View Full Version : Woolmart Girl Part 2

Eve Adorer
05-22-2007, 06:18 PM
Woolmart Girl – Part 2
Synopsis: Once a Lady always a lady?

Woolmart Girl – Part 2
Black is the colour for mourning, and of the deepest beauty.

She stands before the grave, with the chill of the Barnmouth winter seeking to pass the praetorian buttons safeguarding the close embrace of her heavy jacket, with its comforting fur waving and wending in the bluster blasts of the winter wind’s flurries.

Her queenly dark-brown tight-curl crowned head, is haloed saint by the faint sun: a sun serving only to contrast the mournful blackness of her furs: bearskin jacket, wolfskin miniskirt, and muskrat millinery: with the profile her six-foot statuesque elegance shadows as a shapely grey contrast on the crisp blue-white snow.

Her face, with its experience-matured lines, in joy as in sadness, is a devastating siren of soft seductiveness. The eyes and the mouth dominate. The eyes are so deep of brown that they nearly teach her pupils’ what black should be. The mouth is closed in the possessed pose of the astonishing negress she is.

She weeps. Down the sides of her faintly flared nostrils, her gentle tears trickle tributary: contributory to her agonising beauty.

Her tumbling tears sweet sadness, reaches her glorious mouth’s closed close-circular shape, with its compelling lips: full blooded, bold, powerfully passionate: the sensual upper with its teasing rise to cupid bowed flatness: the full-bodied lower, seductively soft siren for wreaking lovers’ wrack wreck and ruin.

Her feet with her big toes buried, snuggling in the holes drilled for them in the six-inch-deep platform soles of her boots, rise perpendicularly. And her legs in her twelve-inch heels, are consequently consequential poems in their tensioned wonder: and, in their conspicuous curvature, beyond mere poetry’s ability to ponder.

As, at its last, the sad saline of her lachrymose longing moistens her constant kiss, she is trying to show she is composed. She is seeking not to open her lovely lips in a heartrending sob. In the process, she puckers her mouth in a pose then repose that could be preliminary too to her golden laughter; were she not so pitifully pained.

On the grave she reads again, and again, and again:

‘Aemalia Hortense Hendridge-Draegona
Countess of Barnmouth
2021 to 2053
My Love: My Life’

The thorns of the single rose in her ungloved right hand prick tears of blood from her tender fingers, to match the tears of torment from her glorious eyes; and the red of the floral tribute she will lay on her wife’s grave today, as she has every single day for the two months since the tragedy of the drowning on Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona’s homecoming trajectory.

She bends to place her daily homage-honour on the grave.

Her black wolfskin miniskirt’s hem rises. The tops of her mourning black stockings above and beyond her knee-high black leather boots, momentarily challenge; but then enforcedly yield to the inexorable pull of her suspender clasps, to be hauled in their defeat in longer vees up the smooth flesh of the backs of her long strong dark-brown thighs.

As she bends further, between her stocking tops and her hem, her hot bare dark-coffee flesh, flashes its sinful sexualness, and her fit femininely muscled smoothness.

And, as she bends yet further, her cool cotton panty’s white, beacons beckoning for a reckoning, powerfully triangularly: fully pouched with her scorching-hot sin-centre within. With the enticement of its central divide decidedly delineated, it challenges ones compulsion to resist the irresistible deep dark devilishly demanding forces inside.

Micawberene Smith was a pretty girl who, save in the form of the crisp dry recital of a deed of title, seemingly knew nothing of presentation.

Though only twenty-five, she was already the epitome of the staid family lawyer, and thus the perfect representative of Smith Smith and Smith, Attorneys at Law, whose practise had practiced care over the legal affairs of the succession of Countess of Barnmouth, almost ever since Wilhelmina the First’s wife, Matilda Countess of Flanders, had appointed the first of the Barnmouth line, in 1070.

Historians of written record deny the services that Rachel Draegona, the first Countess of Barnmouth to be, is said, in the contrasting oral history, to have rendered to Matilda. But one common modern derivation of the word ‘oral’ is not an inappropriate focus for attention and subsequent apt conclusion of her role in their rolls in the bed-folds.

Rachel’s bedroom prowess was clearly matched by her intellect. She was eventually to be given preference, even though she was a Saxon at a Norman court. That she had learned French whilst serving on, and later captaining, the ‘English Channel ferries’ of her day, showed her winsome wit.

Rachel had been with Haroldena Godwinson, the future Haroldena Queen of England, whose ship she had commanded in 1064, when Haroldena had taken her mother’s promise, of the award of the queendom of England, to Wilhelmina Duchess of Normandy – as of then known, to her discomfort, as Wilhelmina the Bitch.

This, the Bayeux tapestry tells, was an award Haroldena subsequently disputed, when her mother, Edwaldia the Possessor, died in 1066, and the hand-over of the queendom of England to Wilhelmina and Normandy became the promise Haroldena was supposed to have ensured was delivered.

Instead, Haroldena declared herself queen of England, and thus betrayed the Norman Duchess, who swore her revenge and an invasion of the British Isles to seize the crown. Wilhelmina was to invade England in 1066.

Back in 1064, after Haroldena’s visit to Normandy and delivery of the promise she was to later betray, Rachel Draegona had been left behind. She had become one of the hostages left in the Norman court as surety for delivery of the promised crown of England to Wilhelmina. Or, some say, she was given by Haroldena in gift to Wilhelmina.

The facts are vague, but certain sure is that Rachel’s devastating beauty captivated Wilhelmina the Bitch’s wife, Matilda, who never regretted ordering that Rachel Draegona be washed and brought to her bedroom.

By 1066, as an experienced sea-captain, Rachel Draegona, now converted to the Norman cause and the Norman claim to the throne of England, had led Wilhelmina the Bitch’s invading fleet. And, some say, that she fought in the front line against her Saxon sisteren at the Battle of Hastings.

At Hastings, only when the self-declared English Queen, the Saxon Haroldena, fell, mortally wounded by a chance arrow that pierced through the eye of her left nipple, before impaling her beautiful breast to her chest, and mortally wounding her noble heart, was the battle won by the Normans.

And so, later in the same year, Rachel Draegona had found herself at the coronation of Wilhelmina the First of England: more often referred to as: ‘Wilhelmina the Conqueror’: the day in question being Christmas Day 1066.

Apart from the intervention of, and subsequent merger with the even older Hendridge line, in 1077, when Rachel’s youngest child, her only daughter, married Morpeth Hendridge, the beautiful inheritor of the Hendridge wealth, with the consequent mingling of the family name as ‘Hendridge-Draegona’, the Draegona line had run through the females of the family up to the present day.

As has been said before we recited the historical roots of the title ‘Countesses of Barnmouth’, Micawberene Smith, the latest in a long line of family lawyers to the Barnmouth estate and its heads, was a pretty girl who, save in the form of the crisp dry recital of a deed of title, seemingly knew nothing of presentation.

But Micawberene Smith must surely have inspired the phrase: ‘hidden fires’. Her business suits of dark and darker charcoal-grey pinstripe, were of the finest cut from the highest quality tailor to be found in London’s Sackville Row.

So too, her white silk blouses, with their frilly bibs, blouses always buttoned at wrist and tight up to her slender neck, were hand stitched from London’s Germane Street.

Her underwear was Parisian silk in daring shades: today’s being scarlet-panelled with daemon-black embroider of their borders, hand-sewn by Hosea Hosiery of London’s Grar Street, from where she also ordered her lawyer’s standard, black shear nylon stockings.

Micawberene Smith had very pretty legs. She had her hems high up her thighs. But she was shy: too shy to show the clasps of her suspenders below her skirt, as was the new fashion. Correspondingly, her shyness precluded a heel higher than the five-inches that angled her ankles and curved her calves, in such as the reflective black patent leather Italian import courts she wore this day.

Whether Micawberene Smith wore panties was a question she, Micawberene, loved to think the other girls must be asking themselves. Her skirt showed no visible panty-line. Either she did or she didn’t of course; but, if she did, they must have been exceptionally tiny.

The contrast with her charcoal grey jackets suited Micawberene’s straight, light, near-white blonde tresses, which reached down no further than the collars of her business-girl suits.

Her light brown eyes were a surprise of sparkling humour and intellect. But she must wear glasses perched high on her pretty little nose. And poor Micawberene’s weak eyes were thus owl wise in their seeming size. And that increased her shyness and resigned sadness, because her life so far, seemed to be proof of the saying that: “girls don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses”.

As she stood in the library of Barnmouth House, Micawberene eyed over the panelled oak door, of what she assumed to be a broom cupboard or the like. The door was closed.

As she awaited arrivals for the reading of a will, Micawberene had noticed the pristine cleanliness and conspicuously complete order and trim repair of the stately home of the Countesses of Barnmouth. And yet, in the door-handle-edge-side of the door she grew strangely curious about, because of the contrast of the blemish, there were deep holes at breast height, as if very large nails had been driven into the wood from time to time.

“Good morning my lady”, Micawberene curtsied in courtesy as the fragrant achingly beautiful negress, Faustina Lady Barnmouth, graced in to take her seat, and make its humbleness replete with her feminine charms complete.

This was a woman in despair. Distraught at her sudden widowhood, her lovely face showed she had been crying only just before she entered the room. That was despite that, coming to the library to hear the reading of her late wife’s will from Micawberene, her, and her family’s solicitor, Faustina had reminded herself of her place in society.

Dressed in widow’s white, the contrast of Faustina’s beautiful blackness had never seemed so dreamily gorgeous. She was a woman in her thirties: a mature elegant could-be model, with six feet of supreme dream stature. Was black beautiful? Oh all ye gods yes! This was a negress. This was the most beautiful among all the races of women with whom the world is heaven blessed.

The tall sad negress sat with her supremely long legs crossed thigh over thigh, with one long leg wrapped behind its sister, such that the toe of her platform mules touched the Achilles heel of her grounded foot.

As she unconsciously ran her gaze along the long length of Faustina’s stockinged legs, and then up at the fabulous face, framed by the window, contrasting the glorious black of the amazingly beautiful widow, with the snow still around the grounds outside behind her through the glass, Faustina’s white stockings, filled with the might of her athletic limbs, transfixed Micawberene’s appreciative eye.

“My lady I was so sorry to hear of your terrible loss….”, Micawberene began, before she realised that Faustina was too lost in her sorrow, to hear her.

Two seats remained. One was for Micawberene. But Micawberene and Faustina awaited a third party.

Concluding that the expected arrival might be a time yet, Micawberene planted her pretty derriere on a seat that faced the one Faustina graced, and the other empty one waiting someone to fill its place.

Moments later, as the library’s door opened, Micawberene rose, and an English Rose entered.

She was five-four to adore. Her heartbreakingly pretty high-cheekboned heart-shaped face, a little pixie’s dancing with freckles, dazzled. Her dainty ears’ tiny lobes dandle dangled white pearl earrings, as if she had been out on the town. Her flame-red hair was cropped to a boy cut, with a left side parting.

She was unadulterated walking adorableness. Wrapped in her winter mink ankle-length cloak from the outside cold, her face, her translucently white face, was suffused with a natural flush from the bite of the frosty wind that had just had the honour of kissing her peach complexioned cheeks.

Micawberene sat herself again, and drank deep from the cup of this cute girl. Was she seventeen? Yes she was: just.

As the family’s familiar, Emelda Geeves the faithful housekeeper, removed the girl’s cloak, it revealed more of her very sexual charms.

In contrast with the dressy earrings: earrings that perhaps she had left in overnight, she seemed otherwise to have dressed hurriedly, and certainly casually.

She wore a shabby white short-sleeved tee-shirt, that she filled with such twin full firmness, that one would have assumed a bra, but that her very real, very bold, very conical nipples, clearly bared their all beneath the tepees they dented in her vest’s thus tent-tautened fabric. And, as she stared haughtily confidently around, there was overmuch freedom of roam from her breasts heavy domes, for them to be in any way contained or constrained within, to cause them to refrain and be reined-in.

She stood in knee-high black leather boots, the soft supple leather of which her compelling calves had curved to the conspicuously luscious strength of the length of her shapely legs. She was raised on tiptoe on the squared-off toe-tips of her heelless boots, with the light leather of their soles showing the neat stitching from the hand sculpting of their individually tailored crafting.

Her skirt, a pelmet, met her thighs just below where her robust rear’s deep-sigh deep-side-dimpled half-globes, began their thrilling foothill rise above the comparatively flat plain of the backs of her stunning thighs.

And, from the tops of her boots clasping to her gasp-worthy legs, up to where her hem tried to hide all the loveliness that she must have up its inside, her legs, her supremely white extremely beautiful legs, were bare. She wore neither tights nor stockings. Her thighs, her gorgeously dancer-muscled thighs, were naked.

As Kendra Hendridge-Draegona walked thus into the room, Micawberene unconsciously crossed her own legs, and rubbed her stockinged thighs together in a sibilant hiss of the kiss of nylon on nylon: the rub of thigh on thigh bye and bye to fire the static sparks that marked Micawbarene’s arrival at arousal at first sight of this pulchritudinous arrival.

As Kendra sat, and her hem slipped inexorably swiftly up her bare supreme smoothness, and Micawberene tried to see up her thighs’ in-betweens, Micawberene licked her lips to wet them in imitation of the intimate initiation that was imminent within her intimacy, as an open invitation to the sexy teen queen.

A confident smile played over the pert pout of the pretty teenager, and she crossed her bare thighs. And as the pathway of the shadowed triangle that was focus of the trajectory of Micawberene’s fascination, closed with the thighs being crossed, so Micawberene knew that this apparition was nude. This teen tease was dressed and undressed to please. Her shirt and her skirt and her boots and her earrings were all. Apart from these she wore absolutely nothing at all.

Kendra kicked her overlapped booted leg back and forth, and pull played her left ear’s pearl with her pretty fingers in petulant boredom.

There was nothing in this room to interest her: just the old tramp her mother had married, and this dirty minded frump of a solicitor, who obviously could not keep her eyes off her thighs.

“Can we get on with it, for god’s sake!” Kendra commanded, her youthful body, now fresh from the chill of the bitter cold she had rushed through from last night’s party at the palace, causing her to yawn as she warmed.

Micawberene’s proficient professionalism now took over, and she reached her leather briefcase onto her lap, letting Kendra see the size of her thighs as she uncrossed and re-crossed her pretty legs once more.

Poor sad Faustina paid no apparent attention to proceedings. And Geeves, the ever-discrete Emelda Geeves, now slipped out of the library’s doors, closing them silently behind her.

“My good ladies”, Micawberene began, these are the words from the last will and testament of your late momma Miss Kendra, and your late dear wife, Lady Barnmouth.

Kendra only just withheld her temper at this dawdling. But the will reading began in Micawberene’s most proficiently efficient measured clear contralto tones:

‘This is the last will and testament of Aemalia Hortense Hendridge-Draegona, Lady Barnmouth of Barnmouth in the county of Barnmouthshire, and revokes all previous wills and testamentary dispositions that I may have made.

I, Aemalia Hortense Hendridge-Draegona, Lady Barnmouth of Barnmouth in the county of Barnmouthshire, being of sound mind, to hereby bequest and bequeath as follows:-

To my darling love-child Kendra Duetta-Nippleona Singala-Clitoria Virgina-Cuntalis Intacta-Hymenia Hendridge-Draegona, my only child, whose love in life I was never honoured to receive, and whose forgiveness, after my death, for the orphanage and lonely life I, as a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl-mother so long ago condemned her to, I can only pray for, I leave all my worldly possessions, including my goods and chattels, both chattels-real and chattels-personal, for her to possess or dispose of as she may please.’

The silence that followed was palpable and pregnant.

Then: “Is there nothing else?” Faustina, Aemalia’s broken-hearted widow pleaded.

Micawberene’s loving heart sank. “I’m so sorry Lady Barnmouth. The times we pressed your good lady wife to update her will after she married you, were sadly lost on the same number of promised tomorrows that have come to today. I’m afraid the only will the dear departed ever made, is the will I have just read: the will that has been fully proven in probate, and thus stands in law.”

“Kendra gets everything?” Faustina enquired again.

“Yes my lady”, Micawberene gentled. “Kendra Hendridge-Draegona is a child of the blood, and the only child of the blood. Miss Kendra is now Kendra Lady Barnmouth, having assumed her momma’s title by right of female-primogeniture at the moment of her momma’s sad death, regardless of any will. The will merely confirms the transfer of the estate. The estate, of course, includes you.”

Faustina looked at Micawberene in suddenness of shocked disbelief at what she thought she had just heard.

Having rehearsed and revised her law for this very arising, Micawberene slowly explained to Faustina.

“Your title, the title of ‘Lady Barnmouth’ was, of course, purely granted to you as the wife of Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona, the late Lady Barmouth by inheritance and peerage heritage. That title fell from you when the dear lady, your wife, died. The title bestowed no rights in law upon you. Whether you may continue to use the title, or some adaptation of it, to distinguish you from Lady Barnmouth of the bloodline, is a matter for grace and favour from the new Lady Barnmouth of the bloodline, Kendra Lady Barnmouth, your stepdaughter, not the law.”

“Under the law, by your marriage to Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona, the deceased Lady Barnmouth, you became, of course, legally a ‘chattel-personal’. And therefore, even though you were yet to marry the late Lady Barnmouth at the time she made her will, from the moment of her marriage to you, she acquired you, and you therefore became as much an article of goods as the late Lady Barnmouth’s ponygirls and kennel bitches.”

“Under the law you became a chattel-personal. Had the late Lady Barnmouth taken our advice and made a new will: a will that recognised you, matters would be different. But as matters stand, you have been inherited by the new Lady Barnmouth.”

“Kendra Lady Barnmouth now owns you, and you must be obedient to her will with you. I am afraid that that is the law”, Micawberene tailed off, trying to hide the emotion that welled in her chest for the stunningly beautiful negress.

As she left the library, Micawberene the lawyer took one last lingering owl-eyed look over her shoulder at the two lovely women she was leaving behind: the stunningly sexy Kendra with her good news playing sparkles in her hazel eyes; and the beautiful Faustina whose sadness at loss had just been multiplied a millionfold by the failure of her late wife to remake her will after marriage.

The temptress teen made no effort to thank Micawberene. Though she was too polite to show it, that upset Micawberene.

By contrast, Micawberene had expected no reaction from the distraught widow whose sad smile and lovely lipped: “thank you” outweighed the riches of the world for its sweetness.

Even as the door closed, Kendra rose to her full five-four and reached for a bell rope she recognised as likely to be the means of calling the housekeeper, or at least a maid.

Afterwards, she turned to Faustina.

“Who gave you permission to sit in my presence?” the tempting tease quietly taunted.

As if in reflex, Faustina immediately rose to stand a black rose on her long twin highways to heaven, and on her very tiptoes in her twelve-inch heels.

Kendra had just begun. The hatred she had harboured for the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl mother, who had let her be taken in adoption as a baby, to save disgracing the family name, and who, now Kendra was old enough to be wise enough to realise she must forgive, had died on her: her pain at such a past and such a loss, she had turned to new hatred, and there was a target for her hatred, and her pain, and here before her was that target.

“Just who do you think you are? You were my momma’s wife. As such, I would have been obliged to tolerate you had I lived with my momma instead of at a private school. But you are not now and have never been my momma. You have no title or status other than that bestowed on you by the fact of your being my mother’s wife.”

“I will issue instructions that, from this moment onward, nobody but nobody is ever again to refer to you as ‘Lady Barnmouth’. It was an honorary title: reflected glory. The real Lady Barnmouth was my momma, the late Countess of Barnmouth. I am now Countess of Barnmouth, and you, in consequence, the nobody you were before you deceived and seduced my poor momma into marrying you.”

The door opened and, answering the pull on the bell rope, in trotted a timid Emelda Geeves, housekeeper to the late Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona – the late Countess of Barnmouth; and now, she hoped and prayed, to stay housekeeper to the new Countess: Aemalia’s bewitching daughter, Kendra Hendridge-Draegona.

“Geeves! At long last! I won’t ask what took you so long, because it isn’t going to take you as long to answer my call ever again, is it Geeves?” Kendra sarcasmed.

“No my lady”, Emelda Geeves responded, bobbing a curtsey to the new countess, when she had never before been obliged to bow to the old Countess of Barnmouth, nor her wife, Faustina.

“Geeves. Take instruction yourself, and instruct the household, that under no circumstances will my momma’s widow ever again be referred to as ‘Lady Barnmouth’. Henceforth she will be referred to as ‘the Bitch’. Do you understand?”

“Yes my lady”

Emelda Geeves had turned to leave the room, when she heard an annoyed crisp: “And just where do you think you’re going?”

Rushing back, she curtseyed deeper still: “I’m so sorry my lady. I thought you had finished with me”, she apologised, with the clear hint of a tremble in her voice.

“Geeves, from the time I first set eyes on you, I have worked on the assumption you were stupid. And nothing about your performance of even the totally undemanding services you are called upon to carry out in this household, has persuaded me that my conclusion was wrong”, Kendra slowly-scorched in her fury.

“Tell the Bitch that I have decided that she can stay in my household on one condition, and one condition only. She’s now an old maid, so I’ve decided she can be a maid. Huh. I like that. Yes.”

“I won’t have her added to the robotic maids you run the household with. I want the old maid as a personal maid, so I can watch her suffer.”

“She’s an old bag: an old woman. I bet her tits are starting to sag. I’ll grant she’s still got great legs and a fantastic arse, but I’d also bet her belly is getting fat. She’s an old fat slag in the making. Do something with the Bitch, Geeves, or, not only can she go, but you might as well pack your bags as well…”

Emelda Geeves’ heart sank as she listened to this disdainful dismissal to dismal denigration of her beloved former mistress. Yet, as she let Faustina glide her majesty from the room in front of her, she curtsied her total obedience to the new Lady Barnmouth: and Kendra Lady Barnmouth closed her pretty mouth, hiding her deep hurt in a cruel smile made all the more painful for spoiling such a pretty face.

Kendra, now alone, began her search. This was the library. She had heard rumour there was another will. A will that had not yet been written-up by the family’s lawyers. A will her momma had merely sketched out soon after her wedding to Faustina. A will her mother had then lost by leaving it in the book she had been reading at the time. An alternative to the will just formally read. A will that might or might not have been fully properly signed and witnessed: with the fact that it ‘might’ being Kendra’s cause to find and destroy it, so as to prevent it stopping her having her wilful way.

Evidently, nobody in this household knew about its possible existence, else it would have been searched for and found in the interval since Kendra’s momma died.

Did it exist? Had Kendra watched one too many old movies maybe?

The maid, who had been Kendra’s spy before she had been dismissed by Kendra’s momma, was unshakeable on the issue. Even when Kendra had used the crop on her bare nipples, accusing her of lying, and told her the flogging would only stop when she admitted she was not telling truth, the ex-maid had insisted she had personally seen the will on Aemalia Hendridge-Draegona’s desk in this very library. The maid had also insisted she had assisted a search for the book, she had herself earlier replaced, unintentionally, where neither she nor Aemalia could relocate it at the time.

“Geeves: Miss Geeves: my dear Emelda, you mustn’t. It is not safe for you to do so”, Faustina concerned.

“For me you will always be ‘Lady Barnmouth’ my lady, and I will call you nothing else but: ‘my lady’” Emelda Geeves repeated.

Emelda Geeves had never seen the beautiful negress naked before. She had been overcome by the black girl’s immeasurable loveliness, and her emotion had taken over from common sense, in the form of the now outdated formal respect she still sought to show to the stunning beauty.

They had discussed escape. But poor Faustina knew that it was cold outside for women, and not just in the literal sense of the snow that was blowing into deep drifts outside the window. Prostitution was the only alternative to enduring becoming Kendra’s slave. For Faustina, even to be humiliated by her stepdaughter was preferable to having to stand on street corners and go with any girl who bought her services.

Any other employment was out of the question, because there was no other employment available. Machines took care of every industrial and most of the service needs. This was England at the start of the second half of the 21st century. If you were a girl, either you were rich, or you were a slave.

Faustina stood high-stretched and steeple-legged on tiptoes in white ballet shoes, with their bright white laces criss-cross-laticed tightly all the way up her wonderful naked legs, over her knees and her gorgeous thighs, before they were tied off in tidy bows at the front tops of her thighs, where, behind, her round rumps began to take over from her gently muscled limbs.

Between Faustina’s thighs, a tight bright white thong glowed in contrast to and showed the contrast with her negroid nakedness. And only sighs could summarise the wonders of what it’s pouched crotch contained in its insides.

Her enforced en-pointe permanence clenched the firm cheeks of Faustina’s round rump, as if her buttocks were biting the slim white rear of her thong, which disappeared within her anal cleft, before reappearing to join the waistband, so called, though it clung circle to Faustina’s shapely hips in fact: where her buttocks became her femininely arched back.

Just above the waistband of her panties, Faustina wore a mocking skirt, in the form of a bell-tutu. The stiff white bell-formed skirt looked like a lampshade. It left everything a real skirt might have hidden, still on open parade. Faustina’s non-pareille deep-scallop-scoop-dimple-sided buttocks held sway in their mesmerising way, as did the mystery of the purse with which she formed a pouch in her tight bright shining white thong panties.

Most bravely borne by the regal negress though, was the crane-brassiere she was forced to wear.

Faustina was an amply endowed lady. Her breasts were firm heavy and hitherto naturally softly swinging pendulously.

Now, her nipples had been grasped by individual grappling grips. Each grip inserted a needle two-inches into her milk ducts through the eye of her nipple. Its three in-curving needle-sharp outer grappling grips, had then been closed down, to bite into her tender sensitive flesh, by having a ring-collar, initially above them, slid down around them, so as to force them closed.

From the ends of each nipple’s grappling grip, a gold chain had dangled, until Emelda Geeves, who was preparing her former mistress for her duties as Kendra’s personal maid, had taken these loose chains up behind Faustina’s slender neck, and fastened them.

Thus Faustina’s heavenly breasts were brutally mockingly cruelly hauled up from their natural nestling on her chest, so high that her painfully stretched nipples pointed to the sky, and the undersides of her stretched bosom showed that her glorious negroidity extended its completely wonderful completion thereto too.

The maid’s bell was ringing. Faustina must hurry and scurry. And to do so she must overcome the scurrilous imposition of the one-inch long tab, that tied her ballet shoes as if they were one shoe on her two feet, and thus hobbled her.

She was hobbled and thus wobbled as she wiggled her wonderful wonder to wander her enslaved body for her stepdaughter to ponder.

It was ten in the morning and Kendra, despite the warmth of the bed she shared with her latest girlfriend, had deigned to stir and rise for the day.

A light polite tap at the door and the glorious negress wiggled her wonder within.

“Oooh Bitch but do you look sexy?!” Kendra mocked from beneath the bedclothes, and her pretty blonde companion wolf whistled cruelly, making both bedded girls giggle uncontrollably.

In the same room another two girls were tied face to face at wrists and waist, knees and ankles. They stood on tiptop-tiptoe dangling roped up to a chandelier. They were kissing each other passionately. As she looked, Faustina winced. Both their lovely young bodies showed a plethora of livid bloody stripes. They had obviously been very brutally whipped.

Then, out of the en-suite bathroom, wandering back to the warmth of the duvet and its rampantly randy companions, Micawberene Smith, the Hendridge-Draegona’s family’s family lawyer appeared, wiggled her bare body across to the bed, and slid herself between Kendra and her companion: a place she had clearly rejoicingly occupied for much of the night.

Without her eyeglasses, the short-sighted Micawberene did not really recognise Faustina. It was only when she heard Faustina’s delectable contralto obedience confirming: “Good morning my lady”, addressed to Kendra, that Micawberene uttered an: “Oh god no!” and tried to hide herself, and her shame, deeper in the bed.

Kendra smirked. Her completely compelling sexuality had worked its charms. She knew she could bed any girl she pleased to raise an eyelash at, and the seduction of the staid and boring Micawberene had been a cinch.

Breaking Micawberene’s heart by telling her she was a totally useless lover with a lousy body and an ugly face – none of which was in fact at all true - and that she never ever wanted to see her again, was a pleasure Kendra would indulge a little later on; or maybe not, depending on the whim dictated by the feeling at the time in her quim: her quim’s whims being Kendra’s entire life guide.

Meanwhile, she, Kendra, had caught the path of Faustina’s dark brown eyes, and seen the look, from imagining the pain of being whipped like the dangling girls, that had flashed across her stepmother’s face.

“What do you think of them Bitch? Kendra mocked.

“Pretty aren’t they?”

“Angelina and me picked them and Micawberene up at a bar last night. Till then I hadn’t imagined boring Barnmouth could be so rock and roll!”

“They wouldn’t do sixty-nine for us when we told them to, so, as you can see, we had to persuade them.”

“From the way they are behaving now, you wouldn’t believe they are actually flesh and blood sisters would you?”

“No my lady” Faustina obediently confirmed, as she bobbed another very leggy curtsey to her stepdaughter.

Faustina had already recognised Kendra’s blue-eyed-blonde other bed companion, as Angelina Hart-Talbot, a girl whose exploits at the same Swiss finishing school as Kendra, had seen her expelled, not only from the school, but also from Switzerland itself. And, despite all evidence to the contrary, Faustina found herself hoping it was Angelina who had led Kendra astray and not vice versa.

Angelina rose naked as nature from the bed, and walked around Faustina, admiring everything she saw.

“Hey, your maid’s one hell of a chick. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, that’s for sure! You got great taste Kendra: I always said you got great taste”, Angelina mused aloud.

“You don’t recognise her then?” Kendra teased in response.

“Recognise who?”

“Oh the maid!”

“No. Why? Should I?” Angelina half-yawned.

“All Saints School: The copy of ‘Hi’ magazine and its so called ‘wedding of the year’ five-years since?” Kendra guided Angelina’s thinking.

“No. You got me there honey”, Angelina responded, getting bored already with this guessing game Kendra was fuelling.

Then it dawned.

“Wait on now! Oh my god no!! Kendra!! It isn’t? Oh my god!… Oh my god!…… Oh my god no!!……… It can’t be! You’re kidding me!! Kendra you bitch, you’re pulling my leg…. It can’t possibly be! It just can’t be…. You said you’d get revenge, but.. Oh my god!….”

“It is”, Kendra casualled.

“Angelina Hart-Talbot meet the former Faustina Lady Barnmouth: my momma’s wife: my momma’s slag wife: the bitch the law made my mummy when she married my momma: the mummified mummy left to me in my momma’s will….” Kendra cruelly mocked.

In deep and utter humiliation and shame, the achingly beautiful Faustina courteously curtsied to her stepdaughter’s lover, and whispered an obedient: “Good morning my lady”.

The two teenage girls then began to whisper together, and Faustina sensed that she was the subject of their intense conversation.

Lay my clothes out for me ‘mummy’” Kendra mocked between whiles, “Don’t bother with underwear. I never wear anything that doesn’t show on the outside”, she added.

The conspiratorial conclave continued. Faustina heard ‘party’ and ‘school-reunion’ mentioned. And she also noticed that, despite Kendra’s seeming initial reluctance to treat her as an equal, Micawberene Smith, eager to propose a plan she had perhaps nurtured for some time, got included in the conspiracy.

Her menial duty of laying out her stepdaughter’s fresh clothing completed, Faustina bobbed a curtsey and obediently awaited her next order.

As she stood she tried not to let her face show the unendurable pain she was suffering from her stretched breasts, or the fear that, just maybe, her daughter and friends were planning to torture her in some way. After all, the depths of depravity of which they were capable showed in the brutally whipped sisters, who were still kissing like voracious newlyweds.

“That will be all ‘mummy’” Kendra mocked, “We’re spending the day in town, and will not need you. But be in the library at 7.00 this evening”.

“Yes my lady”, Faustina confirmed, as she curtsied, dipping her lovely long legs once more, and then, head lowered in submission, tippytoed backwards toward the bedroom door, as preliminary to leaving the room.

At 6.59pm to the split of the split second, Faustina tapped on the library’s door, and then wiggled her agonisingly beautiful body face and soul, in, to meet her stepdaughter, as appointed.

Kendra was, for some reason unbeknown to Faustina, busy taking books off the library’s shelves, opening their leaves faced down to the floor, and shaking them, as if she had lost some money or the like inside them.

“Well ‘mummy’”, Kendra used the appellation hurtfully brutally.

“Well ‘mummy’, you seem to have made quite a hit with my friends. They want to bed you.”

Kendra reached her pretty arms up for another volume, and her voice stretched with the shapely rise to above-tiptoe of her lovely legs, as she casually added: “And, as a matter of fact, ‘mummy’, so do I.”

“We want you fully ripe.”

“You will not wash, or in any other way bathe, for the rest of this week or next. Do you understand?” Kendra enquired, with a continuation of a purr that seemed to denote that her enjoyment was deeply sexual.

“Yes my lady”, Faustina curtsied.

“Yes what ‘mummy’?” Kendra taunted.

“Yes: I understand, my lady”, Faustina curtsied again.

“Good” Kendra mused, “You see, my friends and I …..”, the implication of the incomplete sentence was lost on poor Faustina, who had no right to enquire how it would conclude had it been completed.

Assuming something dreadful was inevitable, and, having, through the veil of her welling tears, read the look on Kendra’s face as dismissal, the dismayed and deeply hurt and humiliated Faustina curtsied yet again, and slowly tippytoed backwards to take her respectful leave.

“Yes: you may indeed go now ‘mummy’, but one more thing”, Kendra called, with her back turned to Faustina as she, Kendra, resumed her search for the book she feared might contain her late mother’s revised will.

Seconds later, from within a book Kendra’s pretty hands hauled from a top shelf, a folded sheet of parchment-yellow paper, autumn-leafed to the library floor.

As Kendra bent to pick it up, compelled by their complete bareness and smoothly shapely loveliness, Faustina ogled the younger girl’s simply stunning thighs.

“Yes, one more thing ‘mummy’”, Kendra repeated, showing no sign of fear or thankfulness that she might just now have found the will she needed to destroy, and would destroy with a will, if it were a will, as soon as this interview with her stepmother was over.

“During the two weeks I just spoke of, you will not change your panties. You will wear the same panties 24/7.”

“Yes my lady”, Faustina’s lovely voice near croaked.

Kendra raised the folded parchment to her nose, curious to see if the sweet, decidedly musky aroma, she could suddenly scent, came from that quarter.

Sensing that her stepdaughter had not concluded her instructions, and to prompt the momentarily distracted Kendra to issue any further order she had in mind, so that she, Faustina, might hurry from the room to hide her shame, Faustina weakly meekly whispered an anticipatory: “My lady?”, as she dipped yet another very leggy curtsey….

Then Kendra, with her back turned to the astoundingly outstandingly stunning negress once more, added, in a dismissive tone: “You see, my friends and I, ….. we want to lick you clean…. So, furthermore, during that fortnight, you will never lower your panties when you go for a pee. Do you understand?”

“Yes…. Yes…. Yes of course my lady”, Faustina gasped, as she curtsied devastatingly deeply: devastatingly deeply shamed by her panty’s crotch’s sudden showing of a flagrantly fragrant, intimately located, swiftly swelling damp patch…

05-23-2007, 12:43 AM

05-23-2007, 01:31 PM
Loved it :jo

05-24-2007, 04:43 AM
Great addition..thanx