View Full Version : Seraphima - Part 2 - Chapters 1 to 6

Eve Adorer
06-15-2007, 07:45 PM
(by Eve Adorer)


Introduction to Part 2
Synopsis: PART 1 of the story of sweet Seraphima, concluded where and when she had arrived in Ntobi City, the capital of Senabre, a former British colony in southern Africa.
When and where PART 2 takes up her story, experience and maturity have added to the manifest manifold charms of the exquisite negress…. Now read on….

(by Eve Adorer)

Part 2 - Chapter 1 – Pool

The petals of a flower? No rosebud could so comport. The mouth outbids the bud of mere rose to compose the kiss in repose on heaven’s face.

The eyes like the mouth momentarily gaze unseeing.

Reverie? Revere the eyes brown, and the eye’s brown.

She shines? Her complexion is smooth and soft and hot in the glaring sun: sun that has lost the fight to out-glow her glory.

Distracted? Those she runs down her bare right thigh, lost in thought, are long lithe and lingering fingers. She is feeling herself without consciously feeling, and yet finding no disappointment in her presentation.

Sighs? Soft too, and cause for the birds to stop singing, as they know they cannot compete with the sound of a girl.

Curls? Significantly magnificent: coiffure of natural springs in coils as brown as black, that kiss her forehead when the breeze teases and pleases to toy them, and dangle below her shoulder-blades or dandle before her eyes from where she must sweep them back with her sweet hand.

Arms? Slender shapely slim, tender in embrace holding you to the heart of her heart.

Legs? She has been training ballet in gymnasium and is strong and long and lissom and listen: you have never seen such curves as her calves serve to swerve, or such power as her thighs curve to serve.

Breasts? Wholly holy: twice and twin: pink-brown-tip-mounted mountains, independently minded to wander their wonder as she but breathes, heaving breathtaking breast swaying uplifting breast breaths.

Face? Angel outshining. The mouth lips petals in pose of rose in repose, below nose with slightly flared nostrils, below eyes with lightly hooded lids suggesting haughtiness in contrast with truth: lids that bid to save us from the searing of the sincerity of her gaze into our souls, and the fire that lights the world with the delight of girl when she smiles, and the world knows no greater wonder to ponder, because girl is also the other six yonder.

Tendrils? Her pubic hair dandles six-feet-long down between her worshipful thighs, and flutters its devil-brown curls in snake wriggle wiggle in the breeze, as its completely compelling copious hopeless complexity totally hides her southern mouth, coiling down in bubbling curls to saint the poolside floor flawlessly.

Draping her peacock tail in trail of inescapably erotic drape like cape on the poolside’s white tiles, the inestimable Seraphima wiggles her wonderful wonder to the edge, and blesses the water with plash of her naked glory, as she divides and diverts the water, when she swims to relieve the heat from the sun’s endeavours to compete with her, and inability to admit defeat by her.

Thereafter, dripping kissing-pearl-tears, opalescent cadences runnelling her black body, she shakes her head pre-towel’s embrace, and makes a rainbow hello halo. She then reaches down to wring out her pubic nether-crown, gathering her profoundly erotic despotically-brown ringlets in long fingers with impractically long nails.

The left hand with which she wrings is ringed single, with gold it sports: her distaff wedding ring, singing of her marriage to the living breathing million smiles of the lovely Marina Ntebeli. For the newly twenty-five-year-old Seraphima, with the four-year new growth of her girl confirming pubic curls, is now Mrs Marina Ntebeli, and the luckiest girl alive to be so four-year-wived.

“Hi” smiled Marina, the epitome of love, after she had ignored the dripping wetness of her wife, Seraphima, and kissed the naked wonder on her god’s own lips with the kiss of two girls long-since mated and married and daily in each other’s company.

The kiss was perfunctory but not unprofound, as wife kissed wife by the poolside found.

“Have you been by the pool all day? Marina smiled, as Marina always but always smiled, for Marina was the smile of love.

“Almost”, Seraphima answered distractedly, as she continued to pat towel dry her pubic tail.

Marina sat showing an appreciable appreciateable expanse of thighs from her miniskirt’s slow rise: “I’ve taken the afternoon off. After all it is your birthday. I thought we could take a boat out on lovely old Lake Charlotte, just like we did last year on your birthday darling… I’ve got Camilleona lined up to do the oaring, while you and I relax in the sun: both of us together for a change.”

The stoppage was infinitesimal. Innocent Marina seemingly didn’t notice that the towel halted its patting dry of the dripping pearls from the hirsute curls of the hair that confirmed Seraphima as the supreme of girls. Nor did she notice Seraphima’s nipples flicker, as the black angel looked up momentarily, and then renewed her concentration on drying her nude body.

Was the name ‘Camilleona’ a trigger?

The fiery Italian fury had been the family maid this past year. She had been the replacement for the replacement for Seraphima, when Seraphima had accepted Marina’s offer of marriage.

The raven-haired Camilleona had been ablaze in the market place. Hanging a human haunch from a hook that her tied wrists dangled her from. As Marina had examined her thighs, squeezing them to inspect them for acceptable strength to accompany their evident beauty, she had spat out her incandescent anger with Italian phrases it was fortunate that her two would-be buyers had no ken of.

Meanwhile wife Seraphima had giggled at the incongruity, of this feisty fury fighting kicking and cursing, whilst hanging as market meat hopelessly helpless in her bonds, and crawled over by swarms of flies feasting on her sweaty nipples and invading her pungent unwashed snatch.

The purchase was inevitable. To tame this nineteen-year-old hissing-cat was a challenge neither wife nor wife could resist. Besides, Camilleona was stunningly attractive.

Camilleona was supremely intelligent too. She had picked up good English within a month of service. The main benefit of her doing so however, was that her volcanic eruptions, as she conducted crescendo orchestra with her lovely arms waiving and dainty feet stomping, in her frequent tantrums, were now copiously sprinkled with sexily Italianated-English curses.

She was a superb maid. She looked after both Seraphima and Marina with love and dedication. Despite that she was constantly incendiary, her lovely outbursts were rarely against her mistresses as opposed to the inanimate.

No meal she prepared, was seen by Camilleona as anything less than an international incident. Yet the delicious food she served was coincident, and a compliment to her skill.

To tame her a little, and just about sufficiently, Marina had had, more than once, to spank Camilleona’s lovely olive-brown-complexioned bottom, and very severely.

Tears and cries that revenge was certain and sure, and would not be short of nuclear warfare if she were not let go, were accompanied by a kicking of supremely lovely legs that saw her twenty-inch heeled mules hit the ceiling, as she fought and wailed and railed at her bottom being reddened for her being naughty, and kicked her lovely legs like a thoroughbred in sight of the winning post.

Here and now, Camilleona wiggled into the scene. She wore a maid’s outfit made for her svelte figure. In black with a tiny white apron and with excess of red ribbons and white feminine frills at its hem and short-sleeved puff-sleeved shoulders, respectively, she filled it with her thrills.

Her slender arms bare and beautiful with soft dark down all down her gasp-making forearms, led to doll-sized hands with which she would shortly lift her already extremely short hem when she curtsied.

Her long slim legs were on tiptoe in her heelless ballerina shoes, and kissed by red fishnet stockings. Her lime-green suspenders hauled her stocking tops into victory Vs at the sides of her flowing flanks. The bib of her dress and squared-off plunge neckline, with a quarter-cup bra beneath, presented her tits en-prise as they combined to ease them up and squeeze them up as if they would pop out at any longed-for second.

First and second, both breasts beckoned bosomically becomingly, as Camilleona sexily seared: “Good afternoon my ladies”, with a curtsey that flashed a fiery yellow thong bursting with pod-lips that sang a bedtime song never ever allied to any lullaby.

“Camilleona! You are supposed to be down at the boat house”, Marina mildly reminded with intoned surprise.

In response, the delectable Camilleona sang soprano with succulent seductiveness in rising ire and fire, she inspired from her very soul, as her arms whirled wild wind and her head shook and nodded together and her lovely mouth demanded it be stopped with a kiss, whilst her sapphire blue eyes shone with demonic ruby diamonds as she rose to a crescendo: “’Ow I be at boat ‘ouse when I ‘ere and you demand of me I be ‘ere and there and everywhere for you and Miss Seraphima too, and I do my best and you tell Camilleona she in wrong place wherever she be and Camilleona try and be good girl and be where she is said, only you change mind like windmill spin and Camilleona not know if she come or go and I love work for you and Miss Seraphima but now I ‘ate it, because you tell me always I be where I not supposed be, and not tell me where I supposed to be till I be where I not supposed to be, and Camilleona made to look naughty girl when she try so ‘ard to be good girl and please you and Miss Seraphima, and I not know now whether Camilleona come or go being, because you no make up mind where Camilleona supposed to be and it no wonder I confused….”.

Marina took both the lovely maids pretty hands to calm her.

Camilleona blushed at the loving touch, but her eyes still threatened welder’s arc burn, and her artless heart-shaped face had turned a delicious red, as much from her blushes as the rushes of her hair-trigger fury.

“Camilleona. Please go to the boat house and prepare for Miss Seraphima’s birthday treat”, Marina sighed, as she kissed the hands to calm the feminine eruption’s disruption.

“Camilleona go, but Camilleona not ‘appy. Camilleona not get told what do to not be naughty girl. Camilleona ‘ave ‘er bummy spanked when Camilleona not blame!” Camilleona shouted as she stomped out on her tiptoes giving her long slim legs rigorously taut muscles that taught a delicious lesson in the art of curvature, as her handsomely generous portion of titties bounced with her pronounced flounce. And she waggled her bottom wildly provocatively behind her, till she slammed the swimming pool room door to emphatically punctuate her ever-discontent.

Afterwards, Marina and Seraphima glanced knowingly at each other, and then giggled in unison, united in love of the Italian thunderstorm.

For some reason some of Camilleona’s outbursts seemed to happen when both her mistresses were together. Was the lovely Sicilian jealous of the tangible gentle love Seraphima and Marina made her also feel?

But why had Seraphima’s countenance encountered a look when Marina had just now before mentioned Camilleona’s name?

Had Seraphima found that Camilleona’s fire was not confined to her passionate heart, her supremely intelligent mind, or the lovely legs with which she kicked and lashed when she was not using her equally pretty arms?

Had she discovered that Camilleona, without pause, used her doll-sized hands as paws and her fingernails as claws, and was savagely strong and virulently vibrantly wild in bed?

Did she know that, with incredible stamina and endlessly demanding, Camilleona was a nymphomaniac’s nymphomaniac in her insatiability? That she made you want to satisfy her even though you knew you never could, and even though she had made you cum when you had but just held her?

Or was Seraphima only imaginatively daydreaming?

“I’ll shower and get ready for the lake”, Seraphima confirmed as she stepped over to Marina and kissed her adorable wife.

“Are you going to wear my birthday present?” Marina called as the lissom Seraphima lithed to the door.

“But of course!” Seraphima answered, with a hint of naughty sauciness in her voice, and love in her sweet smile.

At sunrise, from the red rocks five-miles out of Tumbleweed, the Dry Gulch Valley was an ocean of dust: a drifting shifting gritty red fog.

Squatting to examine the remains of the rock rubble surrounded fire, still smouldering, the Nubian negress cowgirl reached for the cigarillo. It was mostly spent. Raising its cool end to her pretty nose, she was pleasured by the unmistakeable smell of girl. Putting its butt to her long tongue, the taste too was undeniable and erotically rich.

From the distance was heard the crack of whips, and the echoing soprano and contralto shouts of the herders urging the cattle onwards.

With the cigarillo butt still in her long pretty fingers, and just taken out from her tongue tip’s tasting of it, the cowgirl’s sixth and seventh senses told her not to move.

Without daring to turn, she whispered loudly: “I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble. I’m just a cowpoke ridin’ side-guard the roundup…”

Risking the very trouble she was an outrider to patrol against. Chancing that whoever had come up behind her was not one of the organised rustlers that the ranch owners had refused to bribe off, the black cowgirl slowly turned. And as she turned she let out a gradually rising whistle of appreciation.

A wisp that fluttered out the back of the Stetson told the cowpoke that this honey, the girl stood behind with a drop on her, was brunette. But she didn’t get to look into the sapphire-blue eyes and the astonishingly pretty face, till she had travelled up two legs, each longer than the Mississippi-Missouri, and far by far shapelier.

This girl wore heelless brown leather cowgirl booties, with wheel-spurs. She therefore stood on permanent tiptoe, and oh girl did it do great shakes for her legs.

She was as brown as if she’d gone about naked since the day she was born, but the day she was born couldn’t have been more than nineteen years back. And despite the all-over natural olive-brown tan showing her time in the sun, her skin looked soft as rose petals.

Apart from the Stetson and the booties, the honey wore only a Mexican style poncho. It left her lovely arms free, and god only knew what a beautiful view from either side. Front, and back, its corners hung triangle to cover some strategic site sights. But, from where the cowpoke squatted still, with the aid of a lifting breeze she could see that the brunette, was equally genuinely brown-downed between her goddam wonderful thighs.

The dark-down on the honey’s forearms glistened. From where the cowgirl squatted, she spotted the heavy weapon on this gorgeous creature’s left thigh. It was still in its holster, the holster being strapped, top the thigh near her crutch, and also just above her knee. The butt of its handle faced forward.

“See you’re packin’ a long-barrel”, the Nubian cowpoke muttered nervously.

“Reckon so”, came the relaxed answer, soprano with a surprisingly south-European singsong to the accent.

The cowgirl re-thought her introductory remark. Whether this gungirl was a good guy, or an outlaw, the squatting cowpoke wanted up and out of where she was at.

“Don’t think I heard your name”, she tried, desperately.

“Don’t reckon I told it”, came the cool calm answer.

The roles now changed, with the olive-complexioned leggy brunette assuming the questioner’s part: “Just how many you got rolling down the valley below?”

“We’ve twelve-hundred head of brunettes, two-hundred or so of blondes, one-hundred-fifty of redheads, and some fifty negresses so damned gorgeous like you could only dream of….”, the cowpoke replied, proud of her part in the commonplace duty of herding ponygirls to market.

“We can always use an extra gun. We had five prime milkers stolen only yesterday, even ‘fore we’d left Tumbleweed….”, she went on. Won’t do the rustlers no good though. We got ‘em branded on their sweet asses with the double-O of the ‘Organic-Orgasm Farms Inc’ …”

“Maybe you’ll lose some more if’n you don’t get yourself back down there”, the tanned brunette mused, in a husky stage whisper.

The cowpoke’s eighth and ninth senses now told her this was her only chance to change the order of things. She didn’t like squatting in seeming subservience, even to this astonishingly lovely stranger.

In a split second she had risen, ripped her gun out, and was facing the gorgeous brunette; or would have been save that in an even more split second, a bullwhip had wrapped around her wrist and wrenched it so hard aside, as to leave her six-shoot in the rocky dust, before it had nextly wound around her neck to half choke her.

“I just knew it. You’re…you’re the Loner”, the cowpoke croaked, as she was throttled to a faint.

‘Pronto’ had not lost all her human sympathies. The Loner had always been gentle with her. She only used the crop when Pronto got frisky. She had never dug in the spurs; at least not since that time they had chased Sexy Red out of Nub City. Even then it had only been from frustration because Sexy had gotten away.

The settling back down of the dust in Dry Gulch Valley after the cattle drive had passed, had not entirely covered the unmistakeable prints of the hooves of Pronto’s fellow ponygirls, being herded from one town to another to meet market forces, where there was a meat market to meet, and make replete.

The Nubian negress Pronto, knew renewed fear. She knew her place and was thankful for it. The day she had been purchased by the delicious brunette now riding her, had been the sweetest of her young life. Why this lovely creature had taken pity on her, Pronto would never know.

Tacked out in harness with mouth bit, she had been obediently walking the circle that drove the pump to draw up the village’s water, for four years by then.

The marks on her body had told of how the village girls treated her. The spiked cactus they had inserted into her cunt after their night on the raw rye whisky, had been the least of their cruelties.

They had constantly rubbed her to the verge of a cum, and then mocked her cruelly when she had cried with the frustration of not being able to go all the way. Then, when she had actually cum under the lash of a casual noonday bullwhipping, they had mocked her again.

So as to distract the cruel girls, the Loner had thrown coins in the dirt as she had cut Pronto’s bonds. Pronto could never have counted the money, but she knew it was far more than she had been originally sold for at market.

The villagers had actually bought her as exchange for the worn out bucket they had replaced in their well.

Pronto had been the last in the sales’ ring, and a giveaway, since her former owners wanted her off their hands, having already made all the money they needed, and more, from the ponygirls they’d previously sold. They did not want to go back home with the one remaining pony-whore in tow. They wanted rid, at any price.

When the peasant girls had led Pronto out of town to their home village to work their water well, the old bucket she had been exchanged for, had been left behind in the town cattle market, in truth, unwanted.

After the rescue, the Loner had ridden her bareback out of the village with the cactus still up her. But, in gratitude for her rescue, the Nubian negress wonder, Pronto, had fought girlfully against the pain of it, and the astonishing arousal it had given her. She had gritted her teeth on the rope through her mouth in lieu of a bit, and slavered as she fought not to cum while the cactus’ spikes continued to rip her.

Here and now, as she recalled her rescue from Tumbleweed, and that cactus in particular, she found her cunt wetting-up the leather crupper that divided her love-lips.

But now she was being forced back there, back to Tumbleweed where she had been tortured by all the village girls: ridden, driven by her mistress’ relentless pursuit of the notorious outlaw Sexy Red.

Pronto could not recall seeing the girl at the Tumbleweed livery stables before. She was superbly sweet and always smiling love. Her gentle demeanour showed even in the movements of her delightful little hands. To be rubbed down by this negress angel was going to be a delight.

A silver coin changed hands, and her mysterious mistress left Pronto to the tender loving care of this pretty negress, as she, Pronto’s mistress, decided to look around Tumbleweed.

The ‘jink’ ‘jink’ of the Loner’s spurs as she wiggled off on tiptop tiptoe along the raised wooden sidewalk of this godforsaken dump’s dump, ‘Tumbleweed’, was the last sound Pronto heard, as the smiles of the stablegirl angel glowed, and she stroked her nose, to settle Pronto, ready for a washing down.

Tumbleweed was a tumbledown would-be town that did its best. It had only been built because there was a water well in its northern centre, and for no other reason of any account.

There were some decent woman in the town. As the ethnic-Italian olive-bronzed stranger, tall, willowy-slim, long-legged and very lovely, waved her sexy ass slowly down the street, they scurried and hurried back into from whence they had just emerged, or turned a one-eighty to attend to something they had just made up as a recalled urgent mission.

Naked beneath her poncho, the Loner was cool and calm in body and mind. She kept her bullwhip coiled on her right thigh, and her ramrod in its holster on her left. She was used to causing this degree of disturbance.

She was sweet and gentle by nature, and hated the fear she created. To any woman coming within reach of her, she reached up her long slim fingers to politely touch the brim of her Stetson, and whisper a reassuring: “Good mornin’ ma’am”.

Although seeming relaxed the Loner’s eyes turned within her lovely head, to survey for positions from which a gungirl might drop her. The Loner inspected all she passed, against what she half expected.

After what she passed became past, her experience told her all was safe behind. All she therefore had to worry her still, was to front and either side of her, as if that were not enough.

She was looking for any and every hideout where an outlaw or gang member might be found. She was looking for Sexy Red, and her cohort of co-whores.

Sexy Red, so named after her profusion of flame-red curls that fell in a tumbling titian torrent down below her lovely ankles, was vicious and a killer though she was but a twenty-nine-year-old English girl. She had once been a Girl-Court judge. She had made her name from slaying lawgirls. There were nineteen notches on her six-gun, and she had every intention to score more, if more of those pesky tormentors got in her way. There was, therefore, a price on her head.

Sexy had made a million dollars from violent bank robberies. There were never any witnesses of these. Sexy and her gang took care that every woman and girl who might testify against them was shot dead, after they had been made to load the looted money onto a stolen buckboard of course.

Everyone knew Sexy Red was behind the spate of robberies. Nobody was around who could testify to that in court though. Nonetheless, Sexy found it the better part of caution, to keep herself and her companions-in-evil hidden away.

She didn’t want the notoriety. She wanted to enjoy her spoils. She had a string of the finest Italian born bred and trained ponygirls, she would race for huge bets, as many lovely girls as arm-candy and bed companions, and her coequals in evil, her gang-members, with whom to get blind drunk on stolen Italian girl-pee, every night if she chose.

Sexy Red, born as Teasetta Loveschild, had a background of curious parallels with that of the Loner. They had both been born to parents who had died leaving them as orphans. Sexy had been brought up in a mid-west orphanage, where she had gotten into bad company. Too intelligent for school, she had put her mind to devilment. Her notoriety had begun when she had been discovered one afternoon in bed, with her school ma’ams’ head in her crutch, with the school-teach eagerly licking her out between her lovely thighs.

The Loner had known that same orphanage for a while, but had been whisked away, first to live with a maiden aunt; then, when the aunt had died, to a convent school, where she had been raised and taught by nuns, in an atmosphere foetid with suppression of the deep sexuality that a girl as stunningly attractive as the Loner naturally possessed.

In a microsecond’s microsecond, the Loner had turned with her bullwhip uncoiled.

The lovely Nubian negress flinched, but somehowed she was in no danger.

As the Loner recoiled her whip: “Stranger”, the nubile negress began, “I’m sheriff of this here town, and what I says, goes. Whether you like it or don’t, ain’t none of mine. We’s simple folks here in Tumbleweed. We don’t want no trouble. You’re welcome in this town long as you surrender up that there six-spin on your horny thigh, and the blacksnake coiled on t’other. So let’s have no trouble and a handover: butt first, and no ‘buts’. Savvy?”

The Loner ran an appreciative eye over the shapely black girl with the long trail of pubic hair forming a tail behind her. She filled her denim miniskirt like it was poured-on paint. Her stiletto booties half up her calves didn’t hide none that her legs had acutely cute curves. Her ass said ‘spank’. Up top, her red-chequered shirt danced about like it held two mischievous puppies. Her face lit a light that her lowered brown eyes and soft moist lips tried to hide. Her closed mouth formed all but an ‘O’ for orgasm. She was too sweet to be trying so hard to be hard. She was made to be kissed; not to take this risk.

“Sheriff Seraphima?”, the Loner queried, but more as a conclusive statement than an enquiry.

“The same”, the sheriff answered with a look of astonishment. Say, but how’d’ya get my handle stranger?”

As her startling sapphire-blue eyes fellated the feminine figure of the sheriff, the Loner tipped the edge of her Stetson in polite salute of a charming lady: “Arizona Ranger ma’am. I won’t be in your town more than I got to. I’m trail for Sexy Red. I hear talk she’s been flashing her goddam gorgeous golden curls hereabouts. And I want speak with her, kinda urgent, if you get my drift. Then I can be on my ways…”

The sheriff’s answer came too quickly for it not to be a lie.

“I haven’t even thought about Sexy Red’s ravishing rolling ringlets this four-years and more. You got the right ‘Tumbleweed’ stranger?” she reflexed, without confirmatory eye contact.

“Maybe”, the Loner answered, her intonation of even so brief a phrase confirming an understanding of the attraction that Sexy Red, with her supremely superb curls and her heart-stopping heart-shaped moon-white face, and the sweet freckles dancing over her pretty little nose, could engender.

“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said the leggy Loner.

“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said the lovely Nubian negress Pronto.

“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said the smiling loving stablegirl.

“Sheriff Seraphima?”, said Sexy Red…..

Seraphima awoke to the gentle splash of the lake water: the water of Lake Charlotte, the biggest lake of the inland archipelago that was Senabre, the southern African jewel in which Seraphima had now lived for four lovely loving years with her darling of a darling wife, Marina…..

The African sun bowed down before Seraphima’s glory. Her dark black body was naked, bar detail such as a summer-blue bikini bra, that lifted her breasts to a balcony scene in which the twin heroines stood proudly, side-by-side, and rose and fell with the easy breathing of the gorgeous woman they were in intimate animated converse with.

On her lovely princessly head, she wore her birthday present, a totally impractical, but deliciously delightful woven-straw sombrero, with a summer-blue ribbon tied in a silly saucy bow around its crown’s base.

Seraphima had braided her pubic hair into two pigtails, which she had woven, alike-to-garters, around her vast thighs, and held in place with summer-blue side-ribbons tied in chocolate-box bows, to match and echo the bow around her hat, and the blue of her bra.

Deep within the darkest of dark curls that still hid Seraphima’s ultimate mystery though: within her cave closed cave, there were stirrings.

Seraphima’s eyes, her devil-deep-down-darkest-brown lanterns of searing love, showed daze from the afternoon day’s heat causing a dream phase, as she awoke to the peaceful plash of the water, whilst the boat, a punt, a girl-gondola, bobbed its uplifted prow, snailing sailing proudly in the midst of the coastal water of the huge salt-lake, Lake Charlotte, more a sea than a pond: its waves rippling blinding flashes of the hydrogen fuelled Helios smiling birthday love from above, and warming the nubile Nubian negress as it blessed her soft smooth flesh.

As she realised she was now having a wide-awake wet-dream, Seraphima moved a handsome thigh to hide what was happening besides inside, as her long proboscis clitoris, coiled like a butterfly’s snout in its moist pouch, was threatening to uncurl, and show how very much she was a girl, by rising up and out of her to express her aroused joy, as if it were even remotely possible she could be mistaken for a boy.

Seraphima’s lovely wife, Marina, sat at the rear of the craft, controlling the direction it occasioned, by occasionally pulling gently, with practiced relaxed skill, on the two silk ropes that led to the outboard motor, as the motor quietly motivated the craft forward, in the gentle breeze that blew on the blue of Seraphima’s fabulously filled-full fulfilled bikini top.

As Seraphima moved a birthday-girl’s thigh to shyly hide that she was getting a clitoral erection, she was thankful to see that Marina was, with her eyes ablaze, in a gaze solely at the horizon of the course she was taking the boat afloat.

Seraphima closed her eyes to hide herself from the knowing stare. And then she opened them again, to look at the kitten-cat smile from the outboard motor.

Seraphima’s eyes followed the ropes that ran from each of Marina’s lovely hands, to the rear of where her wife sat her lovely rear, to steer the girl-gondola, and marvelled at the way those ropes were tied to the coral-pink nipples of the tits of the maid Camilleona.

The exquisite Camilleona was mounted motor to motivate emotionally, the motion of the girl-gondola.

Camilleona was completely naked, bar the flippers on her feet, which, along with her long slim fabulously shapely lower legs, were immersed in the lake’s lapping waters.

Her upper body was leaned over the rear of the boat, and reared up proudly as if, in fact, her gorgeous figure were its figurehead. Her arms were pulled aside, straight aside, and tied by the wrists to the boat’s inner stern. Her lustrous brunette hair was wound into a single pigtail, which coiled over her slim delicate shoulders, and lay in her cleavage, as if it were the cruellest of gentle whips.

To steer the boat to port or starboard, Marina merely pulled the rope tied to the relevant tit, to order Camilleona to use her right leg more than her left, or her left leg more than her right. But otherwise, the two ballooning tits were gently but firmly pulled both together, so as to keep the motor swimming with her swoon-worthy lower limbs, blessing the water with their shear beauty as she therewith and thereby pushed the girl-gondola along.

The unmistakeable look of arousal in the powerfully passionate Camilleona’s gorgeous sapphire eyes, was matched by the secretions she was salivating down the pole, the rowlock, the fifteen-inch-long steel spur on which her cunt was spiked, and by which she was impaled to the rear of the boat she was forced to give emotional motion to, by the use of her wonderful legs.

The ferociously fearsome fury of the Italian minx, was so placated by the ministrations her swimming whilst so impaled on the, and in the, very source of her saucy passions, that she now smiled mistily and mysteriously. And so much of the joy Camilleona was enjoying, was from her looking at, and over, and up, and down, and all around, the superb near naked Seraphima. And Seraphima burned with the embarrassment of knowing that she was this tortured girl’s masturbatory totem token. But yet her shy blushes only rushed her clitoris to moist shining erectness. And she could not help but look at Camilleona to see if Camilleona had seen that she, Camilleona, was giving she, Seraphima, a very literal, very hard time in the littoral, with her proboscis clitoris shooting up and forming a rigidly proud mast in the prow of the boat, hard and throbbing pleasure-painfully, and ultimately gainfully, as her slice slithered with her horny-honey. And Seraphima saw the Italian angel blush with the honour of her wonder causing such an earthly heavenly upshot. And Seraphima looked love at Camilleona, as she, Seraphima, within the deep dark tangled wrangled jungle of her profuse profusion and confusion of pubic curls, bubbled with joy. And Seraphima quietly crossed her curvaceous legs and squeezed together hard, her gigantic thighs: thighs wrapped in wreaths formed from her plaited pubic hair: wreaths awarded for her thighs’ winning winsome wonder…..wrapped her wreathed and pubic-hair-gartered thighs hard together, and sighed as she almost silently secretly came, secreted a moist spurt that hurt, and came a second time again.

As Seraphima avoided Camilleona’s look of love and lust and pride that she had made her mistress cum inside outside, a long pregnant pause followed.

“Are you glad you’ve now come twice on your birthday, my angel?” the innocent Marina suddenly asked, thus breaking the lapping splashing silence: smiling, just as Marina always smiled, referring of course, to the celebratory boat trips this year and last.

“It was…. It is just wonderful my love”, Seraphima answered after a pause: responding with her head lowered in completely inappropriate and misplaced disgrace and opprobrium, at what she had just done, in having open-air orgasmic cums, enjoying Camilleona’s enduring her still enduring torture.

(by Eve Adorer)

Part 2 - Chapter 2 – Drool

Day-to-day routine for Marina, was in the running of the girl-gondola hire business her family had owned for over thirty years now.

Pleasure was a major business in Senabre. Tourists from the Americas and Europe flocked to flop by the inland lakes, enjoying the mix of sun, and the sin of having the lovely Senabran women at their beck and call.

Senabre numbered white, black, and mixed beauties among its nearly all-girl population.

The plethora of girls in the country seemed to be accounted for by nature’s decision that the only way to bejewel such a heavenly nation, was to bespeckle it with god’s finest of her finest creations.

However, it was speculated that, in truth, there was a darker side to this development.

Within the Senabran tribes, girl babies had always been regarded with the joy that was never felt to the same degree for a boy; or so it was said. It was rumoured that infanticide had therefore been practiced, to weed out boys.

Nothing was ever proven by the historians, anthropologists, or archaeologists however. So, the conclusion ultimately drawn, was that the fact that births of girls in Senabre, outstripped boys by a factor of nine in every ten, was a serendipitous wonder.

Nobody was complaining. Senabran girls, black, white, and mixed, were sensationally lovely. White, black, and mixed, they were distinctly distinguished by their incalculably complex rippling usually dark black curls, matched on head by muff, and on muff by head.

Perhaps, quite literally, the highest beauties in the land, were the girls of the Petian Tribe. These statuesque wonders grew to a willow-wand six feet and more in height, with a holy proportionate length of those six feet, being supplied by wholly superb legs.

As well as their distinctive distinguishing height, the raven-black haired Nubian complexioned Petian girls also, mostly, had ravishing riveting startling ruby red eyes.

No Senabran politician worth her want of votes, was ever to be seen without a Petian mistress in tow by her lovely hand. It was said that the Petian beauties ruled Senabre from the government’s bedrooms.

The one exception was the Senabran president, herself a Petian, whose wife was an adorable bubbly smiling Georgettian tribesgirl, like Seraphima’s wife, Marina Ntebeli.

Marina knew her ********* too. From and for being able to boast that she only employed Petian tribesgirls as the outboard motors on her girl-gondolas, she had doubled the turnover of her boat-hire business, and bought out many rivals.

Seraphima felt some frustration.

She loved Marina to distraction, but was bored by being Marina’s trophy wife.

Of course she adored being adored, and nor did she mind wearing the close-contour clinging rubber shirts and skirts that Marina had lately taken a passion for, as fashion had whimmed that way of a sudden.

To see, indeed for Seraphima herself to see, Seraphima’s exceptional curves filling out to its ultimate attainment, the condom-close cling of a rubber bustier, with its separate capacious cups for Seraphima’s copious breasts, and her bottom rise and fall and swing its thing in the thin close cling of a rubber micro-skirt, was to witness a living organism, organised as a walking orgasm.

The colours too, were dazzling, and chosen to contrast with Seraphima's incomparable dark chocolate. Her en-pointe booties were also these days of brightly coloured rubber. Bare-legged, Seraphima glowed with her horny black beauty, as she played housewife for the little smiling love on legs that was Marina, her darling wife.

Today, the rubber was parakeet-green, skirt and top. The top, a rubber tee-shirt was being given two very promising, equally prominent, prominences, by Seraphima’s profoundly protuberant breasts pushing its material materially out, to precede her motion as she swayed her delightful way, to arrive at any destination she chose to go forwards to, at least a seeming two seconds before the rest of her steaming body.

Her lower quarters, two half-moons aglow and ago, filled a close-clinging rubber micro-skirt, that her natural walking wave seemed to be trying to shake off with the rise and fall of her two rotund hillocks, with such rock and roll did she decorate even the merest gentle stroll.

At her wife’s express desire, Seraphima never wore panties, and would either have her pubic hair wrapped as enrapturing garters around her stupendous thighs, or else, as now, let it trail its six-feet of dark-brown twisting ringlets, as an erotic tail, dangling down long luscious and luxuriantly, from the slit between her long luscious and luxuriant legs, to weave and weft its silent glide behind her, waving wonderfully wandering abaft, as she angelled her way, tiptop tiptoe in her ballectic shoes, with her torsion-tensioned legs, a caress of curves, and with her peacock’s tail sliding and snaking side-to-side, as she swayed her way, her deep-seated, never-sated, clearly stated girlness, unmissably unmistakeably to portray.

As Seraphima entered the kitchen, to inspect Camilleona’s progress with the luncheon, Camilleona turned, smiled genuinely sweetly, and curtsied. A wonder of wonderful legs, that was accompanied by her sexy: “’Ello my lady”.

“Good morning Camilleona. You do look pretty today!”, Seraphima let slip as she looked at the Italian maid, who might have been made for the black silk maid’s outfit she displayed within, with her tits splayed, and her long legs made longer seeming my the black seamed stockings her suspenders held high on her dream legs.

“Oh! Thank you so my lady!” Camilleona blushed, as she curtsied once more, and once more flashed the devil-black thong in which the seat of her longing belonged: her thong filled with the thrilling lips, that so eloquently spoke of love in their composed closed silence, as she dipped her curvy legs in her obedient little wowing wooing bow.

“When you’re ready” Seraphima gently insisted, trying to recover from her mistake of flattering the ever-high-octane-fuelled Italian wench.

“When Miss Marina go work, she call tell Camilleona to be sure tell Miss Seraphima not she forget post mail, Miss Marina leave in office”, Camilleona pouted as she undid the laces that criss-crossed her dress’ bib, and thus her bosom.

Seraphima reached under a table, lifted up a bright shining stainless-steel bucket, and put it on the tabletop.

After Camilleona had undone the last of the laces of her bib, with the dextrous dainty fingers of her doll-sized hands, she next worked the puff-sleeves of her maid’s dress off her fragile shoulders.

“Did Miss Marina not tell you to post the mail yourself then Camilleona?” Seraphima innocently asked.

“Oh Miss Seraphima! ‘Ow you make Camilleona naughty with your question! Camilleona pass message Camilleona told pass, and now you make Camilleona seem she need her bummy spanked for being not behave like good girl. Camilleona try so ‘ard to be good for you and Miss Marina, and ‘ow not nice it be that poor Camilleona word told lie when she not lie ever on her honour and ‘ope she die if she be naughty girl….” Camilleona puffed and pouted as her hair-trigger passion instantly poured out.

Camilleona had now stripped to her waist, the top of her maid’s dress bouncing on her beautiful full bottom, as she stood thus half-undressed, with her legs stressed into sweet swerves by her pinpoint stance in her black kid-leather ballet shoes.

Seraphima passed the Italian firebrand a bright red ribbon, and watched the lifting and shifting of Camilleona’s heavy bare chest, as the olive-brown wonder, tied her dark-brown hair so it could not wander, even as her heavy tits did just that, wonderfully.

At a gentle nod from Seraphima, Camilleona tottered on her temptingly torsioned legs over to the table, to face Seraphima across it, and then leaned forward over the readied bucket, with her doll’s hands clasped behind her back.

As she took a firm but gentle grip of the bases of Camilleona’s dangling tits, and began to squeeze them in alternating turn, with a steady rhythm: “I apologise”, Seraphima affirmed.

“I sorry too” Camilleona pouted with a sexy sulk, as Seraphima worked her tits left and then right, and left and then right, by turn, making the sweet white milk spurt from Camilleona’s coral-pink nipples, and trickle down the insides of the bucket where it had splashed with a mild metallic clash, after each squeeze.

“Camilleona really try ‘ard she be good girl for you and Miss Marina”, Camilleona muttered on, still alight with the slight she had felt like a disproportionate sting, as ever, when her message had been questioned.

For just a moment or two, the impassioned Camilleona was semi-silent, and all that was heard was the bubbling in the bottom of the bucket as it slowly filled, because the white jets being squeezed from Camilleona’s tits were now troubling and bubbling the creamy lactation with which the bucket was slowly filling.

“I did say I was sorry”, the usually placid Seraphima found herself saying almost angrily, as Camilleona muttered on like a pre-storm thunder rumble.

The silence between the two girls fell again, and the air was filled only with the sound of Camilleona being milked, and the jets from her nipples causing twin spaced splashes in the now half-filled bucket.

“’Ow my Miss Marina and my Miss Seraphima like Camilleona’s wine, now Camilleona only eat fresh fruit and much grape?” Camilleona enquired, as a peace offering, whilst she bent over still, still having her beautiful tits milked.

“You know your wine is impeccable”, Seraphima confirmed, pausing momentarily from her tugging of Camilleona’s tits, before getting back to the steady milking of her maid.

Camilleona visibly blushed with pride.

“Not only is your wine wonderful, but I’m sure your milk yield is going up”, Seraphima ruminated aloud, as she found the fountains from Camilleona’s tits just beginning to give out.

Camilleona rose with white droplets turning to trickles running under her breasts.

“I think we are going to have to milk you three times a day from now on”, Seraphima affirmed, as Camilleona wiped her nipples, and began to put her dress’ top back on.

“Yes my lady”, Camilleona pertly smouldered, as her legs shouted for hands to explore them, and her fore lips, and her four lips, parted for another girl to kiss and adore them, when she curtsied once more.

The three-quarter-filled bucket of creamy milk was for Camilleona to sort. She would container it and refrigerate it; at least that she would not use in her other role as chef.

Finished her chore, Seraphima wiped her hands, and then wiggled out of the kitchen, waving her parakeet-green rubber-clad bare bum, like a semaphore for being made a whore, as her snake of cunt-curls swept the floor aft of her before, and her tits proudly appointed the way she must essay her inestimable assay.

Perhaps pretty Seraphima had too much time to imagine.

He ears pricked up every time she heard her wife utter “Camilleona”.

Seraphima was suspicious and jealous, even if she had no, if indeed she had no cause to be.

As she wiggled in her clinging rubber tee-shirt and tight-tight rubber micro-dress to the local mailbox with the letters, holding her pubic tress-tail over her left arm so it may not drag in the dust, and letting her long strong legs show their completely compelling curvature: passing schoolgirls wolf-whistled, and Seraphima blew them a kiss, so that they fell into enraptured golden giggles.

She then again fell into reverie as she strolled and her side-dimpled bum dipped and switched.

When Seraphima had milked Camilleona earlier, there had been no trouble.

The maid had bared her handsome chest and bent with her titties dangled over and into the bucket for the first of her hitherto twice-daily milkings, chattering away inconsequentially.

As Seraphima had pressed Camilleona’s swollen tits in her gentle fists at their bases, then used a pulling down squeezing motion that caused the Italian angel’s fresh white cream to squirt in strong jets from her coral-pink nipples, and trickle down the side of the shiny bucket, Camilleona had merely enquired if her week-long diet of white grapes had suitably subtlety flavoured her pee.

Seraphima had milked each tit in alternate turn, working up a steady rhythm to encourage the girl’s milk to flow, and Camilleona’s milk had shot out in long white jets.

This regular milking kept Camilleona producing, and Camilleona would make the finest of aromatic cheeses with her milk and pee, as well as serving her fresh pee as chilled wine for all her mistress’s evening meals.

The mention in her gentle mind of Camilleona and Marina in the same breath as it were, stirred strange passions in Seraphima.

The brown-eyed wonder was strangely visited by ‘the green-eyed monster’. Jealousy, and endless hours in which to indulge it, had for some time now fuelled Seraphima’s thoughts.

In truth, her wife was too busy to be indulging an affair with the maid, but to Seraphima’s thinking, that only said that Marina was indulging in sex when the opportunity did allow, like when Camilleona gave Marina her bath in the mornings.

And was there not an extra-sexy sigh in the succulent voice of Camilleona when she uttered ‘Marina’? Did she not accent that word with scented accentuation in the way she sweetly rolled the centre ‘R’?

Seraphima had also become a student of the looks exchanged between Marina and the maid. And there was the way Marina took Camilleona’s hands to calm her when Camilleona was, as ever, ablaze…..

Back home, after posting the mail Marina had left a message with Camilleona about, Seraphima sat with her eyes looking at but not seeing, let alone reading, the latest edition of ‘Hi’ magazine.

Had Marina deliberately left the mail for Seraphima to send, because it would get Seraphima out of the house, so that Marina could slip home and give Camilleona a quick kiss?

The idea was ridiculous of course, but Seraphima still analysed it over and over, working out, not that it was indeed impossible, but the innumerable ways in which it might just have happened, and feeling thus more and more betrayed as she undermined her own mind.

Camilleona tiptop tiptoed into the room. “Camilleona so sorry. She not disturb. Camilleona come back to do dusting cobwebs later”, she purred.

Thinking quickly, Seraphima concluded that to have Camilleona in her sights would prevent the affair she feared was in full flow somewhere ‘out there’.

“That wasn’t Miss Marina out there with you just now?” Seraphima found herself asking, ridiculously.

“No my lady. Miss Marina go boathouse early as usual”, Camilleona answered, surprised and curious at the question.

“Shall Camilleona come back later Miss Seraphima?” Camilleona enquired sweetly.

“No. Carry on”, Seraphima responded, pondering whether or not she had indeed just heard her wife’s sweet giggles.

Camilleona curtsied with a full-thighed bob of her devastating body. “Thank you my lady”, she seductively sang.

With her long legs crossed and her six-foot long tail of pubic hair coiled at her tiptoed ballet-shoe shod feet, as she watched the maid busy around the lounge with her feather duster, like a fluttering butterfly, Seraphima continued to pretend to read ‘Hi’.

As Camilleona reached up on her also tiptop tiptoe stood feet, showing off the lovely muscles in her calves, the skirt of her black maid’s dress rose with a soft rustle on her black seamed nylons, revealing the full expanse of her stockinged thighs, the tops of her stockings hugging the firm flesh, the side stretches of those tops pulled high by her devil-black suspenders, the hot bare tanned skin above the stockings to where Camilleona’s legs became smoothly firmly cheeky, and the fullness with which the gusset of her deep-black thong was shaped out so that you could see the delineation of her love-lips.

‘Marina must have caressed those very thighs this morning, when Camilleona was bathing her!’ Seraphima sulked.

Camilleona bent to tickle with her feather duster under a coffee table. Seraphima, without seeming to be watching, watched as the skirt rose and showed the smooth rotundity of Camilleona’s bare bum, an enticement to excitement if ever there was a moon and a sun. And the way Camilleona’s hot crack pouched a potent pod in her thong too, was that not a deliberate invitation also to run for bedroom fun?

‘She does that on purpose when she knows Marina will see!’ Seraphima fumed.

Camilleona turned, still bending straight-legged, and her lovely breasts lolled and belled in the criss-cross laced-up bib of her dress’ top. And Seraphima saw their splendid heaviness, and the heaven of the deep valley between the huge mountains, a valley through which the eye passed only to find shadow, but through which it was possible to imagine that one could see the brunette curls on the Venus-mound of this exceptional girl.

‘The little whore flashes her tits at my Marina over the bath every morning just like that. And she takes Marina’s hand and puts it on a tit, whilst she bathes my loves lovely face!’ Seraphima seared.

Distracted and busy about her housework dusting, trying to avoid disturbing her adorable mistress, Seraphima sitting so prettily reading her magazine, suddenly Camilleona turned, startled to find the exquisite Seraphima stood right behind her.

“You’re having an affair!!” Seraphima sensationally screamed in flames of accusation.

Camilleona looked astonished. Her sapphire eyes studied the outstanding beauty of Seraphima’s face and the look of fury upon it, which Camilleona read as pent-up passion. Camilleona turned over in her mind, her understanding of what she had just heard her lovely mistress shout at her: ‘you’re having an affair’, she heard her conscious mind repeat over and over, ‘you’re having an affair’.

In the microseconds it took for the accusation to be turned over and turned around in the broken-English of Camilleona’s loving mind, Camilleona dropped her feather duster and lifted up her pretty arms with her lovely doll’s hands…

…and as she stepped forward toward Seraphima, and then stopped, because Seraphima did not seem to want to share the embrace Camilleona’s delightfully dark-down feathered forearms were offering, she cried:.….. “Oh Miss Seraphima, Camilleona love to ‘ave affair with you!”

Then Seraphima wiggled forward and wrapped the lovely maid in her loving arms and, as she held her and hugged her with her hands accidentally coincidentally under Camilleona’s risen dress, on Camilleona’s lovely bared bottom cried: “Oh forgive me my darling girl!”

And, as she held and hugged Camilleona to beg her forgiveness for accusing her of what the sweet maid was so clearly innocent, the room’s door opened and two more lovely eyes stared in with rising horror, micro-moments before Marina’s voice screamed out: “Seraphima!! How could you!!!”

Camilleona rushed from the room, confused, but not so confounded as not to be terrified that her future in this loving household was suddenly on the line. Surely she would be spanked and then fired, for letting herself be fondled by her mistress, and being found doing so.

As she left, she heard a golden giggle from the darling little Marina, who had realised she had not in fact been seeing what she had at first thought.

“Your face!” Marina smiled with tears of laughter starting in her startling eyes, as she looked at the repentant Seraphima, and just knew all was well with her love after all.

Marina’s giggles were as much from relief from the realisation that her wife was not being unfaithful in any degree, as at the look of horror and crisis that Seraphima momentarily portrayed.

The two lovely girls, wife and wife, embraced and kissed, and Marina found a new and increased desire evident in Seraphima, an increase Marina had hitherto assumed was not possible, such was Seraphima’s normal full-on fire.

Seraphima was still begging forgiveness for her wild-thinking that Marina could ever have been unfaithful. She wanted to make love there and then. She kissed and stroked the warm body of her perfectly formed wife, knowing Marina’s hot-spots and how to kindle her flame.

Marina, of course, knew nothing of the true cause of Seraphima’s present mindset, and assumed Seraphima’s eagerness to please, arose from the black rosebud’s guilt at being apparently found in flagrante delicto in Camilleona’s arms.

“Ahem”, a sweet sound came from the room’s doorway.

Moments later: “Ahem”, came the repeated hint.

“Oh my god: I forgot”, Marina giggled and smiled, just as Marina always but always smiled.

The two girls, wife and wife, so enraptured in love, and so wrapped in physical expression of that love, broke free, and Seraphima looked up to see that someone else had entered the room.

The girl that entered and entranced was her own royal fanfare. Tall, an apparent apparition, with her moonlight-white complexion, coral pink lips, ice-green eyes, freckles that divinely danced over her nose, her hourglass-make-gasp figure, stood on her long sweetly smoothly muscularly shapely legs, with her hair cascading in an avalanche of abandoned abundant bouncing dancing completely hopelessly copious cascade, from the crown of her lovely head to the heels of her en-pointe feet: an angel in a cape of inescapably inestimable sunlight glancing moonbeam dancing eye entrancing glorious rich flame red curls.

Marina smiled as she explained: “Seraphima. Forgive me my darling, but I had this lovely creature hire my boat as a taxicab this morning, and we got talking, and we got on so well, that I invited her to luncheon. I hope you don’t mind sweetheart”.

“Er… this is Teasetta. Teasetta Loveschild? Teasetta says she knows you, my love….”.

As the golden wonder dressed with the gilded tresses held out a ghost white hand to shake in greeting: “Hi Seraphima, so lovely to see you again”, said a husky voice with an intoned hint of a kitten wrapped in a mink rug in the way it purred.

Maturity had added to the golden glory that was the titian tease Teasetta. Her eyes showed a hint of lovely laughter lines at their sides, and her high cheekbones added grace to her older face, in place of the younger girl with the fullness of cheeks that went with that youth.

With her golden crown tumbling torrentially down, Teasetta sat opposite wife and wife at the luncheon table, as a strangely skittish and nervous Camilleona was standing ready to serve.

Astutely acutely intelligent, and with her sensitivity evident as ever, Marina had spotted Camilleona’s nervousness, and gave the servant her loveliest smile as she reassured: “You’re doing wonderfully well Camilleona. What a delicious spread you have given us for our delight. Everything is alright sweetheart”.

Camilleona instantly touched her left breast in lieu of her heart, and a smile of relieved joy was accompanied by tears starting in her passionate eyes.

“Pour our wine please Camilleona”, Marina smiled, hoping that by giving the maid something to do, it would stop Camilleona bursting into some fiery tirade as the punctuation of the ending of whatever cloud-cover had been making her so skittish just now before.

Camilleona wiggled willingly over, a twist and twine of divine legs, as she stepped one foot before the other, in a rump rotating sexy gait.

When she bent to pour the chilled white wine, firstly into Teasetta’s glass, so that the guest might taste and approve it, Teasetta was wowed by the bow and the full view of the gentle heavy raindrops Camilleona’s tits formed, as gracious gravity embraced them.

As she raised her glass and sniffed practicedly at the fruity aroma Teasetta smiled: “That’s just adorable” she affirmed. She then took a sip: “Mmm, oh gosh, that is really delish. Is it your maid’s pee?”

“How did you guess?” Marina smiled.

“Corsican or else Sicilian”, Teasetta contemplated as she took another sip. “My guess would be Sicilian Italian, rather than Corsican French”, she concluded.

“That’s amazing! You’re exactly right! How do you do that?”

“It’s nothing really” Teasetta blushed, loving the admiration of so pretty a girl as Marina.

“My husband John keeps a wonderful cellar. He’s taught me all I know about the different girl-pee to be found in the world.”

“Forgive me, for saying that your offering here is a little novice. Your maid should be fed more grapes, and grapes from her native Sicily particularly. She has obviously been consuming white grapes from La Belle France. No harm in that at all of course. The fact it momentarily threw me, and had me thinking ‘Corsica’, is my look out. It’s a truly delicious offering, and a compliment to your splendid table”, Teasetta assured.

Marina smiled, as ever, and nodded to Camilleona, who obediently recharged Teasetta’s glass, and then filled Marina and Seraphima’s too in turn, before lithely wiggling her superb bottom away from the table, to stand ready to be of further service.

In continuing pursuit of her wife’s forgiveness of the accusation of unfaithfulness, that Marina did not even know Seraphima had been accusing her of, Seraphima clung close to Marina whenever she could, and, as a symbol of her love for her love, had already gently draped the full length of her pubic hair over Marina’s lap under the table.

“Do help yourself Teasetta please!”, Marina sweetly insisted. “That over there, is a gorgeous red stilton made from our maid’s own milk, and streaked with her fresh menstruum. You really should try it. I’m afraid it’s a little rich for me at this time of day, I have an afternoon’s work yet to do, but it is a fabulous ending to an evening meal. Do try some… please.”

“You used to be flatmates”, Marina spoke out again, to break a momentary pause.

“Oh yes” Teasetta broke in before Seraphima might admit the wrong thing was being told as if the truth. “Seraphima and I shared a house in Spindon over in England, till John and I got married. Then she stayed on to help us pay the mortgage, didn’t you Seraphima?”

Seraphima nodded her delight of curls, and swept a sweet stray aside with long lithe fingers.

“How poor Seraph ever ended up as a slave in a coalmine… We lost touch you see”, Teasetta continued the lie, minimising the detail so as to maximise the chance the lie would not be found out.

“Sold as a slave and now married to such a lovely girl. Seraphima you are so so lucky!” Teasetta concluded, working a diversion into her conversational tactic.

“I saw Seraphima from a long distance some four years ago now, when John and I came over to Senabre on our second honeymoon. Not to speak to. I mean Seraphima had gone before I could talk to her, and was too far away for me to call…”, Teasetta explained.

“I’ve been so busy since. Then John said I needed a diversion, and this chance came up to come back to lovely Lake Charlotte once more. And I jumped at it. And I hoped against hope I’d find Seraph again, so we could talk about old times. And I heard talk she had married and that her wife ran a boat business: girl-gondolas for hire. And I looked out Marina during a break in my present temporary and strictly holiday work. And here I am!” Teasetta practically sang, as her eyes feasted on Seraphima’s lovely round ‘O’ and oh so kissable mouth.

“Teasetta was telling me that she’s starring in a Hollywood movie Cine Verity are making over here”, Marina smiled at Seraphima, in order to bring the doting Seraphima into the conversation.

“I wouldn’t say ‘starring’ exactly”, Teasetta blushed.

“You’re so right, this red stilton is absolutely… mm mmm!” she praised, as she waived a pretty hand wriggling its lovely fingers to express ecstasy.

“You named your part: your character earlier”, Marina queried, having forgotten the part Teasetta had said she was playing.

“Oh. It’s a western film. And I’m, would you believe, the evil outlaw ‘Sexy Red’?”, Teasetta all but giggled. “Can’t think why!” she added as an intended extension to the joke.

“But your hair is so…..”, Seraphima broke in, and then broke off, just as suddenly.

To try and hide that she wanted to hear the compliment completed, Teasetta took a sip of wine, and thus hid her disappointment that, despite a quick appeal with her ice-green eyes, Seraphima had lowered her own eyes and was not in contact for the vital moment, and would not add the missing word.

Having seen the disappointed look in Teasetta’s eyes, Marina complimented in compensation: “Your hair is really lovely Teasetta”.

“Thank you”, Teasetta answered, with another quick look at Seraphima, in search of the Nubian negress’ supporting affirmation, but not finding it.

“I was saying that I did not mind at all, and that it would do Seraphima the world of good if she wanted to do it”, Marina broke in, aware she needed to get the conversation around to a conclusion, so she could get back to her boats.

“Oh yes”, Teasetta recalled, as if she too had forgotten, and as if it was not the main purpose of her visit. One of our actresses fell head-over-heels in love with a Petian Tribesgirl, and who could blame her?! So there is a weansy little part, vital to completion of the movie, and in urgent need of a negress actress…. Seraphima would be just so perfect for it”.

And, after having been semi-silent so long during the delightful light lunch, with hardly a peck at food, or a sip of wine, Seraphima’s eyes suddenly opened wide with pleasured astonishment.

“Oh may I? Oh please please Marina, please let me, please!” she danced bouncing on her love-lips on her chair, and then leaning over to hug Marina and shower her with kisses, as her, Seraphima’s face was suddenly lit with endless miles of excited smiles.

Marina smiled her love at Seraphima: “Of course you may my angel”, she whispered, “Of course you may”.

(by Eve Adorer)

Part 2 - Chapter 3 – Jewel

Dolly in her denim, Seraphima looked indelibly incredibly edible.

The heat of the lights in the humidity of the day and the confined closeness of the walls of the room, made even a girl as fit as Seraphima perspire. And so her dark black complexion shone with a sheen that reflected one lovely leg on the other and one gentle breast in its twin, and vice versa in all four cases.

She was playing the part of a bank clerk. In the movie that was being made, the bank was going to be robbed by the notorious outlaw, ‘Sexy Red’. Teasetta was acting the part of Sexy Red.

With Seraphima standing en-pointe tall in ballet-shoe-style cowgirl booties, one followed the lovely legs up to the ragged-edged blue denim microskirt, and, although the eyes did not want to do ought but linger and ponder what was hidden in the shadow there, above that to the waistcoat ‘vest’, which struggled to contain the abundance of Seraphima’s bosom within its tightly buttoned sleeveless ragged-edged blue denim confines.

The evidence that Seraphima wore no panties, was clear as day in the full display of the full flow of her pubic hair, in twin braided twists, with ends tied in and on themselves, trailing behind her wonderful, wonderfully waving, wickedly misbehaving behind.

On Seraphima’s forehead was a yellow-tinted eyeshade, western movie bank clerk style.

As she pretended to count bank notes, in the umpteenth take of the start of her scene in the film that was being made, Seraphima tried so hard not to smile with joy at being something she had longed to be since way back: an actress.

“Cut!” the director called.

“Darling we really must not let a smile cross those lovely lips. Counting money is a serious business!” the director, an English girl rejoicing in the assumed name ‘Alene Arlene’ teased, to try and win the performance she wanted from the lovely negress.

“Let’s see those darling arms and those delightful fingers as you play with the money sweetheart…. And take!”, she called for the nineteenth time, so that the cameras rolled yet again.

Moments later came: “Cut! That’s a wrap. Time out now girls! No more than a five. I want us all back in five for the robbery scene. That one just, but just, has to be but one long take. Do I make myself clear?”

“Seraphima, darling, that was just perfect. Relax a mo now, you’ve got your two big scenes coming”, Alene reminded.

As far as the first next scene went, or was to go, Seraphima had seen nothing by way of a script. That was because of Alene’s preferred modus operandi.

Alene was famed for bringing ‘naturalness’ to her movies. She never employed real actresses. She maintained that their training had drained them of the ability to act. An ordinary girl from the street, who had probably done no more acting than to be kissed by the leading girl in the school play, that was where true acting was to be found.

As they stood alone together, awaiting the preparation of the next shoot: “You know that I love you, don’t you Seraphima?” Teasetta whispered.

“Please….!” Seraphima sighed, as she lowered her love lanterns, closing her devil-dark eyes with a shyness she had not felt since she was a teen.

She then looked up into the ice-green depths of Teasetta’s signally signalling orbs, and saw that it was true.

“I can’t……….”, Seraphima whispered.

“I’ll make you”, Teasetta quietly assured, and leaned forward to kiss Seraphima, who swiftly sidestepped.

“If you love me, where have you been this last four years?” Seraphima sweetly teased, pleased to be so evidently adored by the flawless angel with the golden glow.

“Trying to forget you”, Teasetta gently smiled.

“Come on now darlings! Back to the set! Come on, I’ve got a deadline and so therefore do you!” Alene called, breaking the static spell.

Filming of the next scene began. Alene had just given the girls taking part a quick oral run down of the order of events.

Squatting to push bundles of dollar notes into the safe, close its door, and spin its combination-lock, Seraphima showed off a huge expanse of thigh, shining with the sheen of her sweet perspiration. Two inspiring thighs of wonderful size and equal strength were formed by her squat, and her heavy breasts emotioned motion to match her own magical movements moments after the rest of her had already moved on.

The safe safely locked, Seraphima, as the bank clerk she was playing, was told by her sixth and seventh senses, not to move.

Without daring to turn, she whispered loudly: “I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble. I’m just a bank clerk stowing the cash from the herders that just passed this here way…..”

Risking the very trouble she was seeking to avoid. Chancing that whoever had come up behind her was not friendly, the black wonder slowly turned. And as she turned she let out a gradually rising whistle of appreciation.

The complex curls that fluttered out the back of the Stetson and down to the very ground told the bank clerk that this honey, the girl stood behind with a drop on her, was a drop-dead gorgeous redhead.

But she didn’t get to look into the ice-green eyes and the astonishingly pretty face, till she had travelled up two legs, each longer than the Mississippi-Missouri, and far by far shapelier.

This girl wore heelless brown leather cowgirl booties, with wheel-spurs. She therefore stood on permanent tiptoe, and oh girl did it do great shakes for her legs.

She was as white as if she’d never seen the sun since the day she was born, and her translucent complexion looked softer than even rose petals.

Apart from the Stetson and the booties, the honey wore only a Mexican style poncho. It left her lovely arms free, and god only knew what a beautiful view from either side.

Front, and back, its corners hung triangle to cover some strategic site sights. But, from where the bank clerk, Seraphima, squatted still, she could see that the titian tease, was equally genuinely auburn between her goddam wonderful thighs, as evidenced by the brilliance of the burnished-red pubic curls that tumbled in a coiled jungle-thicket to her knees, and glistened in a sunbeam as her coiled curls gently whirled and waved when the breathtaking creature merely breathed.

The gold-down on the honey’s forearms glistened. From where the bank clerk squatted, she spotted the heavy weapon on this gorgeous creature’s left thigh. It was still in its holster, the holster being strapped, top the thigh near her crutch, and also just above her knee. The butt of its handle faced forward.

“See you’re packin’ a long-barrel”, the Nubian bank-teller, Seraphima, muttered nervously.

“Reckon so”, came the relaxed answer, with a decidedly horny husky kitteness to its utterance, and a clearly English accent.

The bank clerk re-thought her introductory remark. Whether this gungirl was an outlaw or a good guy, the squatting teller wanted up and out of where she was at.

“Don’t think I heard your name”, she tried, desperately.

“Don’t reckon I told it”, came the cool calm answer.

The roles now changed, with the ghost-white leggy redhead assuming the questioner’s part: “Just how many was in the heard they just drove outta town?”

“Some twelve-hundred head of brunettes, two-hundred or so of blondes, one-hundred-fifty of redheads, and some fifty negresses….”, the teller replied, proud of her part in making safe the money of the cowgirls riding ponygirl drive, till they came back to Tumbleweed to spend it on cheap girl-pee, and even cheaper girls.

“Maybe they could use an extra gun. if’n you ride out after them and leave this here fine institution in my safekeeping”, the spectral redhead mused, in a husky stage whisper. “Afore you go though, mind you leave me the combo for that there steel-slam of course…”

The teller’s eighth and ninth senses now told her this was her only chance to change the order of things. She didn’t like squatting in seeming subservience, even to this astonishingly lovely stranger.

In a split second she had risen, ripped her gun out, and was facing the gorgeous redhead; or would have been save that in an even more split second, a bullwhip had wrapped around her wrist and wrenched it so hard aside as to leave her six-shoot somersaulting over and over on the floor, before the whip had nextly wound around her neck to half choke her.

“I just knew it. You’re…you’re Sexy Red”, the teller croaked, as she was throttled to a pretended faint.

“Cut!” Alene called. “Cut!” Girls that was just terrific? Now give me some of that in the next scene. You’ve got it read-up Teasetta my golden angel. Now lets go before we lose the momentum here! Roll it….! I said Roll it….!!”

To the next scene, Seraphima was a complete stranger. She had been given no notes on this one at all.

She began supine on the bank’s floor, coming slowly around from her well-acted faint.

“You gonna tell us the combo honey, or do we gotta get it the hard way?” Teasetta, as ‘Sexy Red’, hissed.

“I don’t know the combination!” Seraphima answered entirely truthfully.

Sexy Red nodded, and her pretty companions clawed and pawed at Seraphima's skimpy clothing, till the sound of a skirt being ripped and the snap and flying of buttons, told the truth, that she was being brutally stripped.

It was not in the intended outline script, that the shear beauty of Seraphima's twenty-five-year-old’s fit and supremely feminine body would cause the bandits to feel the awe they now showed, as the scene slowed, but….

……..Then: “String her up!” Sexy Red called.

Moments later, Seraphima found herself with her toes struggling to reach the floor, as she hung from a roof beam by her wrists, with only her pubic hair touching, and thus making profound the ground, Seraphima longed to reach to relieve the stress in her arms and shoulders.

Teasetta moved her lovely golden curl-surrounded and crowned face up toward Seraphima’s lowered head, as if she were about to kiss the Nubian angel, and whispered, “Tell me that you love me”.

Seraphima instantly shouted aloud: “No!” as if it were written in the unwritten script.

“Then if you won’t give us the combination freely, I guess we is gonna have ta whip it outta your lovely black hide”, Sexy Red hissed menacingly.

“Oh please god no!” Seraphima genuinely begged.

The sad whistle of the lonely bullwhip, as it begged the air to forgive it for the pain it was about to inflict, as it flicked up, and picked up inexorable speed; saw Seraphima’s long inspirationally sexy black legs, mirrored with perspiration, dancing helplessly in the clear air, as she fought to avoid the cruel embrace of the twelve-feet of supple plaited leather, that suddenly savagely curled right around her naked waist three times, blazing a path in her flesh of unbelievable fire, concluding with the ‘rattlesnake’ tip of its heavily knotted end, giving her right buttock a vicious kiss, that caused the angel to holler horrifically loudly with the terrible pain.

“Oh god! Oh god! No! No more!! Please no more!!” Seraphima pleaded.

But the wicked wild whistle whimpered and wailed banshee’s tale again, as the blacksnake’s tail wound its path through the winnowing air, air keening with the whine. And Seraphima was embraced thrice in a single trice again, of spiteful bite that tore its path in her soft complexion, and punctuated its crescendo with the slap of its impact, and the whack of the coda impacted in fact by the knotted tail-tip biting Seraphima’s beautiful buttock cheek again. And her blood flowed in a red trickle from the vicious welt the kiss of the whip just felt, smelted into her smouldering bottom: a trickling tear of crimson that soon anointed the wonder of her powerful thigh.

“No!! No!! No!! No!! No!! No!!!” Seraphima screamed. This was no pretence. She had not agreed to this! No girl should be whipped like this!

“Tell us the combo you little whore, or you can kiss your gorgeous black skin goodbye!” Sexy Red spat.

“I can’t!” Seraphima called. “Stop this! Oh please god stop this”, she shouted and screamed, her voice trailing off to a hoarse croak.

Two more withering wickedly wild whistles, signifying significantly violent visitation from blazing leather, coiled around the Nubian negress, and kissed her naked tits by turn, as she screamed and screeched.

And so turned was Seraphima now, two ways, as she helplessly spun from the impact, and as she was turned to a new tune. And her cries were now sighs and her “No!!” meant “More!!!”. And Seraphima cried tears of blood from her crisscross-split left nipple. And she rubbed and squeezed her sweaty thighs together, to try and finish her arousal with a cum. But her silk smooth flesh slid on the sheen with which it shone, and was so slickly lubricated that she could not attain the grip to squeeze her salaciously salivating slit, because her thunderous thighs slid off each other leaving her crying out with fearsome frustration.

And yet twice more beyond these, the wistful whistle of the lonely whip cried and sighed through the sad air, and cracked on Seraphima’s sweat-streaming sexually steaming body, thrashing her sweet tits down hard on her chest, as it coiled around her breast, pitiless python with bitter bite that tore her sweet skin. And after each lash, Seraphima’s brutalised breasts leaped from her chest, and flung themselves out and up in rebound, as if betrayed lovers being deserted by their cruel amore, and as if begging her cruelty for more.

And Seraphima was burned to sin and complete abandon to her unsurpassably fundamental feminine full-score full-flight no-fight passionate sexuality. And the whip wailed and told its tale that its tail just wanted to make love to the beautiful black rosebud. And its cry as it whistled with fearsome ferociousness through the air once more, sounded so lonely, and yet so totally brutally brisk, as it wound around the helpless dangling girl with a thrice twirl, to precisely embrace her in a ring: three rings: a tightening spiral of burning fire, as it bit every millimetre of the soft completely smooth complexion in its inexorable path, with its loudest yet ‘crack’. And it took her: it took Seraphima between her massive sweaty shining black thighs. It raped her. The knotted rattlesnake tip of the bullwhip, after ripping her petals wide apart in an instant’s instant of non-existent resistance, bit her inside with its lightening-rod kiss: a kiss as if the whip tip had, in every millimetre, one-million Piranhas armed with red-hot teeth, tearing a burning path in her supremely sensitive pink with terrible pain. It struck into her so deeply deep, the supreme majesty of its absolute savagery searing her sweet innocence.

And momentarily Seraphima was stung stunned. Her body went as stiff as if she had been ripped by lightening. And then, after the instant anaesthesia from a blow so dreadful that her nerve-endings were numbed: anaesthesia from the agony yet to come: a dam burst: and Seraphima screamed, and gasped and hollered, time and time again, from the savage ravage and rape of her pink, and danced devil dervish’s tango tarantella in her unbearable pain, twisting and twining and cycling her beautiful sweat-sheened legs to endure enjoying the unrelenting unrelieveable unbelievable pain of the whip rape, blind to all bar the screaming red screen that went with her screeches, a screen showing the golden wonder of the exceptionally exquisite Teasetta’s lovely loving face, as Seraphima came with a massive cum, and then, instantly, a yet more monumental cum from her massive cum.

Seraphima’s eyes were wild with her wanton’s abandonment to sexual fire from the flames of the kisses of the whip still burning her burnished body. Her sweat mingled with the tears of blood from the stripes that surrounded her lovely breasts and beautiful buttocks, and dripped from between the petals of her raped pod.

Seraphima had just known a cum from inside-out to outside-in. She had not only just cum: she had just been so wholly part of that cum, that she had been her cum. Her whole body, her whole mind, her whole holy soul had been a cum: a monumentally mountainously massive cum.

And Teasetta moved in close and whisper-begged: “Tell me you love me. Please tell me you love me!”

And in agony still, and so dazed by the extreme sexual experience she had just endured, even yet Seraphima found her love for Marina still paramount, and whispered an exhausted exalted hoarse: “No”.

“And….cut!” Alene Arlene called.

“Girls! Girls! That was just so terrific! I just adored the bits where you were demanding that the little floozy say that she loved you, Teasetta. That was a brilliant touch. Don’t know where that one came from darling, but lets have more of its like in the scenes to come: Okay!”

“Take a break everyone!”

“Seraphima love: you were just terrific.”

“Your part’s over now sweetheart. They find you dead in the next scene: flogged to death in fact. We use a dummy for that of course. We just need a digital photo of your stripes, so makeup can get the mock wounds on the dummy to match. Then we can let you go darling. You know where the pay office is don’t you?” Alene dismissed with a distracted acted sincerity of tone.

And then, she left the bleeding wounded bruised agonised and humiliated Seraphima to be photographed, taken down from where she still hung, and to make her own way home.

As Seraphima still dangled by her wrists, trickling with blood, she watched the pretty Alene desert her, running after the scene setters, shouting, ordering: “No! I want the gallows over on the hill there!”…….

As Seraphima sat her agonised bleeding body to try and put her ballet-shoes on, in order to be able to wiggle home, tears of confusion welled and then poured from her loving eyes.

Seraphima did love Teasetta. And yet, even when the brutal whipping had made her surrender to the molten core of her deepest nature, and she had actually become her cum, she had denied Teasetta the words the golden curled angel longed to hear, as much as Seraphima had longed to say them.

But or and, or and or but, Seraphima loved Marina too.

It was surely a case of, ‘no or I go’. Marina would never ever be other than monogamous. Seraphima’s jealousy over the imagined unfaithfulness of her wife with their maid was now dispelled. Seraphima knew she had to be as true to Marina as Marina to her, or two hearts would be broken beyond their ever mending.

And yet Teasetta had just shown her love.

The whipping had clearly been intended to be intense pretence. Teasetta’s skill with the bullwhip had shown in the earlier scene where she had ripped Seraphima’s six-gun out of her hand, and then wound the whip around her neck.

There were no marks to show for those strokes. Yet Teasetta had been as good as her word when she had vowed that she would make Seraphima love her. The opportunity for Teasetta to make love to Seraphima with the whip for real, had clearly been what the girl with the tumbling tease of titian twirls had had in mind when she had so sworn.

Oh god was ever a girl so cursed that she was chased and must be chaste so? Why was the world so cruel as to deny Seraphima the heaven of Teasetta’s arms unless she were to abandon Marina’s charms?

Seraphima initially concluded that she had deserved the whipping. If she had so enticed Teasetta through the thoroughly exciting inviting spices of her face and body, and thus been unfaithful to Marina, her wife of four loving years, Seraphima had thoroughly deserved to be flogged as she just had been.

And then she finally allowed that even as her love had been tested by the fires that the whipping had released; even when her deepest animal sexuality had been unleashed and arrived unfettered in full, under the unbearable pain of the flogging, she had still been faithful to Marina.

Seraphima winced and cried out with pain again as she rose. The blood from the wounds the black rosebud bore, had stuck her to her seat as it congealed, and she cried anew with the stab, as her rising reminded her of the multiple stripes of livid living agony with which she was still burning.

Seraphima could not bear the thought, let alone the reality, of donning the close-clinging saffron rubber tee-shirt and rubber mini-skirt in which she had arrived for the filming.

And so, though it was, as she did not realise in her depth of pain, a theft, she donned a soft white towelling robe, and rose on her softly smoothly muscular legs, and strode proudly out of the caravan in which she had changed, along to the pay office to collect her pittance, and then home, along the bank of Lake Charlotte, with the blood from her savage flogging trickling over the curves of her god-given calves, as she trailed a blaze, with her devil’s tails of plaited pubic hair sliding sidling lizard in the sand between her tiptop tiptoed feet.

As Seraphima at last wiggled in through the patio doors of their lakeside home, Marina gasped aghast: “Oh my god! What have they done to you my angel?”

“Please take me to bed”, Seraphima begged.

“Of course, my love. Of course!”, Marina lovingly concerned as she rushed to Seraphima.

But the ‘take me to bed’ that Seraphima had said, was not the ‘take me to bed’ that Marina had read. And for the hours that followed, two girls knew the heights to which the highest of high loves could reach; and universes beyond; as Seraphima showed the lesson that her cruel flogging had taught her, and Marina was shocked to find that she longed to kiss and lick the blood that spilt from Seraphima’s split nipple, and tongue along her salty welts, and both girls came, and came, and again came again, as Seraphima played slave to her mistress and wife for life, as her wife licked her wounds, and two angels from heaven on earth, paid high homage to lesbian love’s full worth.

It was a month later that: “Good morning my lady” Camilleona curtsied as she purred and pouted: a lesson in lovely lissom limbs.

“Good morning Camilleona” Seraphima smiled, as she swung her legs to the side of the bed, and felt for her twelve-inch-heeled mule slippers with her pretty feet.

“Shall Camilleona give my lady a bath?” Camilleona enquired sweetly.

“No thank you Camilleona”, Seraphima yawned, stretching and thus letting her breasts open the nightgown she was wearing: “I think I’ll take a shower”.

“As my lady wishes”, Camilleona curtsied prettily again.

“Has ‘Miss Marina’ already gone to work?” Seraphima enquired, unnecessarily in truth, using the nomenclature Camilleona habitually applied when referring to Seraphima’s lovely wife, and meaning by asking, to prompt Camilleona to regurgitate any messages she might otherwise have forgotten.

“Yes my lady. Before go, Miss Marina tell Camilleona to tell Miss Seraphima, that lady Teasetta come to call, and that she sorry too busy, so Miss Seraphima see lovely red-haired lady alone”, Camilleona smiled, pleased that she had recalled the message and managed to serve it up, in her supremely sexy English.

“What time?” Seraphima asked, betraying seeming anxiety.

“It just make eight o’ clock Miss Seraphima”, Camilleona answered with singsong brightness.

“No. No… I mean what time will Teasetta be calling in?”, Seraphima asked, a little crossly.

“Oh!!” Camilleona suddenly stamped an extremely pretty foot: “Camilleona make bath and wash Miss Marina. Camilleona do ‘er breakfast. She milk Camilleona and Camilleona give plenty milk. Camilleona ‘ave bedroom to clean and tidy, and clean shower after Miss Seraphima use. Camilleona ‘ave lunch to make even if Miss Marina say she not be ‘ome all day. And then Camilleona do dinner and Camilleona ‘ave to run around making cheese and yoghurt for lovely mistresses. And milk Camilleona ‘ave to ‘ave squeezed from ‘er titties two times more. And still they never pleased with Camilleona, no matter ‘ow ‘ard she try! Oh why you so annoyed at Camilleona when Camilleona try so ‘ard to be good girl and not get naughty bummy spanked?” Camilleona pouted as she conducted orchestra with her lovely arms, shrugged her shoulders a thousand-fold times, and danced her twin singularly shapely legs in her ballet-shoes, to emphasise her sudden fury during this mini-tirade.

Seraphima held up a sweet hand. “We all love you Camilleona, and you are doing a wonderful job”, she assured the Italian volcano: “I’m sorry if I was unkind”.

“Camilleona sorry too, Miss Seraphima”, Camilleona blushed, as she flushed with pride at the praise of her workgirlship.

“Please would you bath me after all Camilleona?” Seraphima skilfully coaxed.

“Of course my lady”, Camilleona bobbed a curtsy again.

Once Camilleona had settled the silver coffee service and delicate bone-china on the marble-topped table between, but to the side of the four lovely legs, two white and two black, of the white and black wonders that decorated either side of it, Seraphima smiled at Camilleona and said sweetly: Thank you Camilleona. We’ll pour our own. I know how busy you are….”

Breaking off only momentarily from her awed stare at the shear majesty of Teasetta’s glistening glistering flame-gold hair, Camilleona curtsied.

Then, both the gorgeous redhead, and the no less stunning negress, appreciatively watched the progress of the egress of the lovely Italian, as she wiggled her wonder from the room.

Now alone, they turned and smiled nervously at each other, and the universe momentarily knew transfer of some of its stellar brilliance.

“I didn’t tell Marina; I mean who did it exactly. Whipped me I mean. I’ve never let her know fully about my past either. I’m not proud of it. I mean, not just my past, but my not telling Marina who beat me…..”, Seraphima said quietly.

Teasetta did not answer, but watched the pretty hands and arms of the stunning negress, as she poured the coffee: black for Teasetta, and white for Seraphima of course.

“I meant and still mean every word I said”, Teasetta answered.

“I know you did; and don’t doubt that you do: and I am so flattered and honoured Teasetta, like you wouldn’t believe”, Seraphima sincered.

“Do you forgive me for raping you with the whip?”, Teasetta asked with evident anxiety.

Seraphima smiled gently. “You know I do”, she answered.

There was then a pause, with neither girl wanting to spoil the sweetly scented silence of their adorable dual presence.

“Will Marina be back today, I’d love to see her again. You are an incredibly lucky girl to have such a darling for your wife, and she works so hard….” Teasetta broke in, as her eyes ran up and down Seraphima’s bold beautiful bare thighs.

“Have I timed it right?” she then added, out of joint with timing, judging by her tone.

“Marina won’t be back today, she’s signing a contract for some new girl-gondolas. The contractor is bound to take her to luncheon somewhere to celebrate and seal the deal…” Seraphima responded with her sweet negress lips describing the indescribable eroticness of their need to be kissed, and her eyes blazons of both purity and fire, searing into Teasetta’s soul.

“I just adore your love-hair tied in two pigtails like that”, Teasetta complimented, as she admired the two tightly woven plaits that draped floor at Seraphima’s slender ankles.

“And rubber suits you so. You have such a stunning figure, and the bright colours it lends itself to, are such a delight in contrast with your complexion”, Teasetta went on.

“You are very kind, and coming from such a lovely girl as you….”, Seraphima lowered her head in a blush, as she saved herself from giving the compliment a married woman is not allowed to say aloud, unless it be to her wife.

An outsider would have assumed that both girls were skirting their meaning, and that outsider would have been right.

“Have I timed it right?” Teasetta repeated, having seemingly to insist on the question that was not being answered in precise terms.

“Yes. It came on yesterday”, Seraphima answered, whilst brushing a dark curl from her heavenly face.

“Is it heavy?” Teasetta continued.

Seraphima did not answer.

“They say it’s the fountain of youth. I know I’m still pretty, but a girl wants to stay young. There’s nothing Transylvanian about it you know. It’s just a transfer of ‘the fountain’ from another pretty girl. ‘Hi’ magazine did a feature on it a year back. Seems all the celebs are at it”, Teasetta stated, sounding as if she were excusing herself.

“I got the message you left with Camilleona. You know I’m happy to oblige, just as I did when I was your maid, way back when…”, Seraphima answered, sweetly.

“You do promise you won’t kiss me”, Seraphima suddenly blurted: “I’d just go meltdown if you kissed me Teasetta. You must promise. I’m doing this as a favour for a friend. I’m a married girl now: a happily married girl….”

Teasetta sensed the tension in Seraphima’s statement and she knew both why and why.

“Kissing is strictly out of bounds!” she tried to joke: “No. I mean I love you so much I will do, or forbear from doing, whatever you ask me, my angel”, Teasetta concluded.

“It’s just that I’m so far from home, and my maid I sent off to see her girlfriend whilst I was over here. And I need…..” Teasetta’s unnecessary explanation tailed off.

“I thought a towel…. Perhaps on the chaise longue. An hour… I mean, there’s really no hurry, save luncheon at noon, and I must milk Camilleona just after, or the poor girl will be in dreadful pain…?” Seraphima murmured nervously.

“We won’t be disturbed. Camilleona is well trained. She’ll only come if I ring for her”, Seraphima gabbled in her high tension.

In answer, Teasetta rose from her chair, letting the inestimable treasure of her golden curls tumble silently around her ankles as she did so, smiling nervously at Seraphima, before she took her beautiful legs, and her beautiful legs took her, to the chaise, on which she arranged herself with her golden coils under her and away from her moon-white moonlight face, her coral-pink lips, and her ice-green eyes.

Seraphima now rose, prettier than any posey, and waltzed wonderful sway over Teasetta’s way. She then hitched up her rubber miniskirt, and reached up, unhooked, and slowly removed what she now placed face upwards, on a nearby table, before lowering her lovely body, to sit its transparent beauty squarely on Teasetta’s beautiful face.

As she sat on Teasetta’s face, Seraphima toyed with the curls of her hair, playing her adorable long fingers in it, in order to attempt the unintended and anyway impossible goal, of straightening just one of her curls out.

She sat distracted and daydreaming, her calves curved magically erotically, her gorgeous closed mouth posed in the ‘O’ of orgasm, as her monthly bleed drip-dropped to form salty sips for and into Teasetta’s eager mouth.

As Seraphima sat, she had parted her thighs to open her petals. Beneath her humid warmth and supremely feminine aroma, a dream-girl’s tongue, longing to lick, but obedient to the promise not to kiss, curled into an eager channel to catch and sip dracularly, the beauty and eternal-youth assuring bright red drips of the monthly bleed from the dark black rose.

(by Eve Adorer)

Part 2 - Chapter 4 – Rule

With the filmmaking over, and Teasetta having flown home to England and her busy life as wife for John, professor of law at Camford University, and as a Girl-Court judge, Seraphima knew she had to relax into the sole role of loving wife for Marina.

For her part, Marina had sensed the danger. She had heard how passionately Teasetta had courted Seraphima with the bullwhip. But she knew that Seraphima’s resulting orgasms were no betrayal: only the inevitable physical reaction of such an all-girl girl. It had been rape, not mutuality.

That Seraphima had not run off into the sunset with Teasetta, pleased Marina of course. But the smile of love that Marina was, knew that Seraphima felt regret at her loss, and that her lovely wife needed more occupation than merely decorating their home’s swimming pool all day long.

“Let me pay for the dressing gown then.”

“’Fraid it’s not that easy madam. Theft is theft yer know. Do these ‘ere rubber close belong to yer missus?”

Seraphima sat in the luxury of the business-class compartment of the bullet-train speeding her to the meeting Marina had entrusted her to attend.

It was good to be working. The only work she had done since she had married Marina had been the movie. Her previous ‘employment’ had been as Marina’s slave, some four years back now. It was also good therefore, to be working on something she wanted to do, rather than slaving, or being abused and exploited as the film company had done with her.

A glance across from where Seraphima sat on the train, showed four girls sat either side a table: four lovely white girls. The prettiest was a petite sweetie with a gorgeous sparkling-eyed smile. Her straight blonde hair was cropped short and stood stook straight upright, rippling as she moved, as if wind-blown corn.

Seraphima exchanged one look, and thereafter the girl seemed smitten. She talked sweetly, but a little too animatedly, and pretended not to be looking to see if Seraphima was still looking at her, though in fact she was obviously using her peripheral vision.

Seraphima smiled at the little honey’s loveliness, and the girl’s grey eyes sparkling, and her lips that shone moist with softness.

A station stop. A three-girl departure. A still vacant seat next to Seraphima, and a sweet voice saying: “May I take this seat?”, the voice of a grey-eyed blonde of no more than twenty-one, who had had a seat of her own not moments ago.

As she bent forward to ask about the seat she already knew was free for her to take, her vee-neck revealed what pretty little breasts she had: no more than mere undulations. She would never ever have needed a brassiere, save for show.

And spotting that Seraphima could not help but look down her sweater, and was adoring her hermaphroditic contradictoriness: her boyish near flatness and her very girlish waist and rear, she leaned a little more forward, and lingered longer, unnecessarily.

Was she five-three? Her legs were not long, but, as she stood en-pointe in her ballet-shoes, lovely in their careering caressable contours.

As the sweet creature sat next her, and her skirt rose to show well-rounded black stocking-blessed thighs, Seraphima could not help but take her eyes on a tour of exploration.

“Hi”, the girl with eyes that glowed with her adorableness, whispered.

“Are you on a business trip? I saw your suitcase and briefcase, and I said to myself ‘business-girl!’. I am right aren’t I?” she asked, with a jokey tone that said ‘I do so hope you’ll talk to me, I think you’re so lovely’.

“I’m off up to Enabe. It’s more a conference than a meeting. A couple of days of workshops and syndicates, with the lectures in the same hotel as the attendees are all staying in: then back to Ntobi”, Seraphima found herself answering.

“Not ‘Business Efficiency and the Menstrual Cycle’?”, the girl asked, with joy in her tone.

“Why, yes as it happens….” Seraphima answered.

“Kate…. Kate Godsgift?”, the girl now smiled, as she put out the prettiest of pretty hands for Seraphima to shake.

“Nice to meet you Kate. Are you at the same conference?”, Seraphima enquired.

“I hope so”, Kate answered with a mischievous giggle, “I’m the tutor!” She then laughed with her eyes sparkling love-lightening: and the world grew suddenly sunnier.

“Let me pay for the dressing gown then.”

“’Fraid it’s not that easy madam. Theft is theft yer know. Do these ‘ere rubber close belong to yer missus?”

“Yes, they’re Seraphima’s”

Later that morning after she had settled into the hotel and had a quick refreshing shower, Seraphima sat among strangers, her fellow attendees, as…

“We should not overindulge in generalisations….”.

Kate kissed the air with her ever-moist lips and ready shy smile as she fronted the lecture room, a hotel lounge, pacing on her pretty legs as she added orally to the computer slide display for her first lecture that first day.

Seraphima watched her legs and admired the soft red leather ballet-shoes in which Kate now paraded pointy-toed pirouette tiptop tiptoed.

“We should not overindulge in generalisations, but numerous surveys have shown the assets we girls share, include the advantage over the male of the species, of our greater communication skills….”.

Kate now wore a light-blue latex miniskirt that clung to her divine derriere with ne’er a line to define that she was, under it, anything but perfectly naked.

Atop a bare belly belying a belly-dancer as a chancer for claiming to have a midriff to whistle wolf for, she wore the same shade of blue, in a latex tank-top her tiny titties hardly troubled to bulge out, but which showed she had pert alert nipples.

“……….monthly fall-off in productive capacity, not in fact proven….”

Kate continued, the rubber suspenders holding up her condom-fine, close-clinging latex stockings, straining as her firm petite buttocks rose and fell when she paced the lecture room.

“……coincidence of the female cycle in structured environments a positive….”.

Kate smiled, and her grey eyes glowed with warmth so lovingly lovely that Seraphima knew that she, Seraphima, was in meltdown.

“Let me pay for the dressing gown then.”

“’Fraid it’s not that easy madam. Theft is theft yer know. Do these ‘ere rubber close belong to yer missus?”

“Yes, they’re Seraphima’s”

“When will yer missus be ‘ome?”

“Thank you for your attention. I hope at least some of you were listening to the lecture and not just looking at me….”

Kate giggled, and then blushed at her self-conscious joke and admission that she knew that, because she was so devastatingly pretty, she was being ogled by every girl in the room.

“You will be relieved to hear that we have a short coffee break now, and then I have a syndicate exercise for you all…. Now don’t groan!”, she teased and smiled.

Kate smiled anew as she walked straight over to the Nubian angel at the break: “How’s your room Seraphima? The old ‘Titular Hotel’ is just a tad old fashioned, but they have always made us very welcome”.

Seraphima caught the sunlight sparkling on the soft blonde hairs on Kate’s slim forearms, and was completely disarmed.

But, before Seraphima could answer, Kate turned to respond to another attendee.

“Excuse me butting in Kate, but whilst your opening lecture was fine, if a little pro-Freudian in its otherwise perspicacious summation of the post-suffragette stratagem and dilemma, what about the Marxian dialectic? When we discuss the feminine experience, shouldn’t the Marxian ‘thesis, antithesis, synthesis’ analytical triumvirate enter the fray, stage-left, at the start of the day?”, Seraphima heard the other attendee expound, with blue-stockings in evident display, and obviously not only on her long legs, which had probably never yet been splayed.

A quick glance at and from Kate showed that the petite posy wanted still to talk to Seraphima. And a second look from Kate at Seraphima, found Seraphima aghast at the obscure query, and made Kate have to fight to hold back a peel of appealing giggles, at the sight of the astonishment on Seraphima’s face.

As she returned to front-up the lecture once more, Kate avoided Seraphima’s eyes, knowing that she had made her point with the Nubian negress, and that it was now for Seraphima to make the next play.

“Let me pay for the dressing gown then.”

“’Fraid it’s not that easy madam. Theft is theft yer know. Do these ‘ere rubber close belong to yer missus?”

“Yes, they’re Seraphima’s”

“When will yer missus be ‘ome?”

“She’s only just left for Enabe….. She’s on a residential course I decided I did not want to go to….in an hotel there…”

“Kate!”, Seraphima called, as lecturer and lectured went to lunch. And the lovely blonde angel turned with her smiling eyes, and Seraphima’s longings now definitely belonged to love.

“Are you in… Do you have room ‘69’? You see I… I noticed you left your key at the back of the lecture room, so I’ve tucked it in my stocking top for safekeeping….”

Kate blushed. “Thank you Seraphima. That’s perfectly fine”, she smiled, and then blushed again, obviously registering that her heavenly loveliness had scored a palpable hit with the stunning negress.

At lunch, Kate showed she knew that, to continue to reel Seraphima in for real, she really no longer had to be other than her sweet self.

As the two girls sat opposite each other, she just talked and giggled naturally, although her face, her eyes in particular, showed that she was just loving having her delightful prettiness admired.

Of course Kate had seen the wedding ring. But Kate was a ‘modern girl’ and saw such trinkets as no fence or defence against the natural fulfilment of love’s longings.

For her part, Seraphima had clearly been changed by her whip-rape.

During the brutal experience itself, her old self, the married girl who would never ever break her vow, had still asserted itself, and she had resisted Teasetta, despite her agony.

It had been in the weeks since that, subconsciously initially, change had begun.

Despite her old self, Seraphima had been taken by the whip.

Okay, it was hindsight, but she should have interposed a leg to deflect the stroke that had invaded her. The fact that she did not know that particular stroke was aimed at taking her, was no excuse. She should, she told herself, have kept her legs together at all times to protect her wifely virtue.

This initial conclusion, and her consequent guilt, had quite depressed Seraphima for some time after the whip-rape.

Marina, lovely Marina, had soon realised the guilt Seraphima was feeling for having orgasmed under the lash, and kept reassuring her wife that she understood, and that there was no cause for such feelings: and even that she, Marina, would have done the same if Teasetta had been bullwhipping her.

But Seraphima knew that nobody whom had not themselves been whip-raped, could possibly understand. Her guilt was not only from the knowledge that she had surrendered; but also from the need to have the incredibly intense experience over again.

This latter was never fully admitted by Seraphima’s conscious mind. When it did briefly surface though, she told herself too, as was undoubtedly true, that the intensity could not be the same as the first time; because the first time was the only time in which she would ever not know that it was coming.

Dissatisfaction with Marina in bed was something the whip-rape had also almost immediately fed.

Seraphima’s eyes had began to roam. She began to realise that there was a whole panorama of girls in the world, and not just the girl she was wed to at home.

Marina and Seraphima knew each other too well for the bedroom experience now to be anything other than routine.

Though they still shared the same bed, the intervals between their lovemaking had been growing longer. Seraphima had hoped that this would heighten the experience by renewing it, but had been disappointed on that score.

Marina, for her part, had assumed Seraphima’s apparently lowered desire was the outcome of the whipping, and had been sweet enough to sacrifice her own needs to the wish she assumed Seraphima had, to ‘re-virginalise’ her body as it were.

Without either girl realising it, or at least without either admitting it to herself, let alone the other, their physical love had become stale, staid, and was withering on the vine.

“Stop looking at me!”, Kate shyly commanded, as she found herself blushing under the constant adoring gaze of Seraphima’s dark-brown eyes, with the lovely negress transfixed by her smile and her moist lips.

As she lowered her adoring gaze, and fought not to look at pretty Kate, Seraphima, smiled anew.

Then, mini-moments later, Kate tapped Seraphima’s hand and commanded: “Look at me!”, and Seraphima smiled again at Kate’s charmingly contradictory femininity.

“Let me pay for the dressing gown then.”

“’Fraid it’s not that easy madam. Theft is theft yer know. Do these ‘ere rubber close belong to yer missus?”

“Yes, they’re Seraphima’s”

“When will yer missus be ‘ome?”

“She’s only just left for Enabe….. She’s on a residential course I decided I did not want to go to….in an hotel there…”

“An’ where more hegsactly would dat be at madam?”

Seraphima apologised as she left the lecture room. The display on her mobile told her the call was from Marina. Seraphima feared something dreadful had happened. There was no real justification for such concern, save that her wife would surely not phone when she would have known Seraphima would most likely be in a lecture, unless there was some kind of problem.

“Girl-Police…. Dressing gown came home in after the whipping…. Feel so dreadful….. Betrayal darling….. God forgive me but you know what they are like….. I had to tell….. They must be on their way…. Please forgive me my love…. Please!!” Marina babbled.

Seraphima swallowed hard. She had quite forgotten the dressing gown.

“You have done nothing of the sort darling. ‘Betrayal’ is a dreadful word, and one I will never ever associate with you. If they are on their way, they are on their way. Please don’t worry yourself so about it. I had some dealings with the Girl-Police when I lived in England, and I found them perfectly willing to listen. I’ll explain everything. I’m certain sure there will be no problem….” Seraphima responded, with a calmness she certainly did not feel.

“Darling…. Please run away somewhere: anywhere! ….”, Marina sobbed.

“I’ll be home tomorrow. You are even beginning to worry me now. Ask Camilleona to warm some of her milk for you. Talk to her, and, above all sweetheart, don’t worry so. I love you. Everything will be all right. I’ve got to go. I love you. Kisses. Bye! …”

As she pressed the button to end the call, Seraphima felt an acidic river run through her tummy. There was no point in trying to run. ‘Some of the Girl-Police could be very nice women’, she heard her imagination saying, but not believing.

A deep breath raised her lovely bosom proudly high.

Seraphima placed her mobile back behind the garter on her left thigh. Her hands were shaking: her tongue dry. But she knew she would just have to wait and see what would happen. Running would only make matters worse; that was for sure.

Another deep breath, and Seraphima wiggled back into the lecture, signalling with waved fingers and a silent mouthed “Sorry” to Kate for the interruption, as she, Seraphima, sat herself down once more.

Hours later and Seraphima’s worries were well in the background. What on earth had Marina been on about? Talk about unnecessary panic. If the Girl-Police had really been on their way, then they must have taken the longest route imaginable, or else completely lost their bearings. Seraphima would have to talk girl-to-girl with Marina about this when she got home!

Lectures over, and another phone call, this time from Seraphima to Marina, had assured and reassured Marina that all was well, and that she, Marina, was worrying about nothing.

Dinner followed and love grew and showed, as Kate and Seraphima glowed.

As they rose from their barstools, after the other pupils had long since dispersed to the bedrooms following the end of the first day of the course, Kate smiled.

Love was in the air. The two girls had chatted endlessly and increasingly intensely. Seraphima, as she was wont, had avoided overmuch detail about her cloistered upbringing, and subsequent experiences at the hands of the English Girl-Courts.

Kate had told of her wealthy mother, her brilliant sisters, and her own rise through education, with a doctorate from Vale in the USA at age fifteen, and all the opportunities that had brought. The opportunities that the acutely astute Seraphima had never had a chance to pursue.

Along the way, it transpired that Kate was originally from Camford, the university town near Spindon: Spindon being where Seraphima originally hailed from. Kate was now a professor of women’s affairs at Ntobi University, and was clearly in love with life in Senabre.

The other pupils gathered around each other, and left the petite pretty lecturer to be monopolised by the lovely negress. The two were so obviously wrapped in each other, that nobody wanted to disturb them and, after a while, nobody continued to observe them.

As they rose from their barstools, after the other pupils had long since dispersed to the bedrooms following the end of the first day of the course, Kate smiled.

“Have you still got my room key safe Seraphima: because I want you to meet Mandy?”

At the querulous crestfallen look that immediately befell Seraphima’s lovely face, Kate raised her pretty hand to her ever-moist lips and giggled, with her grey eyes flashing diamond sparkles.

“Mandy is my girlfriend”, she teased, with a hint of naughty taunt, and a ‘didn’t you realise I was already spoken for’ intonation to her voice, as she continued to giggle.

Seraphima’s look still showed the surprise she thought she had succeeded in hiding, and made Kate laugh gently, but all the more intensely.

A while later, as the girls held hands in the upstairs corridor, Kate playfully recited the bedroom door numbers: “…. 63…. 65…. 67….”

“Oh dear. 67 is your room isn’t it Seraphima? Mmm I’m sure it is! So soon!! Oh well. Oh well ….. goodnight then…..”, Kate whisper-teased in a resigned tone, pretending the evening was over and Seraphima to go to her own room alone.

But Kate had such loving laughter in her eyes that Seraphima just knew that new giggles were on their lovely way. And, anyway, Kate never let go Seraphima’s hand during this tease.

And now she grasped both Seraphima’s hands and walked backwards, pulling as if she had to haul Seraphima along from Seraphima’s reluctance, which made Seraphima laugh too.

“And….. here we are, 69”, Kate’s eyes continued to shine with fun, with her voice tickled by the bare suppression of her lovely laughter.

When they had reached the doorway of room 69, Kate turned her back to the door, and tried to fill its frame with her petite five-foot-three. She then held her right hand out, palm upward, fingers prettily bending surprisingly far down toward the ground, to signal that she wished Seraphima to give her the key.

“Oooh it’s still warm” Kate pouted teasingly, as Seraphima placed the key, Kate had clearly enjoyed watching her take from the top of her right stocking, onto Kate’s sweet palm.

“Shh!” said Kate, with a clear hint of yet more giggles, as she turned the key in the door and pushed it open: “We mustn’t wake Mandy”, she whispered in a silly serious tone.

Once inside, with the room’s lights on, Seraphima had no time to look further than Kate’s adorably pretty face, as the young girl suddenly moved her head sideways, and took her sweet soft moist lips in a Cupid’s flight over Seraphima’s ‘O’ for orgasm closed mouth, without touchdown.

“We mustn’t kwiss”, Kate then said suddenly, as if startled, with her grey eyes intensely wide with cod seriousness, mixed with suppressed laughter: “Mandy would be swo jwealous!”, she pouted.

“Close your eyes Seraphima”, Kate giggled anew, as she then took Seraphima by her right hand, holding that right hand in both her lovely hands, and led Seraphima, with Kate on dramatically slow leggy tiptoe, to the bed.

“Shh!” Kate whispered as she let go Seraphima’s hand, and raised her dainty forefinger to her shiny lips.

Seraphima, eyes open, openly helplessly dazzled by this sexy girl, was in a daze ablaze.

And then, Kate leaned over the bed and whispered to a ragged old teddybear tucked under the duvet, with its stubby arms tucked under too, so that only its face, with its nose ears and ever-open eyes stared up.

“Mandy, I want you to meet Seraphima; she’s weally wuvly!” Kate whispered in her teddybear toy’s left ear. And Seraphima fell instantly fully head over heels in love with Kate.

“Say hello to Mandy, Seraphima!” Kate then commanded with a sexy seriousness, belied by the lovely sparkle in her eyes.

Seraphima moved in front of Kate, bent over and kissed the teddybear on its nose.

“Oooh. Mandy weally wuved that”, Kate affirmed, with a little-girl pout.

Kate then stage whispered in the teddybear’s ear: “You got the first kwiss from Seraphima. I’m weally jwealous Mandy! But I still wuv you!” and she kissed the teddybear’s nose in turn.

“Let me pay for the dressing gown then.”

“’Fraid it’s not that easy madam. Theft is theft yer know. Do these ‘ere rubber close belong to yer missus?”

“Yes, they’re Seraphima’s”

“When will yer missus be ‘ome?”

“She’s only just left for Enabe….. She’s on a residential course I decided I did not want to go to….in an hotel there…”

“An’ where more hegsactly would dat be at madam?”

“The Titular Hotel”, Marina confirmed, with tears running down her face, both from her fear of the Girl-Police, and from her consequent betrayal.

As she rose from kissing the teddybear, Kate fell into Seraphima’s arms, and again reached up on top of very top tiptoe to fly her sensuously moist lips over and over and over Seraphima’s longing mouth, without touching.

Seraphima understood the message, and played along, as Kate brushed her pretty face over and over, and across Seraphima’s, teasingly, pleasingly, hauntingly, tauntingly, dreamily-erotically, trying to see how close the two girls could get their lips without them actually kissing: torturing them both: making them both await the first kiss they longed for.

Then Kate stopped her torment; darted out the tip of her tongue to touch on Seraphima’s top lip, and sweetly whispered: “That’s all!” and turned away, with a giggle.

But that was not going to be all, and Seraphima took the petite angel in her arms and kissed her beautiful mouth with a gentle intensity; that Kate swiftly outmatched, and they lingered thus for an endless age, till…

“Let’s move away from Mandy shall we. We don’t want to make her jealous…”, Kate whispered, her eyes now dream-filled and shy, as she took Seraphima’s hand, and led her from the bed to a couch, where the two angels continued to kiss, and to explore the explosive eroticism, of foreplay that was no ‘fore’ to anything other than itself, as they simply kissed, and broke away, and kissed once more.

And Seraphima’s hand held the angel’s neck and caressed her back only so as to keep Kate’s lips on hers. And then she kissed Kate’s neck and Kate gasped with the pleasure. And Kate gave award for the pleasure, measure for measure, by kissing Seraphima’s mouth with a gentle intensity, that showed that both girls now knew how the other wanted to be kissed, and that both were willing and wanting of kissing to please.

And Kate eased her top’s strap off her shoulder to bare her neck more, and Seraphima kissed her neck once more. And the moist mouth of the little blonde tease knew how to please as it budded, then pouted, and then blossomed its lips on, and within Seraphima’s: then stopped.

The kiss stopped with both girls fixed with their lips on each other’s, as if in a game of dare, to see which cared the more so as to be the one to begin the kissing again.

But the game’s rules were disobeyed as Seraphima broke away and kissed Kate’s neck yet again, and Kate’s fire was rekindled and her mouth flew moist to Seraphima’s, and her little cry betrayed that the eroticism of the compassionate conflagration, had moistened other lips of hers. And she kissed now with her soul. And time stood eternal. And the minutes flew to hours. And the hours flew too quickly; and yet not at all, as the girls kissed; and then kissed; and then kissed; and then kissed; and then kissed; and then kissed anew…

….And a master-key turned in the bedroom door, and the Girl-Police bungled in….

“Sorry to barge in like dis”, a shapely blonde with a sergeant’s stripes on her well endowed, literally double-breasted tunic, conveyed, with practiced insincerity.

“I’m Sergeant Pat Butt. ’Ope me and Constable Cretina Critic ‘ere isn’t interrupting nuffink”, she sarcasmed.

“Night Porter said as ‘ow she’d seen you two ‘oldin ‘ands to the elevator. Knew you’d be in 67 or 69. Good of you to leave the light on soas we’d know which….”.

Seraphima became aware of Kate’s fear-fuelled trembling, and put a reassuring arm around the angel.

“We’ll take a seat on the edge of the bed ‘ere if yer don’t mind. Do carry on what you was doin’ if yer want to”, the sergeant mocked.

“No? Oh! Oh well. Na den: you’d be Seraphima Ntebeli, if I isn’t mistaken”, the sergeant continued, looking at her brunette companion, and nodding for her to open her notebook, just after she had looked Seraphima in her lovely face.

“Course it’s none of my business what was a goin’ on just ‘ere, afore now. But I suppose you being called … let’s see na …. yea ….. MRS Ntebeli, means you is married, MRS Ntebeli. Would dat be about right?” the sergeant enquired with indifference to deference in her monotone.

“Yes. Yes of course” Seraphima answered.

“We was talkin’ to your wife earlier… a Mrs Marina Ntebeli? Your good lady said as ‘ow we’d find you at dis ‘otel.”

“’As she bin in touch, to tell you we was coming like?”

“No”, Seraphima lied.

“Just as well dat. We told ‘er not to, if she knew what was good for ‘er like”, the sergeant mused.

“Like I were saying, your good lady said as ‘ow we’d find you at dis ‘otel. Don’t ‘spose she’d ‘ave known whose room you’d be in doe”, the sarcastic sergeant speculated in order, as she intended, to gain.

“But we is very discretion in the Girl-Police Mrs Ntebeli. Very discretion indeed: if you sees where I is getting to”, she continued.

“We ‘ave a few questions for you Mrs Ntebeli. So, let us say dat, if you gives us de answers what we is lookin’ for, we won’t say nuffink nowhere to nobody abart you and dat pretty little tart you got yer arm around just now: eh?”

Without waiting for an answer, the sergeant continued: “Your good lady, Mrs Marina, ses you brought ‘ome this ‘ere white robe, the dressing gown what Constable Critic ‘ere is a showin’ you”, she averred.

“Yes”, Seraphima answered, “I’d had a part in a movie: a western. I put it on after I had been whipped for real. I was bleeding and could not bear to wear anything tighter… I needed to get home. I must have left my own clothes behind. I was in a lot of pain. My mind was in turmoil. I had just been whip-raped….”

Without being able to, or daring to turn and see, Seraphima felt the look of total astonishment, followed by pained tender loving sympathy, on Kate’s face.

“Was you in the changin’ room: de changin’ caravan, what was also bein’ used by the actress what was playin’ a character called ‘Sexy Red’ – woman by the name of Teasetta Loveschild?” the sergeant continued.

“Yes. Yes I shared Teasetta’s caravan, we were on location, though not far from my home as it happens…..” Seraphima responded.

“So. So den, dis ‘ere dressing gown what we found in the laundry from your ‘ome, in the ‘ands of your ‘orny little maid, Camilleona, when she was a washin’ it down by der river trying to get the blood out of it, was taken by you from Mrs Teasetta Loveschild. Would dat be about right?”

Seraphima was all too aware she was about to incriminate herself, but boldly bravely answered simply: “Yes”.

“Got the notes on all that constable?”

“Yea sarge” the constable replied.

“Read ‘em out den Constable Critic. Read ‘em out, and try and get past de first page of what ‘as been writ down will yer, just for a change like!” Sergeant Pat Butt teased, elephantinely inelegantly.

Constable Cretina Critic was clearly not the sharpest knife in the draw. She obviously had difficulty in reading, let alone enjoying, anything that was not boringly straightforward and tediously predicable. Indeed, when it came to reading them back, even her own comments were somehow apparently seen, to her self-righteous dullard’s mind, as pseudo-clever nonsense.

“Sign the constable’s notebook and, if your little lady will witness your signature like, we can leave you be, for the time bein’ luv”, the sergeant confirmed, as Seraphima duly signed, as she dare not do otherwise, and Kate nervously countersigned as witness.

“Don’t fink you’ve ‘eard the last of dis darlin’. There’s bound to be a court case”, the sergeant confirmed, to Seraphima’s slightly relieved astonishment. Astonishment based on the reasoned assumption she was surely about to be arrested for theft on the spot: relief that it had not happened.

The sarcastic English sergeant, an individual relic of the old colonial days for Senabre: the days before it had left the British Empire and changed its name from British Senaban: the sarcastic English sergeant looked around the room, and ogled pretty Kate, who lowered her eyes in terror.

“You oughta get yerself a girl wiv some tits on luv”, she sneered to Seraphima, nodding toward, to indicate she was talking about Kate.

“Your little tart ‘ere ain’t got none as I can see. Maybe she was last in line when the tits was bein’ ‘anded out eh? They musta run outta titties afore she got ter the front of the queue, cos there’s none on the front of ‘er, that’s for sure, eh!?!” the sergeant cruelly mocked, to her and her constable’s evident and sole amusement.

“One more fing”, the sergeant began, with her tongue in her cheek, literally, momentarily, as she gave a ‘listen to this one’ look at her companion constable….

“One more fing”, the sergeant continued, “Is it true that you ‘ad a cum when you was bein’ whipped?”

“Yes”, Seraphima confessed, as she hung her head in shame.

“Really big ‘un: a multi-one, is what I ‘eard”, the sergeant confirmed, “In fact I ‘eard you was gaggin for it: beggin for more….”

“No need to answer that’n luv. It wasn’t no question…”, she then sneared.

The Girl-Police now left, but as the bedroom door had nearly closed, it opened again, and the sergeant put her head around it to say:

“Do carry on what you was a doin’ of, won’t yer!”

And just after the door finally closed, Seraphima heard the mocking laughter recede, as the Girl-Police re-entered the elevator to leave the hotel.

Shame filled, Seraphima knew she had failed Kate. She had let the exquisite girl be mocked, and herself denigrated in turn, and done about it that which all women who faced the Girl-Police, were able to do: that is: precisely nothing.

“I am so sorry about that, my love”, Seraphima whispered.

“It was not your fault Seraphima”, Kate answered, with a new distance evident, despite her smile.

Seraphima turned to leave, and go to her own room.

She then turned again and whispered: “Kiss Mandy goodnight for me won’t you Kate…”

“Of course I will….”, Kate answered, with sweet tears welling in her gorgeous grey eyes.

Five minutes later, as Seraphima finished her third phone chat with Marina, this one to tell her the Girl-Police had just been, and that nothing had happened; there came a knock at her door.

Terrified that the Girl-Police had come to make the arrest she feared must happen at any time soon; but equally too frightened of the Girl-Police not to open the door, Seraphima emotioned over and turned the key.

As she eased the door ajar to see who was there, a whispered voice asked: “Can Mandy and I come in?”

Seraphima opened the door a little wider, and, hugging Mandy in her arms, a stark naked Kate walked confidently across her carpet, and slid herself under the duvet on Seraphima’s bed.

Tears came to Seraphima’s eyes as she watched, transfixed, the exquisite angel traipse across the room, and saw a flash of Kate’s little breasts and her innocently-hairless, very-tight-lipped slit.

“Mandy says she thinks I’m in love with you”, Kate explained with a gentle smile. Then she cuddled her teddybear in her lovely arms, turned on her side, and fell instantly into sweet sleep.

(by Eve Adorer)
Part 2 - Chapter 5 – Mule
The card Kate had left on the bedside table had been amended in manuscript.

In print it read: ‘Professor Kate I. S. Godsgift, Faculty of Women’s Studies, University of Ntobi’, and included Kate’s work and home telephone numbers. The manuscript insertion added, just after Kate’s surname, read: ‘and Miss Mandy Teddy’.

As she picked up the card clipped in the pocket-clasp of her borrowed fountain pen, Seraphima smiled, and then quietly laughed. Rising gracefully from her bed, she swept her beautiful black body to the shower and turned the water on, feeling with her right hand to check, before adjusting its temperature, and slipping under the reign of its rain.

The shower had obviously not been used before that morning, so the deduction that Kate must have commuted for the card, before finally returning to her next-door room to prepare for her day, was clearly proven.

There was just a half-day of the course to go: then the journey home.

Returning fresh from her shower with a towel as cowl on her head, Seraphima patted dry her long pubic hair with a second towel, as she contemplated what to do next.

Nothing had happened with Kate during the night. Both girls, all three girls, if Mandy was included, had shared the same bed; but about that event there is no more to be said.

Okay, so the two girls had wrapped their lovely arms around each other; but Mandy had thus been cuddled between them, and ensured that there had been naught naughtiness.

Guilt had come on the scene. Seraphima knew she had betrayed Marina. But guilt can be such a golden experience, even if one does not admit to oneself than one is wallowing in its glistering waters.

Seraphima determined she would start her day with a jog to jolt her. She was no fitness fanatic, but had kept an acquaintance with the gymnasium and running, and had increased her familiarity as her sexual frustration, from the cooling marriage she now knew, had gradually grown.

Donning trainers latterly, Seraphima wound her pubic hair into plaits now wrapped and tied tight around her strong thighs, and wore a restraining training tank-top, straining to do its best in requesting her breasts be at rest, at its hopeless request; and a pair of shorts, both in close-clinging cerise rubber.

Unfamiliar with the streets of Enabe, she put the room key in a pocket of her shorts, as she gave grace to the corridors of the brownstone Titular Hotel, and swung her sexy rear and bare midriff to near its doors, to escape for her run, determining to note landmarks, so as not to lose her way back.

Even running on the spot outside to warm her muscles for the run to come, gave the new day a dance and prance glance of Seraphima’s advanced chest, as her breasts flicked up in unison when she powered down, and then down when she kneed up, as if they were determined to be conspicuous by their completely contradictory capering.

Kate looked at the watch that she had to haul back around her delicate wrist to see its face, and worried that sweet Seraphima was not in her place.

She had stalled for almost twenty minutes, and the other pupils were becoming restless.

She asked again: “Are you sure none of you has seen Seraphima, not even at breakfast?”

“No. Sorry Kate. ……I expect she overslept or went home, or something…. Can we get on please?”, the ‘blue stocking’ insisted.

“Yes. Yes, of course. We have a lot to pack into this morning ladies. Lunch will be at noon sharp. That will give you this afternoon in which to make your journeys home: some of which I know are long…”, Kate routined, as she tried to forget her anxiety, and get to the first exercise for her pupils, so that she could slip out of the lecture room, and up to Seraphima’s bedroom.

Not far from the hotel, Seraphima was regretting having not taking more notice of the eye signal.

She had gone no more than one-hundred yards when she had come across the pony-cart with two Petian girls in towing harness at its front.

Of course she knew that the light-blue thongs the statuesque honeys wore, marked them, and thus their vehicle, as Girl-Police ponies and their cart. But she had taken the signal from the blinkered eyes of one of the two mouth-bit gagged ponygirls, as signifying that she should run on the sidewalk pavement rather than risk the road.

The signally swift signal sidling of the ponygirls lovely ruby red eyes, to indicate impending danger in the direction behind her, had not been read as a warning. Of course neither girl knew the other. Both were strangers. But the ponygirl was no stranger to the risk she was trying to signal to sweet Seraphima.

Around the corner Seraphima flew, and then almost cried out with horror, as a voice called out behind her, not recognising her, momentarily:

“Nah den! Nah den! Let’s ‘ave a bit of an ‘alt from you young lady. Just what yer runnin’ away from den. You bin robbing dat dare ‘otel? Eh?! …

Well…. Well….. Well, and bloody ‘ell too. If it ain’t Mrs Ntebeli”, Sergeant Pat Butt suddenly realised.

Seraphima stopped on the spot. She knew it was useless to try and escape. She knew only too well that she had to await the sergeant’s permission for her to continue her mission.

“Constable Critic!” the sergeant called: “Come over ‘ere. There’s a girl ‘ere in need of a serious talking to by you and me.”

If Seraphima had guessed that Sergeant Butt ruled the area of Enabe she was presently in, by force of shear terror, she would not have been wrong.

Critic, was just her dullard follower. Butt worked her patch with ruthless despatch. Crime in the precinct she patrolled was very low, not because it did not take place, but because it was never reported, unless Butt failed to get a slice of the proceeds, or some other form of pay-off.

The Titular Hotel was not alone in paying her protection money. Reporting her to her seniors was also a waste of effort, since Butt paid them handsomely to keep off her back.

“Constable Critic!” Sergeant Butt called: “Come over ‘ere. There’s a girl ‘ere in need of a serious talking to by you and me.”

“Come in ‘ere you gorgeous black tart”, Butt beckoned, after barging open the doorway of a derelict shop with her shoulder.

“I think Camilleona has got a girlfriend”

No: that wouldn’t do.

“I think our Camilleona has got herself a girl”

Not much better.

“You’ll have noticed that Camilleona has gone? I think she’s got a girlfriend”

If that was the best Marina could come up with, she was never going to get away with this.

Kate tapped on the door of room 67. There was no answer. She turned to the desk clerk.

“Would you mind awfully? You see she’s almost an hour overdue, and I feel responsible for her, even if she is just one of my students….”.

“Come over ‘ere” the sergeant beckoned to Seraphima, indicating a rubble-strewn corner of the former butcher’s shop.

“You and ‘er. ‘Er what you was wiv last night. ‘Er wiv no tits. You and ‘er; are you lezzies?”

The clerk turned the passkey and opened the door of number 67, calling: “Mrs Ntebeli! Are you okay madam?”

Both girls finding the room empty: “Are you sure she came back from her run?” she asked Kate once again.

“You see, me and the constable ‘ere, we don’t like lezzies”, Butt sneared. Do we Critic?”

Critic grinned inanely: “No sarge, we don’t like lezzies do we sarge?” she echoed.

To Seraphima’s terror, the sergeant drew her baton, and held it up to Seraphima’s face, before putting it down, thrusting upright from her own groin, and waggling it, as if it were a rampant erect penis.

“What you lezzies need is a bit of dis”, she sneared, as she masturbated the mock cock’s absent foreskin, with her left hand.

“Yea ‘a bit of dis’; I mean a bit of dat”, Critic echoed, latterly pointing.

The room being empty: “Do you think there might have been an accident?” Kate trembled. “Would you call the police: please!” she almost begged.

“Excuse me madam, but I’m afraid there is not much use in calling the police around here. They are…. shall we say…. a little unreliable?”

“Oh god! We must do something!” Kate cried in voice and tears.

“I will organise a search for you madam. Mrs Ntbeli was the lovely black girl with the gorgeous lips?”

“Yes. Oh god yes!” Kate cried once more.

“Please don’t worry madam: the staff know the locality well. We’ll search the hotel and around all the nearby streets, and ask too if she has been seen. These things usually have a simple explanation, and a happy outcome”, the clerk tried to reassure the distraught angel.

“Fancy a bit of dis, do yer?” Butt snarled as she waved the twelve-inch-long baton under Seraphima’s nose again.

“Please don’t hurt me”, Seraphima begged.

“Get ‘em off lezzie. Let’s ‘ave a good look at what you got that gets all the girls going goggle-eyed for yer”.

“Did you know that little Camilleona has found a steady girlfriend?”

It was getting worse.

“Camilleona has left us to live in an apartment near where I work: near the boathouse, as it happens”.

God no! That was just awful. The ‘girlfriend’ needed mention in there somewhere.

“Isn’t that just like slaves? You take them in, you treat them as one of the family, you could legally thrash them, but you don’t. And what reward do you get? They go off with the first girl that seduces them, and live in a paid for apartment……. It’s Camilleona I’m talking about of course. She’s only gone and left us would you believe! ….”.

That was the best so far, but even if it would win no Oscars.

Marina gently bit her lower lip as she ticked matters over in her mind.

“Fwarrh! You’re a big girl ain’t ya”, Butt almost slavered as she gazed excitedly at Seraphima’s slowly swinging bared breasts, with their huge pink-brown nipples.

Seraphima was shivering with fear, and her lovely bosom quivered a quiver of Eros’ arrows toward the hard hearts of the two Girl-Police, who lasciviously watched her shaking struggle to undress, even out of as little as she had been presently wearing.

“’Ere lezzie! By making your tits dance about like that, you ain’t giving us ‘the old come on’, is you?” the sergeant mocked.

“Oh! Please!” Seraphima cried.

The shorts were lowered over Seraphima’s gorgeous bum and down her incredible thighs, and she shaped her lovely legs unavoidably erotically as she stepped out of these trunks, leaving herself nude bar her trainers.

At the sight of the pubic hair tied around Seraphima’s thighs, Butt went but wild. Her eyes shone with viciousness as she urged Constable Cretina Critic to grab hold of the other of the two plaits she had untied and was unwinding.

“Oh gawd! What ‘ave we got ‘ere den lezzie? You forget to shave did yer? You forgot yer razor for fuckin’ years by the looks of it. Cor, fuckin’ ‘ell. Where’d yer get so much of an ‘airy Nellie. You must be some slag to have let it grow like that! But den all lezzies is slags ain’t dey?!” the sergeant chortled as she snided.

As the two Girl-Police made her run crabwise in a circle, sidling around in the room, grabbed by the six-foot long tresses of her dark brown pubic curls, pulling on her sensitive lips as she enforcedly whirled, Seraphima’s screams were as in dreams, if all dreams are nightmares.

“Like dis do you lezzie, eh?! Raand and raand we go. ‘Ere, dis is great lezzie, int it? ‘Ope it don’t ‘urt: least not a little bit, you fuckin’ lezzie cow!”

Now they took one each of her plaits out front and rear of her, and made Seraphima screech as they played seesaw, pulling her back and forth by her pubic tresses, and laughing fit to give sewage drains a good name, in their savage cruelty, torturing Seraphima’s cunt lips more and more: and yet.

“To you constable! No? Back to me den. Your way! Now back ‘ere. You’d fink the fucking lezzie slag would mek ‘er bleeding mind up, wever she’s coming or fucking going wouldn’t you constable: eh?!”

Making her kneel, they pulled Seraphima up to a half-stand on her pretty hands, as she howled from being hauled aloft by the soft hair of her Venus mound: and yet.

“Ups-a-daisy. Up we comes lezzie. Does that ‘urt? ‘Ope so, you fucking slag.”

And now Seraphima must crawl wheelbarrow on her palms, lifted aloft by the soft curls that denoted her as the supreme among the cream of girls, as she screamed and begged for mercy: and yet.

“Look at the fuckin’ lezzie go eh! All lezzies shud be ‘ung by their tits till they die. Still yer couldn’t ‘ang this ‘ere lezzie’s slag girlfriend by ‘er tits, cos she don’t ‘ave none!!” the sergeant sneared between gritted teeth, as she pulled Seraphima up higher by her pubic locks: and yet.

“This ‘ere lezzie’s got fucking tits big as church bells though!”

“‘Ere….! ‘Ere….!! Hey, grab an ‘old of her constable, and let me see if her bells go ding-dong eh!? Fucking lezzie wiv ding-dong-bells, nar dat ud be summat to write ‘ome abart wouldn’t it.”

Grabbing hold of Seraphima by her right wrist twisted and hammered hard up her back, and her left wrist at her side behind her, the dullard Critic grinned Cheshire cat, watching, as was the terrified Seraphima, the savage sergeant draw her cosh.

“Ding fucking lezzie dong!” the sergeant sneered as she smacked her truncheon down onto Seraphima’s left nipple, and smashed her gentle breast into her chest, beating the wind out of the poor negress, who doubled up in an instant, gasping in agony, whilst incidentally grinding her lovely bare buttocks into the constable’s groin.

“’Ere! You wanna watch it constable! This fucking lezzie is trying to seduce you!”

With tears running down her sweet face and changing course as they met the upper of her succulent soft lips, Seraphima, the black rose, straightened, only for the sergeant to thrash her right tit harder still than the left she had just now brutally bruised.

“Nope! Didn’t ‘ear no ding or lezzie fucking dong dat time. Did you constable?”

“No sarge. No ding or dong sarge”, Cretina Critic sniggered.

“Better ‘it ‘em a bit ‘arder den ‘adn’t us?” the sergeant spat out with clear glee, before smashing Seraphima’s left breast so hard, that Seraphima fell to the ground, crying and begging for mercy.

“What’s the fucking lezzie slag saying? ‘Mercy’? What’s dat?”

“Nah den. I got it! I reckon dats yer actual French. It means ‘yes please’ don’t it? What the fucking lezzie slag is saying ‘ere constable, is that she wants a truncheon cock up ‘er, so as to cure ‘er of being a fucking lezzie, see!?

At that, the sergeant beckoned for the constable to hold Seraphima kneeling, and she slid all twelve brutal inches of her wooden baton up Seraphima’s cunt, as Seraphima howled and hollered and bellowed her pain: and yet it slipped in without resistance to its insistence. And Seraphima knew she was coming: she knew she was on the verge of a massive cum; but that if she came the Girl-Police would have won this horrendous game.

“Dare you is den lezzie. You’ve bin given de injection, and you ain’t not no lezzie no more!” the sergeant cruelly laughed.

As she kneeled on all fours, they pulled Seraphima up by her pubic hair pigtails once more, till she touched ground only with her palms. And the intense pain of her stretched sex lips, and the deep penetration of the truncheon, gave Seraphima a pre-eruption cum. But, against the exposure of the explosion that her beautiful body was budding and bidding she endure and enjoy, she still fought and won.

The policewomen then dropped the flawless angel to the filthy floor.

“Seems to me constable, as ‘ow dat gang of girls from the local school, ‘the Tarts Wiv ‘earts Gang’ or whatever dey calls demselves, ‘as bin attacking lezzies ‘ereabouts. They owes us a wad of dosh. They ‘asn’t paid into my charity for a week or more. Let’s go and report this ‘ere crime, and put it down to dem, where it belongs: since they’re all lezzie slags as well!”


“I’ll be alright thank you. You have been very kind.”

“Let me just turn the shower on for you then Mrs Ntebeli”.


“I think Camilleona has got a girlfriend”

No: that wouldn’t do.

“I think our Camilleona has got herself a girl”

Not much better.

“You’ll have noticed that Camilleona has gone? I think she’s got a girlfriend”

If that was the best Marina could come up with, she was never going to get away with this.

What was the use of turning this over and over in her head this way?

As Marina rose from her bed, her back and buttocks bore bloody scratches from her long night of passion.


As Seraphima lay panting with pain on the ex butcher’s shop floor, her back bore the bloody scratches from her fall during her brutal beating.


“’Ere shall us book this lezzie for stealing police property?” Sergeant Pat Butt sarcasmed, as she looked down on the patently passionately perfect Seraphima, gasping with pain, with her cunt ripped wide by the truncheon deep inside its insides.

Putting her boot on Seraphima’s beautiful thigh, she tugged the baton out of the tortured girl. And Seraphima screamed with the pain again, and rolled on her front on the filthy floor.

“Musn’t leave dis in yer, must us. Yer can get yer own cosh, to continue your cure: lezzie slag!” the sergeant growled, before she spat on the floor next Seraphima’s face, and then left her, before trying to slam the old shop’s rickety door as final punctuation.


As the desk clerk put the key in the door of bedroom 67, and turned it, its lock bore the many scratches of so much prior usage.

“I’ll be alright thank you. You have been very kind.”

“Let me just turn the shower on for you then Mrs Ntebeli”

Alone in the shower Seraphima sobbed as she came. And her tears poured as she came and sobbed and cried over and over again.

Seraphima sat in her bathrobe in a chair beside her bed, feeling her bruises, her mind in the torment of turmoil.

The bedroom door opened and a crying blonde angel, accompanied by a clerk, whose face showed she was the soul of discretion, came hurtling into the room, before kneeling and putting her sweet head onto Seraphima’s lap.

The clerk’s face gave an: ‘I’ll leave you then’ look, as she pocketed her passkey, and turned to let the two pretty girls comfort each other.

“Thank you”, Seraphima called to the clerk.

“It’s an honour madam”, the clerk assured, with self-evident sincerity.

“Where had you been Seraphima?! You had me so scared! Oh god don’t ever do that to me again!” Kate cried as she cried, and as she brought her lovely face, distorted by her sobbing, up to Seraphima’s, and then hugged the negress rose as if she would never ever let her go again.

“I love you”, Kate whispered.

“Does Mandy love me too?” Seraphima answered, trying to bring a lightness to the scene.

“I’m being serious”, Kate answered with her crying giving her voice a distorting croak.

“I love you too Kate: you and Mandy both. But I’m a married woman…” Seraphima whispered aloud, wistfully, as a preliminary to the kisses about to come.

Thereafter: “What happened to you my love?” Kate smiled sadly sympathetically.

“I got beaten up by the Girl-Police”, Seraphima answered quietly. “It was the two that were here last night: early this morning that is: the nasty sergeant and her companion in crime”.

“We’ll damned well report those evil bitches and now!” Kate bristled.

“No use. No witnesses. I heard them say they’d blame it on a local girl-gang…. Let’s go home to Ntobi”, Seraphima whispered wistfully.

“Only if you promise to hold my hand all the way”, Kate demanded and commanded, with her loveliest of so many lovely smiles.


All the way home Seraphima wracked her mind. She just had to see Kate again. Her life would be incomplete now without this heavenly honey.

Marina would have to be told. Marina would just have to be told. Marina would understand. Surely Marina would understand. Marina would just have to understand.

“Hi Seraphima!” Marina called from the kitchen, as Seraphima graced into the marital home.

“Thank god you’re okay my love”, she added distractedly, but entirely sincerely.

“I very nearly threw this away unread. It’s this evening’s paper…” Marina then said, out of the apparent blue.

“Where’s Camilleona? I’d like her to do my unpacking”, Seraphima answered, as she struggled with her suitcase.

“Oh that”, said Marina, “I’ll tell you in just a mo. But come and look at this”.

Seraphima set her case down and dumped her bag of soiled clothing alongside it. She then tiptoed into the kitchen in her balletic shoes, to see whatever it was that her wife was going on about.

“Oh the poor girl! Marina opined aloud. “Seraphima you’ve got to read this. I’m sorry my love. It… It’s terrible news”.

Seraphima took the crumpled copy of the ‘Ntobi Courier’ proffered by Marina, who put a comforting arm around Seraphima, as she pointed out the distant-page news snippet that both girls now read together.

‘Girl-Court Judge In Guilty Verdict’ ran the headline. Seraphima looked momentarily at Marina, and then read on:-

‘From our London England Correspondent:-

Deadline Spindon, England: Thursday July 22nd: - Disgraced former Girl-Court judge, the elegantly beautiful Teasetta Loveschild, begins a sentence of 12-months hard labour today, after her own court found her guilty of theft.

The sentence was handed down to Loveschild after she admitted stealing a white, robe-style, dressing gown, during her recent holiday foray into movies, here in Ntobi.

The robe, the property of the famous starlet Glorinda Gramoldi, has been returned to its rightful owner.

A spokesgirl for Ms Gramoldi said that the rising star was grateful for its return. Adding that Ms Gramoldi had forgotten she had ever owned it, and assumed it had been lost in her laundry, along with the soiled panties her many girl fans are so notorious for stealing.

Loveschild’s punishment will begin with one-hundred lashes of the bullwhip, to be administered in public, in the marketplace of the busy industrial and mining town of Spindon, which is located in the English Midlands.

The disgraced Loveschild has been stripped of her judgeship, and her university teaching post. Her academic qualifications have also been rescinded.

As Loveschild confessed under torture, no witnesses needed to be called for the prosecution, thus saving the English taxpayer much unnecessary expense, and enabling the trial to be curtailed.

The Girl-Police officers engaged on the case in Senabre, were present in court via video-link this afternoon (UK time), and showed the garment in question.

‘The Courier’ understands, from sources close to the family, that John Loveschild, the guilty woman’s husband, has insisted that their marriage will be dissolved, concomitantly with the final stroke of the introductory whipping.

Loveschild has been refused permission to appeal against the sentence. Her plea that she had never used, nor even seen the gown before, and that it was: ‘just hanging, apparently forgotten’, in the changing caravan she used during the movie making, was rejected out of hand, because it contradicted the confession she had had written for her during her interrogation, and which was provably sealed with her nipple print.

In her summing up, the judge for the case praised the superb work of the Girl-Police, and two officers of the Ntobi Police Service in particular, for their indispensable contribution to the detection and resolution of this crime.

Sergeant Patricia Butt, and Constable Cretina Critic, of the Ntobi Girl-Police’s Lake Charlotte South Precinct, the video-link witnesses, were praised by the judge in court. As a result, both these fine officers will be commended, and recommended for the Police Medal.

If she is so awarded, it will be the third time that Sergeant Butt, known loved and trusted by the Lake Charlotte community for her gentle but firm ways, and her deep-seated humility, will have won the Police Medal.’

(by Eve Adorer)

Part 2 - Chapter 6 – Who’ll Duel?

Not believing what she had just read, praying what she had read was untrue; it was as if Seraphima did not even believe the document she held.

She whisked to the front page. And there in indisputable indelible print was confirmed:
‘The Ntobi Courier and Lake Charlotte News’
Friday July 23rd 2010
‘Late Extra Edition’

As Seraphima looked dazed at Marina, tears ran down heaven’s faces and wife and wife must needs embrace with the grace god only gave the female of the human race.

But, despite their tenderness, and because of their tenderness, both girls winced. Seraphima from the bruises of her brutal bludgeoning; Marina from the scratches caused by the consummation of an all-consuming passion.

“Are you alright my love?” Marina tried to smile.

“The Girl-Police beat me up”, Seraphima answered, still sobbing at the thought of Teasetta’s suffering.

“Me too”, Marina responded, and thus truly lied to Seraphima for the first time in their marriage: “The bitches whipped me”, she embellished.

Seraphima cried for Teasetta; Marina for Seraphima, and for the knowledge that she had betrayed her love to the Girl-Police, and in the marital bed. But, after the terrible tune of their sad sobs for a situation they could do nothing about, the worthlessness of crying dried the tears of both girls.

“Where did you say Camilleona was?” Seraphima enquired again.

“I sent her away. She had news that her sister was ill. She’s gone to Enabe for a couple of days. It’s a wonder you didn’t pass each other at the train station. I know she’s only a slave, but it seemed inhuman not to let her go. It’s nothing dangerous. Her sister had to be whipped rather severely. Camilleona has gone to tend her sister’s wounds. Well, I mean, you couldn’t expect her sister’s owners to do that, could you?” Marina over-elaborated.

“I didn’t know Camilleona had a sister”, Seraphima contemplated out loud.

“She’s from a big family”, Marina further lied: though that could have been true for all Marina of Camilleona really knew. “Nicholina: the sister’s name is Nicholina, or so Camilleona said”, Marina added, to give more credence to the lie, and before she was asked, and had to struggle to come up with a name.

The echoing ‘splaaang’ of a window smashing, preceded that now bumping tumbling sliding and spinning across the kitchen floor.

The stun grenade exploded with an echoing report. After it, Seraphima could see Marina felled to the floor as if she were dead, and could not hear her own screams.

It must have been twenty Girl-Police that followed in, in their gasmasks, wielding bullwhips; and ten of them that pinned the black rose face down to the floor and sprayed CS gas in her face.

‘Bring in the cage!’ their leader ordered with a beckoning hand, as the world whirled and Seraphima passed out.

“May it please your honour”, the clerk of the court began, “The first case before the Ntobi Criminal Court August 2010 session, is that of Mrs Seraphima Ntebeli.”

“Ntebeli stands accused of receiving stolen property: to wit one white robe styled in the familiar form of a dressing gown, and of assaulting two Girl-Police officers with one of their own batons. This latter took place on the next day following their interviewing her in respect of the said illegal receipt, and therefore in the normal pursuit of their duty”.

“Unveil the prisoner”, the judge ordered.

“May it please your honour, the prisoner is self-evidently a very violent girl, and it has been thought best to keep her in what is commonly called a ‘lioness’ cage’; and to keep the cage covered”, the clerk informed, with an edge of anxiety to her voice.

“I thank the pretty clerk for her advice. Nonetheless, I would remind the clerk that this is my court, and when I say ‘unveil the prisoner’, the prisoner will be unveiled”, the judge quietly insisted.

As the cover of Seraphima’s sheet-steel-floored iron barred cage was whisked away, a gasp echoed from the courtroom walls.

Within her brutal cage up high on a stand, Seraphima knelt with her wrists girlackled behind her back, and her ankles girlackled together.

Her neck had an iron ring around it, and the ring was chained to the top of the cage. To tame her, she had rusting iron rods thrusting into her trussed body, holding her rigidly immoveable. The rods penetrated her throat, her cunt, and her anus.

Only god and Seraphima knew how long she had dwelt starving in the cage in which she could not move save for infinitesimally. And god was not saying, and Seraphima could not do more than moan her deep distress.

Though god may not have borne witness, one of her angels saw this terrible cruelty, and screamed out: “Oh Seraphima!!” as she sobbed.

Seraphima’s eyes looked around the court and saw lovely Kate in tears, and Marina and Camilleona holding hands, with Camilleona leaning on Marina’s shoulder with the look of love in her eyes.

“Before I declare her guilty, does the prisoner have a defence?” the judge enquired routinely.

The eyes of the court, and those of Seraphima looked around to see if anyone would speak for her: Seraphima’s eyes in desperation.

The click-clack of twelve-inch stilettos, with steel heels tapering to pinpoints, was the answer, as an angelic apparition, wearing a black PVC microdress, with her simply sinfully black rubber suspenders showing below its hemline, holding transparent latex stockings on her very shapely legs, wiggled into the court, and took the witness stand.

The little angel, no more than five-three in her stockinged feet, had cropped hair that waved like shorn corn, as she daintied her delight onto the stand.

“And who would you be, delightful little lady?” the judge empathised, as she ogled the angel’s shapely thighs.

“I have the honour of being Professor Kate I. S. Godsgift of the University of Ntobi, your honour”, Kate curtsied, her skirt promising to show she wore no panties; but, contradictatorially, falling as short of honouring that offer as its hem was in distance down Kate’s lovely thighs.

“I also have the honour of being in love with the girl in that horrible cage”, Kate affirmed for Seraphima to hear, only just avoiding more tears as she looked over at her.

At that affirmation, a single gasp of astonishment caused the assembled girls and women to turn in turn to stare at Marina, who stared astonished at Kate and Seraphima by turn.

“Compose yourself lovely girl, and tell this court what you have to say in defence of the prisoner”, the judge instructed. “And I will have no more interruptions from the public gallery!” she ordered, looking around slowly; sternly.

In the southern-hemisphere winter, the bitter winds that blew in the Décolletage Mountains above Lake Charlotte, were in sharp contrast with the coolest low-seventies or late sixties Fahrenheit, the lowlands of Senabre ever encountered at July’s worst.

The film to be made of Seraphima’s punishment would repay the cost of her trial. Glorinda Gramoldi had been engaged to don her leathers, in ‘The Spillage’, a film that would witness the punishment of a girl actually found guilty of receiving stolen goods, but on a more imaginative fictional charge.

The careers of Sergeant Pat Butt, and Constable Cretina Critic, of the Ntobi Girl-Police were over.

The exposition by sweet Kate Godsgift, supported by the secret filming of the two, now disgraced officers, attempting to bribe the ‘Tarts With Hearts Gang’, and threatening them with prosecution for beating-up Seraphima if they refused to pay, had tipped the balance.

Kate knew nothing of the accusation of receiving stolen goods, or who on earth ‘Teasetta Loveschild’ was.

Seraphima had been reprieved and sentenced at one and the same time.

She was no longer charged with assaulting the Girl-Police in Enabe, but found guilty of receiving stolen goods: the ‘goods’ being the same dressing gown for which Teasetta Loveschild was still recovering from one-hundred lashes of the bullwhip, as her preliminary punishment for the original theft.

Pat Butt and Cretina Critic had been lucky to find themselves roles as extras in the film.

Seraphima knew what was to come. Her stomach churned with fear in consequence of the consequences of her crime, and the subsequent sequence of events that led to her being dressed before the cameras for her upcoming ordeal.

To ensure her co-operation, she had been given the choice of one-month’s continued imprisonment in the iron-barred cage in which she had been carried to court, or to take willing unwilling part in the film.

The ‘highest house in the land’ was meant as a meaningful double-meaning. Well above the mountain snowline, the former hunting lodge of the very much former queens of Senabre, the last of whose line had long since been deposed by the British, was palatial in parlance and indeed. Its location atop Mount Décolletage’s snowline, gave it physical height, to match the hype attendant upon its depiction as high in importance; which it had never in fact been.

The steady intermittent soporific crackle from the logs on the fire and the sweet smell of their pine, as they pined opinion on the stunning naked girl being dressed before the glowing hearth, filled the microphones.

In the synopsis for the film, Seraphima was a serving wench who had accidentally spilt a droplet of wine on the dining table of the cruel Czarina. No more beautiful woman could be found to play the Czarina than the statuesque Gramoldi.

As the six-foot-two tall, not too tall at all, athletic blonde bombshell, unrolled lightening-bright-white seamed nylon stockings up the long curvaceous expanse of Seraphima’s seemingly never-ending legs, the glow in Glorinda Gramoldi’s honey-coloured eyes, showed the state of her arousal, not least when her hands reached the place of Seraphima’s espousal, exposed.

The waspie Seraphima already wore, to draw her into an hourglass with the minim of grasp that her gracious figure needed to complete that task, dandled suspenders at the sides of her bountiful bottom.

A theme for the dream that was the circumstance unfolding before the cameras, showed in the lining of the waspie the negress rosebud wore. Her waist was squeezed whisper slim wisp, by a waspie, lined inside and out with warm white wolf-fur, the outer hairs of which drifted in the eddies from the currents of warm air from the glowing crackling fire.

As she saw that Glorinda was eyeing the glory of her god-given mouth, closed and composed in the ‘O’ that proposed orgasm as the road she who touched the black rose must always eventually expose, Seraphima lowered her lovely dark-devil-brown eyes in shyness and shame.

Glorinda fastened the clasps of the two suspenders now, so that they no longer dawdled in dangle at the sides of Seraphima’s thighs, but took the strain of the sweet refrain any stocking that captured the rhapsodies of Seraphima’s legs, must sing, with metaphor to the fore, for her two so shapely limbs.

Save where now pulled up at her flanks into stretched inverted-vees, Seraphima’s stocking tops diagonalled the glory of her sizzling thighs, their pristine white contrasting with her sweet liquorice black.

As Glorinda now finalised the weaving of Seraphima’s six-foot long pubic hair into twin corn-ear tresses, Seraphima watched with her lovely lips slightly agape, making a kiss with no mistake.

As she wrapped the corn-ears of Seraphima’s pubic tresses, to address and caress the negress angel’s stupendous thighs, Glorinda’s sighs were the genuine article.

The corn-weaves of Seraphima’s astounding pubic hair, paid honour to the wonder size of her wonderful thighs, around which they were wrapped in rapture, to capture the beauty of her legs; not by playing garters, this time at least, put in forming themselves as infamous snakes, that were tied in inspirational spirals, curling curving swerving around the rosebud’s thighs, down from her stocking tops to just above her knees, whereat they were tied off to themselves.

Just as with the waspie, the rabbit-skin panties were white-fur lined, inside and out.

The sensuous warmth of her fluffy-fur knickers aroused fair Seraphima to a blush hidden by the glory of her black complexion.

In wholly innocence, Seraphima’s orgasmic ‘O’ mouth stood a little wider now, for she knew from the feel of openness, that her pubic hair had been pulled hard, before being wound round her thighs and tied: for her love lips stood agape inside her hot white rabbit-fur knickers insides.

Even with her legs together, within her fur panties she was smiling pink. The discomfort of this disport from the distancing of her distinctly feminine distinctions, reminded her that she was a girl.

The elasticated garter slowly drawn up the glory of Seraphima’s left leg, was the one exception to the wonderful white in which her beautiful black was being enmirrored. For the fur of this superfluous erotic garter was white ermine dotted with black. The two-inch depth of the ermine-fur garter delighted Seraphima’s left thigh at the top of her stocking: warming bare thigh on the inside of her leg, and decorating the stocking’s vee, just below the suspender clasp on her outer thigh.

The well-concealed zips, made it easier to clasp the curves of Seraphima’s calves in the white wolf-fur-lined knee-high heelless tiptoe-topping ballet-en-pointe boots, that Glorinda next put on Seraphima, who, to aid the course of this course, was sitting her parable of incomparable curves, in an essay of inestimable beauty, on a seat made a throne as she did so.

In bidding she now stand after putting the boots on, the ‘Czarina’ could not help but put out a helping hand, and was thus touched and touched, hand and heart in equal part, by the lovely Seraphima.

Standing en-pointe only on the squared-off toes of her boots, Seraphima teetered with her legs drawn into a damnation of instructive inductive seductive muscular tensions, conducive only to paying and praying worshipful attention to.

The coat was fabulous. It had once gloried in covering two polar bears. Now its sensationally sensuous warmth embraced a near bare girl.

Double-breasted, like its wearer, and double furred, like its wearer, inside and outside fur-lined in pristine white, she brown-furred, head and somewhere else that can be easily inferred, it covered sweet Seraphima from where its collar-wings triangled out at her face’s cheeks, to her fur booted ankles.

Hooks went into eyes, and Glorinda was espied by the cameras, as she slipped the gold buttons into their allocated allotted eyes, watched by Seraphima’s own glorious globes.

Before she slipped the white chinchilla-fur hat onto Seraphima’s head, and lowered it flaps over her pretty little ears, Glorinda eased Seraphima’s conspicuously cute dark brown hair curls out from the coats collar.

The mittens were of white rabbit-fur. The stole had once been an artic fox.

Enraptured and captured and captivating in her furs, Seraphima felt guilty for the sensationally sexy warmth and wonderful sensuousness.

As she slid her mitten-gloved hands into a white wild-hare-fur muff: her hands in a fur muff, her muff in fur knickers, her bare nipples were excited by the fur of the insides of her clinging coat.

As she wiggled on tiptoe at the order of the ‘Czarina’ in the film being made, Seraphima knew the pull on her female denoting keynote lips, from her tethered pubic hair, and felt that this was just just punishment for the suffering of the poor animals that had been sacrificed to cover this vulnerable human naked-ape, from exposure to the bitter cold of the outside mountain air.

The Czarina wrapped in red fur and leather, and her helpers clad in black fur, ordered Seraphima away from the warmth of the fire and out onto the plateau on which the winter palace stood.

Outside Seraphima’s tiptoe-topped-feet scrunched in the compacted snow, and her breath steamed in a sweet stream from her daintily flared nostrils.

It was minus-five Fahrenheit, with a chilling breeze telling the thermometer it was minus-ten. The same chilling breeze blew up a scurry of soft white snowflakes that kissed Seraphima’s lovely negress black face.

What happened next was not in the script. But Seraphima took just one look at the delightful horse that was to pull the sled on which the party outside were about to ride, when she squealed with delight and wiggled over, her breasts swinging a fandango on her chest, with her nipples hotly in the caress of the fur insides of her coat: and removed her stole from in front of her black-girl’s orgasmic mouth, and took her mitten-clad right hand out of her muff, and with her opened-to-pink muff still hot in her rabbit-fur panties, kissed the lucky horse, and smothered its nose with her sweet gentle girly love.

Seraphima, the prisoner, the naughty maid who had spilled the fictitious wine, returned her stole across her hot kiss-me-I-am-kismet lips, and put her mitten-gloved hand back in her muff, as she was led to the rear of the sled and made as bade, to sit her other fur-clad, parted-to-show-pink muff, on the rear seat where the Czarina would sit beside her.

It was the servant played by ex-police-sergeant Pat Butt, who placed the bearskin rug over Seraphima’s lap in readiness for the sled to become pony and trap.

As she sat glowing in the wonderful warmth of her furs, Seraphima felt comfortable and almost comforted in the biting frostbitten air.

It was the Czarina who now reached to Seraphima’s chest, and tugged on fur-hidden, hitherto secret zips. And then reached inside the close-clinging coat, to grasp in turn, each of Seraphima’s breasts, and haul their black-coffee beauty out into the bitter biting air, completely bare, adjusting the outside zips under them to hold them exposed there.

At this unexpected exposure of her lovely black bosom to the bitter frost’s bite, even as her unction spread its musk from her held-open lips in her rabbit-fur knickers, shamed, and realising she was there to be thus punished, Seraphima hung her lovely head, wondering why her body betrayed her instead, despite that she fought her arousal inside her pretty head.

Momentous moments later, and rhythmic onomatopoeic tintinnabulations: unconstrained sleigh bells on reined reins. The sleigh glided, scrunching rolling marbles of uncompacted snow. The glides slid. Days of long nights.

A bare black bosom openly fully exposed to the chilling cold, jumped and swung in twin unison with the equine footfall. Horse four foot: swift. Snow four-foot: drifts. She forfeit: sits. Days when frost bites.

Steam? No. Vapour? Yes. Breath? Again yes. Nostrils flare. Equine and sweet fair. Bitter air. Days when wolves fight.

‘Snow White’? No. No fairytale. Snow white? Yes: blue white. She white? No negress. Days when howls fright.

Dressed white? Yes. Hat with ear-flaps down; stole around neck; knee-boots; ankle-length coat; knees under bearskin rug; seamed white nylon stockings; ermine garter: left thigh. Mittened hands within hare-fur muff. Split-open pink-flashing hot muff within rabbit-fur panties. Nights of owl flight.

She looks forward four ways. Quick glance eyes not believed. Not four eyes looking horizonward? Four brown eyes staring at starkly crisp world? Surely not so? Two brown eyes steal out from under fur hat and over her fur stole. Yet two more ‘eyes’ also stare where the distance is at. Her nipples protrude; her breasts are nude, and bitten by the freezing frost.

So many of the pines had been hacked for fire logs, that it was a wonder that the stark upright bare trunk on the snowy plateau had originated from trees at the lower line of the ex-volcanoes steep sides. The purpose behind, one-hundred years since, making ten poor girls haul it up the mountain track, under the lash, to its current station, where it had been erected upright in the permanent ice, was soon to become self evident.

The Czarina held her gloved hand up, and ex-sergeant Butt slid the bearskin fur off Seraphima’s lap, and the lovely negress, her bare breasts cruelly cold bold protuberances as she daintied, alighted her delight onto her tiptoes in the clinging chill of the mountain air.

“You will strip yourself completely bare”, the Czarina bade and poor Seraphima must obey.

“I will not have clumsy servants in my employ. You will strip yourself naked for us to enjoy”, Glorinda gloried, as she rolled the words of her role into the steaming vapour that uttered with her utterances to the entrancing negress.

Seraphima knew the brutality of this order from the test that her bare chest had already given the vicious cold. Yet she knew she must obey or be returned to the iron bars of the three-thrust cage, in which she had been imprisoned when accused of assaulting the Girl-Police.

As she unwrapped her arctic fox stole and handed it to Cretina Critic, Seraphima’s hands shook with her terror. She had already handed over the muff, and now removed her mitten gloves. The glory of her black beauty began to tell its story in the contrasting white of the snowline’s bite.

At the removal of her hat, the torment in the poor negress’ wonderfully warm eyes showed despite her fight to make it not so.

Reaching up her coat, Seraphima eased down her rabbit-fur-knickers still hot from her humid body and sweet with a slick of her Aroma-Arabic’s scent, from her ascent to enjoyment of her humiliation, despite that she was so ashamed that her body betrayed her so, before they had bared her tits to the torment of the cold, to cool the ardour in the pink of her harbour.

As she leaned down to unzip her right boot, Seraphima’s tits rolled round to swing in gravity’s gentle cling, to make belle bells knelling that she was heaven.

The coat must now go, and Seraphima must now know how horrible it was undoubtedly about to be there, to be in the frosty air bare.

As she undid the gold buttons and unhooked the gold hooks from their gold eyes, Seraphima felt the inrush of the cruelly cold air, to the comparatively thin lair of clothing she did still wear.

Even as she removed her coat, she hugged it to her already shivering body to try and soak in the last vestiges of its comforting warmth, as she stood in her skimpy last vestments, but the unchivalrous ex-Girl-Police, tore it from her gentle grasp, and left her with nothing to clasp, as her body began to twitch and goose-pimple in the murderous cold.

Seraphima’s lovely eyes looked for mercy and saw only lascivious lasers lusting after her lovely body, as the Czarina ordered her to continue to strip.

With her impractically but prettily long fingernails, Seraphima struggled to untie her pubic hair from where it played double-asp to her Cleopatra, spiralling around her inspirational thighs, because her hands were made clumsy by the fact she was now one whole shiver.

As she fought to unclasp her suspenders and lift her ermine garter so that her thin stockings slowly slid down her superbly smooth legs, the struggle was worse still.

The laces of the waspie were all but impossible for fingertips that could no longer, she felt, feel. And yet she obeyed and opened it wide to let the bitter cold inside, and her body St Vitas dance with the cold’s inexorable advance.

To be made to bare her feet in the snow was surely more than Seraphima could bear, and yet she did as she was ordered, and eased off her boots and stockings, till her beautiful black body was bare, completely and utterly bare, bar the ermine garter on her left thigh, which she moved to remove to get herself totally obediently nude.

“You may leave the garter. I don’t want you to die of the cold”, the Czarina cruelly mocked.

As the breeze blew to freeze the naked Seraphima’s passionate veins with its freezing kiss, she danced with her arms around her chest and her lovely legs wrapped tight around each other as if she would squeeze the remaining warmth in the depths of her sweet body out to her beautiful black soft smooth carapace.

“You will stay naked for one hour. For you to stay alive for that endless time, you will find it best by far to keep moving. To keep your mind and body sound, you will need to keep warm. And the best and only way for you to keep warm, will be for you to masturbate. But I do not allow my maids to masturbate. So if we see you exciting your lovely body, you will be whipped”, the Czarina announced.

“Oh god! Please have mercy on me!!” Seraphima begged.

The tails of three white-leather bullwhips trailed in the snow. Each bullwhip was laced with a half-dozen razor blades embedded in its knot-weighted tip. As the Czarina cracked her whip to show she meant what she had said, the blades sliced the ice, and only god knew what they could do to Seraphima’s sweet flesh.

Her feet already numb, Seraphima danced, as her teeth chattered uncontrollably in her head. And despite that she knew what it would bring, she dived for the warmth of the clothing on the sled, tripped on her pubic hair pigtail and slid-fell in the snow.

And the ex-sergeant’s whip whistled brutally, and gave her a blow, that caused her to scream as a stream of her blood flowed from the cuts in her sweet arm, as the whip did its harm, and the poor angel knew she must suffer anew, if she did not get more warmth than her mean menial garter knew.

As she squatted, sobbing in her pain, Seraphima was one long shiver in the bitter bite of the wind that blew on her naked limbs. And now she caressed her arms to try and give them warmth. And next she ran her dainty frozen hands down her handsome squatted thighs.

But, as she caressed her chilled breasts, the Czarina decided she was masturbating, and a white-snake whip whistled, and Seraphima screamed as it wrapped rapidly around her squatted body, and it razor-edges-embedded-tip, the skin of her beautiful bum ripped, so scarlet on the white snow now slowly dripped.

Seraphima now begged and begged for mercy. She knew she had to masturbate in order to stay alive. And she knew all to true that if she did so the whips would flay her.

Her begging was indecipherable. Her constant shiver in the bitter cold made it impossible for her to unlock her jaw. Her pretty hand reached down between her heavenly legs. She knew she must masturbate before it was too late. She whisked her love lips with the frisk of her hand threshing them and thrashing them to bring on the glow that a girl knows when her heat rises with her arousals arrival. And the slash of the whips on her bare back raised a livid welts that flowed a crimson river, and still Seraphima fingered her quiver to stop the endless shiver.

And she toyed with her clit as the whip split her thigh, and her blood spilt to the ground nigh. And she rubbed her tits on her thighs to keep her nipples alive. And the whip sliced her back across her shoulder blades. And Seraphima came. But she needed this again, and again, for the only way for her not to die in the cold savage snow, was for her to masturbate to make herself glow.

And so she played loves tune on the most sensitive instrument known to girlkind, strumming her lips like a lyre, as her back was flogged to add fire to the spice she must work from her cunt, if she was to stay alive in the cold blunt, as a snow scurry increased her hurry, and she masturbated herself to a gain, of coming yet again.

And then she continued to play her frozen fingers in linger over the lips of her sex, and to rub hard on her nub and to poke in her hole to stoke the fires her strokes must inspire, if she was not to expire. And the whips took her thighs, and cut them as she cried with the horror of the pain, but still masturbated over and over again, to keep alive her lovely flame.

Strumming guitar on the strings made by her love lips, Seraphima’s tune was crescendo ascending the highway to heaven, as she masturbated as she must to survive in the brutally bitter cold and deep dire frost, that bit every millimetre’s millimetre of her naked flesh, as the pain of the marrow chilling cold, told its toll in her unstoppable shivers, and the quivers of her breasts, as she threshed her love lips with fresh zest, to save her poor life in the cold strife, of her naked nudeness, bar the cynical cruelty of her single ermine garter on her superb left thigh: a black beauty like a shadow in the snow’s drive, as they whipped her with the razor loaded white leather bullwhips, to punish her for masturbating, even while she masturbated furiously, in order to stay alive.

“Stop this filthy whore masturbating!” the cruel Czarina charged.

And Seraphima screamed as she was seized my her pubic tresses and dragged across the snow, a slithering black honey, swishing and switching bewitchingly side to side as she was slid in the snow, so cold on her naked body, despite her eager endless masturbation to keep the fires of her human spirit from flickering out in the bitter winter cold.

And her breasts were pressed out at her sides of her trunk as they dragged her on her front, like a foul drunk, by the hair of her cunt. And she struggled and failed to prevail with her hands and lost, to stop herself being hauled through the snow to the wooden post.

Dragging Seraphima to her frozen feet with the hair of her head, she saw with horror the holes in the side of the post and the height at which they were fed. This was not in the script and no compare with the bars of the iron tricorn cage instead!

“Mercy!” she screamed. “Oh please god mercy”.

But they hauled her to her feet and then the tips of her toes. Then they tied her to the post with the pubic hair of this rose. Then they drove in a nail so as to keep her pubically publicly arranged, so that the rosebud would stand gibbering shivering on tiptoes arraigned.

But Seraphima’s eyes were on the horror of the holes at each side of the post, and she knew what was coming to hurt her the most.

And they tied her wrists above her head, and flogged her bare back until it bled. And the red ran over the bum of the rose, and dripped to make pink the surrounding snows, as the whips in the same snows slithered, before they swished through the rare air and brutality delivered, on the sweet soft skin of the naked frozen negress, each stroke a step in the progress toward when she heard the horror of the clink of hammer and nails. And to the wooden upright her tits they impaled. And she screamed in her pain and horror, as they smashed the nails through the sides of her tits with a hammer, and sexually crucified the black angel to complete her fate, as her punishment for letting herself masturbate.

As Seraphima shivered and shuddered nailed to the post by her tits, they did not neglect the hits with the whips. And they flogged the poor rosebud to keep her alive, for the bite of the cold was to the core of her inside, for she had been naked in the snow for over an hour, and still they whipped the lovely black flower, and the whips tails trailed in cold pink snow, where Seraphima’s blood had been mixed to make it so, and her back was flogged to poor bloody ribbons. And she cried on the post to which she was nailed by her tits, as they flogged her to punish her for rubbing her nub, and her cries were not of pain but of gain, as she came with cum on cum again and again, and the core of the poor angel was cold to the quick, as her naked body in the snow was still whipped as down the post a trail snailed. And her proboscis clitoris uncurled and rubbed on the equally upright, to which she was nailed.

And the last cry she uttered was from the uttermost of cums, as she slumped in her bonds overcome with pain and joy, as her punishers their whips continued to employ, on her thighs as she sighed at the thunderstorm inside her honeypot. As down the post she slipped, and her tits were ripped on the nails, as she slumped in a faint, overcome by her cums, and her breasts took her weight, as she moaned with pleasure, as the nails through her tits proved inadequate measure.

The final scene of the film showed Seraphima in slumber, her body bleeding from stripes without number. Lost to the cruel cold world in which she had been refrigerated, as her lovely body with the razor whips was serrated, her tits nailed to the upright because she had masturbated.

As another white flurry of snow blew over her naked black body, Seraphima stirred and smiled with her deep down pleasure, as she hung from her tits nailed, with her cums echoing off the Richter Scales. As the camera showed the pink of the snow below her body, and the slick of her honey on the post to which she was nailed, naked in the snow, but for the one mocking garment she had been left to wear on a left thigh without pareil. The single garment on her totally naked body bye and bye. The garment that glowed in the snows increasing flurry. The garter of soft warming ermine that crowned her glorious thigh.

The ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ of the ponygirls’ hooves took Marina to the door once more. Monday was delivery day. She was anxious. The package was overdue. She had neglected her boat business especially to be home to receive it.

The two ponygirls pulling the trash cart were eased to a halt outside Marina’s home. The driver and her assistant stepped down.

Marina rushed out to the road. For the third time that morn, her twelve-inch heeled mules scrunching in the gravel of the drive, as her lovely legs flew.

“Good mornin’ darlin’!” the cheerful driver called, as the breathless, breathtaking, Marina approached.

“You Mrs Jonson?”

“No. No. Ntebeli. The name is Ntebeli”, Marina responded, anxiety uppermost in her tone.

“Oh. Oh dear. Not sure we’ve got one for an Ntebeli” the driver mused resignedly.

“’Ere Jo, tek a look at that one at the back will yer”, she then commanded to her lovely assistant, who now climbed onto the cart.

“Sorry ‘bout dis luv. They’ve really fucked it up today, if you’ll pardon my language. List and load labels is sposed to fuckin’ match ain’t dey. At least yer’d fuckin’ think so, wunt yer?” the driver mused in her amused mocking tone.

“’Ere den. You’re a crackin’ little darlin’ ain’t yer”, the driver continued, as her eyes mentally undressed Marina, and metaphorically caressed her shapely legs. “Now den sweet’art; you don’t ‘ave to ‘ave lonely nights when Nina’s around. Dey don’t call me ‘love potion number Nina’ for nuffink doll: that I can promise yer. Just give me de word luv, and I’ll give yer doorbell de old ring-a-ding-ding-fing, any time! Be a pleasure for a sweet little doll like you….”

“Yea! ‘Ere's an Ntebeli” the assistant now called, distracting the amorously inclined driver’s attention from ogling the discomforted Marina’s lovely thighs.

And, as if she had entirely forgotten that she had just been attempting to date the gorgeous Marina, the driver said: “Looks like yer in luck arter all den sweetheart. Where d’yer wannit dumped?”

The driver and assistant having just gone, Marina and Camilleona removed the hood and untied the gag. With scissors they cut the long jute bag. Slowly the filthy bloody body of the barely alive Seraphima was revealed.

After Marina had put the scissors aside, she reached for them again, and snipped through, and cast aside, a blood-soaked fur garter she had just spotted: a garter that for some reason had been left on Seraphima’s left thigh.

Camilleona had already lowered her top and now knelt and proffered her right breast to Seraphima, who suckled eagerly.

“We can wash her down right here. Then we need to take turns to lie with her, to get her body warm. I’ll take first turn”, Marina announced as she began to undress, thereby merely confirming what she had already planned.

After Seraphima had been bathed clean, Marina stripped herself finally naked, lay on the chaise beside her, and then hugged her wife to her warm body, as Camilleona slid an eiderdown duvet over the two stunning negresses.

“Come back in an hour please Camilleona. And we’ll see if she wants the tit again”, Marina concluded.

For all Seraphima herself knew, it might have been days weeks or months that she lay there, or later in her bed instead.

Her recovery was slow but certain. Her mind was lost for a long while. For that same long while, she was sure there was an angel reading by her bed. A little blonde girl with lovely grey eyes would read to her.

But the comfort Seraphima took from these visits, was as much from the view up the angel’s skirt exquisite. For there indeed were the gates of heaven, pure, and innocent, and hairless: tiny and tight and shaped like a keyhole. The little girl seemed careless of what she was showing, but, when realising, then blushed scarlet, before playing lovely harlot, and letting Seraphima continue to see her love mouth.

Kate was now a regular visitor to the Ntebeli household. Despite that Marina knew she was a rival for Seraphima’s affections, the shear delightfulness of the charming Kate won Marina over, and the two main women in Seraphima’s life, had become good friends with one another.

It had come as no shock to Seraphima when Marina had told her that she wanted a divorce.

Over the year that had passed, whilst she had recovered, and got back to full fitness by running and swimming, she had been no slouch in noticing how Marina and Camilleona held hands, when they thought she was not looking.

And that fact in turn had come as no surprise, when Seraphima fitted those scenes in with her recall of the two sat together at her trial, and the look of love in Camilleona’s eyes then.

As Seraphima sat in a deckchair beside the swimming pool, pretty Kate kissed her bare thigh.

“Do you want me to promise to obey if we get married?” she asked.

Seraphima took the angel’s chin in her hand, and ran her thumb over Kate’s ever-moist lips.

“There are things you need to know about me”, Kate whispered intensely.

The click of Camilleona’s high heels broke the spell.

“Camilleona bring her wine all chilled for her two lovely friends”, the eponymous Italian sweetly announced.

“We soon need new servant. Me and Miss Marina go London and married. Camilleona so excited!” the lovely Camilleona enthused.

Seraphima beckoned her to take a seat. Camilleona was no longer a slave or servant now, she was part of the household on equal terms, along with Marina and Kate. Of course counting Seraphima herself, the ‘Ntebeli household’ was become, and was agreed should stay and be, a four girl institution.

Camilleona gone, Seraphima turned to lovely Kate once more.

“Do you think we should have a trial marriage whilst Marina and Camilleona are away?” Kate blushed, as she tried not to let her lovely shyness show in her adorable face.

“What were those secrets?” Seraphima gently enquired.

“What secrets?” Kate teased.

Seraphima brushed her long fingers longingly down Kate’s soft cheek.

“I’m a virgin”, Kate blushed.

Seraphima clasped Kate’s hands in two gentle hands of her own, and longed to kiss her.

“I’ve never had periods…… I don’t have monthlies……… I’ve not gone through puberty……. I’m not a woman……. I’m still only a girl…….but I’m a woman in every other way”, Kate whispered, with fear in her lovely grey eyes, those eyes looking for the rejection she was terrified she was about to incur.

Seraphima looked at the angel, and raised Kate’s now slumped forward head with a hand under her chin.

“Will: ‘I love you’, and: ‘Will you marry me sweet adorable Kate?’, do as answers?” Seraphima whispered intensely.

The two girls now kissed to bliss, as blessed as two humans can be, till heaven relocates to earth: two compassionate coins of inestimable worth.

As the two lovers now sat, with Kate on Seraphima’s lap, Kate leaned her head on Seraphima’s breast and whispered, with mischievous minx in her golden giggle: “I can also be very naughty. You may have to spank me!”

As Seraphima rose from the bed, before covering the still sleeping Kate with the duvet, and taking herself to the shower, she took the tumbled Mandy off the floor, and put her back into Kate’s sweet arms.

Without opening her eyes Kate took the teddybear and held it innocently, continuing all this while a sleeping angel.

A month was a goodly time for a honeymoon. But then, if you were to travel as far as London, a month was surely needed.

For Marina and the newly minted Mrs Camilleona Ntebeli, the honeymoon was over, and their flight would touch down at ‘Ntobi International’ later that day.

At the call from below of: “Cooee! Seraphima! Are you up and about sweetheart?” Seraphima switched off the shower and, dripping wet still, dashed to put on her towelling robe, before rushing to the stairs.

“Oh god Marina, you gave me a shock!” she cried as she rushed to kiss her ex-wife, and her ex-wife’s new wife.

“You’re not due here for two hours yet”, she gabbled.

“Sorry sweetheart. We got an earlier flight. Oh, and a following wind. Where’s Kate? I’ve got a surprise for you two. Where’s Kate?” Marina repeated.

“Still sleeping. What’s the surprise?” Seraphima asked with kittenish curiosity to the fore.

“It would hardly be a surprise if I were to tell you”; Marina smiled, just as Marina always but always smiled.

“It’s my wedding present for you and Kate, if you must know”, Marina teased.

“Do you want to get Kate downstairs or shall I show her later?” she then enquired.

“I can’t wait for later!” Seraphima exclaimed.

“Okay then. But you must close your eyes and keep them closed till I say you can open them again. Camilleona and I will lead you. It’s in the kitchen.”

“Now, do I hear a promise to keep your eyes closed until told?” Marina gently insisted. “If you open your eyes it will spoil it!….”, she sweetly emphasised.

“Okay! Okay! Okay!” Seraphima exclaimed, “Look. My eyes are closed”, she giggled, just after she had made herself go cross-eyed, and held her eyes looking down her pretty nose, making Marina and Camilleona laugh in unison.

“I’ll put a blindfold on you young lady, if you can’t behave!” Marina laughed.

“My eyes are closed! Look! Look! My eyes are closed!” Seraphima insisted with excitement in her lovely voice, and with her eyes really closed this time.

Two hands now held Seraphima’s, and led the sweet negress angel the short distance to the kitchen.

As the kitchen door was closed behind the assembled trinity: “Open them!” Marina instructed, referring, of course, to Seraphima’s stunning eyes.

As Seraphima opened her devil-deep-dark-chocolate-brown-eyes, she stared, with her lovely ‘O’ for orgasm mouth, open with astonishment…

Her face, the heart-rending, heart-stopping face before her, was heart shaped, and white as the fullest full moon.

Delicious freckles frolicked delightfully lightly across the pretty little nose.

She was ghost pale by nature: the same nature that had given her, her near translucent complexion.

Her stature and stance were all that was queen.

Her eyes shone ice-green.

The apparent apparition wore her glorious golden red curls, in teasing pleasing tumultuous swirls, that tumbled in copious cape, from her lovely head, to dangle and dandle, below her very trim ankles.

As she bent her exceptionally pretty legs in a complete-and-utter-obedience-confirming, extremely sexy curtsy:

“Good morning my lady Seraphima. I do so hope you will be pleased to accept me as your slave”, Teasetta Loveschild whispered.

The End

06-15-2007, 08:12 PM
Wonderful stuff as always...thank you for sharing it with us.