched legs and torn muscles, but knowing her legs’ beauty was only enhanced by the terrible stance in which her tortured body danced.

And Seraphima screamed words that nobody could believe she had ever heard let alone learned. And the pain of her predicament grew as too did her arousal and her maniacal shouts of: “Whip me!! Oh fuck whip me!! Oh shit!! Oh god!! Oh you fucking fucking fuck fuckers, whip me!! Whip my legs!! Oh fucking god, whip my fucking legs!!! Oh whip my legs!! That’s it, fucking whip my legs!! Whip my legs!! Oh god whip me till I bleed!! Whip my legs off!! That’s it. That’s it. That’s it!! Whip my fucking legs off!!!! Flog my fucking legs!! Oh god fucking fuck whip me!!!! Oh god fucking fuck whip my fucking fuck fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking legs!!!!!!””

As her mounting orgasm rolled toward its crescendo of crises short of a queendom’s cum, Seraphima swung her head in violent half-turns that played her curly hair springs into horizontal streamers almost as extreme in extent as the stretching of her parted legs.

Thus, out-shot droplets of her sweet sweat, ringing around her head in a rainbow reflecting halo, as she fed on her pain for the gain of the orgasm for which it now seemed her whole eighteen tender years had been lived in lead-up to, while she continued to continually swear, obscenely demanding they finish her with whips on her beautiful legs.

The torn tatters of Seraphima’s dress had ridden up her, which is to say, in her upside down state, slid down her supreme smoothness, only stopped from covering her face, by the huge obstructions formed by her magnificent down dangling breasts.

But, in her struggles to increase her pain, Seraphima’s dress finally fell off her fabulous bosom, and her heavy tits, hauled down toward the ground by god blessed gravity, displayed the flawless unmarked complexion of their deep black undersides, unkissed by the lashes Seraphima now longed for.

Now Abbess Mercy knew the sound of rising crisis, and caught the note of Seraphima’s cries.

When the note broke that told the Abbess that Seraphima’s cum was inevitable fate, such was the erotic girl’s orgasmic state, and in the moment of Seraphima’s arriving crisis, Abbess Mercy tossed the long holy grail, held firmly in her hands, so that a golden stream of her blessed piss, and the spittle that had joined it, rose up like a gentle whip’s lash, and curved in a parabola, to splash into Seraphima’s wide-open cunt, where, as Abbess Mercy intoned a gracious unction, it stung the tatters of Seraphima’s torn hymen, and killed the poor girls ardour in a chilling, acidically-burning, instant.

And finally there was no finality and no finish to furnish Seraphima with the cum she deserved, the cum for which lifelong she had kept her hymen preserved.

The holy water had cooled Seraphima’s cum from coming, and now dripped its residue to the ground, where it joined Seraphima’s blood, Seraphima’s sweat, Seraphima’s cunt-juice, and Seraphima’s tears of persisting preponderant prolonged profound sexual frustration …..

05-25-2007, 11:49 AM
Thanks Eve this was one of my favorite stories that you wrote

and it gets better every time I read it :jo

05-25-2007, 11:51 AM
Thanks love;good;

05-25-2007, 02:20 PM
Thanx for sharing this with us

05-25-2007, 02:20 PM
A great addition to this peice

05-25-2007, 03:19 PM
Thanks for the great new stuff

05-25-2007, 03:20 PM
wow....great stuff...thanks

Eve Adorer
06-01-2007, 08:40 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 3 – Jewel


In the dark of the movie-house Seraphima’s appreciative eye was on the thighs: thighs nigh naked with high hem’s truthful lie.

A hint of lime-green thong sung its longing song, a hymn on this undoubted her. A hymn of praise, a cause for gaze between the two expanses of expensively black nylon bestockinged taut fit supremely smooth unblemished thigh.

The girl had caught her eye. She was crowned auburn, with a tumultuous tumbling torrent of coruscated copper curls cascading to slender shoulders and beyond to where they must have coiled golden gorgon at her feet. The eyes were iceberg green and shone like lasers with her zest, zip, and zoë.

The face was pale: a ghost but that she blushed so divinely deeply when she spotted Seraphima’s compelled gaze of admiration.

The stocking tops were half-down the strong thighs and challenging the grip of the suspender clasps, whose stretch ceased just short of slap back snap, as this angel sat with her boyfriend or husband, with her right hand held by both his hands in his lap.

The visible bare flesh of the upper thighs was near translucent, and would be showing, were it not for the dark, the delicate blue filigree of the intricate engineering that makes girl more supreme than mere machine.

Was it accident that the angel flashed her pretty left hand to show the rings – engagement, wedding, eternity: eternally infernally enfolding the finger next her smallest left on left hand, branding their diamond gold and silver tripartite circles in Seraphima’s gentle heart?

Eyes had met. Laser green had smiled momentary momentous heaven into dark-brown. But then this angel had looked down at her held hand with its lovingly manicured impractically long femininely feline nails, clasped so lovingly by, her husband for sure, for sure a male.

To significantly signify her unavailability and to unforgettable but forgivably taunt and tease, the angel tortured Seraphima by letting her hem ride higher, as she snuggled closer to her husband and stared fixedly at the screen she was obviously not really interested in watching.

But Seraphima sensed the peripheral vision. She sensed the angel was as attracted to being sexily seductive of another beautiful woman, as she was overwhelmingly attractive without need of wantonly weaving her magical mesmerism.

The documentary on-screen rolled on. The voice-over implored the high interest its viewers should be taking in the chicken farmers of the Amazon, ruining the rainforest for planting Soya: or some such confusion of calamities. Unravelled and untrammelled, its truth was fundamental, but Seraphima’s mind was on a factor far more elemental.

Dare she touch?

Seraphima’s heart pounded, her mouth was dry. Her pink tongue showed its gorgeous contrast with her constant-kiss-poised negress’ mouth, as she moistened her lips, with her heart on her sleeve in metaphor and in her throat for sure, for more courage this girl to adore.

It could be an accident: the girl’s left hand was only millimetres from her own long flexible fingers: the dark of the cinema would disguise…..

No! It was crazy!! One just did not behave like that in decent society!

Yet the soft, transparent, blue-veined, warm phantom-white hand, with its imprisoning rings for entanglement, espousal, and epiphany, was so adjacent.

The lover’s kissed. Man kissed wife. And Seraphima tentatively touched, and then gently grasped the angel’s lovely hand. And it did not move! It was not removed! Seraphima was not reproved!!

Seraphima just could not believe what she, Seraphima herself, had just done. She was holding the hand of the erotic exotic autumnal auburn angel. She could feel the rings three, and the affirmative answering squeeze as she gently pressed her fingers around her erogenous prize.

Letting out a shocked and surprised gasp, Seraphima let go her treasure as the girl turned to her, post her husband’s kiss, to be sure Seraphima was alright. And the look of sweet gentle love that the auburn angel conveyed with her crystal green eyes in all her natural nature, bowled Seraphima heels-over-head clean over in love.

The angel’s thighs were now completely bare of a skirt so rare that to call it even a micro would be to maximise exaggeration of its size.

In answer to the angel’s look of concern, there was, to the onlooker, the undoubted sight of the gorgeous negress looking down at the exposed white smooth taut bare flesh above the angel’s stocking tops.

“Are you okay?” the sweet angel whispered, with a face adorned with fecklessly dancing freckles, and glowing with love.

As she lifted the chair-arm that divided the seats adorned by Seraphima and herself, her handsome husband looked on, apparently sharing the concern that Seraphima seemed to have been choking.

Seraphima treasured the sweet zephyrs of the angel’s breath as she squeezed back a reassuring smile, and noticed the angel leaving her hand free to be held once more, even as she, the angel, turned to pay suspiciously close attention to her husband’s kisses, touching his face with her right hand, to keep his attention upon her.

As sure as Seraphima could be that the husband’s attention was distracted, Seraphima touched the angel’s bare thigh flesh. There was no flinch. The angel put her free hand on Seraphima’s; far from to discourage.

As Seraphima stroked the smooth hot flesh of the angel’s upper thigh, encumbered by the suspender clasp from the full caress she longed to employ and enjoy, she too pretended to watch the documentary on the screen.

The flickering picture now showed a farmer scattering Soya to feed her hens.

Seraphima’s caress burnished the angel’s burning bare flesh under its stretched suspender, and the film showing a farmer scattering Soya to feed her hens, was accompanied by an interjection from the sporadic commentary.

Returning again with its bucolic English voiceover, as Seraphima caressed the smooth thigh, it affirmed, presumably in reference to the Soya and one of the greedy gobbling hens shown eating it:

“See there now: you don’t have to ask if she likes it! ….”

Suddenly, the angel touched Seraphima’s loving hand with obvious gentle urgency. Seraphima reluctantly withdrew. Without turning a curl, let alone her face toward Seraphima, the copper coiffured angel, clear from her wifely clinch, began to scratch about in her handbag, on her lap, soon finding her sought for handkerchief despite the gloom of the cinema room.

The boring movie continued. Moments later, Seraphima next now felt the touch of the angel’s fingers on her hand, and something within them that was too rigid to be the lace edge of a tiny kerchief.

The angel put her fluttering fingers under Seraphima’s and left something on Seraphima’s seat. Seraphima saw its glow, and grasped it in know. Was it carte blanche?

As she surreptitiously placed the prize behind the elastic of her own right suspender, Seraphima’s heart pounded and her breath heaved her heavy breasts to high heaven, Seraphima was so deeply moved.

Seraphima had never got used to the noise, the dirt, and the heat.

“Size of the tits on yer lass, you’d be a good milker foras to give the other girls their snap – their feed, yer know. We can bring it on fer yer. It ‘urts like ‘ell, I’ll tell thee mind, but we pays the tit-girls double what you’ll get”, the northern-English lassie was sweet and gentle beneath the gruff bluff and rough language.

Seraphima hung her head, embarrassed.

“Okay luv. I’ll tek that as a ‘no’. We’ll fit yer in wi’ ****t else, but yer mon gonna hafter get that hair cut afore yer much older, more’s the fuckin’ pity, cos it’s damned gorgeous too… Wish mine ‘ud curl like that…. But, if it did, us ‘ud never get our ‘elmets on would us?”, she tried to joke and lighten Seraphima’s obvious nervousness.

“Strip thy sen off then lassie, and lets give you the old medico once-over eh? Don’t be shy luv. We’re all of us lasses together ‘ere”, the gentle rough diamond coaxed the shy Seraphima.

Seraphima stripped out of her microskirt, six-inch-heeled mules, tee-shirt, and will o’ the wisp-sized thong.

As Seraphima’s undressing progressed, the girl interviewing her, had her back turned, and now did a one-eighty before exclaiming astounded and astonished: “Oh my god! Oh my fuckin’ god! That is so…. so fuckin’ beautiful! Oh jease, it’s down to your fuckin’ feet! Oh my god! That’s just incredible. You’re a honey, and what a fuckin’ wonder you got hidden in yer knickers!”

“Look!” the girl looked around, as if to ensure there was nobody else in the room, even though she already knew that there wasn’t.

“Look! Health and safety rules ses you mon gotta get them pubes shaved off, but I ain’t gonna say nothin’ long as you keep them hid in your knicks. Okay sweetheart?”

As she out-graced gazelle to pick up her uniform, Seraphima’s impossibly curled devil-dark-brown pubic hair, swinging seductively slowly between her lovely legs, brushed the thus blessed floor between her flawless feet.

“Thank you”, she sang sincere contralto, over her slender right shoulder to the young northern woman.

“Yer won’t thank me none when yer down there lass”, the northern girl mused, sympathetically.

“Yer sound posh, like you was a convent girl or summat”, she speculated.

“What’d yer do: get discovered ‘avin it off wi’ a lad?”

“Na. Don’t tell us. But listen on lassie. Some of the ‘arder chicks down there don’t hold back none. When they feels like ‘avin a feel, they’ll ‘old yer down and tek what they want, wiv no questions asked….. if you get my meanin’. A girl as gorgeous as you is and with that fantastic tail dangling from yer mons….. Well, you’d just best watch out they don’t jump you, that’s all”, the interviewer warned.

Seraphima now stood dressed ready. She wore only a pair of schoolgirl style knickers, and a strong sports-bra to keep her heavy breasts in check. She had put her own mules back on her feet. On her head was a white reinforced plastic helmet, with a forward-facing battery-powered flashlight lamp mounted on it front centre.

The totally impractical pristine white of Seraphima’s bra and knickers glowed in sparkling contrast to the incontestable beauty of Seraphima’s shining Nubian black.

The bra was filled almost beyond its straining capacity by her capacious bosom, and fought not to let her breasts escape and escapade renegade on her chest.

Her knickers were pulchritudinously pouched out where she concealed the coils of her pubic hair, as well as by the provocatively profound locus found, that her pubic hair grew around.

“Yer goes ‘ome dirty, but yer comes to work clean. That’s company policy mind”, the northern girl, Seraphima’s supervisor, parroted from the memorised instructions she gave the new starters by the dozen a day it seemed, such was the turnover these days in this industry.

“We ‘ave no showers ‘ere, so yer goes ‘ome in yer muck. They’ll not tek yer on the ponygirl coaches nor in the rickshaws, so yer’d best get used to walking the streets in yer dirty knickers, and yer’d best live nearby if’n you don’t want to walk or cycle too far when yer knackered at t’end of the shift”.

“When I says you come to work clean, that means you and your clothes. You only gets issued the one bra and the one pair of knicks per year, so you gotta wash ‘em to sparklin’ every time yer day’s done, cos yer gets fined a week’s pay if yer comes to work in dirty keks.”

“The shifts is twelve hours wiv no breaks. If’n yer get thirsty or ‘ungry, yer can get a suck of milk out of one of the tit-girls to keep yer goin’.

If yer need a pee or a crap, yer takes yer knickers down and does it where yer can. But you lose an hour’s pay each time.

“Yer tool, is that there shovel. Lose it luv, and yer jobs gone and so are you. And yer don’t get paid none neither, cos yer wages owed is taken to pay for its replacement.”

“Yer job is to shovel the mined stuff onto the conveyor. You use the shovel for the smaller bits, you load the big lumps wid those pretty hands of yorn”.

“The conveyor’s a moving belt that never stops, so neiver do you, ‘less yer wantin’ pay deducted, that is”.

“Pay is one-dollar an hour, tek it or leave it. It’s the same wage they was payin’ the girls back in the 1890s, and the management says if it did for them then, it’ll do for the likes of you now.”

“But there’s a bonus scheme. For you shovelers, whoever clears the most tonnage in a shift, gets an extra dollar. But watch out for the catfights. Some of the other girls ‘ll try and do you ‘arm if they think you’s getting’ ahead of ‘em see.”

“You woks 365 days a year, lessen it’s a leap-year, when you woks 366. Any questions?”

Seraphima listened astounded. She’d known the life of a girlminer was tough and poorly paid, but not that it was as harsh as this.

“Yer’d best get goin’ luv. The shift starts at six. You gets off at six this evenin’. Just follow the other girls into the elevator cage, and, once you’ve walked the mile to the coalface down below, you’ll soon pick up on what yer gotta do …..” the northern girl concluded.

“Eh, and tek them off yer feet!” she called, after noticing Seraphima’s sexy mules, “Yer goes down there barefoot or not at all. We can’t risk shoes as might cause a spark to explode any damp – that’s what you’d call ‘gas’ I reckon – down there. So tek ‘em off luv, there’s a good girl”, she added as a departing instruction.

As Seraphima now walked barefoot to the door, to join the hundreds of other girls heading into Colon and Sphincter Incorporated’s Five Mile Deep colliery, two appreciative eyes followed her gentle sway.

“My god but yer a beautiful mover sweetheart!” her supervisor sighed.

Shear need for survival drove Seraphima through the twelve hours of unrelenting hell in the mine. Her beautiful body ached in every delicious curve, curve, and curve. Till her soft skin hardened over time, her hands and feet blistered and bled.

Expelled the convent after the disobedience that had led to her ritual deflowering, Seraphima had been forced to take up the only employment available to girls in her day: that is girls who did not want to walk the streets as a hooker. She was forced into the girl-made hell of a coalmine.

Her mind was numb with the screams of the drills hewing the coal just ahead of where she worked, girlhandling the fallen lumps and chunks onto the greedy conveyor that took it aloft. Her delectable perspiration blanketed her so that coal dust caked her from her head to her pretty toes. She could scream and holler out loud all she wished, for no-one could possibly hear her above the endless din. Instead, she screamed and hollered in her head.

Her only succour came from the tit-girls. The rumble of the falling coal hewn by the drills and pickaxes. The smack of the sledge hammers that split the larger chunks into girlhandleable lumps. The whir of the cycles peddled by the long strong legs of the girls paid to drive the conveyor belt. The flickering lights when the girls peddling the dynamos grew tired. The cursing of the girls hewing the coalface, when the dynamo girls slowed and their drill power thus faded. The scrape of her shovel among the other half-dozen girls feeding the voracious belt. The perspiration that rivuletted down her body. The showers of coal dust that fell from the roof above her. The rattle of falling roof-coal chunks hitting her helmet. The pain of the chunks that hit her bare shoulders. Her aches and pains from the weight of the coal she must lift to put on the conveyor. The strain on her legs as she squatted, all erotically powerful haunches, to lift another heavy chunk, embracing it in her loving arms, pressing it to her fit flat belly, hugging it to her divine breasts, caressing it with her touchingly tender hands.

The coal dust filled atmosphere that the light of her lamp could hardly penetrate, but rather reflected the beam back at her. The grunts and curses of the girls swinging their pickaxes into the coalface. The coal dust filled atmosphere she must breath. Her eyes stinging with dust. Her ears ringing with cacophony. Her nostrils blocked with dust. Her mouth eating dust. God how she longed for one of the tit-girls to come around again, and how eagerly she took the comfort of suckling on the proffered nipple, first licking off the coal dust that caked it to expose its smeared exquisite pink, and then drawing the warm white nectar into her hungry and thirsty mouth with her constant-kiss poised Nubian negress’ lips. This was her only relief in a never ceasing twelve unrelenting hours in this girl-made hell on earth: the hell on earth of the coalmine.

Seraphima was at least fortunate in her digs – the rooming house she shared with six other girlminers. The lovely young women there would let the exhausted Seraphima fall into the shower and then her bed, washing her knickers and bra back sparkling white again for her, ready for the next day’s twelve-hour shift.

In exchange, Seraphima contributed to the household, her new-found skills at preparing inexpensive vegetarian meals, and the ability to make the very little money the seven girls had, even when pooled, stretch to healthy food and the occasional treat, such as a chocolate bar to divide between them. She also did all the housework in the apartment when she was not down the mine.

At the expense of hardening the skin of her bare feet, and the palms of her dainty hands, the physical burden of shovelling coal for twelve-hours a day for the past six months had honed Seraphima’s lovely negress body to an even higher peak of extremely shapely perfection.

Her one leisure pleasure was the nearby cinema. Lovely as her companions in the rooming house were, Seraphima liked to get away and have some time in her own company. Movies took her into a dream-world for two blissful hours, before a night’s sleep before she must return to the hell that was hers: the hell that is mines.

A week had passed since the girl with the cascading hurly burly abandon of twirling swirling rusty-red ankle length hair, laser-green eyes, and soft bright-pink lips on her ghost-pale freckle speckled face, had surreptitiously passed Seraphima her business card, with the obvious intended invitation for Seraphima to call.

Ever since, Seraphima had been too frightened to phone. The auburn-haired wonder was self-evidently from the monied classes. Unless she could afford the bribes, no girl could find a job these days, so the sunrise haired wonder must be of ‘independent means’, or living off her fabulously lucky husband’s earnings. That very fact put Seraphima at an overwhelming disadvantage.

Love supposedly knew no boundaries. But Seraphima knew that that was just a saying. The auburn angel had had her in transports of love and, if she was honest, lust.

Seraphima had wanted Teasetta at first sight. ‘Professor Teasetta Loveschild BA MA MBA PhD LLD – Faculty of Jurisprudence – All Desires College – University of Camford’ - was the name on the card. The phone number was for here in Spindon: indeed for an address not a mile from where Seraphima was now living.

Weary, and bleary-eyed, barefoot and caked with dirt, wearing only her filthy bra and sweat-soaked knickers, so black with coal dust body and clothes, that she looked as if she were naked, Seraphima trudged the streets back from the mine to her home, taking as last, her regular shortcut across the public playing fields for the offspring of the rich.

The screams were musical. They were not of pain, nor of fear. They were plaintive plainly of no more than mild protest. It was formulaic protest. It was protest that the schoolgirl was conditioned by her upbringing to make. But it was protest that she was denying the sincerity of, by showing no more than token resistance, in pushing her hem back down, after the older girl had already put her hand up her skirt to feel her intimacy through her knickers.

The two frolicking girls wore the same school uniform. The pretty little negress with her hair in ribboned tails fought the hand and arm off, but screamed again, when the older girl, clearly predictably and completely preventably, danced around behind her, and took hold of her breasts through her contour caressing white blouse.

It was just explorative loveplay. The screams of the little negress doll, had attracted more girls whom her face mouth figure legs thighs and other charms had bewitched during the day in class at school. The spellbinding little negress knew that they were lining up to have a feel of her in their turn, but made no attempt to run away.

As Seraphima drew near, and thus became the cause of its ceasing, the playful pleasing teasing and screams of excited pseudo-protest, halted.

Playing the innocents, the girls now stood around the garden-hut in which the little negress angel would soon be willingly unwillingly dragged, stripped naked, and intimately kissed and stroked, just as she had been last evening and the one before, and the one before, and before that.

As the wonderful Seraphima drew near, the little negress looked up, her eyes aglow with veracity, vitality, and vivid vivacity, and simply said, shyly: “Hi”.

Seraphima smiled at the gorgeous teenager. Then, as she, Seraphima, graced past, among eyes drinking to intoxication on her swaying rear, she heard the girls talk and giggle among themselves.

“Isn’t she just so gorgeous?!” came the unmistakeable voice of the former protesting screamer.

“Oh for god’s sake, Hinanamia” came an instant snobbish response, “She’s a bloody girlminer! One should have some standards! Trouble with you Hinanamia, is that you’d chase after anything in knickers!”

The swingeing stinging hurt of this became the last words Seraphima overheard on her weary walk home after another twelve hours deep in the bowels of the earth.

As she lithed into her lodgings, and onto the old newspaper scattered on the floor between the entrance door and the shower, to catch the filth all the girlminers came home covered in, the forgivably mischievous voice of a fellow-lodger called Seraphima from the kitchen:

“Hey Seraph’ you had a phone call from a Teasetta Loveschild? She said to call her right away, and no excuses! Girl, did she sound sexy, and like wow! How did you meet such a honeybun?….. No. Don’t tell me: as if you would! You are the secretive one aren’t you!?” the loving mid-distance voice teased.

Later that evening….

“Seraphima?” came the velvet-sugar momentarily querulous voice at the end of the phone line: the voice of Teasetta Loveschild.

“We met in the Bijou Movie House”, Seraphima reminded shyly.

“Oh god! Oh how lovely! I’ve been longing for you to call. Sorry but of course I didn’t know your name. ‘Seraphima’, that’s so sweet I could and should have guessed it. The name is so apt”, Teasetta enthused with disarming and wholly genuine charm.

“Seraphima, I’m just dying to see you again. I’ve got tickets for the premier of ‘The Hothouse of the Eastern Sun’, you know, with Maria Menonti and Yvette Xeneta, ‘featuring their first ever screen kiss’ as all the cheap newspapers put it. It’s at the Bijou this coming Friday at 8.00 sharp. There’ll be another girl with us, one of my young students, Aranga Bernisia? She’s really sweet, you’ll just love her. She’s got no place to sleep at the moment, so John and I are letting her bunk up at our home… The seats are numbered, so you’ll be in the row just behind Aranga and me. I hope you don’t mind, they were the only seats left. But we can chat in the bar afterwards: free cheese and vino there, don’t you know. I’m dying to get to know you, you have such a lovely face and such gentle hands. See you in the cinema itself on the night. My chauffeuse will drop the ticket at that darling little home you share with the other girlminers. I do think you are so brave working down a mine. I could never ever do that. Anyway, must rush poppet, John is sat with our ponygirls chomping at their bits. Got to go to another boring sales night at his out-of-town studio. You know the kind of thing. I’m just there for my high heels and short skirt, flashing my legs to please: quite the token little wifey among all those rich bitches that make up the art-buying world these days. But angel, do be there. The time is on the ticket. Back row corner in the balcony for you my darling girl. I’m longing to get to know you… See you in the Bijou prompt at eight Friday. Please forgive, got to go else John’ll murder me. And me a part time judge too, what a sensation that would be when it got into the newspapers eh! Kiss kiss sweetheart. Please, please, please, do come. Love your gentle hands angel. Bye…..”

The voice alone had Seraphima enraptured. It was warmer than a kitten in a mink coat, with a hint of the same lovely loving mischievousness. With the monologue duologue concluded, and Teasetta having downed at her end, even the irritating buzz in the earpiece of the phone handset sounded like a serenade to Seraphima.

“Our Seraphs in love”, came the gently teasing voice from the flatmate who had given her Teasetta’s message: the gentle voice being followed by a sisterly loving kiss on Seraphima’s forehead, as she took the handset from the poleaxed Seraphima’s long slim fingers.

“Hey Seraph! Remember me?”, the same girl teased the stunned Seraphima moments later, and then lovingly giggled as she handed Seraphima a handkerchief for Seraphima to dry her sweet tears, as she clasped her sobbing body in a sisterly comforting hug.

The scarlet mini-dress with its breasts and bottom contours caressing tightness, was Seraphima’s best. She had fallen in love with it at ‘La Prix’ on the Spindon High Street, and saved her meagre wages for weeks to buy it.

It was a contest between this bright red dress and her bright yellow thong, as to which formed the sexiest contrast with the glorious Nubian black of Seraphima’s gorgeous complexion: a contest in which there could only be, and were only, two equal winners.

Seraphima had been forced to trim her hair to boyish curls. Her pretty little ears were thus revealed to joyous applause. It was impractical to wear long hair in the mine, and more practical to wash close-cropped curls. Besides she had to wear a hard hat all day at work. Her other hirsute wonder remained though.

She thought the silly little pillbox hat and the hand gloves, both of which matched her panties, a little over-the top, till her loving flatmates persuaded her otherwise.

On her lovely face, she wore only her wholly holy natural beauty and her constant-kiss lips. She was bare-legged, as she could afford neither tights nor stockings. On her feet she wore the mules she had tried to keep on, when at the mine on her first day.

“How do I look?” she asked shyly.

“Heavenly”, came the only possible and true answer.

When Seraphima handed in her ticket at the entrance kiosk at the Bijou movie house, the new girl behind the counter removed the stub, and stared at her in wide-eyed wonder, as she returned the ticket itself to Seraphima.

“Please ’scuse me askin’ miss, but you are ‘er aren’t you?” the stunned youngster whispered evidently hesitantly, dry mouthed.

“I mean, its got ‘Sara Pimma’ or ****tt like that written in on this stub, but you gotta be Yvette Xeneta ain’t you: ‘er what’s in the film tonight?”

Not waiting for an answer, sure she had the starlet’s personal company, the part-time earning schoolgirl leaned conspiratorially forward: “‘Ere woz you really kissin’ Maria Menonti for real, like they ses on the telly? …….She’s just so gorgeous!! …..”

The innocent closed her eyes and seemed to dream she was kissing Maria Menonti herself. Then, realising what she had just said, and wanting not to be hurtful, and to cover her faux pas, she added: “But you’s gorgeous too Miss Xeneta……… gorgeouser if anyfink…!”

Seraphima smiled love as she slunk past, and headed for her upstairs back row.

The usherette showed Seraphima to her seat in a cinema already with its lights lowered. The seats were staggered and banked, so that Seraphima sat on her divided-heaven behind, between, and above Teasetta, whose mesmerising tousled tangle of copiously twirled copper tresses were unmistakeable. The blonde girl next to her, on Teasetta’s right, wore as far as Seraphima could judge, as her eyes got used to the gloaming gloom, motorcycle leathers. This must be Aranga, the student, Seraphima concluded.

Neither girl acknowledged Seraphima’s presence. That hurt Seraphima, but she put it down to concentration on the ‘modern-day classic movie’ that was about to start.

As the titles went up on the screen, Seraphima looked down at the delectable Teasetta. Teasetta was a study in lime-green, a colour that paid honour to the inestimable glory of her old-gold hair.

Seraphima could not see Teasetta’s feet, but the tension of her calves and thighs told that she was wearing very high heels, perhaps even twelve-inches. Teasetta’s lime-green stockings had tight tops only just above the angel’s knees, and she wore extra-long suspenders that centrally caressed along supremely white, supremely smooth, supremely shapely, supremely strong, extremely near naked thighs.

A very outré o******** musk was a decided olfactory factor, strongly suggesting that Teasetta wore no panties, and was heavily on heat, enduring her monthly bleed.

Teasetta’s skirt was just a tiny pelmet. It was so short it was nearly non-existent, and, quite evidently, she must be blessing the seat she adorned with the supreme honour of her completely bare bottom, as well as seeps of her weeping holy blood.

Teasetta’s blouse was buttoned up to her neck, more tightly that a virgin maiden’s. Her pretty hands were by her side, and, Seraphima could clearly see, she had Aranga’s rough suntanned left hand, with its chewed and dirty fingernails, firmly planted on her right thigh, under the elongated suspender, lewdly caressing her nude nakedness.

At the arrival of stunning negress, Yvette Xeneta, holding the hand of the lovely Italian starlet Maria Menonti on screen, the all-girl audience cheered and whooped. Every eye was on the onscreen action it now seemed: every eye included the two laser-green orbs of the astounding Teasetta, but not those of Aranga or Seraphima.

Seraphima’s eyes were transfixed at what she could look down and see from the spaced seats of the back row, as Aranga caressed Teasetta’s beautiful bare thigh endlessly, or at least till she was sure she could attend to the buttons.

Although she had fought girlfully to resist it, the overwhelming o******** aroma from Teasetta’s heat, and the sight of the lovely angel being girlhandled by the rough Aranga had caused a darker yellow to appear in Seraphima’s panties, as she wept her crème-Français.

She watched now, with the fascination of horror, as in the dusk of the cinema, Aranga slowly but surely unbuttoned Teasetta’s blouse from her tiny waist, up to her long slim neck, and then eased it aside to openly publicly expose the full glory of Teasetta’s naked breasts.

The breasts were exquisite. They were not large: indeed no more than a single handful each. They were not even pendulous, being firm enough to be prominent and defy the gentle persuasions of gravity. Of a white that gave the south pole a dirty name, they were tipped by coral pink nipples, shaped, for all the world, like perfect strawberries.

Teasetta showed no sign of hurt, as Aranga purposely flicked her nipples, but went clearly rigid as Aranga leaned across, and then sucked and bit her left nipple till it bled, before licking the blood eagerly, and purposely so that Seraphima would have a perfect view.

The reaction in Teasetta’s nipples was astounding. Peeked, they swelled peaked, and poked out painfully aroused, a rigid inch from her beautiful little breasts.

Equally astounding was the reaction in Seraphima’s honeypot, as her proboscis clitoris uncurled and tried to bend up and out of her, but was treacherously and thus torturously betrayed from doing so, by the tightness of her tiny yellow thong.

Some would call it a ‘drink on a stick’, others an iced-lolly. The iced-lolly seemed to have been produced from nowhere. It was childish in its space-rocket shape. It looked as if it must be a hideously sweet lime in flavour.

Clearly fresh from a freezer and some kind of thermos conveyance secreted at Teasetta’s feet, when Aranga touched it there, it stuck to and burned Teasetta’s tortured and bitten extremely excited left nipple, and the poor girl audibly gasped.

But her gasp was but one of six-hundred, as at long last, on the screen, Yvette Xeneta kissed Maria Menonti. And there were as many sighs as sobs as Xenata got down on one knee to ask for Menonti’s hand in marriage.

With so short a skirt it was surely impossible for Teasetta’s thighs to become more bare, but somehow the laws of nature were defied, as Aranga eased her forward in the seat.

As Aranga touched the solidly hard frozen iced-lolly on the lips of Teasetta’s cunt and Teasetta leapt in reflex, Seraphima gasped as loudly as Teasetta herself cried out with pain and joy, only for the joint cry of total astonishment to be drowned by the loud sobs of girls crying as Yvette Xeneta and Maria Menonti on screen, were pronounced girl and wife by the tribal priestess.

The burning bitter cold of the iced-lolly touched upon Teasetta’s touchingly touchy organ had made her near leap from the seat, and heads to turn, and see the copper-tressed wonder in distress to ponder.

When those that turned disturbed to look upon the distinctly disturbing Teasetta, as the cause of disturbance, saw she was stripped and exposed, and that her left nipple bled, they smiled at this evidence that love was running its course, no matter how coarse, and that there was no cause for the alarm clause to pause their applause.

Teasetta’s gasps and squeaks of pain and pleasure, as Aranga nextly and now slowly slid the cruelly cold comestible into, to challenge the capacity of her cunt, were accompanied by Teasetta’s shudders and headshakes that even for love’s sake Teasetta could submit to being so abused.

And yet the sighs were highs in the crescendo of the music of time telling the tale that the temptress’ allure begs a cure for the desires she inspires in we lesser mortals, and to abuse her so, is to ennoble her all the more, for it shows the poverty of our mere mortality that she tempts us to torture, and that that torture only enhances her intrinsic entrapping entrancing enchantment the more.

The burning cold in the humid heat of Teasetta’s holy hole as the ice-cold sweetmeat was inexpertly slid silently slowly inexorably into her shuddering sheath, climaxed her to cries crisis from the cruelty of it climactic climatic chill.

She could have fought it off, yet she surrendered to its cruel coldness knowing it showed the heat of love. The bitter ice filled her cunt and she shuddered as her sheath was frozen as if she were frigid, a fact so far from truth as to comprise calumny.

This angel was girl in every atom’s atom of her being. She was hot to have the cold spear rape her. She knew her allure was only enhanced by the humiliation of being so publicly ravished. She was showing what she could take for love’s sake, and that to make her suffer this humiliation, was to raise her above any other girl there that night or in the world beyond who could not give her incontestable gift such a challenge so unwillingly wilfully willingly undertaken.

The iced-lolly up her to the hilt in her sheath, Teasetta turned her head to beg that Aranga kiss her as she, Teasetta, came, only for Aranga to torture her angel all the more, by denying her the balm of a kiss for her overwhelming charms, in preference to watching the autumn auburn angel gasp and cry and shudder and judder with the tone of the tons of her openly public cums.

When Aranga withdrew the iced-lolly’s stick, the stick alone, and it was clear how rapidly Teasetta’s womanly heat had melted the lolly: to her everlasting shame Seraphima orgasmed too. And she orgasmed again as she smelt the warm musk of Teasetta’s cunt, and thought of the joy for Aranga, who was leant with her head between Teasetta’s glorious legs, drinking the melted lolly’s juice, mixed with Teasetta’s honey and the salt of her menses, straight from Teasetta’s post orgasm cunt.

And she came again as she smelled the warm musk of Teasetta’s cunt and a gentle hand touched hers. The hand of a girl in a tiny pelmet skirt, the hand of an auburn haired goddess, wearing tiny white panties: hair in tumultuous tumble trailing in a train to her feet.

Seraphima had had a cum for the first time in her sweet young life. She had felt heaven and earth move, if only a little less than her very being moved earth and heaven.

As she looked adoration into Teasetta’s ice-green eyes, Seraphima knew she was irretrievably in love with Teasetta.

“Sorry I’m too late for the film darling”, Teasetta breathed and breezed. Aranga has a rotten head cold and couldn’t make it. But at least you managed to come”, Teasetta’s husky voice kittened, to the totally exhausted Seraphima still waking from her wet-dream: Teasetta’s voice without the slightest lightest hint of suspicion, let alone irony.

Eve Adorer
06-01-2007, 08:45 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 4 – Rule

The film over, they were sat in the bar at the Bijou cinema. Their legs were arranged such, that the exquisite contrast of Seraphima polished Nubian black reflected Teasetta’s spectral white.

Teasetta had her right thigh inside Seraphima’s parted legs, and thus Seraphima her right thigh inside Teasetta’s.

Seraphima was a little embarrassed. Her dress was exceptionally short, and she feared that the girl she loved might see the gusset of her panties, stained by her multiple cum.

In reality, as opposed to the wet-dream, Teasetta wore white. Her crisp cool cotton blouse fascinated as her bare breasts tantalised a tarantella inside it.

She was careless of the hem of her skirt, as she might as well have been, since there was so little of the skirt to worry about.

She wore white schoolgirl’s socks, which were not folded below, but covered to just over her knees, leaving her strong smooth thighs completely bare.

Her hair, Teasetta’s glorious flow of florid spun gold, tumbled recklessly in flowing abundance, some falling over her shoulders and into her lap, and more flowing down her back to where she either sat her light delight upon it, or it coiled, carelessly caressing the ground like the red carpet such a princessly creature should have walked on all her days.

The shiny scarlet lipstick she wore, made her lips look moist: a moistness redolent of another potentially moist orifice with equally lovely lips.

Seraphima could not but help looking between Teasetta’s elegant legs as Teasetta openly flashed to her that she was wearing the very tiniest of tight white panties, which her proximate pod-lips were bulging out prominently.

From between her legs, Teasetta’s natural aroma flared Seraphima’s super-sensitive nostrils, and spun her head with the giddiness of its eroticism.

As Teasetta took a sip of the expensive fermented girlpee she was enjoying when not talking, Seraphima watched fascinated by every move her love made. Down the glass holding Seraphima’s untouched iced cola, condensation descended wetting the coaster it stood upon.

As Seraphima listened to the husky silk that was Teasetta’s voice, Teasetta would touch Seraphima’s knee with her right hand second finger whilst making a point, then run that finger up Seraphima’s bare thigh and away, before turning to her glass again.

“Mmm, oh gosh. This is really delish! Say what you like about the old Bijou, but they do stock some absolutely perfecto girlwine”, Teasetta enthused.

“Mmm, try some. You really must. This one’s mixed with cumhoney, its really deliscioso!” Teasetta sincered, as she offered her glass for Seraphima to take a sip.

Seraphima gently raised her gloved hand in decline. She wanted to stay sober, all the more to enjoy this heaven, before the hell of six in the coming morning, when she must once more go down the mine.

“Adore your outfit”, Teasetta smiled, “The colour suits your complexion perfectly”.

Seraphima hung her head with tears in her eyes in blush at the joy of this sweet compliment to her compliment of clothing.

“Mmm, what was I saying. “Mmm, mmm, yes…well, anyway, it’s my birthday coming up Tuesday, twenty-three already, I just can’t believe it. Well John said what do you really want for your birthday to me. And I said I’d love a dresser. And he says but you’ve got so many dresses they are falling out of the wardrobes already. And I said a dresser not a dress you idiot. And we laughed. He’s such a lovely man. We’ve been married for three months now and it’s been pure heaven…..”

“…..Anyway, he says he’ll get me a dresser and do I want to come with him to Mesdames Carpenter and Carpenter so as to be sure he gets the right wood-grain, size, and style. And he goes on about how the girls there hand-make to order. And I pretend that I’m going to strangle him and he kisses me, and I spell it out, that I want a dresser, not a dress and not a dressing table, and we laugh cos he can be such a silly…..”

“Anyway, he says ‘Oh, that kind of dresser: a maid’ and asks do I have a girl in mind then. And I say I know a really lovely one, but she’s a girlminer. And he says that’s stooping a bit low, and he was a bit rude about girls who work in coalmines, so I won’t tell you that bit.”

“But he says, okay then if I insist. And I say I do insist. And we laugh. And he says what’s her name then? And I said I didn’t know, but it was the black beauty from the cinema. And he said: ‘Ooh yes please!’ and I hit him cos he was being so very naughty. And then I phoned you. And I had these tickets going spare, and so I came to get you, so you can be my dresser, if you want to be”, Teasetta gabbled in husky horny honey kitten tones, as Seraphima watched her mouth and longed to kiss her.

“I can’t wait to tell Clarissa that I’ve got a personal maid. John and I are going up in the world, and that cow Clarissa was very unkind about me, behind my back, to John’s mummy, telling her that I was a little gold digger with no brain. I mean me! And I’ve graduated from Camford!”, Teasetta continued.

“You have to have my clothes always at the ready; do my laundering; wash my hair; run my bath; do my makeup for me, and all that kind of thing I’m too busy for these days….” Teasetta enthused.

Seraphima’s gentle heart sank. She had let herself become deluded that she was on equal terms with this lovely young woman, and she was being told, she was not. She was being reminded that she was of the serving classes. She was being told, if not in so many words, that her chances of making love to and with Teasetta were less than an infinitesimally small but very round zero.

“John’ll be really shocked when he sees it’s you. He was admiring you in the cinema back that time. He told me you were ogling me. He dared me to let you touch me. John finds that such a turn-on. Poor dear, he works so hard…”

“I think it’s rather dirty myself. But, when I lied to him about how much I’d enjoyed you caressing my thigh, it certainly got him going in bed afterwards.”

“I want you exactly because you’re a lesbian see. To be honest, we’re having a little problem in bed, John and me. It’ll get him going to see you touching me, and you do have very kind hands…”, Teasetta unintentionally taunted.

“You’ll have to share a room with the other servants”, Teasetta concluded, with an assumption that Seraphima would accept the post as her personal maid, turned to a decided presumption.

“Oh silly me. I almost forgot. We wouldn’t pay you of course, but you’ll have a meal a day, access to my gymnasium, as long as you use it when I’m not there, uniform provided, and one day off every three months or so…. Oh, and with there being other servants too, you’ll have someone of your own kind to talk to…” Teasetta added, unwittingly hurtfully.

“Run my bath for me please Seraphima!” Teasetta called from her bedroom in the early morn.

“Of course my lady”, the glorious Nubian negress confirmed.

To dress herself and then perform her initial household chores, and to be at the ready for when her mistress chose to rise for the day, which was usually around five-thirty, Seraphima had risen at four.

Seraphima was in brilliant tangerine: tangerine shining all the brighter in contrast with her deep dark ebony wonder.

Even though she was stood to attention in the servants’ quarters with nobody to see and witness, in disciplined reflex, Seraphima, dipped a deeply delicious, very thighy curtsey, both just after her mistress’ command, and just after her own answer.

The voice with which Seraphima spoke was flatly mechanical and robotic, for Seraphima was unable to communicate other than through the throat microphone transmitters built into her sunshine-yellow choker.

Seraphima was unable to communicate other than through the throat microphones, because her mouth was gaped open in a succulently inviting ‘O’, by the gumshield that popped her teeth wide apart and presented her oral orifice and oesophagus as a pleasure zone readied at all times for an invading cock. Her ever-moist bright pink tongue lingered long to lick and lash a penetrating penis to potent pleasure, her larynx to suck the ejaculated pearls of saline wisdom into her stomach: for such pearls should always be injected deep inside girls.

Seraphima was marked as a servant, by the fact that her head was shaved completely bald: a shaming and demeaning process that still brought tears to her eyes when she recalled her close-cropped curls dropping on her bare breasts when she had been first shaved by the butleress.

Teasetta loved to have her newest servant dressed to please and tease her husband John. She had been very careful when choosing Seraphima’s outfits from the ‘Naughty Slave’ catalogue. She had purposely chosen garments from the ‘Constant Masturbation’ section.

Today, Seraphima wore a tantalising tight tangerine whalebone reinforced basque, with a steel hawser concealed within, that had forced her delicious waste down to nine-inches, giving her wiggle a wonder wider wander as she walked.

The uplift cups of her basque raised shy Seraphima’s handsome bosom sky high and horizontally out to maximise the exuberance pertaining to the containing of her potently proud perturbing protuberances.

Within the basque, to control and tame her tantalising tits, Seraphima’s nipples were clamped by hidden clips that bit her nips with their serrated teeth.

These same clips pushed an axle through to the outside of the cups that barely contained her fulsomeness. On these axles were fitted bob-weights. A steel spring coiled down from each cup to waist height. At the end of both springs was a spherical gold weight. As Seraphima even stood and merely breathed, the springs with these weights expanded and contracted and teased tormented and tortured her nipples. When she graced a step, it only added swing to the springs and sting to her permanent temporal teasing torment.

Seraphima’s exceptionally exquisite pubic hair was braided into two plaits that dangled between her divine legs. These plaits were tied off near their tips with delectable tiny sun-yellow bows that tickled her ankles.

Between her thighs and her love-lips ran a teaser. She wore no panties, but had her divine lips divided and ruled by a cruel rough roppette that ran from the rear of her basque, between the tensioned cheeks of her beautiful bottom, and up to the front of her basque via heaven’s valley. This roppette was pulled up hard and tight within her. Knotted at frequent regular intervals, its rough ribbed rub as she roamed, chafed her outer and inner lips, and taunted her clitoris, curled tightly within its hood.

Down from her tangerine basque front and at very cheeky rear, ran the ribbons of her elasticated suspenders. The fronts took the low road, the rear ones the high highway. The fronts were down her thighs. The rear suspenders were stretched over the holy hillocks of her preponderantly prominent naughtily naked buttocks, before they stretched in high tension to tug her stocking tops into vees, that matched those at her front.

Seraphima’s sun-bright yellow stockings on her nude Nubian negress’ legs threw her dark-chocolate blackness into seriously deliriously delicious delightful contrast.

Following the seams of her stockings, from the tops of her stocks tight round her strong thighs and only just above her dimpled knees, so that her extra-long suspenders knew maximum suspension in their tension, the eye would be compelled, wholly willingly, to pass the path of the curvature of her gently smoothly muscular calves, down to her slim ankles, and then to her seemingly impossible shoes.

Seraphima wore fifteen-inch heels. Heels were all she wore. She wore ‘K’ shoes.

But for the upright of the straight back of the ‘K’, which was missing, Seraphima wore ‘K’ formulation shoes.

The heels of her feet were embraced by the heels of a tangerine leather sling-back shoe, and her superbly slim ankles fixed around by a gold-buckled strap.

From the rear of the heel holding her foot’s heel ran the sloping upper leg of the ‘K’. The steep slope of the upper leg of the ‘K’ contained her dainty foot on perilous tiptoe of her big toes.

From thence, rearwards, ran the lower sloping leg of the ‘K’, forming her shoes’ rear heels.

Vertically down from her big toes at the front of her shoes, ran the lower straight leg of the ‘K’, to make her only other contact with the ground Seraphima made holy.

The rear heel was fifteen tapering inches, that ended in a ground grip of an astounding maximilty of minimality, being only one half-centimetre in diameter.

To match this, and give her only other support as she stood and walked, her big toes were forced into the balance to the tapering rear heels, which also touched ground with similar minimality of tapered touch.

Steepled thus, Seraphima’s long legs were tensioned taut teasingly pleasingly, and her buttocks deeply incurve-dimpled: two shining-back mirror-black compelling completely curved concave caves.

Thus, Seraphima wore ‘K’ shoes.

To top off her garments, around the fore of her humiliatingly shaven head, Seraphima wore a frilly sun-yellow lace headband, with embroidered words on it, declaring her to be a: “Dresser”.

“Run my bath for me please Seraphima!” Teasetta called from her bedroom in the early morn.

“Of course my lady”, the glorious Nubian negress confirmed.

Seraphima spoke through the microphones in her choker. The house was wired to pick up her transmissions. Her robotic voice conveyed her compliance, with a courteous curtsey before and after she spoke, and now her glorious legs must convey Seraphima to the presence of her mistress.

Since the three-months that Seraphima had been Teasetta’s personal maid, It must be one-hundred times a day, that, walking on her transports of delight, the devastating negress had had to climb the spiral staircase that wound its bore around its core, to take her delight into the light of the world in which she was forced to serve.

Was it to show off the completely compelling curvature of her superb legs that the steps of the staircase were so wide spaced? Or was it to torture her dainty feet the more, as she must traipse its treads with her double-heeled ‘K’ shoes? Or was it to maximise the spring and swing of the dangles that dandled and tormented her nipples as they bounced sprung and swung? Or was it to emphasise the intimacy of the rub of the ropette in her divided sexual slice?

Seraphima was a very girl girl, and felt these torments of her feminine charms alarmingly arousingly. She loved being on her incredibly high heels. She adored having her waist slimmed to a trim nine-inches so that, as she swayed her way to obey, she wiggled a million-miles wide, side to side, with her deep concave dimpled rear.

But her mouth held wide open to invite the injection of the salty male oyster, shamed her. Her shaven head confirming her lowly status embarrassed her, and so too, her near nakedness in the proximity of the other servants and, more so, in the presence of her master: Teasetta’s husband John.

But to see an angel rising irresistibly up to heaven, transported on the utmost of wonderful conveyances, all one would have needed to do, would be to lie on one’s back and watch Seraphima’s legs step the delight fantastic as she adorned the stairway that wound corkscrew up from servants’ cellar to the ground level floor, and then the bedroom floor, of Teasetta and John’s town mansion.

Once she had arrived at her morning station, Seraphima turned the gold taps of the terracotta bath in the marvellous pink-shot-marble tiled bathroom reserved for Teasetta.

As Seraphima bent over to turn on the taps her huge bosom, spilling out her basque, was only just arrested from swinging free by the constraints of her nipple clips. Her Nubian negro noir moons shining black, her long legs a tense cornucopia of compelling curves, she felt her master’s hand on her supremely smooth bottom once more.

It had been like this since Seraphima’s first arrival. Since Seraphima’s first arrival she had caused John exceptionally heavy arousal. He had wanted this Nubian nymph ever since he had encouraged Teasetta to let Seraphima stroke her bare thigh.

John had been secretly overjoyed when Teasetta had proposed employing Seraphima as a servant. He had all but won an Oscar for his pretence that he did not know what his wife had meant, when she had asked him for a “dresser” as her birthday present. Even had she not proposed Seraphima, he had intended to point Teasetta that way. That it had turned out that Teasetta had the same girl in mind had been a joyous bonus.

On the first occasion that John had touched her, by taking hold of her pretty hand, Seraphima had made the mistake of begging: “No sir please! Oh please sir, no!” And the radio microphones at her throat had caused her plea to shout out of every speaker in the wired walls of the house.

“What’s going on?” had come Teasetta’s sleepy voice from the bedroom.

“Nothing darling!” John had called back, “I was just giving your dresser a hand!”.

Suspicious, once John had gone to his studio, Teasetta had whipped Seraphima with a cane on her bare buttocks, and warned her severely not to try and use her charms to seduce her husband.

The very next day, John had run his fingers over the vicious ridges in Seraphima’s savagely beaten bottom and whispered: “You got these stripes for me my angel didn’t you? You’re incredibly brave. I adore you all the more for your taking it like a girl!”

Now Seraphima knew better than to call out, lest she be found out, and John was taking more and more advantage of her near nakedness, and enforced dumbness.

The bath slowly running, John gone to take his shower in his own bathroom, Seraphima wiggled her wonderful rear to near her mistress, whom she must disrobe of her nightdress, and cover with her towelling dressing gown, to escort to the bath for her bathe.

As Seraphima entered her owners’ bedroom, Teasetta murmured
“Good morning Seraphima”, as she rose and stood from the bed, and her curls of golden copper, flowed and flounced to the carpet they thus caressed and blessed.

“Good morning my lady”, Seraphima’s mechanical voice intoned, as she curtseyed and thus, as she transferred her one-hundred pounds of pure girl to the fore of her forwarded foot, tortured her big toe in her ‘K’ shoe.

Seraphima now reached to undress her love. And, as she savoured the homely fragrance of her mistress’ body, salted with the patina of the perspiration acquired from her warm slumbers, Seraphima mentally sighed for her suffering that she could be so near and yet so far from the woman she adored.

“I’m on the bench today. I have a very naughty girl to judge in court. Do be a dear and find me something to wear: I mean something suitable for the occasion”, Teasetta slurred, still sleepy, to her trusted servant.

“If I may make so bold as to say so, my lady looks superb in a turquoise two-piece”, Seraphima proposed.

“Perfect!” Teasetta yawned, “You are a treasure Seraphima, how did I ever manage without you?”

“Should my lady wear a white silk blouse with opal buttons, some turquoise twelve-inch heeled sling-back stilettos, with matching handbag to carry? And for her undies: a pure white silk bra, panty, and suspenders set, and white nylon stockings with a zigzag seam theme?” Seraphima proposed by humble hint.

“Of course. Your choice is, as ever, impeccable”, Teasetta praised.

Seraphima gentled the fresh towelling robe over her mistress’ naked shoulders and walked submissively behind the autumn haired angel, lowering her head to look at the toes of her cruel ‘K’ shoes, to avoid eye-contact with John, as he made his way back to the bedroom after a shower and shave in his own bathroom.

As Seraphima and Teasetta entered Teasetta’s bathroom, the computer controls had stopped the taps at the choice depth of water, and were now keeping the chosen temperature. Nonetheless, Seraphima wiggled in front of her mistress to bend over the bath, revealing her rampantly randy rear, the glory of her supremely straight extremely shapely legs, and her cleaved cloven pod, as she bent and graced a pretty hand in, to check the water’s temperature.

Seraphima then wiggled behind, to remove her mistress’ robe and, as Teasetta kicked off her mule slippers, take tender hold of her mistress’ titian tresses to keep them clear of the water, as her mistress curved her luscious legs, to step over into, and then lower herself into the bath.

Knowing her mistress loved to luxuriate, a wait was wanting and duly observed by the superb Seraphima, whose gently heaving bosom seemed to show the pounding of her heart from being in the presence of the girl she loved.

Seraphima adored the beauty in the bath. As she stood, awaiting her mistress’ next command, she dreamed of the night before this, when she had shampooed, washed, brushed, and combed the impossible complexity of the superabundance of curls that presently cascaded from the bath’s side to the floor. And soon she would be once more with brush and combs to coax those curls into behaviour becoming their adornment of this pearl of girls.

As she controlled her sigh, her chest heaved nonetheless, and Seraphima thus suffered the swing of the weighted springs that teased her nipples.

And, after her daydream thoughts, and the continued constant masturbation of her nipples, as she moved forward to pick up the black soap with which she would firstly wash her mistress’ golden-down blessed forearms, the ropette inside Seraphima’s love-lips was no longer hurting. It was no longer hurting, because it was lavishly lubricated by Seraphima’s crème-Français.

Knowing she would soon soap and bathe Teasetta’s bare breasts and then be intimate with the angel’s red-hair-curl-crowned intimacy, even while her eyes showed her supposed neutrality whilst she was caressing the bare body of the girl she desired to distraction, Seraphima soused her knotted teaser ropette with her minx moisture.

Yet it was when the angel was stood for Seraphima to soap her legs, that Seraphima’s curled-up proboscis clitoris fought to leave its hood, only to be rubbed to searing heat by the guardian ropette’s roughness, thus turning Seraphima on all the more.

As her mistress rose from, to cease the water, the seductive siren of the freshwater seas, Seraphima caught the soft red curl curtain, hitherto draped in flawless autumnal tumble onto the floor beside the bath, but that would otherwise fall to Teasetta’s ankles in the water, and lovingly wrapped it in a dry towel tied gently neatly Turkish turban style on Teasetta’s head to save it.

“Do my legs need shaving again Seraphima?” Teasetta asked suddenly, thus shocking Seraphima out of her reverie.

“Oh no my lady. Not after we waxed my lady last night”, Seraphima assured.

“My lady’s bikini-line may need a touch of the razor by this time tomorrow, but my lady is immaculate in every degree”, Seraphima reassured, meaning every single syllable.

Wetting and soaping again her duet suite of sweet hands on the aromatic ‘La Parfum’ soap Teasetta had especially flown in from Paris, Seraphima braced herself to caress her mistress’ legs without becoming even more aroused.

To run her soaped hands over the firm gentle muscularity and the soft complexion of Teasetta’s shapely legs had poor Seraphima captured in rapture she dare not show.

Such was her longing and lust and love for the girl she bathed though, that her tears could have run like the rivulets of water which she cupped in her pretty hands and then poured down the curves of Teasetta’s legs to wash the soap away.

Her lush legs washed, Teasetta innocently stood them apart to enable Seraphima to bathe her purse. Seraphima soaped her hands afresh. She both loved and loathed this part of the bathing. To even temporarily take away the natural odour of Teasetta’s love-mouth seemed an unforgivable sin.

At this point, were her mouth not forced in an ‘O’ for ‘oral’ gape, Seraphima would have gritted her teeth. She must not show how she longed for this girl. She must not touch her in any disrespectful way. She must not caress her. She must not let her fingers play the sweet music this most sensitive of sensual instruments was made for.

Yet she must not touch so gently that it was ineffective, and thus gave away that she was emotionally involved in what she was doing whilst bathing this beauty, and far from the dispassionate robot she was expected to be.

She started on the flat belly and then down to the soft russet down on the mons, before soaping to the left of the slightly agape lips, and then, with her right hand, to the left. Then cupping soaped water from the bath below, she douched out the love mouth itself, holding her tongue on the roof of her mouth to stop herself, but nonetheless inevitably sousing the knotted ropette within her own mystery with her musk as she did so.

It was both sorrow and a relief to Seraphima when the bathing was over.

Now proffering both her gentle hands, Seraphima’s offer was taken, and four hands held in combinations of black and white pairs, as Teasetta stepped, curving her lovely legs in to prayers of parabolic swerves, her body sweetly rain-dropping and shining with perspiration and the bath’s waters kissing down her perfect complexion, out of the bath.

Seraphima made sure the golden treasure of Teasetta’s hair was aloft and dry in its saucy looking towel turban…

And then: “Dry me please, there’s a treasure”, Teasetta asked, unnecessarily, as Seraphima closed in on her love with the warmest and softest of pure white towels.

For the savagely cruelly bald-shaven Seraphima, brushing her mistress’ impossibility of curls was the height of ecstasy.

Next eye-shadow and then Seraphima must apply lipstick to the mouth she longed to kiss. The white pearl earrings would be hidden in Teasetta’s coiffure coils, but her mistress would not feel fully-dressed without them.

This heaven on earth performed, Seraphima was wrapped in raptures as she now stood behind to cup Teasetta’s handful-sized breasts into her brassiere, thus literally living up to her titled duty as her mistress’ dresser.

With the soft red curls of the sweet scented hair inflaming Seraphima’s passions, straightening the straps on the smooth lightly freckled shoulders was problematic; but it was a problem of the greatest pleasure to resolve.

Pulling the hooks into the eyes, Seraphima was as gentle as she could be with the two soft-firm coral-pink-tipped consummate compassion containers that fronted the angel without affront, and then turned to pick up the matching suspender belt.

Seraphima’s tension was mounting once more. If there was one thing she adored more than the highest of high honours of bathing her mistress’ passion-purse and brushing her coiled curls, it was rolling her mistress’ stockings on.

The suspender belt’s hooks in eyes in turn with those of the embracers of Teasetta coral-pink pinnacled bosom, Seraphima ensured the suspenders clasps, were correctly arranged to arraign down Teasetta’s thighs at front, and to stretch over Teasetta’s proud bottom at rear.

As she rolled up the stocking intended for the electrifying glory of Teasetta’s luscious left limb, Seraphima felt the static already in the nylon.

Since Seraphima had to wait for the leg to be proffered, the evident high tension in the stocking seemed to be matched with whatever was distracting the brilliant mind of the gorgeous Teasetta.

Waiting what seemed an age whilst Teasetta thought through whatever was troubling her, and mindful of her mistress’ busy day not far from its start, Seraphima wiggled around in front of her love, holding the rolled up white nylon stocking still at the ready, and whispered through her neck microphones: “My lady…..”

“Oh… I’m so sorry Seraphima. The stockings of course…”, Teasetta softly zephyred and raised her bare left leg to put her dainty foot on a cushioned stool.

Working on Teasetta’s left side, avoiding snagging them with her femininely long fingernails, with practiced skill, Seraphima rolled the stocking over the foot and up the lovely lower leg and then the passionately powerful thigh, high to the front suspender. This she then dexterously fixed the stocking top to, and to the stocking top, just before her mistress lowered that lovely leg, to allow the rear suspender to be tensioned over her tantalising hillock, where it continued to press into the soft firmness of one of her two foothills of heaven after it had been clasped to the stocking at back.

Seraphima was proud of her skill. These stockings had a zigzag seam, but relative straightness of the seam was still demanded and that demand she had commendably commanded.

Again her mistress appeared distracted, her mind evidently whirring over the finer points of the girl laws and her necessary imposition of them in the case coming before her that day.

Seraphima patently patiently passionately awaited the availability of the swerving curves of the right leg.

“If I may, my good lady….”, Seraphima whispered into her microphones, bobbing a curtsey to the sweet Teasetta.

“Seraphima? Oh, how silly of me. Of course you may, you darling girl…” Teasetta apologised once more.

These moments of distraction only increased Seraphima’s adoration of the exquisite Teasetta. Although her status was lower than low in Teasetta and John’s household, such kindness and consideration from her lovely mistress made Seraphima proud to be of service.

As she rolled the static crackling stocking up the statistical perfection of Teasetta’s right leg, Seraphima could not control the further flow of the crème-Français in her éclair, adding to that long since marinating her knotted ropette teaser. Her satan-searing dark-brown-near-black eyes feasted on the glory of the limb she was adorning. Her tongue, with its pointed tip, reached out to lick her negress lips wide parted in the orgasmic oral ‘O’. Her nipples danced with the arousing attention of the constant bouncing and swinging of the weights on the ends of the bob-springs dangling from the clips on her nubs. Her bountiful bare bosom held high up and out by the bra of her basque, heaved heavy sighs as her love for this angel sounded through the microphones in her choker and thus out of every speaker in the house, as she attached the front suspender clasp of the white right stocking. And her long forefinger nail snagged the stocking, and a ladder leading from heaven down the swooning sigh of Teasetta’s right thigh ripped through Seraphima’s soul as she failed in her art, breaking her poor heart.

“You clumsy whore!” Teasetta screamed in her intense high tension as she spun and slapped Seraphima’s face, throwing the Nubian negress wonder backwards, with the shock of both the surprise action, and the slap itself.

And Seraphima’s tentative grip on the ground she made holy by her very presence upon this earth, was tested beyond the infinitesimally appointed decimal-point grip of the double-heels of her ‘K’ shoes. And she tumbled in a flurry of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs. And as she struggled on the floor in a kick of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, the tears flowed from her lovely loving eyes. And as she fought to regain her feet in a glory of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, her mistress reached down a tender hand. And, as she reached to help the girl she had struck, her mistress watched the devastating display of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs…

“Seraphima! Oh Seraphima! Oh do forgive me my darling girl! How could I be so cruel?!” Teasetta cried with tender tears in her ice-green eyes.

And Seraphima’s tears flowed too, anew. And in a flurry of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, she was in no hurry to rise from her bicycling of long leggy legs and long leggy legs and long leggy legs, for she was openly secretly masturbating herself on her cruel teaser ropette to increase its pain, and her tears, spurted anew each time she had another cum: because they were not the tears of pain; but the tears of multiple-orgasmic gain….

06-01-2007, 03:19 PM
this is one of my favorites ---thanks Love :jo

06-01-2007, 03:20 PM
Very Hot thanks :jo

06-01-2007, 05:29 PM
More great stories....Thanks

06-01-2007, 05:30 PM
Thanks again for joining us here...and for more great stories....;)

Eve Adorer
06-08-2007, 10:09 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 5 – Mule

“You cannot take her in public dressed like that!” John insisted.

“I’ll take her in public dressed as it damned well pleases me to!” Teasetta responded. Why don’t you just fuck off to your conference and leave me to get on with my life!”

Seraphima was wearing only her twenty-inch heels and a salmon-pink ‘Y’.

The rows between her mistress and master were growing worse. John’s art business was in a lull. Teasetta’s high earnings as a university lecturette and part-time judge were more than enough to keep the pair in the luxury of owning two homes, and the frivolous indulgence of a personal maid like Seraphima. But John somehow felt unmanned by living mostly of his wife’s income.

Seraphima had deduced that there were major problems in the marital bed. She sensed her mistress’ high-tension sexual frustration.

She knew from personal experience that John had no erectile dysfunction. In secret moments when he found her alone, he took great pleasure in masturbating his twelve-inch cock whilst ogling her incredible beauty, as she was forced to watch.

His hands on her body and his protestations of adoration, she had so far managed to slip away from. But she knew that, if only he could corner her alone without the risk of discovery, he would force her to take his pole in one of her three holes.

Seraphima sensed premature ejaculation was the problem. Teasetta had probably grown tired of acting out an enjoyment of coitus that she had never yet experienced in reality.

In the early months of marriage, she had most likely got off on her own frustration and the notion of sacrifice. In later months she had tried to talk to John about her needs in bed. In the latter months, that had not long since seen their first wedding anniversary, she had thrown herself into work to try to make herself too tired to need to shed her load in bed: or so Seraphima speculated.

The answer to the situation Seraphima assumed to be in play, was obvious: Teasetta should take it up her bum. The anal sphincter would grip the base of John’s penis and make his manhood stay the course till Teasetta too could have a cum. Seraphima had only read this in a magazine of course, but she was sure as sure that it was right.

“You cannot take her in public dressed like that!” John insisted.

“I’ll take her in public dressed as it damned well pleases me to!” Teasetta responded. Why don’t you just fuck off to your conference and leave me to get on with my life!”

Seraphima was wearing only her twenty-inch heels and a salmon-pink ‘Y’.

Her shoes were stiletto heeled. Of pliable transparent plastic, they showed the astonishing wonder of the white undersides of her negress’ feet in all their erotic glory.

She stood on tiptoe within curved back ballet shoes: shoes with extra-long toes that tapered to a flat front ground contact. The twenty-inch heels tapered to pinpoint ground-touch at the back, to lend her little more than moral support as she stood or wiggled.

It had appealed to Teasetta to let Seraphima’s hair grow once more, and so the sweet Nubian negress sported close-cropped boyishly feminine curls.

Her mouth was not gaped with a gum-shield-gag now, but took its full natural permanent-kiss-proposed proffered and offered pose on her lovely face.

Seraphima’s now ground-trailing tail of pubic hair, was braided into two plaits, and had been wound around her potently powerful thighs, and tied tight with delicate pink ribbons to form natural garters.

And she wore a pink ‘Y’. The ‘Y’ was a combination of two-inch broad elasticated straps. It took its name from the shape it formed on her spellbinding body.

It ran between her legs and the cheeky cheeks of her cherubic bottom as a single strap; then up her back to her shoulder blades, where it divided in twain.

The two straps that then went over Seraphima’s shoulders were no narrower than the single strap under her crutch and up her back. The single strap only divided so as to pass over her shoulders and, oh yes, to try and tame her forty-eight-inch F-cup tits.

Seraphima’s impertinently pert breasts held the straps proud of her body. The straps that came over her shoulders pressed, one each, hard on her tits and seemed to control their wild wilfulness effortlessly.

In fact, as Seraphima knew only too well, her nipples were gripped by knurled needles hidden behind the straps: needles that penetrated three-inches into her milk-ducts to try and rein in her free-range breasts.

Below her breasts, the two straps merged into one again, to complete the orbit of this heavenly body.

Thus, viewed from wonderful front or wondrous wandering rear, Seraphima wore only a pink ‘Y’ and the transparent twenty-inch heeled shoes, showing the soul burning beauty of her negress girl’s contrast of white foot soles.

Seraphima knew when it was the wisest counsel to stay silent. Such wisdom ruled most when her mistress and master were having yet another quarrel.

As she stormed out of the bedroom in her twelve-inch-heeled mules and the lime-yellow business-suite Seraphima had just dressed her in, Teasetta’s fury was obvious.

“Here: put this on!” she shouted at Seraphima, as she threw a micro-micro-micro-skirt her way.

“Certainly my lady”, Seraphima gently curtsied.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to shout at you my angel”, Teasetta husked with a smile that was clearly more sincere by far than its forced status in the midst of Teasetta’s anger allowed its apparent appearance to convey.

“My lady has always been the heart of kindness to me”, Seraphima soothed as she curtsied again.

The micro-micro-micro-skirt was a mere stripling strip or stripe. It was akin to a belt. It was of the same salmon-pink as her ‘Y’ and the ribbons that tied her pubic hair as glorious garters.

When Seraphima tied it around low on her hips, it paid lip-service to being a skirt, but it did not even pretend to try and cover her lower lips, let alone more than the top quarter of her bold bottom. Its pleated hem arrived no more than four-inches down from its string side-tie top. If anything, Seraphima felt more naked with this apology for a skirt on her, than she had done in just her ‘Y’.

The day was going so wrong. When Teasetta had ordered her to carry her briefcase for her to court that day, Seraphima had felt so proud and honoured. Now she, Seraphima, was caught in the midst of another of her owners’ horrible fights.

The briefcase and laptop computer were strapped to a wheeled carry-cart with an extendable handle.

Hoping against hope that her mistress had not changed her mind, Seraphima had already raised the handle of the cart, and her pretty little hand held it in its gentle grip, at the ready for the walk to the train station.


To Seraphima’s joy they were on their journey.

As she wiggled her wanton way in a marvellously musically melodious click-clack of steel-tipped stilettos before Seraphima, the autumn gold of Teasetta’s glorious hair flowed in a rippling red-river to her high-heels, hiding the rhythmic undulations of the hemispheres of her siren bottom.

Obediently behind her, the sensational negress was hiding nothing and experiencing everything. Seraphima’s ‘Y’ hid the secret of the needles pushed through her nipples. It also hid too, that its tightness was rubbing Seraphima’s gaped love-lips and that the tunes played by her tits as they danced and swayed their independent ways when she wiggled along, were echoed down to her love-mound by the reverberating elastic of the ‘Y’.

Therefore, as she wiggled her wonder, Seraphima was not only having her titanic tits masturbated, but her bountiful bounding breasts were masturbating her minx and, of course, vice versa.

And to work her all the harder, and to provide her with a further constant reminder that she was a girl, with every step she blessed the earth with, the garters formed by her pubic hair, being tight, pulled on her love lips, sliding them back and forth and forth and back, rubbing them against each other, with her stimulating strides.

“Keep up my angel: there’s a dear!” Teasetta husky pure kitten-purred, amidst the erotic staccato of her leg-flattering high heels’ click clacking musically on the hot-sun-reflecting morning sidewalk pavement.


On the train, the pretty schoolgirls sat opposite, giggled divinely as they nudged each other.

Teasetta blessed her seat reading legal papers. Her skirt was ridden risen to reveal the white rose pattern in her stocking tops and the pure gold of her high tensioned suspender clasps. A hint of the gusset of her lime-yellow panties glowed in the shadow of her opened hem. Her russet locks waterfalled down to coil in curled snakes at her feet.

Shy Seraphima sat alongside her, her dark black legs running in an eternity from her slim ankles to the tops of her handsome thighs. Her huge heavy breasts near resting in her lap. With her pretty hands, she was trying to hide between her legs, what her miniscule minimality of a micro-micro-micro-skirt would and could not. She felt proud to be the servant of the beautiful woman whom she sat beside, and shamed at her near nakedness, dressed as she was in little more than her ‘Y’.

The pretty schoolgirls giggled divinely as they nudged each other. Their eyes feasted on the contrast of the supreme whiteness of the redhead, with the dream blackness of the negress, and finally chose the latter to explore, not just for its greater exposure, but also for its ultimate superiority in the descending order of beauty.

Seraphima sensed that the admiration was of her astounding loveliness and not just of her near nakedness. And, suddenly, her shame was lifted and she asided her pretty hands so that the schoolgirls could drink fully from the fountain of erotic wonders, till their eyes in unison must focus on her mouth and sigh that they could not earn the bliss of its completely compelling constant kiss.

Seraphima had recognised these teens. She knew the uniform. She had seen the slightly older girl feeling-up the pretty little negress in the park that night when she, Seraphima, had been a girlminer.

Seraphima wondered where the sexy nymphet might be, and then thought she recognised her joyful sigh: a sigh a girl might make if she were being slowly, gently, masturbated: somewhere further down the coach.


In her private office, off to one side of the courtroom proper, Teasetta was clearly apprehensive. She had been a part time junior judge in the minor girl-court for just one year. More recently, her performance had been monitored by her seniors. They were assessing her fitness to sit in judgement at the Wider Institute of Girl-Girl Legislation and Examination, the WIGGLE.

Teasetta was an ambitious woman. She wanted to swap her junior judge’s red garter for the pearl silk garter of the higher court. Eventually, she wanted to wear the pink mink garter of the National Institute of Procedures Protocol and Legal Examination, the NIPPLE; and, ultimately, the gold and diamond garter of the Court of Litigation Instrumentation and Termination, the highest court in the land, the terminus for the most complex and controversial girl-court cases: the CLIT.

Teasetta had already briefed Seraphima on the ways of the court.

“Prepare me please, Seraphima”, Teasetta instructed, with a hint of her nervous determination to do well, quavering in her toy-kitten voice.

“My lady”, Seraphima bobbed an extremely leggy confirmatory curtsy.

She then wiggled over to her mistress, and reached up her skirt to lower Teasetta’s panties, and help her step out of them. Nextly, she took the two-inch-broad crimson coloured brushed-velvet garter out of its leather carry-case, and gently drew it up the swoonmaking curvaceousness of Teasetta’s left leg, to just above her dimpled knee.

Panties removed, emblematic garter in place, Teasetta was all but ready-dressed as a girl-court judge.

“I’m not normally this nervous Seraphima, believe me. Would you please follow me into court and sit me?”

“Of course my lady”, Seraphima bobbed an even more leggy curtsy.

As Seraphima took hold of the glorious gold of Teasetta’s astounding hair, to enable Teasetta to don her judge’s cape, Teasetta turned, and gave her gentle servant a lovely loving smile that nearly had Seraphima’s heart leap out of her beautiful body.


“All rise” came the practiced cry of the svelte brunette clerk of the court, as Teasetta and Seraphima, two apparitions of outstanding wonder, graced into the courtroom.

The assembled public in the well of the court, obedient to respect, stood as Teasetta made her entrance as judge.

The two particularly stunning wonders were on a raised platform in the front middle of which was the judge’s desk.

As Teasetta arrived at, and stepped in front of her chair behind this high desk, Seraphima reached down and worked Teasetta’s skirt up over her stocking tops and clear of her bared buttocks, so that Teasetta could lower her love-slice onto the apex of the wooden triangle ‘splitter’ affixed to the chair’s seat: the seat of judgement.

The historically never-washed triangle apex was worn a little hollow by the kisses of the cunts that had crowned it over the two-hundred years of Spindon’s Girl-Court’s honoured existence. Nonetheless it still acted, as in long tradition, as an uncomfortable reminder of the need for the judge to be evenly divided in her assessment of the prosecution and the defence.

Teasetta lifted her pretty feet and lodged her toes in the stirrups just behind her, so that, with her legs up and feet thus off the ground, the full weight of her divine body was on her divided cunt. She then nodded to the waiting court clerk, who mechanically called:

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! All present are gathered here this day to see and hear justice administered by the hand of her beloved majesty the queen of England. Let no girl enter or leave this court without justice having been duly served…… You may now sit.”

For a moment, the room was filled by an erotic mass clatter of high heels and the crisp rustle of tight skirts rising on nylon stockinged thighs, mixed with the feminine high murmur of the court officials and the public, as they sat to decorate the court’s seats with their pretty bottoms.

Teasetta nodded to the still-standing court clerk a second time.

“May it please your worship, the case before this court today, is that of Miss Hinanamia Heavenscent Noirrose, for occasioning, with aforethought and deliberation, the loss, in a public place, of her holy virginity.”

“Let the accused enter the court”, the clerk concluded, before revealing her long legs, as she sat down and her miniskirt rose up her court-issue black tights.

“Let the accused enter the court”, echoed a sweet blonde girl at the rear of the court, the bailiff, as she opened the rear doors of the courtroom and called through them when opened.

“Let the accused enter the court”, came a fainter feminine echo from somewhere in the corridor.

“Let the accused enter the court”, was barely heard next, more distantly still, drowned by the decidedly sexy, tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap of a lovely little creature with a mesmerising wiggle, who shyly entered on tiptoe in her heelless steel-toecapped balletic shoes.

Seraphima’s gasp at her grasp of recognition, was drowned in the murmurs of appreciation of the adorable negress, whose very pretty legs guided and glided her, like a lovely butterfly, to the box where she must stand as the accused.

The brown-skinned, brown-eyed little wonder, with her shoulder length curls caught up in two braided pigtails tied with mint-green ribbons, wore her school uniform.

Her braless breasts poked out proud pyramids in her crisp white short-sleeved summer shirt. Her labia-minora-pink and menstrual-leak-red, striped school tie emphasised her cleavage. Her pleated dull-grey skirt was high up her youthfully slim, but very curvy, completely bare legs, showing a hint of her mint-coloured knickers. Her bottom did an entrancing dance as she walked in her school ballet shoes, with her white ankle socks contrasting with her milk-chocolate brown.

As this adorable delight rested her tiny hands on the cold brass bar that surrounded front and sides of the witness box, the eyes of all the women in the court were transfixed by her lovely legs, steepled on tiptoe by her shoes, and on her firm bottom in the school issue mint-green knickers, which, as Hinanamia stood on a raised dais, they could now see more of.

Seraphima dared a glance at Teasetta, and was relieved to see that her mistress was, apparently, as enchanted by this lovely apparition, as the rest of the court.

“You are Miss Hinanamia Heavenscent Noirrose?”

“I am my lady”, Hinanamia nervously smiled soprano, before shyly lowering her pretty head.

“And you are before this court today, for wilfully losing your virginity?”

“Yes my lady”, Hinanamia whispered with her face cast down.

“Speak up please”, Teasetta gently urged.

“Yes my lady”, Hinanamia repeated with a husky sadness.

“Tell this court how you came to be so accused”, Teasetta instructed.

“It was in the park at school miss. But I did it after school as well see. And there’s a shed there miss. And… well, the other girls in my class kept telling me how pretty I was. And I liked that see miss. A girl likes to know she is pretty, doesn’t she miss? Well, anyway, my best friend Minetta, said she wanted to kiss me. And teacher didn’t hear cos class hadn’t started yet miss. And so the other girls in the class said they wanted to kiss me too, and how lovely my mouth was, with me being a black girl you see miss. And I wanted them to kiss me. And so at lunchtime we went to the shed on the sports field where we played at night too. And I didn’t want to get naked or nuffink. But Minetta said I had great legs and the other girls said they wanted to see my tits again. And I thought they’d strip me and leave me there like they did wiv other girls and hid their clothes see. Only they went all quiet when I showed them my tits. And they said they was really really lovely see. And they wanted to touch them. And I wanted them to touch them. And Minetta kissed me and put her hand on my tit, and I really liked it. And then the other girls said they wanted a feel. And they was up my skirt and pulling off my knickers as some of the other girls was kissing me and feeling my tits see. And one of the girls had a test tube from the science labs see. And she pushed it up me down below see. And it really hurt. And I felt something snap inside me miss. And then I had these really wonderful jerks like I was dying: jerks what made me scream I was so happy. And then they kissed me and rubbed my tits and I didn’t have no more jerks or nuffink miss, but I really liked them kissing and feeling me up, miss. And I was bleeding miss and so I told teacher miss. And she sent me to the school nurse. And the school nurse said I was alright, but I had been very very naughty and she would have to tell the Girl-Police. And I’m really really sorry if it was naughty and against the law miss. Really and truly…..”

A sigh and then a murmur went around the court, as the women and girls there recalled their own early sexual experiences, and at the innocence of this young beauty, who did not even seem to know that she had had an orgasm: indeed, by the sound of what she had just said, several.

And, let us be honest too, many of the married women their were trying to recall when, and if ever they had had an orgasm.

Teasetta waited for the respectful silence to fall once more.

“And do you plead ‘guilty’ or ‘very guilty’ Hinanamia?” Teasetta then gently questioned.

Tears rolled down the darling black angel’s face, as she croaked: “Very guilty miss. Truly sorry too miss: really and truly, cross my heart and hope to die if I tell a lie miss….”

In what followed next, Seraphima found her heart bursting with pride. Here was her lovely mistress longing to be assessed as suitable for a judge’s post in the WIGGLE. There at the back of the court were her assessors, keen to see the iron fist of due judgement fall on the poor teenage schoolgirl in the dock. And yet, Teasetta did not hesitate.

“Hinanamia Heavenscent Noirrose, you are an exceptionally attractive girl, and you have indulged practices that, but for the test tube you mention being used as a dildo in you, are as natural as the four winds. You are clearly repentant. You know you have broken the girl-laws and you have pleaded ‘very guilty’ in respect of your crime. Because of those heinous laws I cannot dismiss your case as I am minded to, and as a truly fair society would allow me to…..”

“Hinanamia Heavenscent Noirrose, it is the sentence of this court, that you be escorted back to your school in the company of a permit that I shall sign in my capacity as a girl-court judge. That permit will instruct, that your headmistress take your knickers down, and smack you on your bare bottom for a course of time enduring not less than one half-hour of the clock, or two-hundred slaps, whichever is the longer: a minimum of one-hundred slaps to be administered on each cheek of your bare bottom.”

“Take the prisoner down…” Teasetta instructed.

Amidst the sexy tip tap of Hinanamia Noirrose’s ballet shoe shod feet, as the honey wiggled from the court, a free girl once her spanking was administered, there was a murmur.

Murmurs take on different characters. Those characters are told from their tones.

The murmur that had greeted the little black butterfly with the caterpillar wiggle when she had charmed into the court, had been one of adoration of a stunningly attractive girl.

Teasetta knew, because she heard its high hum, that the murmur now, was expressing surprise at such a lenient sentence.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!” called the clerk of the court.

“That the justice of her majesty the queen of England has been served in this court today, let no girl question on pain of punishment”.

“All rise….”

Another hot rustle and static crackle from the slide and glide of skirt hems on tights and stockings, along with the pretty clitter clatter of high heels, filled the court, as the public, there to witness proceedings, stood in respect for the judge.

Seraphima moved efficiently behind her mistress to lower Teasetta’s skirt as she rose from the splitter, and bore surprised witness of the copious anointment of crème-Français, Teasetta had added to the heavy stains from the two-hundred-year history of the saddle of justice she had just straddled.


In the side office afterwards, Teasetta’s tension was self-evident.

Seraphima dare not speak. She gentled the judge’s garter off her love’s left leg, and returned it to its protective case, and then picked up Teasetta’s panties to put them back on her gorgeous mistress, when so commanded.

“You might just as well throw that garter away”, Teasetta suddenly sighed in a tone heavy with sadness.

“That’s my career as a judge blown. We can forget the WIGGLE, let alone the NIPPLE or the CLIT. I’ll be lucky to be even given ponygirl parking offences after today…..”

“You could hear it in their voices. They were expecting a minimum of a between-legs whipping. I blew it….. I just damned well blew it…”

To her own surprise immediately afterwards, Seraphima found herself saying:

“If I may say so my lady, I thought you were just wonderful”.

“NO you MAY NOT say so!!” Teasetta immediately shouted back, as Seraphima hung her head in shame.

Then, moments later, Seraphima felt pretty fingers lifting her chin: two gentle fingers brought the lantern of love that was Seraphima’s adorable face back up to look out at the world with pride. Those same two fingers were then touched on Teasetta’s lovely lips, and too on Seraphima’s stunning mouth just after, to transfer the kiss of apology.

“I’m sorry my angel. I did not mean to shout at you, of all people”, Teasetta sighed.


Leaving Seraphima to make her own way home, Teasetta took a rickshaw, pulled by a very busty blonde, to Spindon’s other train station. She was headed for a busy rest of her day lecturing at the University of Camford.

With only the other servants for company, John flying over to the USA for a week in New Edingow, and Teasetta not due home till at least 7.00 pm, Seraphima busied herself with her personal maid’s duties.

The essence of obedience, as she cleaned the bedroom and two main bathrooms of her master and mistress’ home, she still wore her tormenting ‘Y’.

The essence of girl too, she was not disappointing the strap of her ‘Y’ pressed hard on her cream pot. Indeed, as she daydreamed of the coming home of her mistress and the demand that she, Seraphima, undress her and bathe her, she was lubricating it longingly lovingly lavishly.


Why should Seraphima not sleep the sleep of the innocent after a hard day’s work?

In all her naked glory her black body made her crisp white duvet look whiter for the heavenly contrast, as she held it in her slender arms and hugged its folded form to her heavy chest, as if it were a lover.

As she slowly rolled and writhed in her bed in her deep somnambulist’s sleep, the white soles of her feet, and the white palms of her hands, played flashing beacon beckon to join the black wonder.

The tight light curls on her princessly head were the more feminine for their being so boyish. The lovely face with the slightly lightly flared nostrils, and the tiny ears, and, above all, the fabulous lips, was a lighthouse of loveliness.

The fit feline body with its miracle of mammaries, balanced if not matched for size by the bountiful bottom, and with the long strong legs with their complex of compelling curves, was a torch-lit tower.

Seraphima was deep in the dream of love. Her floor draping pubic hair was loose, and trailed a wild tail, with trails of twists around her Nubian black legs or contrasting their devil-dark brown with her bright white bed-sheet.

Can there be any doubt that the name of the rumpled crumpled duvet in the loving embrace of Seraphima’s wanting wanton arms was ‘Teasetta’?

Can there be any doubt that, in her deep sleep, Seraphima did not hear, let alone see, the door of her room open and then close?

Can there be any doubt that Seraphima’s sigh, as the duvet ‘Teasetta’ was gently taken from her arms, was genuine?

Were the pink lips that next kissed the holy wonder of Seraphima’s gorgeous mouth not real? Was the sigh she had whispered in her ear not genuine? Were the marble-white legs that now wrapped around her waist, and the beautiful white thighs that made a saddle for her, and the sweet aroma of warm honey that came up from between red curls, and the sweet gold-glistering forearms that embraced her, and the conical breasts that softly caressed the wonderful mass of her own bosom, and the voice that sighed “Oh Seraphima!’” as her nipples grew excited, and the kiss of passion and compassion, and the tongue that parted her lips, and the cry of astonishment as Seraphima’s proboscis clitoris uncurled and engorged and engaged deep in someone else’s moist pink warmth, and rose higher and harder inside a yielding but embracing divide, and, above all, and, beyond a doubt, and, beyond all wonder, and, above and beyond all worldly beauty, were not the cries of orgasmic joy that followed on follow on follow and on follow, not the screams and screeches to heaven attuned, and of heaven attained? And the exquisite bed of coiling twisting soft sweet scented cupric curls on which both beauties now lay, and the hand that gently stroked her face and the voice that whispered “Seraphima, my love”, as she awoke and saw that they were, and was kissed into silence once more: were they not Teasetta’s?

Eve Adorer
06-08-2007, 10:16 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 6 – Dual

Seraphima knew not how to act now in the presence of her mistress.

Even by the dawn-crack-hour when Seraphima woke for her shower and to dress for her day, Teasetta was gone from Seraphima’s cubicle in the servants’ bedroom.

Only an extra hollow in the pillow of the bed she had hallowed with her hello to the highest love, confirmed the reality Seraphima still needed to metaphorically pinch herself to believe, that she had encountered with Teasetta in more than mere wet-dream.

As the black rose reluctantly rose from her bed, she poised to bend and thus lower her bosom. And, as she savoured the indisputable aroma of Teasetta’s crème-Français on the white sheet, she now knew for sure she had enjoyed proto-connubial bliss with her mistress. And, as if bells after a wedding, her breasts seemed to swing out and sing out and ring and ding out the celebration of the supreme of supreme joys.

Seraphima knew not how to act now in the presence of her mistress.

The white nylon maid’s uniform Seraphima wore this morn, was designed to be both provocative, and to heat her body with the traffic of ecstatic static.

A ‘traditional’ maid’s outfit, in order to contrast with the dark-chocolate of Seraphima’s dream complexion, it was, of course, white rather than black.

It’s top had puffed out short-sleeves, leaving Seraphima’s lovely arms bare. The skirt of its mini-dress had alternating narrow and wider pleats, and belled out a quarter way down her thighs. It thus showed the single white suspenders down the outsides of her thighs clasping her white fishnet stockings, leaving an erotic expanse of bare thigh above them naked.

Within its top, Seraphima’s chest formed fulsome twin peaks, tipped by her brown-pink nipples, which rubbed on the Velcro needles that were sewn into the inside chest of the garment to that very end.

Hidden from view, but not from Seraphima’s experience, was the fact that the skirt had a teaser ropette built into it, and to draw the dress up onto her shoulders, and to tie tight the lace-up that formed its bib, Seraphima had had, once more, to be forcefully divided, and thus thoroughly reminded that she was a girl.

Her frilly headband with the word ‘Dresser’ on it, was bright scarlet, as was the tiny square of lace-edged mock-apron that she tied with a bow around her breathtaking waist on top of the skirt of her dress.

A pair of fifteen-inch-heeled scarlet platform sandals erected her long legs as monuments to their own incredible shapeliness.

“Run my bath for me please Seraphima!” Teasetta routinely called down to the servants’ quarters.

“Of course my lady”, Seraphima answered, the message and response, if not Seraphima’s deliciously curvy legged curtseys, being conveyed instantly by the built in microphones and speakers.

After she had bent over the bath to flash the wonder of the world, to the world, in the world, of her lovely legs and sweet arms, and turned the taps to fill the tub for Teasetta, in Seraphima’s tiptoe wiggle to her mistress’ bedroom, one might have espied an extra nervousness: at least if one had not been devastated by the deep sexiness of her walk, the fascinating rock and roll of her bottom, and the shear elegant excellence of her long legs, one might.

“Good morning Seraphima” Taesetta smiled, without the slightest hint of the passion she had experienced in the black angel’s bed, showing in her face or voice.

“Good morning my lady”, Seraphima obediently curtsied, trying to hide any emotion in her own actions or intonation, the pigtails her pubic hair was twisted into, swinging between her legs, after they and their white ribbons had touched the floor like snakes in the courteous curtsey.

As she took Teasetta’s baby-doll nightdress’ top over Teasetta’s head and fed the glory of Teasetta’s titian twirls through it, and then lowered Teasetta’s nightdress-set’s panties, Seraphima’s nostrils flared, the better to enjoy the Arabian aromas of the lovely soiled body, before they were bathed in girlufactured scents.

Teasetta was naked, and Seraphima ready with the robe for her delicate shoulders, and to escort her to where she would bathe her; when Teasetta turned.

When Teasetta turned, Seraphima’s face was a neutral blank. Seraphima dare not show that she was in pursuit of other than the duties she was employed for, but her dark brown eyes could not help but wander over the wonder of her mistress’ body.

“Last night… I mean this morning…… It was truly wonderful Seraphima: exceptionally so. But you must realise that it can never ever happen again, and that, indeed it never happened even though it did. Do you understand me?” Teasetta whispered gently and sweetly.

“What never happened my lady?” Seraphima responded, with her eyes looking straight ahead, to signal her understanding.

“Thank you angel” Teasetta whispered anew.

Teasetta had so hoped to be ready for John’s return from the USA.

Seraphima was dressed this later day in another ‘Y’. A sky-blue Y. And, except that she also wore transparent plastic heelless ballet-booties, only a ‘Y’.

As she stood in wait for her mistress’ command, with the fascinatingly erotic contrasting white of the soles of her feet clearly on display in her translucent shoes. And when she wiggled her kicky-steppy way in her ballet-booties, Seraphima’s legs looked even more particularly than merely particularly wonderful.

Teasetta had busied herself on her laptop all day. She was working at home. The Hinanamia Heavenscent Noirrose case had gone to the WIGGLE. The Girl-Police had raised an objection to the leniency of the sentence. The higher court had called for a submission from Teasetta, as the judge in the case. Theirs was the power to confirm or increase the sentence. Before they did either, they demanded a submission from Teasetta, that would be read in conjunction with the transcript of the lower court’s proceedings.

Teasetta now rose from her chair, distracted.

“If you wouldn’t mind Seraphima….”, she whispered.

Obedient as ever, even to this oblique command, Teasetta tottered over on her taut teasingly tall-towered temptingly tensioned legs, and eased up her mistress' skirt, lowered her panties, and unhooked her soiled sanitary pad.

After cleaning her mistress with a moist disposable wipe, Seraphima quickly hooked in place a fresh pad, and raised her love’s panties, and lowered her dress once again.

Teasetta then sat herself back at her desk concentrating on her work, and muttered a distant “thank you” as Seraphima, her pubic hair tied as garters to her thighs, reminding her of her very exceptional femininity with her every supreme dream step, wiggled her glory out to dispose of the soiled pad and wet-wipe.

It had, of course, happened again.

Until the in-come of the on-come of the outpour of Teasetta’s monthly bleed, Teasetta had blessed Seraphima’s bed every night, and six-thousand-six-hundred-and-twenty four had been the temperature on the centigrade scale when four sets of lips had lingered in endless longing fulfilled: sixty-nine multiplying with ninety-six in four-way kiss bliss.

Kneeling, her thighs forming a bridge of sighs over the rubicund river of copper curls, and thus over the pink posy posed pouted lips in the lily white of the lovely face draped over by the curled curtain of her pubic tresses, Seraphima knew no limitation to the cries her constant crisis gone critical caused to cascade from her own poised passionate lips, less they too were silenced by her sipping of the honeyed drip from Teasetta’s titian tessellated slit.

The licks were long with longing and languor, as lovely answered the lick of lovely in the long length of their love-slits, tasting and testing, tormenting and teasing, easing and pleasing, lapping and licking, seeking and finding, sucking and seeping. And Seraphima’s clitoris answered the call of love and uncurled to plunder Teasetta’s eager throat.

Then the turn as Seraphima’s clitoris tension knew, and grew, and Teasetta wanted this substitute in her, deep where no man had ever mined her, never mind John’s inadequacy. And the girls would linger with Seraphima’s fifteen-inch clitoral finger high in the moist heat of her love. Teasetta still startled by the sensations of the pulsing of this passion pole in her sacred hole, her eyes would close and her sheath grip and her crisis’ kingdom-come on earth as it could never ever be in heaven, as she came and her cums from her cums communicated through the uncurled proboscis that was Seraphima’s butterfly clitoris, took Seraphima too to the same heaven of boundless soundless silence, and endless eternal time, where Seraphima’s screams were Teasetta’s and Teasetta’s were Seraphima’s, and both were neither girls’, and both girls’, as each and either girl, and both girls, died the little death of the culmination of combined cums, that the screams of ecstasy they heard and did not hear from the skies lit by the eclectic electrical lightening streaks and wondrous thunderous crescendo strike spikes of their arrival in negative nemesis, was punctuated with a period, when their transportation beyond nirvana was over, and they made a reluctant return to the earthly heavens of their own exquisite bodies, as they wept with joyous laughter, and then slept, sated saints, sweetly exhausted by their athletic exaltations.

In Seraphima’s servility, there had always been the willingness of her sweet nature. Was there now a newer eagerness to serve and please?

If Seraphima was honest with herself, she knew that she loved, but could not be sure she was loved.

Teasetta was a married woman. She was waiting for John’s return. If in this there was yearn, it was Seraphima’s too, in turn.

Despite that they would now raise the roof with their rows, the love of John and Teasetta and Teasetta and John was still fully found profound and sound, and Seraphima merely the subservient servant, near slave, made maid to hang around.

The boundless bed bound passion Teasetta enjoyed with Seraphima, even though in bed it had seemed so magical, seemed now to be no more than physical.

By contrast, Seraphima’s love was as passionate as the girl herself, and dwelt in no half-world or half-heart, or indeed in any ‘or’ bar ‘awe’ or ‘ore’, and only then if the ‘ore’ was the purest of pure gold.

The onset of Teasetta’s period seemed to punctuate the passion. The flow of the crimson streak in her divine divide seemed to draw a line just as red, to be read as that across which Seraphima could no longer hope to go, now that John’s return to the home was about to show.

Yet it was not in mischief or in a miscreant meaning moment, that Seraphima’s cleavage and her hugely handsome bosom seemed to glow, as she curtsied to the returning John, and, after, squeaked with the shock of the playful slap as he patted her bared bottom when she one-ton-wantonly wiggled her black beauty in traverse, but in no travesty, entrancing the rest of the entrance hallway as she glided and guided her wiggle to her duties.

A week had passed since the return and a telling to John by the dutiful servant girls who shared Seraphima’s room, of whom they had seen wander her wonder into Seraphima’s bed cubicle, and what they had heard, as if they could have avoided the joyous sighs shouts screeches and screams of the two supreme creatures sharing each others’ wildest dreams.

John had said nothing to his wife, until she once more berated him for his lack of bedroom prowess, and thrown in his impotence in business to boot, in a cruelty that only reflected her deep sexual frustration.

Teasetta was skating on thin ice. Only the wealth she had inherited from her mother gave her the comfort zone within which she could feel confident that she would not end up a servant like most poor girls did: like Seraphima had.

If her stocks and shares in ponygirl breeding and gold and coal mines, such as those run by Colon and Sphincter Incorporated where Seraphima had slaved, failed, her husband could simply throw her into the streets.

The news that John had sold the full-length portrait ‘Nubian Nymphet in Filly’s Harness’, after it had turned out to be a genuine Millicent Minelletti, and that it had fetched one-million dollars at Christina’s New Edingow auction rooms, silenced the auburn angel in astonishment.

So stunned with joy for her husband’s success was his wife, that she hardly heard what he said next about the scullion finding titian-red and dark-brown hairs inexplicably inextricably intertwined in Seraphima’s bed.

Once more in her white nylon maid’s uniform that day, and heelless transparent ballet booties, Seraphima saw tears in Teasetta’s eyes, the outcome, she feared, of another blazing row with John.

John gone to work his day, aglow with a victory over his wife: as she lowered Teasetta’s nightgown to a decorative flowered circle on the floor, around the naked immobile nubile’s long white legs, readying her to bathe her, Seraphima was stunned at her mistress’ sudden conversation.

As she turned her lovely face with its miracle of surrounding curls to talk girl to girl, Teasetta surprisingly announced: “John says he is going to report you to the Girl-Police for raping me”.

“He is, of course, entirely right. It’s an honour thing.”

“You can blame it on the loud mouths of your fellow servants, Seraphima. One of them has played serpent and told of us devouring each others figs.”

As she stepped over into the bath and lowered herself to soak, before Seraphima must wash her, Teasetta curved her calves to a perdition of powerful curves.

Teasetta continued her theme: “Of course, it might end my career. It could be concluded by the court that there had been mutuality. Fornication is a major crime. We would both be whipped in Spindon market place, as a warning to other girls.”

“But John is both a jealous and yet a generous man. If our intercourse can be demonstrated as preparatory to troilism, it would no longer be fornication in the eyes of the law.”

“In other words, if it was my gift to him, as my husband and master, to get you into our bed, nothing further could or would be done or said.”

“I’ve told him about the risk to you. I mean, the pill and all that. You not being protected in any way, with there being no need….but John wants to fuck you. That will be alright won’t it?” Teasetta concluded, as she raised her slender left arm for Seraphima to wash it.

“Of course my lady”, Seraphima shyly answered, without a reflex in her face, even though she was devastated by the crude pronouncement.

The cry of pain was pitiful, and yet so horny-making.

Seraphima, though she knew she had been betrayed by Teasetta, was fighting not to give the Girl-Police what they repeatedly told her they wanted and would have: a confession and a guaranteed plea of ‘very guilty’ to the crime of rape.

Seraphima was bound by her wrists behind a whipping post in the cold cruel white-tiled torture room of Spindon Girl-Police’s Central Station House.

On her breasts, fastened like a bra, with buckled leather straps around behind her, and thus behind the same post she was tied to, was the tit-clamp they were tightening on her. Its parallel horizontal upper and lower wooden jaws had already been squeezed half-closed. With her wrists tied hopelessly behind her and behind the post, Seraphima was helpless, and could only view through tear-mist, the three wing-headed bolts that pressed the clamp slowly, but equally inevitably, closed, as they were hand-turned, three turns each, every fifteen minutes, as they had been for the past two-hours.

“NO! NO! NO!!” Seraphima cried as the wing-headed bolts were turned slowly, right, left, and middle in turn, three turns more, to tighten the pressure on her titanic tits further.

Seraphima’s huge breasts were squashed horrendously. Their tip-tops, forced out by the tit-clamp’s pressure, were blown-up like children’s balloons. Her nipples were hugely swollen and extremely sensitive, with their milk-holes opened like the centre of the buds of delicate wild flowers.

Seraphima must but must think of something anything to try and take her mind off the dreadful pain.

After her arrest, they had girlackled her wrists and dragged her through the streets, making her totter tippy-toe in her white nylon maid’s dress, and her ballerina-shoes, with her luscious legs tensioned taut smooth erotic curves, and her huge breasts dancing a fantastic tango fandango in her top, with the nipple-rubbing Velcro cruelly exciting her, as she wiggled helplessly along. She had been tied and made to run behind the Girl-Police cart, hauled by its sweat-glistening twin ponygirls, dressed only in their perspiration-soaked light-blue, police-blue, thongs.

“Wot’s diss one den?”, had come a weary voice as the two pretty blonde coppettes had hauled Seraphima before the charge desk.

“Maid wot raped ‘er mistress, sarge”, came the flat-voiced response.

“Name’s Seraphima Diablos Desiree. Mistress and victim is a Professor Teasetta Loveschild.” the voice, too world-weary for one so young as its twenty-year-old owner, continued.

“This Prof Loveschild’s ‘usband, a John Charles Loveschild, is ‘er accuser, and ses de uver servants ‘ll be witness, if’n we don’t get no confess from ‘er”

“We won’t get no fankyou from de court if’n we don’t get no confess”, the sergeant, a stunning redhead, mused.

“Tek ‘er prints for der records, and give ‘er wot-for wiv the tit-clamp will yer?” came her rhetorical instruction.

As the shapely twenty-year old blonde undid the laces forming the bib of Seraphima’s maid’s dress, she and her companion had giggled excitedly with exchanges of raised eyebrows at Seraphima’s very evident size.

Sweeping the top of the dress aside, they had gasped as the full erotic enormity of the treasure chest of breathtaking breasts with which Seraphima was blessed, was revealed to them.

“God, you’ve got a fuckin’ bootiful pair on yer”, the leading copette sighed, “No fuckin’ wonder all the girls go for yer!”

“Look luv. We don’t wanna ‘urt yer none: not really.”

“First we is gonna tek yer prints, for der records like. And, when we’ve dun dose, if yer wanna mek it easy on yerself, yer can simply sign a confess”, the pretty copette routinely bribed; or tried to.

Seraphima, terrified though she was, shook her lowered lovely head in a positive negative.

Then Seraphima’s sensitive nostrils had been assaulted by a smell she associated with the altar at the convent.

The truth of that association was proven as she was next turned, her lovely arms pulled up hard straight, as levers behind her, and her trunk forced down to make her press her bared breasts onto the two heated candle-wax wafer squares, prepared and spaced, on separate trays, on a desk behind her.

As her brown-pink nipples were scalded in the hot red wax, Seraphima screamed, and fought to rise. But the copettes were skilled at restraint, and made her hold her nipples in the wax until it had cooled, and was thereafter twice hollowed, by the twice hallowed shape, of Seraphima’s nipples’ imprints.

As she was allowed to rise, tender tears trickled down Seraphima’s heavenly cheeks.

And yet, as she was allowed to rise, she watched, fascinated, as the junior of the two copettes used a sort of pastry-cutter to circle-out around the imprints, and, as she cast the remainder of the red wax back into a bubbling melting pot, carefully knifed under and set aside the two resulting circles centred by the mirror impressions of Seraphima’s impressive nipples.

“Day’s unique” said the leading blonde copette. “Each girl’s got different nipple prints. Yer nipple prints is as unique to you as is yer finger prints. Of course both men and women ‘as got fingers and nipples, but we tek the nipple prints off of de girls, cos there ain’t no man got nipples quite like wot a girl ‘as, see”.

“NO! NO! NO!!” Seraphima screamed as the wing-nuts were again turned slowly, right, left, and middle in turn, three full turns, to tighten the pressure on her titanic tits yet still further.

Her agony’s agony made her holler with the pain, as her massively swollen nipples felt like they had just exploded.

“I’ll confess! I’ll confess! I’ll confess!” she shouted, as the pain grew at last too much for her bare tits to bear.

“Yea, yea!” the sergeant sneered. “We’ll tek the clamp offa yer, when we is sure you ain’t gonna change yer mind. You’ll wish yer’d never ‘ad no tits by when der next ‘arf-hour is gone-by darlin’”.

“Let the accused enter the court!”

Seraphima’s toes, her big toes, were squashed into tiptoe clamps. She must walk on the top-tips of her big toes, with those toes clamped into compressed steel rings, which then tapered down and belled out to form the circles, like hooves, on which she must walk.

The steel rings holding her tall, were chain-linked together, and had huge heavy steel balls trailing and dragging inescapably behind her.

On her lovely head was a steel ring worn like a crown. Down from the back of it hung chains to which her wrists were girlacled. A short chain between those girlacles, kept her wrists together at the top of the cleavage of her bottom.

As if they had a life and potential freedom, independent of her, as indeed, to a considerable degree they had, Seraphima’s nipples had had rings forced through, and multiple chains ran from these nipple rings in a vain attempt to corral and tame, hold and control, the natural wildness of her tits.

The rings in her nipples were chained firstly, to the front of the ‘crown’ on her head. Then also, to a brutally tight steel waist-belt that squashed Seraphima down to a nine-inch hourglass middle.

In order to stop their independence and the freedom of each tit from the other, her nipples also had chains to link her tits together.

To counterbalance the chain linking her nipples, and support it in the hopeless fight to contain and restrain and restrict the freedom of her tits, another chain ran from each nipple ring around her back.

To further wrestle with and wrest from them, the freedom of her tits, yet another chain fastened to her nipple rings, ran around her neck and tried to hold her heavy tits up to tame them in that direction too.

And behind all these chains, her tits were clamped in a pair of padlocked rigid barbell-girlacles, that squeezed them hard at their middles to try and hold them in check.

And in the final hopeless endeavour to tame her titanic tit’s wild wanton wilfulness, each nipple ring had a quarter-pound dangling lead weight pulling the breast down and trying to force it to yield its capacious rapacious freedom to contained and controlled captivity.

An extremely tight crupper-chain divided and ruled over Seraphima’s lower lips. As she struggled to wiggle, naked bar her cruel chains, her legs a profound profusion of perturbingly powerfully provocative conspicuously carnal curves, to the accused’s stand, at the front of the judge’s bench, the long fronds of her floor-draping flawless pubic hair blessed the courtroom floor.

“Let the accused enter the court!”, came the final feminine cry, followed by a gasp as Seraphima’s inescapable wonder, struggled, in the ‘chink’ and ‘chank’ and ‘clink’ and ‘clank’ of her cruel chains, to come before the judge.

“May it please your worship, the second case before this court today, is that of Miss Seraphima Diablos Desiree, for occasioning, with malice aforethought the cold calculated planned and repeated rape of her mistress and superior”, the court clerk recited from a clipboard.

Seraphima’s proud head was now slowly raised, to look at the judge, who sat with her spectacularly spectral face, with delicious freckles dancing over her pretty nose, her ice-green eyes glowing with her overwhelming femininity, her hair, a torrent of teasing pleasing tumbling copper-gold curls flowing fulsomely down to the ground below where she sat, and her sex sundered by the apex of the splitter on her seat, to remind her to be evenly divided when dispensing justice.

Teasetta was being given another chance by her assessors. If she really wanted to gain promotion to the WIGGLE, Teasetta must not fluff it this time.

“Seraphima Diablos Desiree, before me as I speak is a full confession bearing a red wax seal in signature which, I am assured and am therefore fully satisfied, is of wax impressed by the unique imprint of one of your exceptionally exquisite nipples.”

“Also before me, and also bearing an affirmatory red wax seal formed from the unique imprimatur of your naked nipple, is your formal anticipatory acceptance of the sentence this court will hand down today, for the crime, the preamble of this second formally sealed and thus signed document, confirms that you unreservedly, irreversible, incontrovertibly, and irrevocably plead ‘very guilty’ to.”

Teasetta’s husky purring-kitten-in-a-mink-fur-rug voice, rang crystal clarity around the hushed silence of the court: a silence only punctuated by the clink of one of the many chains that tried hopelessly helplessly uselessly to hold them in check, as Seraphima breathed and her breasts proved their continuing freedom to roam.

And in the intonation Teasetta employed, only Seraphima could recognise the particular status of arousal enjoyed, by the titian-tressed wonder.

“Seraphima Diablos Desiree, you have confessed of your own free will, before the indisputably honest honoured witness of those brave and selfless upholders of the girl-laws, the pride of this and every town in England, the noble copettes of the Girl-Police, to the unforgivable crime of rape of a fellow girl, and worse, of a fellow girl you skilfully, wilfully, sinfully, prised from the highly prized and rightly honoured state of dutiful matrimony”.

In answer to the intonation Seraphima knew, told of the toll of the rising fever of the fervour with which the pressure of her divided slit, parted by the ‘splitter’ which sundered her wonder, was provoking and stoking the astounding Teasetta, Seraphima too found her mystery moistening.

“You, Seraphima Diablos Desiree, are an evil schemer. You used the astonishing beauty of your body and face, and above and beyond all, the compelling wonder of your negress’ beautiful lips, to entice and entangle a married woman. Dressing at all times to maximise induction of seduction, you employed your breasts and your long lovely, extremely shapely, legs, to ensnare that poor innocent of the charms of young girls like yourself, away from the straight and narrow course of having her curl-stubbled fallow field furrowed and seeded by her male husband’s penile ploughshare, in the natural order of coitus in the approved missionary position, to the heinous sin of female mutual masturbation!”

As she sensed and scented the arousal to approaching orgasm of her darling love, divided but clearly not overruled by the two-centuries old splitter, on which her sainted scented centre was copiously cascading its aroma Arabic in such abundance, that Teasetta was all but foaming from her pretty little mouth too, Seraphima also anointed the appointed punishment that divided her girl lips and held imprisoned, by the same strong steel chain, her proboscis clitoris, trying in vain to uncurl and rise out and up from its hood.

“Seraphima Diablos Desiree, this court, without hesitation, accepts both your confession, and your confirmation of the acceptability to you, of any sentence that is handed down in recognition of your right and proper plea of ‘very guilty’ of the repeated rape of an innocent married woman”.

As her breathing grew heavier, the heavy weights fighting to contain the wilful wildness of Seraphima’s breasts, tortured her to the climax Teasseta’s cruel words were mounting both girls to, in simultaneous stimulation from the simulcritude to oral and aural sex, that the olfactory musk of both girls’ enticing cunt spice, in its shining wetness on the wood of the splitter and the steel of the chain divider teaser, respectively, bore wet witness too.

“Seraphima Diablos Desiree, the sentence of this court is that you be returned to the bowels of the coalmines from which it has been wholly the misfortune of this world that you were ever allowed to rise, and there be cast down in an eternity of its all-enveloping blackness, to work 24/7 as a bound pitponygirl for all eternity, unless and until such time as your body, which will be photographed in all intimate detail, including the intricate insides of the vile devil between your incredibly horny legs, and displayed on the internet, can be sold to the highest bidder, and the proceeds of its sale, for whatever purpose it may be bought for, paid in wholly inadequate recompense to the husband of the poor girl whose holy body you so unforgivably foully defiled.”

At this last gasping breathless deathless sentence, Seraphima hung her head and Teasetta hid her tears. And both in the sighing cry that Seraphima emitted in potent emotion at her sentence, and in the commotion from the assembled public at its pronouncement: commotion that hid the hyperventilating gasping of Teasetta as she teased out her final words, before she squeaked squawked and squealed with what was taken as outrage, there was disguised the distinction of the score by eros and venus both, of sympathetic simultaneous tsunamic comings of cums, that only two such creatures as these: creatures twain but purely and properly spiritually sexually same in their wonderful wonder as the epitome of girl, could endure and enjoy in the succulence of their salivating mysterious all-powerful aromatically Arabian scented centres.

06-08-2007, 10:25 AM
wow...great stuff...thanks

06-08-2007, 10:25 AM
another great chapter...thanks

Eve Adorer
06-08-2007, 10:26 AM
(by Eve Adorer)

Part 1 - Chapter 7 – Who’ll

“Get a bloody move on you fucking idle whore!!”

The Vulva Mine was renowned for two qualities. One was the extreme excellence and purity of its coal. The other was the all but impossibility of accessing that same jewel of fuel.

Had it not been that the girls forced to work there were unpaid criminals on life sentences: the key sentence, or rather, the key word in that sentence, expressing that their lives were expendable; the cost of extracting the coal from three miles underground in the Welsh mountains, would have made for the economics of the lunatic asylum.

Seraphima had not seen the light of day in nine whole months. During that deep dark dank gestation period, she had been worked so relentlessly cruelly hard in the womb of the earth, that she had had to learn to sleep on her feet; or rather on her knees.

“Get a bloody move on you fucking idle whore!!”

Seraphima crawled. She was a pitponygirl. She was completely naked. Her ankles were strapped and buckled around her upper thighs at her crutch. Her big toes were tied in leather nooses. The two lengths from the tightened nooses, taut as piano wires, formed an ‘X’ cross across her arched back, as they made their way to the hoops at either side of the steel bit that they pulled hard back in her exquisite mouth.

This held her head up with her neck agonisingly bent back, meaning to let her see her way forward better, though in fact she must crawl mostly, in black as horribly opposite, as the black to describe her beautiful body was wholly apposite, for the negress was allowed no protective helmet nor its directing lamp.

Seraphima must haul as she crawled. The cargo she pulled was precious. It could not be allowed that the superfine coal mined in this furnace-hot hell, be damaged and broken smaller than the gauge of the hand-sized cobbles it naturally shattered itself into, when the girlminers, lying on their sides to access the thin seam, naked and sweating, swung their picks to remove more of the face.

Seraphima must haul as she crawled. The cargo she pulled was precious. If the process of getting the one mile up the sloping tunnel to the next level saw it being chipped into slack, or turned to dust, the expense of its mining would not enable a profit to be made.

The coal trucks ran on rails. The potential for damage to the cargo thus only came from the means of their motion. Therefore Seraphima must haul her train of twenty filled trucks, the one mile to the next level of the mine, where they could be unloaded onto a conveyor to take them to the surface, bound in such a way as to ensure the continued integrity of her precious cargo.

The cargo was far more precious than the pitponygirl that must haul it. She was only needed to form the engine for the train. Her comfort was immaterial.

Seraphima thus straddled an engine. The engine was designed to make best use of her feminine attributes, for the benefit of the safety of the coal.

The engine was in fact no more than a chassis, and Seraphima provided its superb bodywork.

The chassis had a central beam, with two cross-members. The cross-members supported the rail-truck wheels on which the engine rolled: the same size wheels as the trucks the engine hauled behind it.

The trunk of Seraphima’s body, lying face down except that her head was forced up, was mounted to the four-wheeled engine, with her outstretched, forward-reaching arms, tied at her slender wrists, to far distant handlebars, just beyond the front wheels. The rear wheels were at Seraphima’s chest.

Seraphima was fixed as the bodywork of the engine, by her wrists, by her neck, and by her tits.

Her pretty hands gripped the handlebars, to provide the push the engine needed to advance. Her head was through a choke-chain: a chain looped around on itself to form a noose that would throttle her if she failed to use the gentle strength of her adorable arms, and the grip of her pretty hands. The threat of its choking her was an ever-present incentive for her to concentrate on the heavy burden of her task.

Seraphima’s cunt was impaled by, and on, a one-foot-long steel penis, held within her body by a crupper-chain between her legs to a belt-chain tight round her belly.

The twenty loaded trucks behind her were chained to the steel hoop in the base of the dildo up her cunt. Her crupper chain used the same hoop to hold the dildo up her.

Seraphima’s fantastically beautiful legs, bound up as they were, were stationed with her padded knees, the pads the only mercy shown her, crawling in the slots between the slats formed by the sleepers of the tracks.

But the most scientific and clever factor in the design of the engine was in its suspension: in its primary and secondary springing, and in the dampers of its secondary springs.

The rear of the two cross-members, the one that bore the rear wheels at Seraphima’s chest, included two coiled, spring-steel springs, mounted and fixed at their bases to that cross-member. These springs formed cones: inverted cones, with their narrowest ends, spaced, and fixed to the cross-member.

Within the cones formed by these coiled springs, and clamped by the rings through her nipples, and thus, in themselves, forming both the primary springs for the engine, as well as the dampers to cushion the secondary coil springs in which they were forced to nestle, were the superb splendours of Seraphima’s tits.

To protect the precious cargo she hauled, Seraphima’s tits were being employed as springs, and as cushion-dampers for the secondary springs of the engine.

Seraphima must crawl in an endless circle hauling twenty trucks loaded with coal, by her cunt. She had now crawled that endless circle twenty-four hours a day, for nine months, almost non-stop.

The circle took her a slow stroll along the track, while and where her trucks could be loaded by turn, with the precious coal. She must then crawl, eventually using her knees as if they were the cogs of a clockwork’s wheel to hold the train in the tracks, as she must haul it up the one-mile long, thirty-degree incline of a terrifying vagina-narrow tunnel, to the level at which her trucks could be unloaded. And finally she must crawl back down the opposite tunnel in her circular route routine, to where her emptied trucks could be filled once again.

“Get a bloody move on you fucking idle whore!!”

The crawl tortured Seraphima’s body severely. The hugely heavy trucks she hauled were tethered to the engine her body formed, by a long strong chain, hooked to the hoop at the base of the steel dildo forced twelve-inches up her cunt.

As she crawled, the dildo was pulled out and then pushed back. Pulled out as she took the strain of the trucks. Pushed back as the trucks rolled freely, and her crupper chain reminded the dildo to go back home. The dildo thus slowly fucked her as she crawled. This slow masturbation of her honeypot, was intended as comfort, not for her sake, but to keep her sweet and neat, so that she would not be inclined to jerk the trucks and damage the cargo.

A further incentive to the desired end of protecting the coal whole, was in the binding of her big toes to the bit in her mouth. Through this binding, she was encouraged to take metronomically precise equal steps in her crawl, and to crawl at a steady pace. The pull on her neck via her tortured toes was agonising. The prospect of dislocating her neck if she failed in precision of crawl, tortured and taunted and haunted her mind.

The employment of her breasts as springs worked in both directions. The pull on her nipples, through the rings that pierced them, discouraged Seraphima from letting go the handlebars by which she pushed the train forward, using the power from her superb thighs. And, at any time in the circuit when the trucks were running free, and her body thus recoiled from the relaxation of the strain on her cunt, her tits would absorb the shock of her body being thrust forward.

The track was rough and uneven. Consequently, throughout her hauling crawl, Seraphima’s tits were in constant use. Where one track was slightly lower than its parallel, her tits absorbed the shock of the rock and roll of the train. Their spring-action, also absorbed the impact of the gaps between the lengths of track. If the trucks suddenly lurched or jerked, Seraphima’s tits softened the jerk or lurch by taking its force, both in the pulling back, and in any impact from a follow-up forward motion.

Seraphima’s tits formed the primary springs. They took the shock of any impact on the engine or the trucks. They were contained within, and functioned in conjunction with the secondary steel-coil springs. But the role of the secondary springs was minor compared with the duties performed by Seraphima’s tits. The secondary springs were, essentially, only stationed to shape her tits for the job they, her tits, must do. They contained her and shaped her so that her tits would provide the cushioning springs in their own right.

When Seraphima’s tits absorbed shock, the secondary springs took the impact when her tits were squashed with her forward thrust, and thus filled them. They then acted as if they were brassiere cups, continuing to contain, locate, and restrain the resilient tit, after the shock had been absorbed by the tit, and the tit was able to return to its standby position, for the next bump that it would have to absorb the shock from.

Seraphima provided the emotional forward motion of the train, through the erotic curves of her superb legs. Her legs were no less orgasmically stunning for their being bound up doubled. Indeed their binding discovered new perturbingly potent poetic curves in the magical magisterial massivity of her bold thighs, and the taut tension of her calves, and the erotic whiteness of the soles of her feet, dirty as they were with coal dust, in contrast with her heavenly Nubian negress’ blackness.

Seraphima knew no rest except when there was a change of shift. When one set of the girls forced to hew the coal was allowed to crawl up the shaft back to the cages in which they slept till they must mine coal again. And as the next shift of girls crawled down the return shaft to start their hacking at the coalface, Seraphima was given water from a hose and fed an oat and girl-milk mix through a funnel.

“Get a bloody move on you fucking idle whore!!”

The overseer used her cane liberally, and seemed to take particular delight in whipping the helpless Seraphima, her fellow negress, on her superb thighs.

Never had hope known such extreme perigee in opposition to apogee.

Seraphima thought of Teasetta constantly. In the hell in which she now dwelt, her only comfort were the cums that her torture gave her.

Seraphima could only keep herself alive, only remind herself of her humanity, only tell herself that she was still a girl and not the pony they were using her for, by masturbating herself to a cum within and with her bonds.

Her body was filthy and stank of unwashed sweat and cunt. Her long trailing tail of pubic hair was matted with her piss and her faeces. Her knees, though hardening to the cruel use they were being forced to, were raw and sore even within her kneepads.

She could cry, but what use was crying? She could only find comfort in the cum. She knew true too, that she could only devalue the cum if she let herself cum too often. So she appointed that she would have a weekly cum, and so give herself the only thing she had to look forward to anymore: the joy of a cum as she dreamed of kissing Teasetta, while she, Seraphima, crawled with her beautiful legs folded, her tits being used as cushioning springs, helpless in her bonds hauling twenty trucks heavy with coal, using her knees in-between the sleepers for grip, stepping her knees on her pubic tail’s long trail from time to painful time, up the one-mile black-as-night tunnel of the Vulva Coalmine’s close-clinging-to-near-crushing, close-walled-‘vagina tunnel’.

Was it her appointment to the WIGGLE, some months back now, that had brought on Teasetta’s seeming nymphomania?

Ever since the court case in which she had sentenced Seraphima to the coalmines, John’s seed-drill had found a new and eager fecundity in her furrow, and he was regularly ploughing his farm and setting his seed, as his wife came on his rod and staff: his comforting drill.

Even though he now found he could make them fully fed, where he had once left her frustrated instead, so near insatiability was Teasetta now, that John almost feared her demands in bed.

Having just emptied his balls of his seed, sucking his cock dry with her lovely mouth for the fifth time that night, Teasetta squatted rolling John’s cum over her lips to moisten them. It was a follow-up to a beauty-tip she had read in a magazine Seraphima had left in her bedroom cubicle.

Meanwhile as she masturbated herself for him to watch and enjoy, her husky honey would voice her longing for his cock in her cunt again. And poor John knew his inadequacy was inevitably heading him to impotence before the omnipotence of the insatiable Teasetta.

Was it Teasetta’s power over her fellow girls that found her no longer fallow but meet to be filled fiercely with meat, and rammed to an eager cum?

The sultry voice of the pilotette breathed sweet Scots’ Highland enticement over the intercom.

“Troiscavity Airlines welcome you to Flight 593 to Ntobi City, the capital of Senabre, in the heart of southern Africa.”

“You may now unfasten your seatbelts.”

“My name is Natasha Magillery-Brown. I have the honour of being the captainess for your flight.”

“Your flight will last just under five hours, and we will soon have all you lucky people sunning beside those wonderful lakes and islands in inland Senabre. And, no doubt, you will also soon be phoning your girlfriends and wives back home to say how busy you all are!”

“Reports from ahead say the sun is shining and it is a cool seventy Fahrenheit in Ntobi at present; but with warmer temperatures on their way.”

“Now that seatbelts are off, Mary McRavish and Julie McCunny, our two lovely hostesses, will come down the aircraft to offer you refreshments. Please give them time to serve you all.”

“Finally: enjoy your flight. And thank you for choosing to fly with Troiscavity: ‘The Feline Airline’.”

In deed of fact, the boredom of the flight to the lakelands of Senabre was only relieved by the loveliness of the topless airhostesses in their mini-kilts, tiptoeing and bending over straight-legged, curvy-legged, leggy-legged, in their pirouette positioned ballet-shoes, as they ministered to each passenger by turn.

The airline had chosen well. The two girls hosting this flight were stunning. It was obvious from both their bodies, particularly their bare legs, that they were keenly athletic, and kept themselves in immaculate trim.

Both girls had heavy pendulous bosoms, firm with their youthfulness, dancing delightfully on their chests as they busied about the business of offering refreshment to each of the passengers by turn.

Both girls knew that, despite the selection of films showing for free on the seat-back, flat-screen, high-definition TVs; they would be the centres of attention during the flight. They knew and took delight in being so pleasing to look at.

Neither girl was more than twenty-two, and their ages matched the middle statistic of their lovely figures. Each and both girls had their blonde hair drawn up into a ponytail. One had gorgeous brown eyes, the other piercing, particularly intelligent, radiant light blue.

Despite that they would be wiggling around for miles, walking up and down the aisle on their tiptop tiptoes, in their uniform tartan ballet-shoes, their fitness gave strength to their beautiful legs, to which their en-pointe stance only acted to add additional erotic curvature.

Their kilts were tiny and, each and every time they bent, straight-legged, as per their training and company policy, to offer a service to their passengers, they flashed that they wore no panties, and that they were hygienically shaven nude.

Each lovely hostess took one side of the aisle, and it was not without a passing note of appreciation, that Teasetta subliminally recorded that Julie McCunny, with her light blonde hair drawn up and away from her freckled face into the regulation ponytail, and her lighthouse-flashing light-blue eyes, was gradually, gracefully, and very extremely leggilly, making her delicious way to where Teasetta and husband John were seated.

Teasetta cuddled up to John and closed her eyes momentarily. They were off on their second honeymoon. It was a treat to celebrate the second anniversary of their marriage, which was only a while away, and, if truth be told, for gratitude that they had, at last, found each other satisfying in bed.

Teasetta dreamily watched with deep pleasure, the lovely blonde Scots-lassie airhostess, Julie McCunny, as Julie duly swung her hips, and her tits, while she delighted deliciously down the central aisle.

At last the divine airhostess reached where John and Teasetta sat. And she leaned over with a sweet smile and sweeter breath: the smile more genuine by far than that required of such a professional decoration, and quietly, politely, enquired: “Refreshment for madam or sir?”

Sleepy: John waved a hand to signal the negative.

Teasetta though, leaned forward and wiped the Scots’ beauty’s left nipple with the fresh wet-wipe she was offered, before taking that nipple into the lips of her lovely mouth, to slowly suck fresh warm milk from Julie’s tit.

As Teasetta suckled, the blonde Scot held closed the nipple of her other tit, to stop it leaking in sympathy or empathy, or, far more likely, shear jealousy, that Teasetta, the tousle-curled titian-teaser, was sucking its twin, rather than letting it please her by what was warm and white it within.

As she bent over to dutifully let Teasetta suckle on her tit, Julie’s lovely legs were standing to attention. And, as she bent over to let Teasetta suck her milk, she did not react in the slightest, it being part of the service she was paid to provide, when the lovely negress in the outside seat on the opposite side of the aisle to Teasetta and John, slid an enquiring middle finger into Julie McCunny’ hairless cunt, and then eagerly licked her withdrawn finger clean.

“Mmmm! Mummy, you must, but must order some of this to go with your milk!! Taste it! It’s so scrumptious!!! Mmmm! …. Oh god its delicious: pure butterscotch!!!”….

Marina Ntebeli was a native of Senabre, born and bred. The stunning little negress, five-feet-three of giggling tease, with a constant smile that outlit the combined constellations of the universe, was a proud product of Ntobi City: school and university.

At eighteen, her beauty had nearly won her the honour of representing Senabre in the ‘Miss Galaxy’ finals. Only her height had told against her.

At eighteen, she had still been a growing girl. Now she was twenty-two, she was one inch taller, but a lot more shapely, and would have knocked the judges dead, if she still had the contest in mind.

Marina was a highly talented musician: a violinist. But her mother had lacked the money to let her go to Paris to perfect her art. Marina had understood. She knew she was needed in the family’s boat-hire business.

She had graduated from state-funded college, with a starred double-first in mathematics and music, at fifteen. In the seven years since, with her high intelligence and her business acumen, she had secured the family company’s release from its crippling capitalising loans. Now mummy, and Marina’s two older sisters, had security at last.

‘A London England Shopping Trip’ the poster read. ‘All expenses paid for luxury return flight. Find your own accommodation, and some spending money will be yours too: from us: free. Or let us provide an hotel and leave it to you to supply the spending money!’

PanMart were moving in on Senabre. Ntobi City, the heart of the Senabre tourist industry, was an ideal first location. The Europeans and North Americans who came to holiday at Ntobi already knew, trusted, even loved the PanMart brand. The native Senabrans would be converted in no time too; or so the plan went.

The free trip to London ‘for one-hundred lucky Senabrans’, advertised in the handout pushed into Marina’s pretty hand as she wiggled in her en-pointe heelless ballet shoes to her bank one morning, was a promotion gimmick.

Her mama tried the contest. Her mama’s luck was in. Marina Ntebeli and her mama already had relations in Kempston, London. Marina now found herself, on a trip for two, with other Senabran girl winners and her mother, to the capital of the old colonial days: historic London, England.

PanMart was the place to shop, or so Marina had been told by an article in ‘Hi Magazine’. ‘You can get anything and everything there: the highest quality, and the biggest and best discounts’.

Marina was not so silly as to believe it entirely of course, but she thought it worth a try while she was in London. She had come to London to shop and was going to get the best she could out of the trip.

In Kempston, where Marina and her mother were staying, rather than the hotel PanMart would have funded for them, there was a PanMart just around the corner. And now Marina was pushing her trolley around its ‘marvel halls’.

To the sensitive ears and hearing Marina possessed, the music constantly playing in the background as she wheeled her trolley, was an insult, an assault, and the undoubted result of her initially determining not to shop there ever again.

But, at the meat-counter, she had found what she had been looking for. PanMart sold whole chicks: just as she had been told.

There was a magnificent display. Marina could not fault PanMart for their presentation. Everything was so hygienic and clean as well.

The meat was in ozone-layer-friendly-produced plastic trays; at least the chicks were. It was all neatly trussed and the tray wrapped over with cling-film. The legs were tucked up alongside the breast, and the ‘wings’ also neatly folded double in the same way. This style of presentation was new to Marina.

The chicks were protected and yet you could see what you were getting, and that the meat was clean and healthy. Back home, all the meat would have been out in the open air, with all the horror of flies crawling on it. Back home you could also see what you were getting and, if you were in the upper classes like Marina was now, did not like to see it, and left it to the lower orders to deal with.

There on the wall in PanMart too, was a chart, pointing out the different joints of meat. Marina had already spotted what she wanted though. She wanted a whole chick, and this particular one was superb meat.

Marina had heard about the way they injected water to keep meat looking appetising, and the red meat a shade of red rather than its natural nearer brown. However, PanMart had a declared ethical policy, and, though the florescent lights made for reflection from the cellophane wrap, the chick Marina had chosen looked perfect: excellently prepared, excellently presented: mouth-watering indeed.

Marina was impressed. Leave the damned awful muzak behind, and PanMart would be more than welcome in Senabre, if only for this superb cleanliness, and the presentation, and the fantastic range of products. It was high time sleepy Senabre got into the 21st century like this!

As advised, Marina had looked for the Union Jack: the sign of British meat. She wanted the best. The chick she had chosen was the only one left on the open refrigeration shelf with another flag marked on it too. A red ‘+’ cross on a white background, which told Marina that this was English meat in particular: the best of the best. The Scottish and Irish meat looked equally splendid, but the advertisement in ‘Hi Magazine’ had been accompanied by an article extolling the virtues of English meat, and that fact had permeated Marina’s head, subliminally.

The meat-counter assistant had been very good at helping her load her choice of the choice chicks onto her trolley. Little Marina would never have managed so cumbersome a burden on her own.

And now, she was determined to make her exit, and escape the dreadful muzak, as quickly as she was able.

The queue at the checkout counter was slow, and Marina, unusually for such a sweet-tempered girl, found herself becoming impatient. Then she giggled and smiled to herself at the realisation of how silly it was to be losing her temper just for finding herself tapping her fingers on the handle of her trolley in time to the damned awful music.

As she reached the counter at last:-

“Just the one item is it luv?”, the middle-aged checkout assistant routinely enquired, as if she could not see well enough for herself.

“Mmm?. Oh sorry. Er, er, yes. Just the one….”, Marina confirmed.

“Will someone be available to help me load it into a ponygirl-taxicab please?” Marina smiled, just as Marina always but always smiled.

“No problem luv. Or, if you live nearby and wanna use the trolley to take it home, you can leave a deposit for the return of the trolley?” the bored assistant more-or-less yawned.

“Oh that would be great: save all the double handling. I live virtually round the corner”, Marina smiled effortlessly sincerely again.

The assistant ran the reader over the barmark on the cellophane wrapper covering the purchase in Marina’s trolley.

“That’s five dollars for the chick, and twenty dollars deposit for the trolley then darlin’.”

Marina handed over her Amex, and the assistant slid it into the reader on her till.

“Pop in your PIN number and then press ‘enter’ please luv. Do you have a PanMart Bonus Points Card?”.

“No… er…No I don’t, thank you”, Marina confirmed, her brilliant mind brought back from its attractive distraction by the routine enquiry.

As the PanMart computer took its time to read the input from the counter where Marina stood, and from her card, the metaphorical clock literally ticked.

“Looks like we might get the rain they promised don’t it?….”, the checkout woman mused, using up her main conversation-opener as they waited.

The conversational point was wasted. The till now burst into life, spewing out a receipt, in which the teller wrapped Marina’s Amex, and handed receipt and card into Marina’s dainty hand.

“Please don’t lose your receipt luv. We can’t refund your card for the trolley’s return if you lose the proof of payment,” the counter-assistant mumbled without looking Marina in her sparkling brown eyes.

After pausing to lodge her Amex and the receipt behind the suspender kissing the front of her smooth brown right thigh, and lower the hem of her miniskirt once more, Marina began to push her trolley along the megamarket’s exit isle.

And, as she wiggled her delight away from the tills, she heard near-distantly over her shoulder, a bored mechanical:-

“….. Looks like we might get the rain they promised don’t it?….”

Home was just a short trolley push around the corner, but enough of a walk for Marina to get her wiggle in full sexy swing.

Marina parked the trolley, took her door-key from where she lodged it behind her tight-stretched left suspender, opened wide the door of the apartment she was living at the while, and pushed the trolley in.

Despite the nerve-jarring apology for music that had annoyed her throughout her ‘shopping experience’ at PanMart, Marina was pleased with her purchase, and eager to unwrap it.

She quickly removed the two stick-on flags, marking the origins of the meat, and the bar mark, confirming its price and feeding data back to the central PanMart computer, to tell it a chick had been sold, which outlet from, the till operator, etc.

She then undid the cling-film some….. and: “Please may I beg you for water mistress?” Seraphima croaked.....

Newly a mistress over her first ever slave Marina might be, but as she rubbed Seraphima’s lovely legs to help her slave get her circulation back, she was blushing with gentle arousal.

Seraphima had been given no fluids for 48-hours, and then drugged before being trussed like a chicken, with her arms and thighs bound doubled, and then tied to the trunk of her body, to fit her into the poultry display tray.

The drug would keep her stupefied and her bodily functions minimised for the five days of her shelf-life. If she had not been sold in those five days, she would have been returned for inspection to see if she could be re-wrapped and given a new ‘sell-by’ date.

PanMart bought cheap to maximise profit. Girlminers were worn out for mining after twelve-months. PanMart bought only the sexy ones. They were auctioned off by the dozen. Seraphima was choice meat. She had been spotted, and the affirmative nod given that she be included in the two-dozen girlminers PanMart had bought for a dollar per four that day: the first she had seen daylight after a whole year in the mine.

PanMart wanted efficiency. Efficiency was their hallmark. To sell slave-girls as fresh meat, covered both eventualities Seraphima might have met with. Failure to sell a second time, might well have led to discovery of just how tasty a girl she was: literally: as dog food.

In fact, Seraphima had only been on the PanMart shelf for forty-eight hours.

The inrush of fresh air as the cellophane wrap was removed just now had revived her. And the exceptionally pretty face of little Marina gently smiling at her, told her she dare ask her new mistress for the water her hoarse voice confirmed she desperately needed.

Flying home to Senabre, Marina licked fresh butterscotch off her middle finger, and admired the exquisite auburn curls of the devastatingly attractive girl suckling from the stunning airhostess just across the aisle: the airhostess whose hairless snatch Marina had just fingered.

Meanwhile, Seraphima too was ‘enjoying’ her first ever flight. She was also on Troiscavity Airlines Flight 593 from London to Ntobi City. And in her four-foot tall by three-foot wide crate in the cargo hold, she felt decidedly queasy….

Whether deep-dark or light-milk, all shades of chocolate are wickedly delicious. Marina licked long and longingly and her enquiry was answered by word of tongue by Seraphima. Marina’s mama was happy. She smiled as she heard the sighs through the thin walls of the tiny Ntobi City apartment. That lovely slave-girl Marina had bought in London was the finest thing to have happened for her youngest daughter to date.

Of course Marina’s mama wanted Marina to meet a nice girl and marry her, or even a boy if she must. The relationship with the slave could only ever be physical. It could even carry on after marriage, if Marina’s future wife agreed though.

It had only been three weeks in Senabre together but, to the girls in question, the relationship was already that of wife and wife.

“Marina: Did you put your soiled panties in the wash bag for me?!” Seraphima called sweetly from the kitchen, where she was preparing Marina’s habitual breakfast soft-boiled egg and lightly-tanned toast.

“Sure!” Marina called, “Have you seen my pearl earrings, the black ones?….. No, forget it, I’ve found them….” she sweetly echoed back.

Walking into the kitchenette with the lovely smile she wore all day everyday, Marina was a picture of the businessgirl about to see her bank manager.

She wore a crisp cool cotton two-piece, of the smartest cut, jacket and miniskirt; a soft white silk blouse with ruffled cuffs that kissed her dainty hands; white kid-leather pirouette ballet shoes in which she walked en-pointe; and snow-white self-support nylon stockings.

“Are my seams straight?” she smiled to Seraphima, who glanced over her shoulder as Marina turned slowly.

“They’re fine”, Seraphima laughed for her love of the little angel displaying herself.

The mode of dress of the two girls showed the contrast, both in their station, relative to one another, and in the polarised Senabran society. For, whilst they both displayed their stunning legs standing as they each did in pirouette shoes, all Seraphima wore, apart from her own lovely smile, was little more than a C-string – the ‘C’ indicating where its crutch ran.

All the lower-order native girls, white and black, wore the loveliest colour C-strings. They were made of wool crocheted into panties that were so small they were more nearly a ‘single of’ than a ‘pair of’.

The tube into which the multi-coloured woollen strands were twisted, ran around Seraphima’s waist, just above her hips, and a second tube ran down between her succulent lips and up between the valley of her deep-hollow-sided high tensioned buttocks: buttocks made taut by her en-pointe stance. To complete Seraphima’s near undress, pretty pink feathered-wool tassels were clipped to her nipple rings.

As Marina settled her delightful bottom on a stool at the breakfast counter, Seraphima graced her wonder naturally sensually over, to deposit her mistress and lover’s egg in the eggcup for her.

“What do you think our chances are of getting the bank’s backing?” Marina asked nervously. A chance to double the size of the boat-hire business the family had run on Lake Charlotte for the past thirty years had come up. Marina did not want to miss out.

“Just smile at them my angel”, Seraphima answered, as she showed the smile of love needed.

For Teasetta and John, the third week of their honeymoon in paradise continued in the sunny uplands of supreme happiness; or almost.

“You’ve gone quiet on me again sweetheart?” John teased, concerned, as he passed a second martini over to his wife, that her natural shine, the shine that outbid the sun, was momentarily from the sun by a cloud bid hid.

As she asided her decidedly sensuous coiffure with pretty fingers she risk being inescapably entwined in her hair’s enchanting entrancing snakes, to lift her glass to her lovely mouth, a coral pink haven in the lightly tanned moonlight-white of her freckle deckled face, the mid-morning sun teased sparkling twinkles in Teasetta’s torrent of titian twirls.

“Do you think we could go for a stroll?” she smiled, looking just a little tense.

“Of course angel. Are you feeling alright?” John responded.

“I feel just wonderful!” Teasetta answered, with all bar the entirety of the look in her ice-green kitten-cat’s eyes: eyes that seemed to John to complete her smile, but were in fact a minimal mini-mite short of the full mile.

Apart from the subtle sunscreen to protect her delicate super-ghost complexion, Teasetta wore only the lime-green lycra bikini her body gave formidably fantastic form to, and the balletic shoes she was just now donning, and in which she would shortly display her god-given legs in all their tormenting tantalizing tensioned temptation.

Teasetta’s whirls wound round on themselves and in themselves to form an impossibility of incredibly imposing compositions in complex coils that danced and dangled softly, from where they rippled wild-river torrent on her head and around the heart-shape of her angel’s face, to where they cascaded magnificent-monsoon down her back, in broadening cape-curtain waterfall, to her very ankles, glistering more beguilingly golden than a million billion Fort Knoxes.

By rights this autumnal torrent should have rustled in the breeze, so eager to kiss it as if tree leaves to make leave trees. Instead Teasetta carried this silent fragrant flag of her flagrant supreme femininity, with the breeze scurrying, vying among itself for the honour of holding the tails of her holy train, and squabbling and thus twirling her whirls to make her even more goldenly deliciously decidedly one-sidedly girl.

As she put her arm through lucky John’s, and nestled her head on his upper arm, so they could saunter, though she could in fact only wiggle, from their hotel lakeside frontage toward the town, the gold that glistened on Teasetta’s slender forearms bid to outshine her heavenly halo of curls.

As long as they avoided the dreadful stench of the market’s food stalls, not least the meat stalls where the slave girls were also hung up for sale, Teasetta did not mind where they walked.

Teasetta and John both, were intrigued by, and just adored the contrasts in Senabran society.

Take that lovely little creature over there for example: the girl in the crisp smartly cut business suite: the girl with the face that looked as if she never ever stopped smiling: the love on legs in the white stockings with fashionable seams. Now there was a business-girl and one end of the dichotomous Senabran social circle for sure.

Actually, Teasetta thought, ‘wasn’t she the girl who was sat just across the aisle when John and I flew out here?’. Anyway, she was wiggling divinely felinely away from the couple, and clearly she was upper class in this society of extremes.

And now, look at the river bank, and listen to the musical giggles and chit-chat among the maids slapping their mistresses’ washing on the stones in the quite literally stoneage approach to clothes laundering that was still adopted in this, of all places, Ntobi City, the Senabran nation’s capital city no less.

I mean take for example, in the mid-distance there, that gorgeous Nubian black girl dressed in the traditional woollen feather nipple tassels and multi-coloured C-string: the one with the longest loveliest legs: the one squatting to show the enormous beauty of her powerful thighs when she was on her haunches: the one with the deepest darkest devil-outdoing brown eyes: the one with the sincerity that oozed from her lovely look as she concentrated on inexpertly slapping the wet clothes on a rock, dousing them in the flowing river once more, wringing them out, and slapping them on the stone again to beat them clean: the one with the lovely negress lips that formed an ‘O’ for orgasm, as she squatted with her handsome bare chest dancing with the flow of her lovely arms as she worked: the one with the…. Oh god……….Oh god no….. the one with the incredible trail of a tail of incontestably incomparably erotic tight curled pubic hair, the peacock’s tail of this undoubted peahen as she rose: that utterly unutterably stunning black rose….

Teasetta’s heart missed a double-beat. Too true, too late, she knew that she knew, not new or renewed, but always her true love, was rising in the arousing form that could only be sweet Seraphima.

Too far to far too distant in time and place both, for Teasetta to call she was. And as the negress angel smouldered over her shoulder to ensure she had left nothing on the river shore for sure, a heart-string broke and spoke as it smote inside Teasetta. And, unaware of Teasetta’s presence in the distance, Seraphima burned a passionate path with the swing of her beautiful bottom, and the trail of her pubic tail, as she swayed her emotional motion back into the town.

“Take me back!” Teasetta cried.

“What’s wrong my love?! What’s wrong?!” John begged, astonished and astounded back from his daydream: his shock compounded by his having himself, seen nothing around to cause his wife’s staggeringly sudden distressing tears of distress.

For Seraphima too there was a heart skip missing in life. She adored Marina. She knew that her lovely mistress could throw her out at any time. She knew that she was her mistress’ property and, bar a miracle, could never be her wife. But she knew only too true too, that she must take happiness where she could, and what was her ever-sunny, ever-smiling, ever-loving, ever-lovely mistress if not happiness incarnate?

Bed was wonderful with her. Marina had been a virgin. Teaching her young mistress the way to make love, and invading her honeypot with her proboscis clitoris for the first time, and listening to the astonishment that had flavoured Marina’s cums as Seraphima had savoured her uncurled clitoris deep in Marina’s scabbard, was something Seraphima would never forget.

Yet the experience had as of before now, only been demi or semi.

A trip to the hairdressers with all the pampering and pummelling and the scents that whirl the senses of a girl, and the abandonment of care in favour of the flavour of full-score indulgence in frivolity, with manicure and pedicure thrown in, was precisely what Seraphima needed.

Her lovely mistress had told her to go presently as a present, and confirmed that she, her mistress would pay. Once this washing was home and hung to dry, Seraphima would trip the delight fantastic, as was always and anyway her way in motion, to indulge an afternoon in “Les Curl Tu Femme” the strangely named but rightly famed top beauty salon in town.

“You look just absolutely lovely!” Marina smiled, as Marina always but always smiled, as she came home and admired the boyishly feminine trim of Seraphima’s sensationally sensuous negress’ curls.

Seraphima, dressed now in a pink blouse and white miniskirt she had borrowed, with permission of course, from her mistress’ wardrobe, lowered her head to hide her shy tears of blushing.

“Did you get the loan?”, she then responded, as ever putting herself second to the concern for, and the concerns of, her adorable mistress.

“Oh girl, did I get the loan!!” Marina answered as both girls fell into each other’s arms.

The kiss they now exchanged was fully as natural as it was neutral in the sense of mutual in the sense of equal, in the sense of the senses in both girls that it both sated and inflated and becalmed and inflamed. In a timeless millisecond of succulent touch, their lovely negress’ mouths spoke the silent word their sweet lips smote, as the metaphorical smoke rose from the smouldering desires of two black rose flowers.

“What’s that?” Marina smile-giggled as she broke away from the spell of the loving kiss to which she knew she could always return, and for which the break was thus a way of enhancing the pleasure, by denying it to herself for a short while.

“What’s that?” Marina smile-giggled.

“It’s my little present to you, for being my loving mistress”, Seraphima shyly whispered.

“I was hoping to wrap it. I got it made up at the hairdressing salon this afternoon. I do so hope you like it. I know it may seem a bit naughty but…”

Seraphima continued talking, frightened that her mistress would be annoyed at the frivolity of what she, Seraphima, had indulged.

Rustling in the “Les Curl Tu Femme” plastic carrier bag Marina had spotted when she had asked ‘what’s that’, the giggling kittenishly curious Marina drew out the four-foot length of its contents.

The contents of the bag comprised a single strand from three ‘ropes’ plaited four foot long: each of the three ‘ropes’ were made from the darkest brown hair.

The whip – for this could be no other than – was knotted at both ends, and the individual ropes of hair from which it was formed, were individually knotted at frequent staggered intervals too.

“Ooh how deliciously wicked”, Marina giggled, a little embarrassed.

“It’s of human hair. It’s for use on a naughty girl”, Seraphima informed feeling her quim moisten at the thought of it.

“Please say I haven’t displeased you Marina!” Seraphima suddenly shyly begged, as she almost shivered with fear that she had upset Marina, who seemed, as she caressed the soft hair of the whip, to be distracted.

Marina placed the whip down gently. And, as she wiggled over to Seraphima, her sensual sensitive face glowed with her ever-loving ever-smile.

“Please say I have pleased you mistress: please say I have pleased you!” Seraphima begged.

In answer, as Marina first looked again at the whip, and then kissed the girl she now knew she would soon marry, she put her hand between Seraphima’s stunningly, dangerously, languorously long, lovely legs, and caressed Seraphima’s newly hairless, freshly-shaven cunt….

After an endless while had ended with the two girls telling with their mouths and hands of the totality of their love, Marina drew away, with a twinkle in her eye.

“I’ve been a very naughty girl today Seraphima. I deserve to be whipped”, she giggled, a little nervously; such words being strangers to her pretty mouth.

“….But…..”, said Seraphima, taken aback….

“But what sweetheart?” Marina smiled, with a look that conveyed everything bar comprehension……

End of Part 1

06-08-2007, 10:37 AM
Amazing stuff...love the detail...thanks

06-08-2007, 11:22 AM
Thanks eve for all the wonderful stories.......;)

06-12-2007, 01:26 PM
Thanks again Eve...this is a great series and I hope more folks enjoy it...:)