View Full Version : 2084

Eve Adorer
06-23-2007, 06:04 AM
2084 (by Eve Adorer)

The Wall Street crash of 2029 saw ninety-five percent unemployment in Britain, and the consequent rise to power of the Phallus Party under Adele Halter. Halter’s cure for economic decline and overpopulation, was to deny women and girls the right to return to career basis employment. By 2084, unless they were wealthy or had an original entrepreneurial idea for which they could get backing, only girlual labour, salesgirl, and truckess jobs remained open to women, and even these would be excluded them in time. Unpopular at first, and known to have been lubricated by corruption, the policy had nonetheless worked, and Halter had thus won six successive ten-year terms of office. By 2084, even a girl as intellectually gifted as Amanda Heavensent could find no other job than that of temporary waitress at a roadside restaurant …

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 1 – Le Rosbif

England 2084.

It was a warm sunny day in April, and the clocks were chiming nineteen

It had been a twelve-hour long, long tiring day on her toes for Amanda: a long tiring day entirely literally on the top-tip-top-tip of her big toes.

Amanda Heavensent wore the uniform of the “Le Rosbif” roadside restaurant chain, a new favourite drop-in for the tired travelling salesgirls and truck driveresses, who knew they could rest their bleary eyes on the exceptionally pretty girls that waited table whilst they, weary travellers, sat sipping the caffeine they needed to fuel them for the next two-fifty kilometres of highway.

With her idea for this chain of beef-n’-bread fast food outlets, now three-years since established, Elspeth Zanori had made the blue-bordered “frame-of-fame” as ‘Tempus’ magazine’s businessgirl of the year. The article inside went on and on about the philosophy of the chain being different to its, as yet, better known rivals, omitting to say, perhaps out of political correctness, that the real difference of the Le Rosbif chain, was its waitresses, guaranteed-to-be stunningly pretty, and the uniforms the carefully selected lovely girls wore.

Many of the waitresses wore their uniform warily and wearily. Compulsorily completely naked beneath their short-sleeved elongated, crimson, figure-hugging tee-shirt-cum-dresses, with nothing else allowed to be worn, bare legged, and wearing heelless tiptoe shoes on which they were constantly ballerinered atop their ballet-shoes’ steel-capped squared-off toes, the compelling sight of the young girls Le Rosbif employed was now being enjoyed by businesswomen along the whole highway-chain of the British mainland.

Many of the waitresses wore their uniform warily and wearily, but Amanda’s outstanding attractiveness continued to show in her ready and genuine smile and the spellbinding eye contact she made with her customers, even when her customers’ eyes had invariably just run the amazing length of Amanda’s stunningly shapely legs, and stopped off at the full firmness of Amanda’s stupendous mountainous 40DD bosom, rolling enticingly excitingly freely, because completely unrestrained and unencumbered, before meeting the bright twinkling pitch-dark-brown glory, of Amanda’s shining orbs, sparkling with her pride at her girlness and her knowledge of her girlness, and her knowledge that her girlness was taking her customers breath away.

At table, taking customers’ orders, Amanda’s very pretty hand, with wholly impractical perfectly girlacured fingernails, would rise to aside a wisp of dark-brown near-black negress’ curled-within-curls-within-curls hair, on the softest complexioned face, near-black hair so much in compliment to Amanda’s beautiful unfathomably-unfathomable, devastatingly-dark, bottomlessly-deep brown eyes, as she curtsied to her customers and musically prettily, with a natural loving giggle restrained, stylus and electronic notepad to the fore, asked with sincere attention and willing longing to please, what her customers wished to order.

Amanda was dynamite: TNT: a totally natural temptress, with the loveliest pert negress’ constant come-on-then-kiss-me-it-is-what-I-was-created-for lips even in their repose, and glorious flawless coffee-brown flesh. She was used to being admired and knew she deserved to be admired. Sometimes Amanda would look up at you and her smiling eyes, pupils huge black wide, were deep pools of darkness into which you longed to dive down and drown, till she lowered her laser gaze, knowing she was burning your heart, and not wanting to sear you irremediably.

Nineteen-year-old Amanda would then turn and naturally wiggle to the kitchen, all-too aware that her barely covered derrière, nude beneath her barely concealing heaven-high hem, and her superb brown bare firm calves and strong brown thighs, were stirring staring which she would sometimes turn her head to smile back at her devastated customers to thank them for.

Sometimes a wolf-whistle would split the air as Amanda disappeared with an order, and a subconscious extra-wide snake would then wriggle her all-girl gait.

Amanda was proud of her beauty. Her fitness was eminently evident. Her legs showed she was in-shape and that shape was fully fulsome felinely feminine. Amanda’s legs were the transport of a delight, and transports of delight, with wonderful strong thighs and stretched softly smoothly muscular calves from her tiptoed erectness. Amanda’s slim upper arms showed only the hint of bicep from her weightlifting to keep herself trim: just the hint of a hint, for Amanda was pure full carved, full curved, girl.

And sometimes she must wipe the tables or bend to table a loaded tray. And Le Rosbif’s company policy that all waitresses must be hygienically shaved, embarrassed many of her fellow-waitresses less certain of their evident charms than Amanda, who anyway today wore a tiny woollen panty-cinch, a round-profiled strip of white wool, sopped crimson, dividing her love-lips: a cinch into which her menstrual blood was seeping, as her customers were peeping when she bent to flash heaven: straight-legged-bending-at-the-waist, so her tee-shirt-dress must ride up off her underneath nudeness, as: “no bending at the knee except in the courtesy of a curtsy” was also strict Le Rosbif company policy for its waitresses.

Amanda was a summer vacation student: a brilliantly-brained beauty studying theoretical mathematics and astrophysics at Camford University. Le Rosbif and its rigid rules were Amanda’s way of paying her university fees, now that all girl students had to pay their own way; all state subsidies and loans for girls having been abolished by the new government as a money saving measure.

This was no ordinary waitressing. Working for Le Rosbif had its risks, as Amanda full well knew. Any girl who worked for Le Rosbif had to sign, and have double-witnessed, a contract. The contract was extremely onerous, but three month’s pay at Le Rosbif would fund a whole year’s college tuition, and what had a girl as naturally beautiful as Amanda to fear of some silly contractual sub-clauses: indeed sub-clauses of sub-clauses which there must be cause to question the legality of in any case?

So Amanda would have to show off her sensational body. What was so wrong with that in these post-feminist times for goodness sake? Amanda was very proud of her physical beauty. Amanda had everything to be proud of, and every right to be proud of it.

“I hope my services were satisfactory to you madam”, whispered the dark-panda-patched-under-lower-eye-lidded, pale-from-the-pain–of-her-heavy-period, lovely Amanda, as she stood tiptoed at the pay-till having bobbed a sexy thighy curtsy to her customer, with a dip of her stupendously lovely legs: Amanda a supreme girl undergoing the extreme of the monthly burning endorsement confirmatory of her red-hot, literally red, literally hot, paprika-hot femininity.

Her clear-eyed smile was devastating and unwavering even as her customer slid over the DVD she had decided to add to her bill.

Amanda knew full well what the DVD showed. It was the latest to be issued by Le Rosbif. Amanda knew what it showed, and yet her smile never wavered its gloriously sweet and winning sincerity and shyness, as she passed the DVD over the bar-mark reader.

“Please score me out of ten on the secret keypad madam” Amanda’s honey-smile and girly-giggle mezzo-soprano voice invited irresistibly.

She, her customer had called in every day for the past ten, to ensure she was served by Amanda and could score her out of ten. And every day this customer had bought a DVD so that she now had the full set.

Amanda must have suspected lust and yet, though overwhelmingly lovingly charming to this regular customer, as was her pure nature, she had never once sought to be familiar with her, as for waitresses to be familiar with the customers was not allowed under Le Rosbif company policy.

And so once more this regular customer thought Amanda ten-billion-out-of-ten, and scored Amanda nought-out-of-ten and, knowing it was the end of her shift, waited in her car outside and watched for her to wiggle out, still in uniform, to the lucky girl in the open-top sports car who would peck Amanda on lips that honey could not out-taste, with the perfunctory greeting manner adopted by those fully familiar, because in a long-term relationship, and thus not needing to display in public the passion they could enjoy at any time of their choosing, in the privacy of a bedroom…..Amanda’s lucky girlfriend.


“What is your name”?

“Amanda Heavensent miss”

“How old are you Amanda?”

“Nineteen miss”

This was it. This was the DVD Amanda’s regular customer of the past two-weeks had really wanted. It had taken two-months to get her there. The poor kid must have thought she was safe. She was so naturally lovely and worked so very hard to please. The shock to her of finding that the “secret customers”, all twenty of them now gathered to enjoy the DVD, had anonymously unanimously scored her a consistent nought-out-of-ten over a three-month period, must have devastated the poor girl.

Under the scheme installed at Le Rosbif, all customers voted if they chose to. But, when so pre-arranged, only the secret customers’ votes counted. Ordinary customers knew this not. The professional customers had a code they put into the voting machine, to make it count all votes or only the ‘secret customer’ inputs. One ‘secret customer’ company had Le Rosbif on its books. All twenty of its female fellows, toured the country and visited restaurants and bars to mark the girls for their performance in servile subservience. Le Rosbif was not their only contract, but Amanda had made it by far their favourite.


“Have you ever been fucked by a boy or boys Amanda”

“Y..yes miss” Amanda whispered hanging her head in adorable embarrassment. Her voice echoing from the speakers surrounding the full-room-size 3-D hologram-cine-cube in which the secret customer conclave sat, as the DVD was projecting.

“Speak up bitch. Have you ever been fucked by a boy or boys?”

“Yes miss” Amanda tearful-eyed exquisitely lovely answered, her adorably constant-kiss-proffering lips quivering with fear as well as excruciating embarrassment.

“When were you first fucked by a boy: how old were you?”

“Th…th….thirteen miss”

“You were only thirteen when you had your first fucking?!”


“Speak up whore!”

“Yes miss”

Amanda’s tears were welling at the precipice of her outstandingly stunning brown eyes.

“Did he fuck your mouth, your bum, your slit, or all three?”

“My ……….my………my slit miss”

“Did you enjoy it slut?”

“N…….no….no miss”

“Why didn’t you enjoy it you little whore?”

“Because it hurt me and made me bleed miss”

“Had you been a virgin?”

“Y,,,y…yes miss…..”

A cheer went up from the conspirators, the twenty girls of ‘Your Secret Customer Inc’, who presently had employment in the enjoyment of the joy of watching the stunning Amanda, no boy she, oh boy, squirm as she answered her interrogatoress whilst they secretly secreted into their pretty panties at her supreme erotic stunningness.

The dutiful hostess, re-charged her guests’ glasses with wine: wine as red as Amanda’s recent menstrual streak, now passed and past till it would need to pour again when the moon’s cycle and hers would return to their coincident phase, and nature once more necessitate her endorsing her femininity with a crimson red sealing signature, signifying her undoubted and undoubtable pure girlity.

“Have you ever had a cock up your bum?”

“No! miss No!!” Amanda was in tears now, serial droplets of nectar trickled down the supreme softness of her sweet cheeks, her bountifully abundantly huge bare breasts unselfconsciously heaved and bobbled with and after a supremely erotic sob.

“Would you like to have a cock up your bum Amanda?”

“No!! No……please miss ……..no”

“Answer the question you fucking whore, or you will only make it worse for yourself! Would you like to have a cock up that perfect bum you are showing to us all?”

“No miss”

“Have you ever had your mouth fucked?”

“N…n…….no miss!”

“How many boyfriends have you had sex with, you fucking tart?”

“F…f….four miss”

“You are only nineteen and you have already had four boyfriends fuck you?”

“Yes miss”

“How many times a week were you fucked by them, you slag?”

“I don’t know miss. Please miss………” Amanda hung her head in deep down shame.

“How many times whore?”

“T…t…two or th…th….three…more sometimes miss” Amanda innocently fetchingly sweetly sobbed.

“So, how many times all told have you been fucked by boys Amanda, you filthy slut?”

“Please miss………..I don……..I don’t know miss. Oh please don’t make me do this!” Amanda pleaded with all her lovely might.

“You were told to work it out before coming on camera, whore!”

“Nine. Nine or so. Nine-hundred: a thousand, about….. about a thousand miss”

“How many whore?!”

“Nine-hundred times miss…about miss……..about nine-hundred, or a thousand miss” Amanda’s tears of shame ran in rivulets from the eyes of an angel.

“You are only nineteen and have already been fucked one-thousand times?”

Amanda simply sobbed.

The secret assessors wolf-whistled and jeered the adorable beauty and thought even one-thousand times less than the thousand-million full thorough fucks a girl as stunning as Amanda deserved.

“You now live with another girl do you not?”

“Yes miss”

“Is the other girl you live with, your lover?”

“Yes miss”

Again the secret -shoppers whooped and whistled and cheered the stunning beauty.

“Her boyfriend shares me”, Amanda answered without being asked.

“Her boyfriend does what?!”

“He shares me miss”

“You sleep with them both?”

“Yes miss”

“Both at the same time?”

“Yes miss”

“They both fuck you?”

“Y..yes miss” Amanda held her head up proudly, but her face and gorgeous eyes showed her humiliating shame.

“The boyfriend fucks your bum doesn’t he Amanda? Doesn’t he?!”

Amanda’s gloriously massively huge, wholly holy, firm breasts, rolled and swayed with her sobs.

“Yes miss”

“And you like it up your bum don’t you Amanda?”

Amanda sobbed once more………..

“You have a supremely lovely bum Amanda………..”

“Yes………” Amanda all but whispered.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I………I like my bum…..”

“Say it Amanda, you fucking lying whore, say it damn you!”

“I like having my bum fucked miss”

Amanda hung her chin on her chest, her near-noir hair hanging a soft gentle curtain of curls to hide her needless shame. A stunningly beautiful healthy girl with an appetite for the lovemaking she was created for and deserved, including worship from the parting of her heavenly frontal altar, steepled by her legs, and the division of the smooth cathedralic domes of her sensationally sensuous rear temple, made to feel soiled and shamed as she had no need of being or of being.

And clear on the DVD, a telltale sheen on the lips of Amanda’s nude-shaven slit told of a new worship: a new love: this a shock to the simply stunning girl.

Elspeth Zanori had the pick of which superb girls would work in her restaurant chain. A girl could starve in the streets these days unless she could find something, anything, to give her a wage. This DVD of the totally nude Amanda, was watched, over and over by the secret-customer girls. It had been Amanda’s job interview recorded by and in front of Elspeth herself. The DVDs of these cruel interrogations, showing the depths to which the girls employed at Le Rosbif had to lower themselves to get the work they were simply desperate for, were another popular feature of the restaurant chain. From this interview, could there ever have been any doubt that Elspeth would choose to employ Amanda?


The “trick” played on Amanda was collaborative not only within ‘Your Secret Customer Inc’ but with Elspeth Zanori the founder of the Le Rosbif chain herself.

Elspeth had visited the Highway 84 - Glasgow - Le Rosbif Cabin to check for herself, and deliver the scores from the customers that the eager girls were so keen to hear. The prospect of the painful punishments written into the contracts they had been obliged to sign, if they did not wish to starve, was a high incentive for the obedient subservience of the lovely and charming young women on Le Rosbif’s books.

Employment was now almost impossible for a girl to find. Just recently, except for those already thus employed, truck driving and travelling sales had been removed from the list of jobs allowed them.

The work choices for girls had gone back two centuries. Most girls now went into service, working in the homes of wealthy women as cooks, maids, and skivvies. Others found work such as waitressing, or as live window-display models.

Overpopulation was one cause of all this. In 2084 Britain, there were not enough jobs for the population. Legislating to abolish the right for girls to be employed in specific named sectors of the economy, had been the accepted cure that most appealed to the electorate.

It had started small and spread. Now there was almost no job answering to the description “worthwhile career” that a girl could enter. One escape was for girls to gain a good degree and join the migrants to less densely populated, brainpower-hungry countries, such as China and India. But, with the ban on employment for girls, by now covering ninety percent of the British economy, had come the question concerning the worth of allowing girls to go to university, and the consequent decision that women would no longer be allowed state funding for college.

There was talk that the Assembly had “massaged” the figures for the referenda under which these decisions had been made. The Phallus Party, with its arrow-atop-a-circle within-a-circle armbands, had taken over just after the financial crash in the late 2020s, and the subsequent collapse of the old ruling regime.

Though in her mid-seventies now, Adele Halter, with her boyish short-cropped hair and that infuriating fringe that would flop onto her forehead when she was ranting about some perceived evil, still stomped around political platforms in her six-inch heeled knee-high boots, and her black leather army-style uniform, in what many considered a very un-British way.

But the British were always amused by the chance to ‘let some idiot get on with government whilst they got on with their lives’, and the economy had picked up again. After all, there was now full-employment for men and boys. And so Adele had just been re-elected, four years since, with another massive Assembly majority.

Okay, Adele, or ‘The Leader’ as she insisted upon being known, was rumoured to have stashed millions of dollars in Switzerland, from bribes given to her by the overwhelmingly male populated British upper-classes: bribes paid to ensure that men got the cream of all that was going in the economy. But peace and quiet and the end to the ninety-five percent unemployment that had followed the 2029 Wall Street crash, were Adele’s achievement, as she never failed an opportunity to remind her country, and a sixth consecutive ten-year term of office, her reward.

Elspeth Zanori, entrepreneur of the year, prided herself that she was a good girlager. Having an original business idea was another way out for women in 2084. The laws against girls working could not cover a business that was yet to be created. If one knew the right people, money in the right direction could also ensure your business remained free. Elspeth had been lucky. Her mother had left her money and a mansion. Elspeth backed herself to build the Le Rosbif restaurant chain, she did not need to risk her request for backing-money being turned down by a bank.

Elspeth Zanori, entrepreneur of the year, prided herself that she was a good girlager. She took Amanda aside, and let the poor child sit, after she had nearly fainted, when being at first completely stunned by a score of zero for her three months of working as a waitress.

“I’m afraid that………let me just check……….yes, its here…….no…..here: that’s it. Yes….. yes…… well…..right………yes….reading it again to be sure Amanda, summary dismissal or one-hundred lashes, the choice is yours. If you want the job………well………..if you want to keep the job and get the pay……….there’d be no pay if you were dismissed………if you want the job my love…..one-hundred……….it has to be on your bare body of course with a six-stranded barbed-wire whip…….” Elspeth spoke this quietly and gently to the horrified and now terrified nineteen-year-old, whose tears flooded as she sobbed uncontrollably inconsolably.

“I did my best……..” was just audibly coherent among the sad sobs and cries and moans of the devastated Amanda “I did my best………..”.

“I’m prepared to whip you myself” Elspeth comforted, as if such words, no matter how kindly and gently spoken could be of any consolation.

A loud moan of despair came from the poor would-be continuation student.

Elspeth let this carry on. From her selfish viewpoint, Elspeth had good reason to let it continue.

A while passed this way, with Amanda consciously making an effort to control her pretty tears, knowing her choice was between the end of her university dreams, or a savage life-threatening whipping.

Then, quietly………“Amanda, as it happens, I have a vacancy for a personal maid”, Elspeth casually let out, as if in sympathy for poor Amanda’s dreadful plight.

Amanda’s sobs settled momentarily, and she half listened.

“There would be no pay, but you would have a roof over your head and regular good food to eat. You would have to give up your lovers of course. I will not have my maids indulging in, let alone enjoying sex. Measures would be taken to ensure you remained completely and utterly chaste at all times. I never ever allow any infringement or indiscipline, especially, and above all, the execrable vileness of masturbation………..”

Amanda sobbed. And then, “Please miss”, she pleaded with tear-filled terrified bloodshot eyes………….

“……..Am I to understand that you wish the vacancy to be yours?” Elspeth enquired, trying hard to hide the hint of welcome victory from her voice.

“If you will have me miss…….” Amanda gulped, wiping away her tears with lovely long supremely flexible forefingers, and the contrastingly white insides of her gorgeously soft brown hands.

“I will never recall the name ‘Amanda’ and indeed see no reason why I should. My last umpteen personal maids answered to the name ‘Mary’, I think it was the name of the first of them…..or the one before her, or even the one before her………..It doesn’t matter which or what does it? You’ll answer to ‘Mary’ from now on, and you will address me at all times as ‘my lady’ is that clearly understood?” Elspeth asserted with enjoyment hidden in her gentle intonation.

“Yes my lady”, Amanda’s lovely mezzo-soprano intoned, with sexy delight for the hearer being unavoidable from this highest pleasure treasure of nature, in her mere breathing of but these three simple words.

“Good Mary. You will come with me right now” Elspeth concluded.

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 2 – Day Dawns

She had not quite yet been one-month in service to Elspeth, and already Amanda had begun to wonder if the life-threatening whipping she had been contracted to endure for her failings working at Le Rosbif, would not have been preferable to her life as lived now.

The constant calls of “Mary!” with the insult of her real name having no further part to play in her young life, were degrading.

Amanda’s days could be the full twenty-four hours.

Each and every day, she had been out of bed for more than an hour by 05.30. By 05.30, Amanda had spent her daily-hour running the rolling road and pedalling the stationary bicycle in the gymnasium, showered and entered the all-over blow-dryer. She was not allowed to ever touch her body, even with a towel. In the shower, she had pressed the buttons for shampoo and shower gel, and followed it with the powerful jets of cold water she must endure to ensure her ardour, the ardour of a super-intelligent quietly fierily-passionate young woman, was kept in check.

Cameras kept an unblinking eye on her every naturally sexy step. She knew it would trigger an alarm were she to make any “inappropriate” movements. The supremely seductive wonder of her own body was forbidden Amanda.

Amanda had, unashamedly unashamed, pleasured herself regularly since she had been twelve. There was only one higher love than that of an extremely beautiful girl for her own body. Amanda had always found the looking-glass view of her wonderful face and figure a tremendous turn-on. She loved to masturbate herself, and now yearned for it.

She knew all her pleasure points. She knew her nipples were hair-trigger sensitive and how her clit would hide itself when she was aroused. She loved the taste of her own honey from her slender bendy-backwards supremely pretty fingers, and had often wished she were impossibly supple, such that she could kiss her own slit. Of course she could kiss and suck her own nipples….but…..oh no……..please……….no………she must not even think about such heaven!

It had been a school classmate who had introduced Amanda to girl-girl love: the highest love of all. Amanda’s enthusiasm had been totally unrestrained unconstrained and uncontained; her classmate, a flame-haired freckle-faced extremely pretty redhead, had somehow felt guilty for enjoying their kisses; but not Amanda. To play her gorgeous fingers through Rosetta’s twisting-within-twists back-of-knee-length cascading red-hot-poker-flamed hair, and smell the sweet scent of her innocent breath between each lingering and lengthily long and longed for kiss, had shown Amanda that she was made for love, and the only true love for her would ever be that of another equally beautiful girl.

There had been boys too though. John, her first boyfriend, had been just *****teen. He’d talked dirty all the time. He’d made out he had had sex with Rosetta, and Amanda had only really wanted John’s cock in her, so as to know what it was like to be fucked, and for John to inject her with any residue of Rosetta’s honey.

She had been painfully disappointed on both counts. John had been as much a virgin as she. He had no finesse. She was dry and unready as he had tried to cock her. It had seared her. He had ruptured her hymen but not torn it. She had bled and he had become frightened. His curses after his semen had baptise-spurted hot onto Amanda’s supremely beautiful right thigh, had shocked her. He had called her all the dirty names he could think of, and blamed her for his lack of progress to prowess. And yet the burning pain in her slit, her bleeding, the bespunking of her thigh, and his violent virulent vile insults, had turned Amanda on!

Simon could not keep his eyes off her. He was supposed to know better. After all, he was a teacher. His order for Amanda to stay behind after class had been butterfly-tummy welcomed by the delectable schoolgirl. His ‘punishment’ for her supposed naughtiness, had also been so nice. His cock up her bum hurt, but oh god how she creamed and little-girly-sigh-moan-screamed as he slow fucked her anus and played with her nipples for a timeless hour without end!

Her slit rape by the headmaster had immediately followed Simon’s forced resignation, two-months later. She had bled again and her hymen was snapped causing Amanda immense pain. Dr Smith had been brutal. He had wanted to fuck her mouth and had got his revenge for Amanda’s refusal, by raping her slit whilst she was lubricated only by her virgin’s blood. Then he too had called her filthy names. Amanda had cried, but had masturbated immediately after, calling herself dirty filthy names, in order to enjoy the pain and the pain both again.

Amanda had lived with Trirene, a *****teen-year-old schoolgirl, and Trirene’s boyfriend Simon (yes, Amanda’s former teacher) since she, Amanda, had been *****teen. Amanda was made for love and both Trirene and Simon adored her. No night passed without Amanda in the arms of one or the other or the both of them. Most often, Simon would be taking Amanda’s incredibly beautiful bottom, whilst Amanda was being kissed and lovingly fondled by Trirene.

It was not as if she was not pampered. Now she was ‘Mary’ Elspeth’s personal maid, it was not as if she was not pampered. Elspeth had Amanda girlicured, hands and feet, her legs shaved and waxed, her hair cropped close to her fine handsome regally shaped head, in the loveliest tightest little negress’ natural curls, thus exposing her extremely pretty, dainty little ears, and her sex shaved and waxed to a vulnerable virginal shining slitductiveness, every other day by the visiting Maid-Valeting Service.

It was horribly shaming that this same visiting service also looked after Eslpeth’s four Alsatian dogs. It told Amanda her place that this was so. Elspeth liked dogs and she liked pretty girls. Elspeth drew no distinction between them. Indeed, the dogs, all thoroughbreds, had cost a metaphorical fortune, whereas girls were now a dozen to the cent.

Today Amanda was dressed typically. She had been chosen for her decorativeness. She was stunningly stunning, a beauty among beauties and she had become a trophy for her mistress to show off. And to show her off, Amanda’s captivating astonishing loveliness was held captive.

Amanda’s corset was the literal foundation of her apparel. The dark coffee beauty of her flawless negress’ complexion, begged for bright yellow to contrast with its heavenliness, and was not disappointed. Between her 40-inch double-D-cup bosom, and her 36-inch hips, Amanda had a 22 inch waist: she had a figure that would cause the devoutest nun to immediately abandon celibacy.

Amanda’s corset was immensely strong and fitted at rear with steel-wire straps rather than mere stay-strings. At its middle where Amanda’s lovely slimness curved-in to her flat-softly-curved belly, centrally adorned by her concave navel, the corset contained a hidden, steel-reinforced, belt. The daily duty of turning the faucet-handled screws, on the compression clamp that was put through the steel hoops at the two ends of the wire rope, so that Amanda’s corset would be thus pulled tight, by squeezing the steel belt closed around Amanda, tighter and tighter at the middle of her lower-back, till the two hoops in the rope-ends could be locked together, and the compressor clamp removed, was a delight that Elspeth sometimes performed herself, but usually left to such as the garden, kitchen, bedroom, or even the lavatory maids. Elspeth liked her personal maids to have ten-inch waists, and Amanda was not going to be an exception.

Amanda hated the quarter-cup bra that the top of this particular corset swept into. It lifted her overwhelmingly wonderful bosom, putting her 40 inch chest ‘on-the-counter’, lewdly and crudely displayed torpedoically, and excruciatingly embarrassingly for such a shy girl. It was shaming and shy-making for Amanda too, that her two-inch diameter brown-pink areole, with their stiff central teat-peaks, were left completely bare.

The corset had front and rear suspenders for Amanda’s stockings. Sheer-white nylons contrasted with her glorious brown flesh so wonderfully. Her stockings had tops no more than halfway up her magnificent thighs, and these tops were inverted-veed by the pull-upwards of her suspenders, at front running down bare brown thigh, and at rear, impractically super-erotically, over the mountains of her monumentally feminine, daringly bare derriere half-moons.

A white choker around her swan-slim neck next. Then her shoes. Oh god those shoes. Of course they were balletic. No girl with legs as supremely extremely beautiful as Amanda’s was not going to have them displayed in full stretched-muscled glory.

Amanda’s legs were incredibly wonderful. She had the legs of a goddess, long and yet curved and smooth, and athletic and strong without being at all obviously muscular. In nature she moved with the grace of a Nubian tribesgirl. Amanda had a slow haughty princessly presence, entirely without self-consciousness in the wonderful beauty of her natural gait. Five-feet-ten tall, Amanda was 100-pounds of all-girl pure passion.

The shoes were white leather with steel soles that curved Amanda’s feet cruelly, so as to ensure she stood on her big toes’ tip-top-tops in ballerina fashion at all times. Long white leather laces were pulled tight to tie them to her dainty feet, and a strap around her super-slim ankles padlocked them permanently for the day. The squared-off steel capped toe-ends of these shoes was Amanda’s only contact with the ground her beauty blessed.

Amanda always gasped unavoidably sexily whenever the cinch-chain was pulled up between her thighs. Its cruel ministration would taunt and tease her all day. A simple multi-linked chain, it hooked to a steel hoop at the bottom-back of her corset, came down between the domes of her divine derriere, and then up very hard and very high between the lips of her slit, to be padlocked-off at the ring at the bottom-front of her corset. Its purpose was to keep her attentive by causing her constant pain. It served its purpose unremittingly unmercifully.

Amanda would never be allowed out of Elspeth’s house without her hobble. Accordingly, the lavatory maid making Amanda ready this day, as someone did every day now, clipped a two-inch-long chain between the ankle-straps of Amanda’s balletic shoes.

The dress, Amanda’s maid’s dress, could vary. Today it was to be the one Amanda hated for its shame. White to contrast with Amanda’s glowing negress beauty, it was tailored to hug a girl with a ten-inch waist, and could thus follow Amanda’s enforced curves with close-clinging attention. Taken over Amanda’s head, its elasticised waistband could never have cleared Amanda’s stupendous bosom, so it had to open all down its back and be buttoned-up afterwards to cling to Amanda’s hour-glassed body.

Soon buttoned in place, its short sleeves puffed femininely out above the biceps of Amanda’s graceful arms. Its hem was above the stocking tops on Amanda’s magnificent thighs. At puff-sleeves and at hem, it was decorated with patterned lace in the bright-yellow that was a match for Amanda’s corset. Amanda’s maid’s apron frilly-fringed, just a tiny impractical maid-status-confirming bright-yellow apron, with no bib, was tied around Amanda’s ten-inch waist, with its stings bound into a pretty bow behind her. And then an elasticated coronet of frilly bright yellow material was fixed on Amanda’s queenly head, so that its front was just above Amanda’s hairline. This band bore a name in crimson letters: “Mary”.

The insulting impersonal headband was psychologically destroying, but the upset for Amanda in wearing this particular maid’s dress arrangement, was not the headband, but that the dress’ neckline swooped low and square, leaving the tops of her stupendous breasts bare, and barely covering her huge nipples, pulling tight against which, its diaphanous material was openly poked out by their central pillars of erectable sensitivity. Amanda was sweetly shy, and hated having her 40-inch chest so blatantly exposed. But now it was no longer Amanda’s choice in such matters.

By now too, it was 06.15 and she would have to walk the dogs.

Amanda’s rhythmic wiggle was super-enhanced by her 10-inch waist. Her bottom swung like a demented pendulum as she walked. Taking the tiny-tiny-tiptoe steps the two-inch hobble-chain forced upon her, Amanda’s progress was slow.

“Good morning Mary” her mistress greeted the beauty when Amanda emerged from the maids’ quarters to start her new day of duty, as Elspeth passed her, on her way to her office.

“Good morning my lady” Amanda dutifully responded, as she curtsied with a bobbing down by bending and straightening her glorious legs.

“When you have walked the dogs Mary, I want you to escort Natalie to school again please”, Elspeth instructed with firm clear and gentle kindness.

“Yes my lady”, Amanda acknowledged with another supremely sexy-thighy curtsy.

Taking Elspeth’s astonishingly pretty *****teen-year-old daughter to school was another daily duty for Amanda now.

Walking the dogs was a twice-per day duty Amanda dreaded. They were little more than grown puppies as yet. Amanda was literally tied to them. Their leashes were fastened to amulets tight around Amanda’s slender wrists, two leashes to each wrist.

The four already huge Alsatians were so strong, and pulled so. Poor Amanda was made to run lest she be caused to fall, and to run in her two-inch hobble-chain was extremely difficult. Amanda’s lovely body swung and swayed like a runaway train with her glorious breasts bouncing fit to escape her dress as the dogs fought to get to the local parkland, and their chance to be unleashed and run free.

The wiggle-trotty-tiptop-of-tiptop-of-tip-of-tip-of big toe running forced on poor Amanda by the pulling dogs, made her inner love-lips chafe on the cinch-chain between her thunder-strong thighs unmercifully painfully. As Amanda prettily trotted, the question who was taking whom for a walk, was the clearly obvious one someone watching would have asked.

Amanda loved the dogs: Mars, Jupy, Moony, and Neppy. She had always adored animals and had wanted, as a child, to be a veterinarian.

But Amanda was also all too aware of the reaction of these dogs to her sensual sexiness. She knew the dogs could smell her musk, and that it turned them on. She wore no panties and her slit was openly scenting the air sufficiently for a dog’s sensitive nose to know she was a sexually ripe female.

Amanda would gently but firmly brush and push them off when they took too much interest in sniffing her natural odour, but feared they would disobey. It was so embarrassing to have them try to nuzzle her crutch, and the cold-dampness of their noses on the smooth flesh of the exposed thigh above her stocking tops, always made her leap with surprise.

Let loose in the local park, they would run wild and frolic, and Amanda’s fear was that they would disobey her call for them to return to their leashes. It was a fear that was becoming secondary though. Now they had had Amanda walk them for one-month near, they seemed instinctively aware that Amanda was due on heat.

Amanda’s monthly feminine bleed was days away. Amanda was in randy-week, the week in which her sexual drives and impelling impulses were at their height of might. Amanda realised that the dogs knew she was about to seep her livid crimson wine, because, though she unleashed them, they continued to hover around her, and to sniff the wonderful aroma from Amanda’s natural-cycle-obedient slit, whilst their cocks visibly twitched into and down from erection.

This was so embarrassing, and yet Amanda found herself compelled to look at their cocks. It had the fascination of horror almost, and yet it was so complimentary that her feminine charms could cause such devastating arousal.

“Good morning miss!” a passing girl this, who must have seen Amanda staring at the four blatantly boldly throbbing dog cocks her slit’s musk was causing.

Amanda hung her head in shame.

“Healthy specimens you have their young lady”, the girl continued even before Amanda could respond.

Amanda was both relieved and dismayed by this second statement. She was relieved because she had thought the young woman, a salesgirl by the look of her, had noticed and was referring to the dogs: she was deeply embarrassed now, because she realised that the girl was in fact admiring Amanda’s superb breasts.

“Thank you miss” Amanda shyly curtsied, wishing only that the girl would go away.

“You got a steady girlfriend then sweetheart?” The salesgirl was clearly not going to leave Amanda alone.

“Yes miss” Amanda lied, dropping another unavoidably very sexy curtsy.

“Mary eh? Said the girl, after glancing at Amanda’s headband. That’s a pretty name, and you’re one hell of a babe!”.

Flurried, Amanda hurried to get the dogs back on their leashes, longing to escape the attention she had not sought and yet both did and did not want.

“Thank you miss” she answered with averted eyes, whilst peripherally looking to see if this nuisance and yet pleasing pleasure was going on her way, only to see that the full length of her stupendous legs was being looked up and down and down and up and up and down by the smitten young woman.

“My god, have you got legs, or have you got legs?!”

“I must be on my way miss” Amanda politely insisted, as the dogs now back on their leashes tugged enthusiastically homeward at the thought of the bowls of meat that would greet them there.

As she wiggle trotted home with the dogs all but pulling her of her pretty feet, a loud long low whistle of appreciation followed Amanda’s undulating and swinging rear, and was followed in turn by a sincerely meant call of: “You’re a fucking honey! You look after yourself sweetheart!”

Back at Elspeth’s home, Amanda was heard to wiggle her dainty tiptoe steps on the hard floor of the kitchen.

“Mary? Is that you?” called Elspeth from her office, a room off to one side of her huge dining room.

“Yes my lady” Amanda called musically beautifully back with, she hoped, not too much volume.

Amanda had already squatted showing enormous expanse of huge folded thigh of ejaculationary eroticism, and the dogs had gathered round, to smell her slit the more, as Amanda poured water from a jug into their drinking bowls. And all four dogs gently nuzzled Amanda’s huge thighs, and tried to nudge her off balance to get at her slit.

As she squatted, the skirt of Amanda’s maid’s dress, so short in hem, had ridden of her cinch sundered slot, and she suddenly let out an involuntary unstifled girly-girl-gasp of surprise shock and pleasure, as an eager tongue had found the nude-shaven smooth lips of her crack, and she was instantaneously lapped into love-honey flow.

For poor frustrated Amanda, now nearing a month without sexual relief, it was but a brief moment of shocking pleasure, as the other equally eager dogs pushed her canine licking-lover aside, to get their turn to taste heaven……… but then …………. Elspeth’s voice calling her, caused Amanda to girly-gasp, and stand for fear she would be discovered……….

“Give the dogs something really really tasty to eat while you’re already there please Mary, there’s a dear!” Elspeth now called.

“Oh, and don’t give them that stuff that smells of fish. It makes their breath stink. I want them back on a meat diet right now. I’m not listening to the Maid-Valets on that one anymore. ‘Fish for dogs’, whatever will they dream up next? Fish is for cats. Meat is for dogs, don’t you agree? Give them some of the stuff delivered yesterday. You’ll see the cans: it’s called ‘Samantha’.”


Tears filled Amanda’s eyes at the realisation that she was, after not even quite a whole month as a personal maid, already so deprived as to become depraved enough to have wanted the dogs to have their way just before now.

Her mind was revolted and sickened by the idea, but not a minute before her body had wanted it to continue: she had wanted to be tongue-fucked: she had wanted to be tongue-fucked by the dogs.

Amanda was a brilliantly intelligent nineteen-year-old, with a mind as supremely sharp as her body was extremely beautiful. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sobbed, and she licked her constant-kiss-proffering pert negress’ gorgeous lips. Tears trickled from Amanda’s heavenly eyes as she realised what she had so nearly let herself be reduced to.

Then a newly renewed will came to the fore. Amanda breathed a deep breath, heaving her hugely heavenly chest, as she wiped away the evidence of her tears with her simply gorgeous slim bendy-back fingers.

Amanda had no choice but to be a maid. Her mistress had refused to pay her for her failed performance as a waitress at Le Rosbif. Amanda could not now go back to college when the new year began. She could not afford the fee: her place would have already gone. She was reduced to being a maid and there was nothing, but nothing she could do, but be thankful she had a good mistress, that she got a healthy meal once per day, and a clean bed to sleep in at nights.


It was now time to get Elspeth’s gorgeously pretty little nymphet daughter to school.

Amanda wiggled to the door of the dining room to call to Elspeth in her office: “I am just going to escort Miss Natalie to her school my lady!”

“Thank you Mary!” came the gentle rewarding-toned answer.

A few moments later, Amanda tapped on Natalie’s bedroom door, gently and politely.

As every time before’ she heard no response, and so continued knocking as she opened the door and sweetly called out: “Miss Natalie? It’s Mary, Miss Natalie”.

It was no shock to Amanda now. She knew already that she would enter Natalie’s bedroom and find the *****teen-year-old kink-curly-blonde-haired angel, pretending to be asleep with her superbly rock firm rosebud-pink nippled intact-virgin’s budding breasts, accidentally on purpose, wholly exposed to Amanda’s gaze.

Natalie was in fact little good at pretending, and a smile played on her lovely unkissed mouth.

“Do you think my titties are pretty, Mary?” asked the petulant young foxette as she ceased her pretence and opened her eyes.

“It is not for me to say Miss Natalie”, Amanda answered.

“But they are aren’t they? And you love looking at them don’t you?” Natalie teased and taunted: using the unvarnished truth in the process of doing so, for indeed Amanda found Natalie exceptionally extremely attractive.

“I could have you whipped for looking at my tits the way you do!” Natalie laugh-shouted, and then collapsed into girly giggles that caused her titties to jiggle uncontrollably, and unsettlingly for poor Amanda, as Natalie’s nipples mesmerisingly jigger-circled in the air.

“Mary loves my titties! Mary loves my titties! Mary loves my titties!” Natalie singing-mocked.

Then: “You’re so fucking gorgeous!” said the little nymph suddenly.

Amanda winced to hear such an unpleasant word on the pretty lips of so young a girl.

“Just looking at you makes me go all wet between my legs. Do you know that Mary?”

Amanda tried to recover the situation: “My lady has given me the honour of escorting you to school again this morning, Miss Natalie”.

“Well, I’m not going to school or anywhere else either, till I’ve had a good wank looking at you!” the sexy nymph retorted as she threw back her bed cover, and leaped completely naked, heavenly blonde-curled triangle surrounding virgin-tight cunt and all, to dainty little feet on carpeted floor.

“You’re just so fucking gorgeous I gotta hava wank”, teased Natalie as she walked around Amanda, ogling the older girls perfect legs.

“Mummy says when I’m *****teen I can have my own maid. I’ve already told her I want it to be you” Natalie teased.

Natalie approached Amanda, and Amanda made no resistance as the pert nymphet put an enquiring hand up between Amanda’s enormously strong thighs, onto Amanda’s warm sex.

Amanda closed her eyes and gently bit her lower lip: “Please, please, don’t Miss Natalie”

Natalie withdrew her lovely little hand: “Does that chain up you hurt very much?” She asked with genuine gentle concern.

“It hurts a lot Miss Natalie”, Amanda answered.

Her answer was not being listened to. Natalie was pinching her own nipples, and gently rubbing them between her forefingers and thumbs, as she walked around and around Amanda. The little girl’s breathing grew heavier. She now caressed her perfect little titties with her fingers, the ends of her forefingers flicking her now supremely stiff nipples, like windscreen wipers, with a constant flick-flick-flick-flick rhythm. Natalie then gasped as her slit juices began to flow. Her eager right hand went down to her mons and pressed, and she gasped with pleasure and uttered between her clenched teeth, “You’re a fucking whore”, as her finger found her clitoris and she uttered a tiny shocked squeal, as she immediately came. “Ahhh…ah…that was for your tits now two more for your fucking legs….” Amanda’s own nipples were pulsing as she watched the little girl masturbating over her. Amanda dare not do anything to encourage Natalie, but was wholly holy bowled-over with flattery, that her physical and facial beauty could so command over the schoolgirl that she must needs masturbate. The little girl orgasmed again, more strongly this time, and then twice more, clenching her teeth as she uttered squeals of delight that Amanda feared Elspeth must surely hear…… “Fuck!……
Fuck! ……..Fuck!!…… oh, oh, oh, oh, oh oh, god, oh, oh, oh, god, god, oh, oh ohhhh your fucking legs, your fucking legs, your fucking bloody fucking bloody, oh oh, your fucking legs, your fuck, oh fuck, oh, oh, oh your fucking legs, your fucking beautiful legs!!!!!!!!!!!” Natalie moan-screamed as she came for a fifth and sixth time………..

………A sudden access of shame now hit Natalie.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that again whore!” she spat at Amanda.

“Please accept my apologies Miss Natalie” Amanda breathed with her lovely soft strong mezzo voice.

……….A silence followed………….

“……….Only if you will accept mine first Mary: I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude to you”, smiled the pretty girl, with crystal sincerity. “Please accept my apology”.

“Of course Miss Natalie” Amanda answered politely, with a very leggy curtsy.

Eve Adorer
06-23-2007, 06:08 AM
2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 3 – Evening Calm

If truth be told, Elspeth’s daughter Natalie was as empty-headed as she was pretty.

No: that judgement is a little harsh. Harsh though it may be though, there was a vast chasm between the *****teen-year-old Natalie, enjoying her freedom, and free and full education, and Amanda, wonderfully intellectually gifted, but denied education, and forced to work as a personal maid to the schoolgirl’s mother.

In 2084, a girl’s standard education was orientated solely toward making her a good wife. Natalie was having lessons in fitness and deportment, cooking, sewing, knitting, and gardening, with minimal mathematics and English.

Boy / girl sex could not be banned, but the stupidity of men in letting Britain’s population outstrip its GDP, had had to be overcome. Men no longer married: they used the abundant brothels. In the brothels the state could ensure that sex was had for the sake of sex, and did not result in excessive childbirth.

Natalie’s dream, as with every other girl of her generation and class, would be to meet the right girl and marry her: girl-girl marriage being the other way in which the state had gained the upper hand over the sexual imperative, and thus over population growth.

In fact, Natalie was attending a private school funded by a group of women including her mother: a school at which a university entrance level education was available to a pupil who had more on her mind, or to her mind, than Natalie’s obsessions with looking pretty, shopping, pop music, and older girls.

Amanda’s heart was pounding and her breathing was heaving her stupendous chest, as she wiggled obediently along with Natalie to the gates of the Academy for Heavenly Girls, forced to take her two-inch tiptoe wiggle-steps in her balletic shoes by the chain-hobble between her shapely ankles.

Naturally sexy in her grey school uniform, Natalie was sweet and gentle and chatty. She still felt guilty for being so rude to Amanda earlier that morning.

Amanda did not approve of the length of Natalie’s skirt: for goodness sake it only just covered the little angel’s very shapely bottom. One could quite clearly see Natalie’s very tight white knickers, and the way her heavenly pod shaped them at front: and she had such pretty legs. If their mothers let their daughters dress like this, was it any wonder that gangs of older girls were waylaying such innocents as Natalie and raping them? Amanda knew that Elspeth shared this concern about her *****teen-year-old daughter, and had thus posted Amanda to escort Natalie to and from school every day.

Amanda’s heart was pounding, and her breathing was heaving her stupendous chest, as she wiggled obediently along in escort to Natalie.

It had happened only yesterday and Amanda was sure of it.

Amanda’s heart was pounding and she was not really listening to Natalie’s lovely soprano-smiling, moist-lipped, giggle-punctuated, pretty chatter.

She had had her back to Amanda; but those glorious Titian curls within curls cascading to cover her bottom were surely unmistakable.

“………and I said I’d like to marry a girl like you Mary. But Smithy said not to be so silly cos nobody married a mere maid. And I said if Smithy saw you she’d see how beautiful you are. And anyhow I’d only said ‘a girl like you’ and not that I wanted to marry you yourself Mary….Do you think I was right Mary? Do you Mary? Do you?……. Do you?……. Mary?”

Natalie forgot her question as she looked at Amanda and saw Amanda’s eyes on the wonderful heavenfall of curling coiling red hair that blessed the world on an older girl with another of Natalie’s school-friends: an older girl attentive to her charge and thus unaware she was being admired, twice-over.

“……..Oh she’s really gorgeous Mary! Do you like her Mary? Do you? Do you Mary?” Natalie lisped sweetly in an awed stage whisper.

Getting no answer from the smitten Amanda, Natalie ran over to her friend and, with all the lack of inhibition of the very young, turned to her school-friend’s maid and, loudly, so that Amanda could also hear, called out to the stunning redhead, “My maid…she’s over there…. she thinks you’re lovely. Her name’s Mary!”

Then, turning to see the results of her intention to draw Amanda to the attention of the other maid, and being disappointed that nothing seemed to happen in the short interval before she, Natalie, and her friend entered the school, Natalie prettily skipped off with a giggling “Byeeee!” and a mischievous wave of her hand to Amanda.

Amanda had dutifully turned to return to Elspeth’s home, when a cool charming voice called: “Amanda??”

Amanda, despite the call of duty, turned to look and be devastated by the crystal clear green eyes, of a redhead with translucently pale white skin, with delightful light freckles on her face, dressed in a lovely green micro-mini-maid’s uniform, and hobbled at the ankles of her extremely shapely bare legs.

“Amanda!!! It’s Rosetta! Hi!”, called Rosetta’s heavenly voice.

“You must be mistaken miss: my name is Mary” answered Amanda, knowing she was being an utter fool, not able to disguise that she was indeed Rosetta’s former school-friend and first love.

Amanda then instantly turned and wiggled away on her way back home, her heart thumping fit to escape her beautiful chest.

“Amanda surely??……… ‘Mary’?……..oh……..oh god: yes of course……….Amanda? Amanda……they…..they call me ‘Eve’…….!” Rosetta’s lovely voice called to the receding Amanda.

Amanda continued to wiggle on tiptoe in her hobble, back to her bounden duty, her majestic head held proudly high, tears running down her adorable face.


“Mary?” Elspeth’s voice called from the office at the sound of the tip-tap of Amanda’s delightful all-girl 100-pounds pretty-wiggling back into Elspeth’s home.

“Mary?” the voice repeated.

“Yes my lady?”

“I have guests tonight Mary. And I want you to serve table”

“Yes my lady”

“I think you used to know them. The Rollinsons? Simon and Trirene? They’ve come up in the world. They have an exceptionally attractive maid: ‘Eve’ I think her name is……..”

“Yes my lady”

“I want to give them a bit of a treat. I want you to serve at table, topless: you know: bare-chested. Will that be alright with you Mary?”

“Of course my lady”

In truth, Amanda was completely horrified.

“It’s for Trirene….she’s a bit of a one is Trirene……..she’s got an eye for the girls! She’ll just love you!”

Amanda was dutifully approaching Elspeth’s office.

“May I go to the bathroom please my lady?” Amanda enquired sweetly

“No you may not. Look: I don’t want any slip-ups tonight. Simon is as well out of it, but Trirene has the brains I need. Le Rosbif is getting bigger! I’m spreading into Europe. I need a partner, and Trirene’s also got the money………”

Elspeth began to notice Amanda’s evident discomfort…….

“Oh, go to the lavatory if you must, but I want you back here to get some papers photocopied, so be quick about it!”

“Thank you my lady”

Amanda wiggled to the bathroom and, once in there, removed the screw-top from a quarter-filled carboy. She then hovered her exquisite slit over a funnel she had placed in the carboy’s neck.

Moments later came the sweet hiss and musically magical trickle-tinkle-trickle-kiss-hiss of Amanda’s arousingly aromatic personal water.

Her necessary business done, Amanda waited for the last fine droplets of her water to drip from the cruel cinch-chain, before moving to the bidet to spray herself fresh. She then replaced the lid on the carboy, and wiggled back to her mistress.

“Over there: 12 copies of each please Mary”


“My glasses please Mary”

Simon and Trirene sat expectantly. Trirene had just passed Elspeth a very legalistic looking document.

Elspeth’s eye-glasses were entirely within Elspeth’s own reach, but she wanted to display her authority, and thus Amanda must wriggle-wiggle in the half-inch hobble she wore that evening, over from the bar in Elspeth’s dining room, to the table beside Elspeth’s easy chair, and there bend her wonderful body, with the full unadorned glory of her huge breasts as bare as nature but more beautiful by far, to dutifully hand her mistress the spectacles she had been ordered to pick up for her.

Amanda was suffering agonies of embarrassment.

After her day as Elspeth’s office assistant and general runabout, and after she had collected Natalie from her school: no sign of Rosetta this time, Amanda had been undressed and had showered.

Two undermaids had got her ready for the evening. Gasps of astonishment and applause had greeted her appearance in the dining room in front of Simon and Trirene, who purposely made no acknowledgement whatsoever that they knew Amanda, and had indeed been her lovers. Trirene had even clapped her hands to applaud the magic magnificence of Amanda’s compelling wonder apparitioning before her.

Amanda was tiptop-tiptoed in yellow balletic shoes, the long bright-yellow laces of which were forming an exquisitely erotic pattern, as they criss-crossed all the way up Amanda’s supremely beautiful legs till they tied off in bows at the top sides of Amanda’s amazing thighs.

Amanda wore no stockings, indeed she wore little else, but she was not without a corset, and her delectably deliciously delightful waist had been forced down to a truly incredible nine-inches by a savagely tight waspie.

Poor Amanda’s slit was sundered by a cruelly tight golden cinch-chain. A miniscule purely decorative and-office affirming, completely impractically tiny, frilly yellow maid’s apron, was around her waist on top of the waspie, and was not even long enough to go below the waspie and hide Amanda’s intimate parts.

With her waspie-corset-enforced nine-inch waist, Amanda out hour-glassed an hourglass with her comely cum-worthy shapeliness. A bright-yellow maid’s cap was on Amanda’s regal head, and bore the name ‘Mary’ at its forehead front.

And there were other chains on Amanda this time. The absolute cruelty of a hobble-chain merely half-an-inch-long, was intentionally erotically provocative, as a demonstration of Elspeth’s complete power over Amanda.

But there were other chains on Amanda this evening too.

Amanda’s lovely mouth was agape in a huge round ‘O’, forced to be so and to remain so, by an O-ring gag. Thus offering irresistibly to the world, Amanda’s only remaining virgin orifice, and thus thereby demeaning the sweet girl, who had always declined to take a cock in her lovely mouth: as indeed it was her right and privilege to refuse to do.

The gag was grooved and shaped to fit over Amanda’s front teeth top and bottom, like a gum-shield, and slim chains to hold it in place were padlocked at the back of Amanda’s graceful neck.

But there were yet other chains on Amanda this evening too.

There was a gold-strong-metal ring at the top back of Amanda’s waspie, and through it, running freely to and fro, was a chain that ran to girlacles on Amanda’s slender wrists. Amanda wore a control-chain. For the duties she was to perform, this was horrible. The chain between her wrists was only long enough for Amanda to hold up in front of her, one arm at a time. Amanda could only advance one pretty arm so far, before the chain pulled her other arm behind her, and yet she was expected to, and indeed therefore must, carry a tray with fine wine in glasses upon it.

“That will be okay” said Elspeth, having read Trirene’s document.

“I confess you had me a little worried at first Trirene, coming out with a lawyer’s draft like that. But I like the way you do business”

“Dinner is almost ready. But I think we should have a drop of wine to celebrate, don’t you?” Elspeth enquired, touching Trirene momentarily on the hand.

I have a treat for you both” Elspeth continued and, by her words brought Simon, who was just staring transfixed, poleaxed by the stunning Amanda, back into the discussion.

I have a really smooth wine? It has wonderful irony. It’s a white wine fresh from an exquisite negress. Mary is just such an incredibly lovely girl don’t you think? The most beautiful girls produce the most beautiful wine. I have had Mary store her intimate waters since she joined me. I’m afraid it’s a little short on fermentation, but she is yet to be with us for a month. I’m looking forward to her rosé when she’s on her bleed, which cannot be too far off now, as I would judge. Oh……….and wait for it! Yea!! We are to have some of Mary’s simply gorgeous chocolat for our sweet!”

Amanda’s superlatively superb legs began her wiggle-tip-top-tip-toe ballet-shoe-shod stretched calved femininely smooth muscular leggy-legged half-inch hobble constrained supremely arousing round around deep-concave-sided from the erectness of her enforced stance naked bottom hemispheres undulating, fascinating free huge breasts with enormous brown-pink nipples, swinging swaying, supremely extremely femininely graceful gift bestowing world visitation from heaven, outstandingly outstanding beautiful nineteen-year-old negress girl’s breathtakingly erotically charging orgasmically compelling gentle flowing bodied progress to the counter, on which a bottle of the poetic perfumed waters of her intimate hallowed hollow’s expellation, the nectar of the goddesses, the nectar of this goddess among girls, was cooling open topped in an ice-bucket, to await the heavenly hands of an angel to pour its citrus-and-salt-tanged mystification into glasses of the finest crystal, too crude for the imperial libation they had no real right to bear to the lips of those who would sip Amanda’s glorious golden intimacy, and take the heaven of a girl onto their thus blessed lips and over their hitherto jaded pallets, in joy of joys to enjoy that wonder of all wonders the wine of a beautiful girl: Amanda’s infinitely inspirational intimate girl-wine: Amanda’s beautiful girl-pee: the beautiful golden pee of a goldenly beautiful girl.

Amanda knew that all eyes were on her stunning loveliness as she progressed so slowly but so majestically Nubianly tribesgirl gracefully. And despite her shyness and incredible embarrassment at being so very naked before her former lovers, and her new mistress, Amanda felt a clear twitch in her clitoris, and felt shamed that her musk was moistening her slit at the thought of the degree to which her wonderful beauty was held in awe, and worshipped such that it must be held captive and bound as it was, as she was, as her beauty was. And Amanda gave a little fart of girly arousal as she thought of serving these, her adorers, her intimate wine, so that they could savour her and take her within them.

Amanda’s nipples now began to throb and pulsate. Oh this was horrible! Thank god her back was turned on her admirers so they could only look in awe at the curve of her wonderful body and not see, except when they swung out to the side of her, that Amanda’s nutty-pink-brown nipples were confirming her advancing sexual arousal.

“What ARE you doing out of bed Natalie?” Elspeth’s ‘concerned-mother’s’ voice echoed behind Amanda, as Amanda still wiggled in her half-inch hobble, struggling desperately to make the bar-counter, and pour the chilled girl-wine.

“Natalie! You know you’ve got school tomorrow!” Elspeth half-reprimanded, by reminding her *****teen-year-old nymphet daughter.

“Mummy: please let me! I want to watch Mary being punished like you said you were going to do.” Natalie’s sweet soprano echoed out cooly.

“It’s not a sight for little girls” Elspeth tried to persuade.

“I’m not a little girl anymore mummy!” came the petulant answer.

Amanda had heard every word and every word had gone home with her. Her hands, her lovely hands, trembled as she poured her wine, her very own girl-wine, into the three glasses she had had cooling, and now carefully caringly placed on coasters and on her tray.

All womanly grace personified, Amanda now took up her tray, in the one hand her wrist control-chain would allow her to out-front at any one time, and began to wiggle her mincy-steppy ballerina-tiptoed, orgasmically erotic steppy-steppy-steps back to Elspeth and Elspeth’s guests.

Amanda held her loaded tray low, so as to be sure the slow side-to-side flowing sway of her infinitely enormous, statuesquely firm, melonically huge, bold brown areole tipped, mesmerisingly free and unencumberedly swinging and swaying breasts, and their supreme nipples, did not knock into the glasses.

Amanda’s frontal endowments, heaven’s medals on her chest, heaven’s award in compliment of and in confirmation of her astounding beauty, were naturally huge, and Amanda had every right to be proud of their proudness, for they were as boldly firmly bounteous as they were undoubtedly outstanding exquisitely beautiful, and they were a constant swinging danger to the glasses on the tray in her pretty hand, unless she held the tray low as she did as she wiggled-minced in her half-inch hobbled tiptoeing ballet-shoes, back to her mistress and the guests.

Amanda licked her negress’ bold kiss-me-kiss-me lips with a pink tongue, pinker for the contrast with her lovely brown complexion, entirely enticing of lewdness by this innocent action in her enforced O-opened mouth. Amanda was very dry and thirsty from having, for over an hour, had her mouth forcibly held enticingly wide-open, open wide enough for the biggest of visiting cocks to enjoy her tongue and her throat.

To her credit, Amanda’s steady steps never wavered even though, on her return journey, she saw a strange metal frame standing ready for, from what she now knew, from Natalie’s worst kept secret blurted, was a victim, and the victim: she: Amanda herself.

The steel frame looked tall as a person. It had a single upright with outstretched arms with leather cuffs at their extremes, and something at chest height presently covered over. It was mounted on a steel platform of considerable weight, presumably for its stability. And two bottles of what looked distinctly like propane gas, were to either side of it, with pipes, like those of a Bunsen-burner, running straight-up up to where the chest level arrangement was cloaked over.

“Where is the fourth glass Mary?” Elspeth enquired with gentle forgiveness suggested by her tone, as Amanda had at long last managed to wiggle back to her mistress and her mistress’ guests.

“There are four of us Mary. Four…..You know: one, two, three, four! You’ve only brought three glasses. Is my daughter not to have a glass of your wine?” Elspeth gently scolded.

“This isn’t good enough is it Mary? Is it?” It is just not damned well good enough! I took you off the streets, I’ve given you warmth, food, shelter, affection, worthwhile employment, and you repay me with this clear evidence of complete and utter ingratitude: ingratitude verging on contempt Mary!”

“Yes Mary, well may you wince you little ingrate”

“I am not going to have this, Mary”

“I am not, but not, going to put up with it!”

Amanda’s trembling hand took the three glasses she had brought, from her tray and put them on their coasters onto the table before three of her four superiors. And then Amanda gave a supremely extremely gloriously thighy curtsy, before beginning to wiggle back to the counter, with her empty tray, to pour a fourth glass of her glorious golden pee.

“And just where do you think you’re going?!” Elspeth barked.

“Who told you to go anywhere?”

“Get over to that frame: over there, and get over there right now Mary!”

“I am not going to put up with this. Do I make myself clear?!”

Amanda had no way of answering orally even had she dared, and she feared an assentive nod of her lovely head would only be taken as contempt.

Waitress-maids brought in the first course of the dinner as Elspeth obliged Amanda to stand close to the upright on the platform with the steel frame on it, facing the frame.

Then, Elspeth unfastened Amanda’s wrists from the control-chain, and refastened her, with her lovely arms out cruciform, to the girlacles at the ends of the horizontal bar on the torture frame.

Amanda’s brutally squeezed waist was but little wider than the upright to which it was now strapped tightly. Straps were also used to fasten Amanda’s arms to the crossbar of the device at proximity to Amanda’s armpits.

Amanda’s lovely head and gorgeous face looked over the top of the upright at the diners, as they, all bar Elspeth at present, made ready to be served their first course.

Elspeth checked that Amanda’s breasts were, as indeed they were, free-floating to either side of the upright.

Amanda’s irresistibly-seductive deep-devil-dark-brown-eyes now opened wide with terror and horror, as Elspeth took the cloak off two sets of three interconnected steel hoops, with their insides lined with dozens of sharp dogtooth spikes.

These hoops, two sets of three soldered - spaced at two-inch intervals, with a link between the corresponding hoops of each set, and a chain from each of the rear hoops, Elspeth passed over Amanda’s bare breasts, and padlocked, with the two rear chains, around Amanda’s back, having passed the chains through hoops at the side of the upright poor Amanda was strapped to.

Amanda now wore the cruellest of cruel brassieres and her soft sensitive flawless flesh could already feel the spikes on which they were uncomfortable and uncomfortingly lightly resting, fakir’s bed-of-nails-style.

“Serve the soup please Mi Honey”, Elspeth ordered as she left Amanda to ponder her fate.

The conversation at table was forced as Mi Honey poured Amanda’s girl-wine into the crystal glasses whilst the soup course was slowly completed.

Amanda could not beg for mercy and she knew not yet what she needed mercy in face of. Her body had begun to tremble uncontrollably with fear though, and tears trickled from her heavenly angel’s eyes.

“Light the gas please Mi Honey”, Elspeth ordered her table-waiting maid.

Obediently, little Mi Honey, a doll of a Chinese of no more than *****teen, came over to Amanda’s bound body, and lifted, in turn, the propane cylinders with their long upright Bunsen-burner pipes, to put their bases into recesses that would hold them from falling over. She then, unceremoniously turned one of the taps to let the gas begin to flow, and lit it at the top of the pipe with a cigarette lighter.

“Me sorry Manda” poor Mi Honey whispered, “Me sorry please” she whispered once more as she lit the second flame and wiggled away, as Amanda emitted an ear-splitting scream of agony.

Amanda’s brilliant mind raced and slowed time, and so doing prolonged her excruciation, as she was faced with the terrible choice of having her nipples burnt, or flicking her breasts away from the flames in which they now rested, and thus tearing her girl-smooth girl-soft flesh, as she thrashed her tits around within the spiked circles surrounding her beautiful bosom.

She could not bear her nipples in the Bunsen flames for more than microseconds, and screamed every time as she twitched her body to swing her breasts to pull her nipples away from the fire, and thus had her flesh torn by the spikes inside her spiteful brassiere of pain.

Amanda’s mind was blind with pain as she thought of her humiliation at Le Rosbif, and how it had undoubtedly been fixed that she would end up with contractual punishment or enslavement as a personal maid as her ‘no choice’ of choices. She screamed again as her nipples were seared and again as her breasts were then torn by her flinching from one agony to the next, and more blood began to flow from her brutalised bosom. What had she done to deserve this punishment? Why were her cries now becoming less of pain? Amanda squealed a very girly squeal as she winced and flicked her huge nipples from the flames yet once more. Oh god how could this be? Why was she feeling so girly? Why was she sighing and moaning girlily? Why was she feeling: no: why was she so hot and randy? Another girly-girly squeak of pain and desire in equal measure as Amanda flicked her breasts side-to-side, and thus tore her tits once again. Her mind raced: the dog licking her slit that morning! Another girly-girly turned-on girly-girly squeak-scream moan of Amanda’s mounting arousal. Simon’s penis rock hard up her darkest love tunnel! Another girly-girly scream, another girly-girly moan-gasp of Amanda’s sexual arousal. Amanda’s intimate love juice was coursing down her inner thighs now, it dripped from her cinch-pained wide-opened love lips. Yet another girly-girly turned-on girly-girly squeak. Yet more searing agony in her nipples followed by the flesh of her tits being yet more torn. The pretty nymphet Natalie masturbating over her beauty! Amanda gasped and tore her breasts yet once more as she swung them out of the Bunsen flames. Rosetta’s bountifully red-golden curled within impossible curls hair, pouring torrentially abundantly gloriously down to her shapely bottom! Another girly-girly turned-on girly-girly squeak-scream moan of Amanda’s arrived peak of arousal. Rosetta’s legs! Amanda screamed with pain and ripped her breasts yet once more. She was cumming: Natalie’s little titties! She was cumming: Jupy’s tongue licking her shaven-naked open slit! She was cumming: Simon’s penis thrusting in and out in and out of her anus! She was cumming: Natalie masturbating! She was cumming: Rosetta’s long long legs! She was cumming: Rosetta’s glorious autumnal hair!!!! Amanda’s eyes were wide and then closed and then wide and then closed she was holding her nipples in the flames, she wanted the pain, she wanted her nipples to burn, she was holding her nipples in the flames and she was cumming, she was cumming she was……..Amanda screamed as she orgasmed and orgasmed and orgasmed and fainted as she orgasmed from her orgasm from her orgasms, her orgasms echoing louder as her scream of sexual delivery fainted and faded. And Amanda slumped in her bonds her nipples glowing with flames: her nipples on fire: her nipples burning in their own right: her heaven’s angel’s nipples haloed with flames: aflame with pain ………..

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 4 – Captivation

How stupid could a supremely intelligent girl be?

Elspeth had identified her.

“ ‘Amanda’?! No. Not to my knowledge. We called her ‘Mary’. I have no knowledge of any ‘Amanda’ ”……….

How stupid could a supremely intelligent girl be?

Mi Honey had helped her escape.

Mi Honey had left Amanda’s hobble unpadlocked. It was then easily taken off. Natalie had had to make her own way home from school that afternoon: Amanda had just kept tiptop-of-tiptoe wiggle-walking, so very pretty, into the city.

Natalie had been very helpful to the Girl-Police. The *****teen-year-old romantically-charged schoolgirl, had lispilly breathily excitedly, let her lovely firm naked titties and rosebud soft-hard nipples, no need of a brassiere she, rise and fall within her white school uniform blouse, as she drew heaven’s breath whilst she answered, breathlessly:

“Oh and the other girl was really beautiful…..and I could just tell that Mary was in love ……Mary was like staring? Like her eyes were popping out her head? I think her heart was aching ……. I just knew they were made for each other… I can always tell. She had curly red hair? She was very beautiful. ………Oh just another maid of course………. I really don’t know …….. I think she’s called ‘Eve’? Anyway, she’s my friend Mandy’s maid see……….. And anyway, like I was saying, I think ‘Mary’ must have run off to marry her, because I could tell they were really really really deeply in love………”.

Amanda had still been in her maid’s uniform. As she had shivered, squatting in the corner on the platform of the night-time darkened train station, the Girl-Police constable’s flashlight had first shone on her superlative thighs, and then played slowly up and down them, quite clearly, indeed blatantly, absorbed by the fantastic beauty of Amanda’s legs, before shining straight onto Amanda’s adorable face and her coal-deep soul-deep devil-deep dark-brown eyes.

How stupid could a supremely intelligent girl be?

“Over ‘ere sarge!” the constable had called, and then muttered audibly under her breath: “An’ she’s a fuckin’ darlin’ of a looker an’ all! ………..”

Mi Honey had been on trial a day before since. Poor Mi Honey had been condemned to the coalmines. Later, Elspeth had spoken favourably of ‘Mary’, as she insisted on calling Amanda: earlier Elspeth had had no sympathy for Mi Honey, whom she had condemned as “a congenital liar and, to boot, a totally useless maid”.


The smell was nauseating. The girl next to Amanda had just defecated, and her faeces had slopped into the trough below the prisoners.

Amanda’s nipples pressed and brushed on the unyielding cold tiles of the wall she stared at, having no other view, as she sat astride her ‘peg’. She and twenty other girls sat astride, side-by-side, with their naked slits pressing hard down on the round steel bars the wardenesses called ‘pegs’.

As with all her fellow girls, Amanda’s wrists were in heavy chain girlacles, which were presently hooked, suspended by their middle-link so as to hold her lovely arms high aloft. Her pubic hair had re-grown in its tight negress’ curly dark-brown delicious delight, but it was no cushion to relieve the pain of Amanda being sat astride the cold round steel ‘peg’, her natural delightful 100-pounds of all-girl girl, being added to by her steel ankle-shackles and the heavy iron ball suspended from the middle-link of their joining chain.

Amanda’s slit was heavily bruised and hurt her immensely.

Her lovely mouth kissed a lucky pipe with overwhelmingly desirable negress’ lips, to draw some water. At least the water was fresh. Water, raw bran, bread, and some sickly stew known to have dog-food as its main ingredient, had been her unvaried invariable diet for near twelve-months now: water and these, were all that were fed to the prisoners.

The prisoners were allowed six-hours sleep in every twenty-four. Sitting like this was how they were supposed to sleep. Amanda had never known such unbearable exhaustion.

Amanda’s irresistibly kissable lips drew some powdered raw bran from the pipe that ran down from the hopper, and then kissed the water pipe again, to gain water to try and soften the bran and make it easier to chew and swallow.

The ball of her ball-and-chain dangled just above the filthy stinking trough into which all the girls pissed and defecated. The barn-like building in which they were held was hellish cold. Amanda was completely naked bar for her chains, and a steel collar around her neck: a steel collar padlocked irremovably, with coupling-rings for and aft, front and back, of Amanda’s slim neck.


She had tried to deny that she was a runaway maid. There she had been, standing in the Girl-Police station-house, obviously wearing maid’s uniform, and yet she had tried to deny she was a runaway maid.

“Wots dat yer got on den luv: fancy dress irrit?” the snearing girl sergeant had scoffed whilst flicking the hem of Amanda’s tiny maid’s apron.

“Yer know yer gonna go on trial for breakin’ yer contract don’tcha?”

“Yer fuckin’ mistress ain’t gonna wantyer back iz ‘er?”

The sergeant had then looked around and, seeing the coast clear had whispered.

“Bet yer like it an’ all don’tcha luv eh? You maids iz forbid it an’ all ain’t dey? You’re a crackin’ bitta charlene too ain’tcha? Betya burnin’ forit ain’tcha darlin’ eh? eh?”

This side of Amanda’s interrogation had ceased as a senior officer came on the scene.

“Is this one ‘Amanda Heavensent’, also-known as the maid ‘Mary’?”

“Er yer: dat’s right cappin”, the sergeant had answered with easy familiarity, as she half-stood, rising in respectful disrespect, to and for her senior.

“Well she’s for 06.30 sharp, so please make sure she makes court on time sergeant”

“Ma’am!” the sergeant had replied in an affirmative tone.

“………See luv, dey knows ‘oo you iz already” the sergeant continued as the captain had moved on to other business and out of earshot.

“I can’t promiz nuffink back luv, but seein’ as ‘ow you mussbe, yer know………if it’s bin such a long time….yer know………’ows abowt it den eh?”

Amanda’s mind had been in neutral. She was terrified. She was hardly listening and only subliminally hearing what the sergeant was saying. She was aware that what was being said, and apparently asked, was not ‘official’……………..but was not really listening………

“Me an’ de uvver girls, ud luv ter watchyer” the sergeant continued, almost slavering over the lovely Amanda.

Amanda awoke from her fear momentarily: “Sorry?” she asked.

“Yer know luv. We wanna watchyer……….. The captain’s a stuck up bitch, but she’s goin’ ‘ome afore much longer, and we can watcha den…..yer know….yer know…..doin’ it like?”

The sergeant began to realise she was not getting through to Amanda and began to get a little frustrated,

“Look: it sez on diz record ‘ere, as ‘ow you’ze a really really brainy girl an’ all, but yer not tekin’ it in are yer luv?”

The look of high distress from fear that clouded Amanda’s adorable features, was not noticed by the sergeant, as she again looked around to ensure the only person who would hear her was Amanda.

“Right den. Cardz on der table like eh?” the sergeant looked around for ‘coast-clear’ affirmation yet once more, and once more began not to get to her point………..

“………..Right den luv……….”

“………Cardz on der table like darlin’……….me an’ de uvver girls………”

“………..Fuck it!………..”

“………….Me an’ de uvver girls wanna watch……….yer know………”

“………….Oh fuckin’ ‘ell………!”

“…………..Me an’ de uvver girls……..”

“…………..De uvver girls an’ me ……..”

“………….No………. Me an’ de uvver girls: dat’s berrer……..”

“………….Me an’ de uvver girls we wanna watch….. yer know……watch yer doin’ it…..yer know….……doin’ it?”

“……….Yer know………….like doin’ it like? …………”

“……….Yer know………”

“………I mean…………playin’ wiv yersel an’ all dat?”

“…….Yer know……..’avin a wank eh ……..”

“…….Yer know…………. …….. playin’ wiv yersel?………..”

“……….I mean………yer know………”

“………Yer know like…………”

“………...I mean……….by yersel?………”

“………….You playin’ wiv all yer nice and naughty bits eh…… while we watches yer doin’ it o’ course…….till yer az a cum, like?……A cum for us while we watches yer eh?!…Eh?! Eh!?……..”

“………….Will yer do dat for us eh luv………..?

“……….Yer know……….I mean while we watch yer doin’ it an’ all dat eh?………..”

“Bootiful gel like you iz, betcha love a good wank an all don’t yer eh? Eh?”

“Bootiful gel like you, betcha can’t keep yer pretty ‘ikkle ‘ands offa yersel, yer fuckin’ gorgeous lucky bitch eh?!

“Betcha can suck yer own nippies an’ all too can’tcha luv?” the sergeant cruelly chortled.

Tears were coursing down from Amanda’s heavenly deep-dark brown eyes, and instantly the sergeant’s arousal from the sight and scent of the glorious Amanda, subsided into pain for her beauty.

“………Sorry luv……. Sorry………. I didn’t mean nuffin’ like. Yer don’t av to fer me. Sorry luv….” The sergeant’s heart of gold came very belatedly to the surface.


The cells at the Girl-Police station-house were spotlessly clean and also oh so cool.

Floor, walls, even the ceiling were white tiled for ease of cleaning.

A washbowl with cold-water faucet was against one wall, a lavatory bowl with push-button-flush on the opposite side. A straight-backed plastic chair, screwed to the floor, allowed a prisoner to sit. Also screwed to the floor, was a narrow bed, with a pillow, but no pillowcase, and a mattress, but no duvet or blankets, for the prisoners to sleep. There were no windows in either the walls or the door.

The sergeant had turned her back as Amanda had undressed, just entered, just inside her cell. All the girls in all the cells were as naked as she was soon to be. Amanda was no exception. The authorities had to ensure the prisoners had no means of doing harm to themselves. Only recently, a little Chinese girl, a maid who had let a personal maid run away from her mistress, had tried to harm herself, knowing she faced a lifetime in the coalmines.

Out of kindness and consideration for the lovely nineteen-year-old, the sergeant had turned her back as Amanda had undressed just inside her cell, and thrown her maid’s clothes out onto the corridor floor. Amanda remained in her nine-inch-waist-enforcing corset waspie, with a very tight cinch-chain between her nether lips. These she had not the means of removing.

“We got der bolt cutters for de uvver bits: yer corset an’ dat”, said the sergeant.

“You stand in de doorway luv, an’ I’ll do de cuttin’ an’ yer don’t need te turn roun’ like, cos I can does it from ahind like.” The sergeant, all gentleness now that she too had been bowled over by Amanda’s astonishing beauty, coaxed very kindly and gently.

“Stand wiv yer back ter me luv: promise I ‘on’t look an’ dat eh?” she coaxed again.

As Amanda awaited the cutting of her cinch-chain and the padlock that held her corset so very tightly closed, the sergeant tried her hardest not to look at Amanda.

Two ‘clip – chinks’ later, and Amanda was able to step out of her waspie and was now completely bare.

“You’re a bootiful girl an’ all” said the sergeant, as she took the last of Amanda’s garments from Amanda’s pretty hand.

“I ‘ave to put der light out in a minute sweet ‘eart, so you get on yer bed an’ dat”, Amanda heard the sergeant say, just before the sergeant turned the key in the door to lock her in for the night.

Alone, with her bare feet on the cold tiles of the floor, Amanda had no two thoughts about getting on the bed and rubbing her feet back to warmth with lovely long-fingered hands.

Even as she did so, the main lights in the cell went out, and the cell seemed pitch dark, till Amanda’s eyes got used to a reddish-hued safety light, that shone on her as she sat on the bed.


“Cell 3?”, said the Girl-Police captain, “She alright?”

The desk-constable pressed button ‘3’ on her console and showed the whole of Amanda’s cell, in the infrared light, with the gorgeous Amanda sitting quietly, the thighs of heaven pressed to her wholly holy fully female chest, on her bed.

“Cell 10 and that’s my lot, unless there’s been any new one’s come in that I don’t know about.

Cell 10 was likewise checked.

In cell 10 a girl roamed. Was she Gypsy or a Jewess? She was five-feet-one-and-a-half, olive complexioned, and swayed a swathe as her curves, giving “curves” no residue of meaning by its consequent complete comparison-inadequacy as a description, transfixed the eye with their possession poise pose and the poignancy in the shear poetry of her progress.

Her hair, she was no more than *****teen, her hair, her eyes black as diamonds sparked sparkles of the fire of sun’s suns, her hair, her legs gaited golden-gazelle, her hair was in ringlets, her hair, she had raven black locks, tight-tight springs of natural abundance that tumbled wildly copiously confusingly, her hair fell a river in full flood flight, her hair curled coils, her hair fell across a face of Troyic Helen grace, with rapturous lips pertly pouting “please”, her hair fell to her ankles and surrounded her, and oh the goddess given wonder of its heaven sent scent: she was wild child with woman’s wiles the while: she was Imogene.

Imogene: taken from the wild and tamed as a mistress by some blessed mistress of all she surveyed, who had wanted a girl so natural that nature was her mother and no other. Imogene, a roaming Romany from a tribe of constantly caravanning completely compelling curvaceous peddlers of beautiful handcraft: beautiful girlcraft she, abducted and seducted into mistressy she: she selected and secretly suddenly seduced and seized.

Imogene curtained dressed and skirted only by her hair: hair of profound profusion surrounding her heavenly body: hair of such rapture in which she had wrapped herself for the warmth in her cold tiled cell.


The captain now stretched her arms aloft and yawned.

Then, taking up her cap and squaring it on her head: she cracked her only joke: the billionth time: the same joke: “Try not to let the place burn down between now and tomorrow morning will you!”. …………And then she left the precinct station.


An hour later, an exceptionally girly sigh came from speaker ‘3’.

Two exquisitely lovely hands cupped Amanda’s breasts: Amanda’s

Then an astonishingly sexy-pretty gasp came from speaker ‘3’

The desk constable, lifted her cap’s peak off her hitherto half-closed eyes, and took her six-inch heeled booties off the desk where she had sat hitherto legs outreach stretched. Muttering an oath at being disturbed by some stupid bitch prisoner having a nightmare, or something of the sort, she single-focused the roaming cameras, so that only cell ‘3’ was on screen.

The screen showed Amanda in her cell squeezing her pillow between her fantastically beautiful thighs, with all the truly amazing strength in her wonderful legs: the pillow pressing gently and firmly on Amanda’s super-sensitive slit, caused her to girly-gasp-squeak.

“ ‘Ere sarge: do yer fink number free’s alright den?” the constable called over to her senior, who sat immersed in one-finger-tap-typing on her computer keyboard.

The sergeant sauntered reluctantly slowly over, and she and the constable watched Amanda, with her beautiful legs wrapped around at the ankles, rolling side to side with the pillow hard up on her slit.

Amanda then abandoned the pillow, throwing it to the floor, and sat on the edge of her bed with her toes, her big toes only, touching the floor with their tips, so that her legs took on their maximum feminine curvature and fascinated even more with their overwhelming shapeliness.

Moments passed with Amanda biting her lovely lower lip as if fighting an overwhelming desire.

The sergeant looked on from behind the desk-constable who, in turn, was staring open-mouthed at the glorious Amanda.

“Put number ten in wiv number free will yer”, the sergeant ordered.

“But…..But we got cells to spare tonight sarge…….”, came the dullard sullen idler’s response.

“I know we got fuckin’ cells a spare constable. Put number ten in wiv number free, and do as yer fuckin’ told yer stupid cow!”, the sergeant ordered with a smile and a wink.

“Oh! Yea! Yea! Gooddun sarge: a fuckin’ gooddun”, came the at-long-last-dawning of the junior officer’s light.

“An’ get the uvver constables aroun’ ‘ere now, so we can all watch, yer stupid bitch!” the sergeant ordered the desk-constable, and then muttered to herself: “We’re gonna see this ‘ere fuckin’ booty ‘avin’ a fuckin’ wank arter all: the randy state she’s in, when she sees number 10: but wow and how!!


The girl next to Amanda defecated again, and her stinking faeces slopped to the trough below. The girl was very frightened. A twenty-year-old Irish colleen with auburn hair close-cropped as was the hair of all prisoners, she, Siabon, turned to Amanda and whispered: “God Amanda, I wish to god they’d just come and do it!”

“Sush now Siabon” Amanda whispered, “It was only a threat. You’ll be alright…..”

In the instant that instantly followed, the door of the prison barn opened, and in walked the chief overseer and two guards, one carrying a bullwhip, and the other a board covered with hundreds of very sharp six-inch nails with their points facing out, knocked through it.

“Number 3572 gets four for insubordination and trying to steal bread”

The two guards came to Siabon who was quietly weeping and praying.

The spiked board was mounted to hooks on the wall directly in front of the pale white Irish girl, whose lovely soft translucently-white-fleshed full womanly breasts, and near transparent pink nipples, were thus already pressed to the nails spiking the board, in fakir fulsomeness, with soft skin to be hallowed, hollowed concave.

The whip whistled up and cracked with a huge ‘THWACK!!!’ on Siabon’s naked back, and she screamed as her body was irresistibly thrash-thrust forward, and her breasts driven hard on the hundreds of six-inch nails that thus stabbed her to their very hilts.

Amanda gasped as she looked and saw Siabon’s impaled tits, and saw the poor girl was bleeding and in agony: eyes wide-open and silently screaming with the pain of the pain’s pain.

And yet, as Amanda looked, Amanda felt her own clitoris twitching.

‘THWACK!!!’ Siabon let out an unearthly scream of agony and Amanda managed to hide her sexual wanton’s moan behind it. Amanda tried to make out she was trying to escape the flying blood of the girl being whipped next to her, but was secretly rubbing her now engorged nipples on the tiled wall she faced, as she also masturbated her painful slit on the peg she rested on, whilst fantasising about the pain Siabon was enduring, as her already copiously bleeding tits had been driven hard onto the nails once again.

This was the second time Amanda had witnessed this punishment. The time before she had resisted the overpowering turn-on it had given her, but not this time. Even though Siabon was a friend, Amanda was desperate for sexual relief and…………

‘THWACK!!!’ Siabon screamed. Amanda worked herself on the cold-steel peg. She wriggled her beautiful body as best she could, whilst needing to avoid it being noticed. She clenched her teeth so as not to let out that she was in an advanced state of sexual arousal.

‘THWACK!!!’ Siabon howled and her blood flecked the wall right in front of Amanda’s gorgeous mouth. And Amanda wanted to lick it: she wanted to taste it: she wanted to cum tasting the blood beaten out of Siabon by the bullwhip impaling her beautiful naked tits and nipples onto the brutal board of nails.

And then……….Oh god how had it come to this?! Amanda’s sanity returned. Her fire was dousing. How could she want to lick the blood drawn by the brutal torture of a fellow girl? What had imprisonment with hard labour driven her to?! What kind of inhuman animal were they making her into?!

Siabon was unhooked and taken off her peg. It would be the last Amanda saw of her. This had been the last hours of Siabon’s sentence. The prison hospital would patch her up, minimally, and she would be thrown outside the prison gates to fend for herself.

The hose, the cold-water hose, was spraying down the wall, spraying away Siabon’s blood. Soon it was playing on Amanda to wash her, and then it moved on to the next girl, the girl astride the next peg, and then on down the line of girls……………

……………The shock of the ‘morning wake-up’ cold-water shower shook Amanda from her wet-dream: her wet-dream of Siabon receiving a brutal torture flogging.

Like most all such dreams it began to fade as Amanda awoke fully. More cause than usual for her dream to fade quickly, was the continuing ache in Amanda’s slit after she had been sat with it pressed on the cold steel peg for another six-hours of so-called overnight sleep.

Amanda looked to her left and saw the lovely Siabon shivering and goose-pimpled from the hose’s visit to her pristine white body with its huge firm breasts and those delicate translucent pink nipples. Siabon tried to smile at Amanda by way of saying ‘hello’. Amanda shyly smiled back.

Truth told, in their shared cold total abject misery, both girls really only wanted to cry…………


Amanda’s cell door at the Girl-Police station house had opened.

A scrape of key seeking keyhole in door, and Amanda had leapt to her bed and cuddled fabulous thighs against no less fabulous chest.

Key audibly turned: lock clicked efficiently.

Immeasurably immense, Amanda’s bountifully beautiful bare thighs comforted her titanic tits as, sitting feet up on her cell bed, she clasped her lower legs folded by hands clasped through interlocked fingers, and hugged heaven to heaven: herself to herself.

Used now, adjusted now, to the dim red lamp that had hitherto been her only external illumination, Amanda’s deep-down-devil-brown eyes winced as the light from the corridor flooded her room.

But was this light from the corridor of the Girl-Police cellblock? And oh what glory was this vision that glided toward her. Was this creature, this wraith, this girl so luminously luscious that she wore her own luminescence in halo?

Amanda had stared. This was some kind of vision. Was this some kind of mirage? This was some kind of miracle. Was this truly an angel?

The girl-constables gathered with their sergeant at the survey consoles, and nudged each other as they watched the mutual devastation that the alchemic chemistry of Imogene and Amanda must guarantee, and had instantly delivered with thermonuclearic clarity.

As Amanda had stood, the cell door had slammed and the key turned.

As Amanda had stood, two lovely arms seeking the warmth and comfort of the older girl, Amanda, had entwined Amanda, and fragrant hair, Imogene’s, had flared Amanda’s nostrils with fire and desire.

There had been no words between them: Amanda and Imogene or nor Imogene and Amanda. One look of face at face and the world stood still. One brush of lips on lips and time stood still. One kiss of mouth on mouth and galaxies tumbled. Tongues mingled with tongues: universes crumbled. And still they stood nipples pulsing. And still they kissed. In slits two too, moist musk stilled. Nipples pained. Hearts’ sighs sounded. Heaven was lost. Heaven was found to the sound of girls still instilling, still kissing, stills weeping, hands seeking, love making, love coming, love cumming, still caressing, still addressing, legs inter-mingled, lips intra-singled, moisture musking, clits prancing, nipples dancing, no breath, no breath, no time for breath, breathless lips locked, deathless mouths gorging, engaged in love, made for love, making the love of love above all other loves, the love of girl with girl, the love that heaven made girl for, girl for girl for girl for girl for girl for girl……….

And Amanda. And neither Amanda nor Imogene. And Imogene. And neither Imogene nor Amanda. And Amanda. Nor either Imogene or Amanda. And Imogene. Nor either Amanda or Imogene, heard the cheers from the lair of the lovers of lovers to leer at, and peer at loves longing prolonged by girls whose cumming was silent as their still pressed mouths merged forever together, for ever and ever, time without end: midnight’s midday gnomon. Amanda and Imogene and Imogene and Amanda, two heavens too heavenly for leering lessers to leaven.


The walk to the bar of justice was punishment for the innocent girl even before her punishment as a guilty girl.

Amanda had been robed in white. A white neck-to-ankles dress naked below she in which, of opacity negligent to the degree of negligee, announcing pronounced nipple in its twice tented-out top front, and rotundity of profundity in the smooth mounds, no panties, breathless pants she sourced, smooth round mounds that rose and fell in rhythmic adoration of undiluted undulation, demanding hallelujah ululation, as sashay swaying, Amanda slowly graced her majesty to humble the judge before whom she must be humble and be humbled.

A white neck-to-ankles dress naked below she in which, of opacity negligent to the degree of negligee, glided serene princess of nature, with its neat bows up its sides even from ankle to shoulders, so it, Amanda’s prison dress, was two-halves tied with ribbons front to rear and sides open pushed by breasts massively magnificent to sear the eyes of the seer.

Amanda must shuffle as she approached her trial, for she bore wore at ankles, one-inch-long chain-hobbled, a heavy iron ball that dragged the ground behind where her bare feet had twice-blessed with their dainty caress.

The pronounced lips on Amanda’s proud queenly face quivered with “kiss-me” Morse-telegraphed by their passionate pulsation. And the sensation of the pink tongue that languorously livened their loveliness by moistening their moistness, anointing them with dew, so shining anew that they wanted you, and you they, to kiss and kiss forever and for never to cease the increase: Amanda with passion’s mouth: provocative, pert, proud negress’ lips longing for kisses on kisses, and deserving only of having their kisses kissed for eternity’s eternity.

Amanda quivered as she shivered with fear before the judge’s high bench. Amanda quivered and shivered with fear and her profoundly wonderful deep breasts rose and lowered with her deep breaths, as her nipples danced the double-tented big-top of her white dress breathlessly beautifully boundlessly sensationally soundlessly.

Amanda’s nostrils flared, scared as she was, and her eyes, her darker-than-dark dark-brown eyes, played and prayed to find comfort in her surroundings, and from her predicament, but with no solace as, solo, she must list to pronouncements and announcements awaiting her fate.

Asked the judge from her high seat behind huge high desk: “And whom is this delightful creature?”

“May it please your worship, she is one Amanda Heavensent, an erstwhile highly regarded student of mathematics and astrophysics, attending the University of Camford no less: but now dropped-out. A one-time waitress failed of performance. And most recently a personal maid, who has seen fit to reward the generosity of her employer, by running away”, announced the sublime contralto of a divine Asian-Indian prosecuting attorney, whose raven black locks shone with the rainbow that ran up and down its deeply desirable ankle-length glory, as the light was prismed whenever and wherever she moved her princessly head, gliding twixt judge and jury: a judge and jury transfixed by Amanda.

“Your worship?…” Numinah, the state attorney called, to distract the judge’s fascination with Amanda, whose eyes were lowered with fear………

“Your worship?…”

“Just so, just so. And the name of this wonderful delight?”

Astonished that she had not been heard first out, but understanding why, as Amanda’s lovely breasts quivered, and Amanda’s nipples jiggered in her all-but transparent white: white the contrast to Amanda’s goldenly delicious negroid-browness, Numinah repeated: “Amanda Heavensent your worship”

“Amanda Heavensent your worship”, Numinah repeated, keeping, as was hardly seemingly possible, her new brief to the judge, briefer than her own exceptionally brief and very pretty, and very prettily full filled, and thus very prettily fulfilled, briefs below her legal lawyer’s raiment.

“Apt: so apt………” murmured the lust love lost judge staring at the vision: Amanda.

“And of what is this perfect angel accused?” the judge enquired, as Amanda blushed, head hung low in the light of the judge’s unwavering admiring and non-admonishing, astonished and astonishingly bold stare, and the compliment from such high official office.

“May it please your worship, she is guilty of contractual breach, insofar as she ran away from the mistress to whom she was a personal maid”, Numinah announced.

“Just so, just so” the judge sighed.

“Identification evidence?”

“The state calls Miss Elspeth Zanori, the owner of the Le Rosbif restaurant chain your worship”, Numinah announced, unselfconsciously unconsciously shaking her heavenly hair aside from her lovely features as she did so.

Elspeth had identified Amanda.

“ ‘Amanda’? No. Not to my knowledge your worship. We called her ‘Mary’. I have no knowledge of any ‘Amanda’ ”……….

Elspeth’s lovely *****teen-year-old daughter, Natalie, next witness to Amanda’s identity, seemed to begin, to the mind of the judge at least, with momentary doubt.

“Drop the prisoner’s clothing please warden”, ordered the judge matter-of-factly.

Amanda made no resistance as the whole court was caught in captured rapture wrapped, as the bows siding Amanda’s full-length prison dress were loosened and undone, till a breathless breath-taken, breathtaking inrush gasp of overwhelmed astonishment echoed the air, as, with the side-split-slip slipping, the white robe dropped to reveal the black girl beneath, and the astoundingly stunning winning creature in all the majesty of youthful girlness, a work of no artifice, the outcome of nature, pure and unsullied, a negress of astounding loveliness, Amanda, was fully revealed wholly naked.

Natalie’s sweet innocent soprano lisp seemed ignorant of the emotions emoted and the stares stirred by Amanda’s nudeness and the glory of Amanda’s agonisingly lovely body:

“Oh: she’s Mary of course. Our maid…well mummy’s maid really; but my maid sometimes as well too: sometimes that is: not all the time of course: but mummy’s maid really and truly: mummy’s maid: Mary….yes Mary….she’s Mary your worship………!” the sweet little virgin schoolgirl nymphet singsong-sang, all giggle-gabble-girl.

The last witness having witnessed, the judge confirmed sentence:

“Amanda Heavensent, also apparently known as ‘Mary’, a jury consultation is not required in any breach of a maid’s contract case, where there is found two witnesses or more, confirmatory of identity”, she announced, sounding a little bored with passing yet another sentence, one and the same usual sentence, the minimum sentence the law allowed, on yet another miscreant personal maid.

“Amanda Heavensent, there having been two witnesses as to your identity, and the witness we have of your gracious and beautiful presence here in this court, showing by that very presence that you are blatantly not to at the post to which you were contractually bonded: to whit, that of personal maid to Miss Elspeth Zanori, and her very pretty daughter, Miss Natalie Zanori, it is my bounden duty under the law to sentence you, at minimum in consideration of it being a first offence, to twelve-month’s imprisonment with hard labour.”

The judge this so confirmed, before turning to Elspeth Zanori, who, having given witness, was now sitting in the well of the court:

“……….Do you wish the prisoner to be given the complimentary whipping?”

“No…….No your worship. N..No thank you your worship”, Elspeth replied, in the process and progress of abruptly standing and then re-sitting, having been taken by surprise by the unexpected question.

“Next!” the judge ordered, even as the disrobed and deeply shamed Amanda had only just begun to heaven her way back to her Girl-Court cell, to await transport to the city labour camp.


Amanda dreaded the lever.

The lever was pulled.

The lever pulled, dropped the peg she straddled and Amanda, and her fellow convictesses dropped in one single unison, painfully to the tip-top-of-big-toes in their ballerina-toe-tip-topped prison-booties.

The lever was pulled and a girl was lucky if her pretty toes were not in the filthy sewer trough that stank beneath them all their six-hour nights.

“Come on you idle whores, collect your bread. Shake those lovely legs now and lets get this moving”, the overseer called to Amanda’s band of twenty plus she: Amanda.

Other shouts of similar vein could be heard from the opposite wall-load of pegs having been dropped, as twenty-one other delightful maids made to suffer hard labour for absconding, dropped to dainty tiptoed naked-all-but-booties-ness.

Amanda’s overseer today was Banaia. Banaia was delightfully pretty. She was adorned by adorable freckles. Her ever-moist mouth was lusciously lustrous. She was no more than *****teen. Too poor to have been able to afford school, she had found the only job she could find. And even this job she would never have been allowed were she not prepared to be spiteful with the whip.

Banaia liked her uniform skirt short. Her legs were slim and very pretty. The proud way in which she filled the white blouse she must wear, showed she was braless. It would be another hot day she thought, and so Banaia had a wide-brimmed floppy sun-hat on the head of she, her head, the head of a blue-eyed blonde.

Amanda grasped her chunk of bread and dipped it practicedly into the mug of water she was supposed to drink, but needed to use to soften the crudely baked burnt bun, her breakfast.

Banaia examined the chains and neck-rings her charges wore, to ensure none were to be found loose or loosening.

“Any of you whores due on heat?” she demanded, to an answering silence.

The coincidence of the girls’ cycles had not occurred as phenomenon reputed, supported reports it should. But then girls came and went from the gang, and their treatment upset or even stopped the natural cycle of many of them. The girls were not grouped long enough for their menstrual cycles to begin to coincide.

“Any of you whores due on heat?” came the question repeat.

Amanda was among those who made no answer.

The prisoners passed the few toothbrushes allowed, between the baker’s gross of them as they cleansed their mouths.

Amanda was in the last week of her sentence: her year of hell was close its close.

No mirror. Siabon would shave Amanda’s legs and she Siabon’s: at least the safety razors were plenty, even if shaving without soap, and using cold water, could be very unpleasant.

The state did not want its prisoners looking any less than their best. The public was sold on harsh punishment, but would be repelled if the girls looked ill kempt. Television was everywhere. Every day, everyday-TV did a documentary somewhere. The public wanted happy prisoners. The existence of happy prisoners was apparently proven by smooth legs.

The girls were there to suffer. Suffer they would and did. But suffering did not preclude girly moments, and there was a surprisingly relaxed atmosphere even between some overseers and convictesses (though never when Banaia was the warden), with only ‘the regulations’ differentiating their relative behaviour.

Talking was not allowed during the overnight six-hours astride the pegs, ‘the regulations’ required that the girls be allowed to sleep, thus they must not be allowed to talk to each other; but the girls at breakfast chatted freely, and as happily as girls under great duress could.

There were friendships and even love-affairs between them.

Amanda had kept her sweet loveliness aloof, but a number of couples held hands as they prepared to face the day.

Holding hands was all they were officially allowed to do. The wardens might ‘turn their backs’ and, ‘accidentally’, not see the occasional kiss, but full fulfilment was absolutely out of the question: it was not allowed under ‘the regulations’.

In the morning inside Girl-Prison Scotland Number 134, near Glasgow, It was one hour between seven and eight, just as it was in Glasgow itself or London, And that hour, and others from among the twenty-four, including a long evening before they must astride their pegs, were allowed for ‘free association’ among the girls.

It had been a penal-psychologist’s recommendation. Dr Amy Sexton’s, ‘Criminalized Girl and Avoided Recalcitrance’ had laid down long since that:

“Obedience is preserved and temporally-served by allowing humanityization calculated to personalityize the girl, by ‘self-and-other’ identification, embracing, though decidedly not allowably physically, the so called ‘significant other’ factor through diadization, by granting lengthy associationization, with other thus also in-parallel non-pareil societyized prisonerized females.”

Sometimes the breakfast hour would even drift into two-hours. Rain was the most frequent cause of this. The wardens did not have a care if the prisoners spent a day in the rain, but did care if they themselves were to be saturated.

Amanda dreaded Banaia.

Amanda knew: she just knew that something was about to happen.

“Okay you whores, grab your cloths, and lets get this show on the road!” Banaia shouted clapping her hands to silence the rising music of inter-girl chatter.


The gorgeous Irish colleen curtsied to Banaia.

“Siabon: you’re on latrines. Before we come back, I want all this area scrubbed till even its shine shines. And I expect the shit-trough to be as clean as a hounds tooth. And it had better be so fuckin’ clean you could eat out of it, cos if it ain’t, then girl, you ARE gonna fuckin’ eat out of it!”

Siabon curtsied once again, to confirm she would obey.

“Jazeel!” Banaia, called next.


“Jazeel: where the fuck are you?!”

An astonishing Turkish delight, a *****teen-year-old nymphet, was squatting her goddess given haunches over the latrine trough, and her heavenly wine was hissing to shameful waste, among the 24-hour previously gathered faeces and urine.

Banaia had already drawn her whip. She carried a strop-strap some four-feet in length, round at the handle, flat at its ‘business end’, one-and-a-half inches wide, and fully one-quarter-inch thick at that same end. Heavy leather, it whistled through the air and, ‘THWICK!!’ struck the Turkish angel full on her beautiful left thigh, slapping her onto her side ‘splash’ into the stinking latrine.

“You fuckin’ answer when I fuckin’ call you, you fuckin’ bitch!” Banaia screamed.

‘THWICK!!’ for so called ‘good measure’ Banaia’s whip-strap kissed the divine heaven of Jazeel’s bare derriere, and made the little angel reflex-buck and scream.

“You think yerself fuckin’ lucky whore. Laundry!”

Jazeel stood on trembling legs, and with tears coursing down her pretty face, curtseyed acknowledgement that she would work as the laundress that day.

Amanda took up her white cloth. It was the only clothing the prisoners wore. Siabon and Jazeel would stay naked bar their chains, they were not going out into the world. But for Amanda and the other girls in her troop, there was a mile-long walk to the stone quarry.

Amanda began to wrap the cool white cotton cloth around her supremely slim waist, and then took its tails, the tails from the knot presently at her hips, around her back, before drawing the tails up between her superb thighs, to tuck them into the band around her waist, and thus cover her intimate parts.

“Amanda!” Banaia suddenly called, causing Amanda’s body to leap with the shock of its suddenness so close: close to a degree Amanda had not realised that Banaia was standing behind her.

“Amanda: are you on your fuckin’ bleed?!”

Amanda, TNT, the totally natural temptress, was indeed at that epitome of her natural cycle confirmatory of her distinction as a member of the highest sex: the red seal of goddess’ imprimatur to practice as a girl, and no lesser creation.

Amanda had known she was ‘due on’ and knew that morning first thing that she had ‘come on’, and only naturally wished to keep the intimate secretion secret and secreted, till her moon based cycle had completed its red hot red run.

Amanda curtsied thighilly in confirmation she was indeed menstruating.

“Then take that fuckin’ cloth off you dirty whore. I ain’t going to have good cloth wasted on prisoners’ fuckin’ monthlies!”, Banaia ordered.

Amanda slowly undressed from even that lowly and tiny vestment, that last vestige of cladding to mark her as a fellow within the civilised and thus clothed world: the last sliver of dignity she was allowed as a prisoner, and passed it to Jazeel, whose nimble fingers on lovely hands, hid that it already had some of Amanda’s red streaking it crimson.

The prisoners were lining up. Amanda took the rear. Each girl had picked up the huge iron ball that was chained to the middle of the chain between their slim ankles, so they could carry it as they walked. Banaia went down the row, clipping one long chain to the back of the front girl’s neck-band, and the same chain to the front of the next girl’s band, and the next, and the next, till all nineteen remaining girls of Amanda’s troop, were chained neck to neck.

Amanda’s wiggling rump magicked the rear as, tiptoed and with her divine buttocks thus clenched and concavely side-dimpled supremely smoothly, Amanda’s long tautly-tight girlmuscle-smooth extremely supremely shapely legs and dynamo-powerful thighs, formed the rear: Amanda’s delicious rear formed the rear: Amanda naked as nature formed the rear, as the girls were ordered to walk.

Amanda’s delicious rear formed the rear, as the nineteen wicked former maids under punishment, wiggled and waggled their delightful full round bottoms, marching, although such was not the strict requirement, in unison, and with unison of left-right, left right, swing, thus imparted to the breasts of all the lovely girls, bar little Amika, a *****teen-year-old tiny tittied school-aged naughty nymph, whose virgin-firm little breasts and long pink nipples jiggled in rhythm as she led from the front of the Indian-file crocodile.

Amanda was the only fully naked girl there, and she the more naked felt, even for the absence of the merest covering the cloth around the lower beauty of her companion convictesses formed.

Amanda was also marked out by another factor: a bright red factor seeping from her slice.


Every day it was the same delightful pain. Every day the walking prisoners left the gate to be among a gaggle of screaming, giggling teasing taunting, deliciously lovely schoolgirls.

These girls, *****teen to *****teen of age-years at most, were still in discovery of their growing womanly powers, and were not shy of showing the wonder of burgeoning bodies, in knowing-innocence of the beauty of the display of firm young breasts, and pretty legs.

Uniform yes: Monday to Thursday yes: but Friday!! Oh Friday!!!

Monday to Thursday: as if it were not bad enough: these lovely mischievous minxes in school uniform of near bursting white blouses, buttons strained to flying off by hardly contained uncupped and thus uncontrolled and unrestrainedly jogger-jigger titties, wore flared skirts so short that their white panties showed, so bright white, so very taut as to delineate their virgin-tight slits in mid of frontal down-sweeping nude-shaven post-pubescent pulchritudinous pouch, and expose cheeky bare naughty little bummy quarter-cheeks at rear to sear seer. And, as if this were not pleasure-torture enough there was Friday!

And Friday?! Friday was ‘dress-down-day’ at school, and these innocent ingénues dared each other to wear the latest fashion for high thigh high, white, thigh squeezing elasticised-topped, cotton socks, and split-sided, both sides-split, micro-micro-mini-skirts, with tiny g-string panties, leaving pretty bottoms completely bare, and pointy conical gold or silver nipple-caps.

Nipple-caps were all the rage with young girls in 2084. They wore nothing above their hips bar their stick-on or clip-on nipple-covers. The Australasian zing singer, Kala Zino, had made the rave inevitable when she had appeared at the 2083 Newmold Festival in nipple-caps and little else.

Now, in honour, and ape, and ache of desire to be wearing the latest daring fashion, throughout Britain, on school dress-down day at least, gorgeous little schoolgirl titties frolicked fully free, as lovely angels skipped and teased each other on their way to and from the school day.

Many of the latest designs of nipple-caps had bells on the ends of their pointed tips: bells further decorated with dangling ribbons. And, though the ribbons were only meant for looking pretty, girls had inevitably taken to pulling their friends’ ribbons to tease them, by making their nipple-bell ‘ding-a-ling’ as the tug-teased-tittie made its mesmerising merry dance so tantalisingly and oh so musically.

Now, about town, when a girl approached: along with the supremely erotically arousing sound of extremely high heels ‘click’ ‘clack’ ‘click’ ‘clack’ on the sidewalks, also went the gentle ‘tinkle’, ‘tinkle’, ‘tinkle’, ‘tinkle’ of bouncing titties, bountiful and beautiful with swinging tinging singing beribboned nipple-caps and their nipple-tip-bells.

For a girl such as Amanda, celibate for a year, the near-year of her hard-labour sentence, such sights, and the musical sound of playful schoolgirls on their way to their day, were supreme pain and sublime pleasure.

The freedom these blossoming women had, was so much in contrast with Amanda’s restraints.

And Natalie, now *****teen, was always among them and Natalie was so stunningly pretty.

And Natalie led the mocking calls at the prisoners, as they tiptoe-wiggled in file, under Banaia’s guard.

“We can see your bummy! We can see your bummy! We can see your bummy!” followed by giggles that showed their was ferment in the format of their cruelty, and that all were going to deny among and between them, that they were schoolgirls turned-on by the sensual beauty of older girls such as Amanda, and that the blushes such as Natalie wore on peach soft complexion, hid girly mini-erection: the twitching of clitori among a wellspring, well sprung, of moist musk in immature whelp wet whetted naughty-nice-naughty tight little slices.


Girlacles temporarily off and cast aside to free her lovely arms for her labours, Amanda lifted her heavy sledgehammer. Glorious slim beauty natural as nature if not more than, in sinews and soft girlmuscular arms and long tiptoed legs, led to her swinging the hammer through its thousandth arc of the day, as the drizzling rain anointed her with heaven’s tears, running in rivulets and diamonding in droplets on her soft brown, soft bare flesh, to wash the sweet sweat of her humbling labour, as she fought to break the unbreakable, smashing the hammer down, on what might just as well be a mountain, as the unyielding granite rock she was so usefully youthfully uselessly being made to hit, to beat perchance to break: no chance.

Each blow reverberated through Amanda’s slender frame and bounced her titties down and up again, endlessly sensationally. Her poor pretty hands had long since bled from rawness and soreness, and were now callused and hardened by the callas treatment of the hard-labour she must endure and had endured near full her twelve-month sentence now.

For eight hours she had this day swung the hammer, with her inside thighs anointed with the red of her loosing-streak in her bleed week, as her menstruum seeped from slit between sigh thighs of heaven high.

And Amanda knew that Banaia love-hated her, and Banaia had whipped her on and off all through the day, and denied her water, and ordered Amanda to work through the midday break. As the other girls whiled an hour out of the shower of rain, Amanda swung her hammer again and again, and again, and her screams as Banaia’s whip kissed her bottom time after time with pain, punctuated the punctual stoppage for bread and pottage. And Banaia was lover spurned and thus spurred to hurt by hurt, as innocent Amanda had not wanted to despoil a *****teen-year-old risking her job for lust not true love, and must now take the beating on her nudity as ‘THWICK!!’, Amanda’s knees nearly buckled as she hollered her pain at the whip’s kiss aflame across dimpled derriere on stilted legs long and smooth and supremely shapely. And ‘THWICK!!’ Banaia’s anger again rocked Amanda whose feet touched ground only by dint of metallic tips in curved steel-lined soles keeping her ballerina tiptop-tip-of-big-toe-standing leggy leg stretched. And ‘THWICK!!’ Banaia would knock the flawless girl she adored to floor with more of the whip. And ‘THWICK!!’ as Amanda screamed now being whipped for forbearing to swing her hammer for pain. And ‘THWICK!!’, the whip kissed her sexy bummy again. And Amanda wanted to beg not to be beaten. And ‘THWICK!!’ Banaia slapped Amanda around her side and poor Amanda staggered and caught hold of her flogged right tittie. But now Amanda was incensed insane and wanted the whip again. And ‘THWICK!!’ her bummy was slapped savagely hard, and she swung her hammer against the unyielding shock of the unbreakable rock, and moan-squeak-screamed with wanton woman whimper. And ‘THWICK!!’ Amanda’s bummy was thrashed and reverberated to the sound of her unashamed wicked wanton’s gasp of pleasure, arising with welted skin red and rising in furrows of agony from whip kissing whip’s kiss weals, on cheeky cheeks well slapped. And ‘THWICK!!’ and Amanda’s clitoris was dancing and her nipples were outstandingly out-standing and demanding of the whip’s caress. And ‘THWICK!!’ she squealed with pain and joy as her right nipple was split with the cruellest hardest savagest stroke of Banaia’s anger. Amanda’s slit dripped her period’s blood, and yet wretched as this made her, and hot and dampened from all arousal till ‘the curse’ had passed, usually past, yet the yets, she was now afire and wanted the whip’s delivery of its devilry in her ultimate intimacy. And Amanda had parted her legs to beg in longing for the slap of leather on lips nether, now slippery with menstruum’s crimson and sexual honey. And ‘THWICK!!’ yet once more Banaia whipped Amanda’s bare bummy, and Amanda screamed as she orgasmed, and she knelt on the haunches of heaven, and pressed thus made-massive maid’s thighs, massive thigh to massive thigh, and rubbed thigh on thigh lubricated to luminescence by sweet girl-sweat and soft rain, as pain on pain caused her to orgasm again and again, as she, hammer dropped now, clutched her breasts in hard worn palms and caressed the soft firm painfully pointed carafes, her wonderful bosom twice formed, to grasp the pinnacled-points of her negro pink-brown nipples, and squeeze them twixt forefinger and thumb, to make herself cum yet more again, as she screamed inhumanly yet thrice twice more………….. And thus so, just so, so long so, year-long since orgasm so, Amanda squatted as her menstrual blood and cum honey dripped to baptise the same, the very same hard rock her hardest strike of hammer twelve hell-long months since begun could not sunder, with the sanctify of her hot soft gentle womanly seeping weeping crimson wonder.

Eve Adorer
06-23-2007, 06:12 AM
2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 5 – Cyclical

Amanda reached with her moist pointed pink tongue and tasted. Then she languorously licked, later lusciously folding her fellationic flagellum along the length of the choice item, sucked it with luminously luxurious negress’ lips into her orgasmic oral offertory, worked worship with talented tongue and teeth until it was teetering, and then swallowed it: all of it: every last lucky drop.

Today, it was apple.


Three-months since by now, Girl-Prison Scotland Number 134, Glasgow, had seen the last of Amanda, she sincerely extremely hoped.

With all the kindness and consideration it showed all girls whose sentence had been served, Amanda had walked out into the light of freedom with everything the authorities were willing to provide an ex-prisoner who, as a follow-up to loss of her previous food, shelter, and employment, had just completed one-year’s imprisonment with hard labour.

Yes indeed: Amanda wiggled out of prison, naked but for her heelless tip-top-toe stand-on leg-skyscrapering prison booties, and had an emptied dirty coarse jute sack thrown out onto the rainy pavement immediately after her, before hearing the door built into the steel iron-riveted prison gate, slam shut behind her.

The whipping had been terrible. Amanda had been made to witness. Banaia had had her head shaved bald, been paraded before the prisoneresses she had abused so cruelly when on warden’s watch, then been suspended naked upside down by her big toes, and flogged from feet to head and back again.

The trigger for Banaia’s summary trial by the prison governess, and immediate punishment of one-hundred lashes, had been the state of Amanda’s body, after Banaia had whipped her so savagely in the quarry. Banaia’s malign cruelty had gone far too far beyond “the regulations” which only allowed “proportionate punishment” for “misdemeanours, incompetence, idleness, and insubordination” among imprisoned convictesses.

Now Amanda had spent her last nights astride a “peg” facing the cold tile wall, on which her supremely superb nipples rubbed: the cold tile wall of the barn used to house convictesses overnight in Girl-Prison Scotland Number 134, Glasgow, with Banaia moaning and sobbing on the peg alongside her, and due, once Amanda’s year of Imprisonment with hard labour was finally over, to take Amanda’s place trying to break unbreakable rocks in the quarry henceforth.

All this from the lust Amanda could not help having inspired in Banaia. Unrequited love Banaia would have had it had. In the form of fury from frustration Amanda had had it, heavy and hard on her naked body with Banaia’s love’s lust lost in the lengthy lash of the larruping leather. All this, and yet, if only the governess had asked her, Amanda would have forgiven Banaia for flogging her so brutally.


The apple was sweet. Amanda’s by far sweeter tongue stretched and swept side-to-side, silently searching to secure a second succulent slice to suck slowly, savour, and swallow. No gardened Eve could have tempted with such certainty, or serpent or snake-charmer as surely seduced.

Business was momentarily slack.

“Jingle” “Jingle”


Amanda reached down with lovely slim brown arms and supremely pretty long flawlessly flexible-nimble-fingered hands, and swept up the sack.

Naked beautiful negro-brown, and cold on the outskirts of Glasgow, with only her booties and this sack in all the world, the suns rays could not warm her majesty until sunrise still an hour away, and there was a long way for Amanda to wiggle before city supplanted suburb.

Amanda wanted to cry. This was her 20th birthday present. This nakedness, these painful booties, and this sack, were all she had for her twenty-young-years of perfecting the world by her very presence. Her presence the world’s present; her birthday present, her present hopelessness. She giving guiltless golden girl to whirl the world; the world granting dark dank despair to her.

Desperate for warmth and modestly to cover her bare body, examining with eyes flashing high intellect and sweet gentleness, Amanda spotted the hole in the middle-bottom of the sack and corresponding holes at bottom corners cut off for the purpose, and soon, long lovely arms were through corners, and noble head through central hole, and the bottom of the sack had become the top of a crude dress covering her wonderfully titted top, and the sack’s top the so called dress’ hem, barely covering her beautiful bare bottom.

Amanda drew the sweetest softest breath, and fought back her tears, as she stepped with long lovely legs toward the city as the only place she could think of to go now she had been thrown back out into the world alone.

As sweet progress she made, the sack was too rigid for the bottom she swayed, and stayed staid as Amanda’s beautiful buttocks bounded broadly wide-to-wide and undulated down and up, nature girlsonified, torsioning tendons tractoring temptation’s attention to draw near, especially espied from side or rear.

With steps that “click” “clack” “click” “clack “click” “clack” “click” “clacked” erotically musically: Amanda’s steel tipped toe-ends, the toe-ends on which she was enforcedly constantly stood, on the concrete sidewalk, Amanda walked. Amanda walked so naturally: as naturally as lust and longing loved to see. Such legs and such a bottom: long lissom smoothly striding so strong so long they: smackable round and so deeply side-dimpled, from her tiptoed tension, and stunningly sexy it: never humdrum a girl’s bum. As she merely walked, Amanda convulsed clits and radioed erections by her perfections.


“You licensed then darlin”?” Sugar had asked.

“Yes ma'am” Amanda had replied extremely nervously.

“Truth told, you're just out of state prison ain’t you luv?” Sugar had countered whilst walking around the stunning glory of Amanda in her mocking sack made mock dress.

“No” Amanda responded hanging her lovely head and gently biting her gorgeous lower lip too late to stop the obvious lie escaping.

“Mmm. Well I ain’t gonna ask yer to show your licence to me luv, cos you and me both know you’se telling a lie, don’t we eh?” Sugar had almost whispered.

“Yes” gulped Amanda with tears running down her lovely face, “Yes …. Yes…… oh god what am I to do……….?


A third sliver of the delicious apple was fished for and found by the undebateably unbeatable bate that was Amanda’s moist pink tongue.

Running the tip of her tongue over upper lip so proud and pert, Amanda unselfconsciously moistened it, and ran her innocent tongue to match her lower lip with her upper lip’s freshly imparted shine divine, and thus her mouth lips shone in orgasmic reminder that she was four-lipped, and her two fore-lips were matched by two lower-lips, and together lips and lips, she was foremost in her four most, two now with dew moist, with two to moisten too, to match with the sweetest of dew when due.

“Jingle” “Jingle”


The Edinburgh Road into Glasgow was endless. Amanda’s booties now “click” “clack” “click” “clacked” with the same supreme sexiness but slightly less determination as tiredness at her endless seeming walk.

Amanda’s bottom still swayed all the way along her route: side-to-side, and north and south of the road she blessed with her 100-pounds of one-hundred-percent girl. To follow her wake would have been to risk mesmerisation and surrender to her tender grace: if only she would about-face and offer you her longed for embrace: that you wish: no: you pray to be prey to!

Amanda’s full firm bosom swung within the limited modesty of her sack dress as she swayed her graceful way. Amanda’s full firm bosom swung within the limited modesty of her sack dress, and her nipples were rubbed and chafed and aroused and excited by its coarseness: until now, when her long walk had tired her lovely legs, and her nipples had become merely sore: very sore, chafed by the jute sack so that they seemed to burn with undischarged static-electricity.

With the constant chafing of her mocking mockery of a so-called dress, Amanda’s nipples felt like the positive and negative poles of a supercharged battery, with high risk that a lightening spark would leap instantly agonisingly from nipple to nipple were she to lift her deliberately cruelly demeaning dress off her wonderful bosom and release the pent-up ecstatic static spark.

“click” “clack” “click” “clack” Amanda’s steps beat out their evocative provocative rhythm, as she tiptoed ballerinered along the ever hard never harder never ending pavement. She was thirsty, she was hungry, she was hot, she was tired, but she was also proud, and she was not going to beg, she told herself.

At long last Alexandra Parade led into High Street. Amanda wanted to wiggle to the Central Station. She knew not why. She knew not why as she had not money. Nowhere from there could she go by train. She literally had nothing other than what she stood up in, or rather was presently wiggling her sexy-sway-way in.

Among the crowds of shoppers, mid-morning had long since arrived, as Amanda had strived to stride toward the only security she could dream of, the Central Station, which in truth offered no solace bar the balm of a dream she had nurtured as she wiggled along, in defiance of all reality that she was in fact reduced to the streets and must eventually beg for alms if she did not wish to starve.

“Click” “clack” “click” “clack” Amanda’s steps among the crowds of mid-morning shoppers, did not need to be heard, she being now close enough among them for her divine presence to stir and start unstoppable stares.

“ ‘Allo darlin’. You sellin’ it den?” asked an overweight housewifely type, who knew, as Amanda was yet to learn, that many of Amanda’s fellow former convictesses were reduced to prostituting themselves.

Amanda swayed her natural snake swish way away, with the understandably instantly besotted older woman in her wake.

“Give you fifty cents for a feel of it luv?”

Amanda hurried her pace harried and embarrassed by the harassment.

“A dollar den. Can’t say fairer dan dat can I. A dollar’s top book for a feel!”

“Please go away”, Amanda, with tears starting on the lower rims of heaven’s own eyes, begged the insistent persistent housewife.

“Stuck up cow!” called the woman’s receding voice as Amanda exceeded her previous speed, by succeeding in accessing some last drip drop of adrenalin from somewhere to get away from her taunting tormentor.

“You’ll fuckin’ beg for ‘em to feel yer for a penny, when yer fuckin starvin', yer bitch” called the disappointed desire-crazed housewife.


“You know I can’t take you on if you're not licensed luv” Sugar confirmed.

But sugar is sweet and Sugar was sweeter. Fully forty, fit and fulsomely curved. Sugar could still wear her long straight blonde hair down to her comely waistline without it looking as if she were unwise to defy her advancing years by “dressing too young”. She looked like a woman half her age, and shocked many a younger woman who tried to date her, when she answered her own rhetorical question: “How old do you think I am then sweetheart?”

“You look as if you could do with some food!” Sugar teased.

Amanda tried so hard not to look eager, but a rumble in her pretty belly told the truth had been hit upon.

“Sit yourself down sweetheart” Sugar motioned with a sweep of her hand to indicate a plastic chair next a table in the corner of her office.

Sugar could not help but enjoy the joy of watching Amanda wiggle to the chair, and nearly gasped as Amanda sat, innocently revealing the astounding astonishing absolute epitome of her youthful body, accidentally, in the process.

As she walked over to where Amanda sat, Sugar removed the cellophane wrap covering the contents of the plastic plate she had just taken from her refrigerator, her intended own lunch, and slid the loaded plate before the young black beauty.

“There you go luv” she coaxed gently, as Amanda so hungry was as to go so far as to forget her innate good manners, and begin to grasp the salad from the plate even before it had touched down and landed on the tabletop alight deck.


In pretence of having intention and destination, Amanda on the station platform flicked her dark-brown luminous lanterns of passion personified, over the postcard advertisements stuck with Goo-Tack to the insides of a station café window.

With her tummy rumbling and her mouth dry with thirst, Amanda had watched wealthy families’ schoolgirl daughters toss just-once-sipped-from cans of Okay-Cola into the trash bins of Central Station, and yet still her pride would not yet let her grasp one and quench her natural need for moisture.

Feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable from knowing that her lovely body was being ogled by a group of older women at the table above which the notices were fixed to the window at which she stared, Amanda read quickly, and, because of the address being so nearby, found her pained tired eyes repeatedly returning to:

Yellow Pretties™
are HIRING misdemeanants.
Food and shelter provided.
Community Service Licence holders only.
119 Jamaica Street
‘Just around the corner’
Applications must be in person”


Sugar looked at the young woman and just knew she had to help her.

Amanda had blessed Sugar’s doorway at 119 Jamaica Street, the tenth girl that morning looking for a job with “Yellow Pretties”. Amanda was the prettiest by a league-long way, by the length of Amanda’s own legs you might say.

“You know its fuckin' hard work and you don’t get no fuckin’ pay don’t you sweetheart?”

“If you will help me I promise I won’t let you down”, Amanda beseeched, as she had no need to, for her very essence was pleasing pleasure without need of pleading.

Sugar put two pills and a glass of water on the table before the still ravenous Amanda.

Amanda took the pills in her pretty fingertips and anointed them with the blessing of her sweet lips and tongue, sipping water to swallow them. Two pills: “one for each one” they had said. Amanda knew what they were for: she had heard talk when in prison.

As if her obedient swallowing of the pills had been her signature on a contract, Sugar announced to Amanda: “You can start tomorrow!” And Amanda instantly pounced to heaven’s toes on legs long and rushed and crushed Sugar with loving arms to match showering kisses of gratitude.

“Sweetheart! Sweetheart!” Sugar called out from within the loving smothering Amanda’s overwhelmed relief at finding sanctuary, which, combined with her natural loving nature, had brought about: the embrace and the kisses lucky Sugar would hitherto only have wet-dreamed of.

“Sweetheart! Sweetheart!” Sugar called out, “You got the job!”

Amanda had taken the two pills, “one for each one”.


The injections had hurt terribly: “one for each one”.

Sugar had been as gently as she could be, but the hypodermic needle, all nine-inches of it, had had to be inserted through Amanda’s astounding nipples, and all nine-inches deep into her heavenly breasts: “one for each one”.

The horrible injections done, all that was now needed was for Amanda to take two pills per day, and it would begin in five days or so, and continue for as long as she kept taking the pills. She could be given a nosebag till then.

Amanda was showering. Lots of lovely girls came and went.

“God! I had some fucking students again today: fucking rich bitches”, this was Genutha.

Genutha, 38DD-22-36 and 21, shoulder-length pale blonde, with freckled pixie-nymph’s face, green eyes that outsparkled emeralds, and disarmingly charmingly impertinent upturned upper lip offering succulent sustenance to the lucky kissing lover, came naked into the communal shower, talking to herself, or else a friend she had assumed was already in there.

Genutha, 38DD-22-36 and 21, unselfconsciously unashamedly naked as nature, sweet sweat shining from hard work, simply turned on a showerhead and got on with her shower as she casually admired the naked showering shy Amanda.

“Hi! You new?”

“Hi”. Amanda replied shyly with her full radius radiated beauty eradiated feminine charm.

“Sugar says I start tomorrow”

Genutha running with pearls of wet, whisked back her wringing dripping hair from her left ear, and revealed a cruel looking disc on her earlobe.

“Can’t see yours”, she challenged mischievously inquisitively of Amanda

Amanda guessed the disc was related to the licence she was supposed to have.

“Sugar’s holding it for me” she lied.

Genutha’s exceptionally pretty fingers instantly gasp-smothered the divinest and girliest of giggles, till she could recover composure: “Oh….Sorry” Genutha giggled sweetly lovingly some more. “Sorry, sorry…..mine’s a forgery too!” she responded, now smiling to show that she was not laughing at Amanda but with relief that, like Amanda, she too had found alms from Sugar, and now was not alone among the “illegal” girls Sugar managed.

“You an ex-con as well then?” Genutha challenged sweetly inquisitively.

“Yes” Amanda smiled back, now totally won over by this charming still giggling lovely lively Genutha.

“Me too. Three-month’s hard in Number 134” Genutha shuddered, with a shadow suddenly clouding her sunny sunshine.

“I was only *****teen. The girl next to me was rude to our teacher in class behind her back? The teacher said it was me……….They stripped me naked and caned me on my bum, with my bare bum facing in front of the whole school………. and it wasn’t even me that did it!”, Genutha, recalled with eyes downcast her sunshine now visited by rain clouds.

“And………..And, when the caned me it hurt…..oh god it hurt……..but I wanted it……….I wanted it to hurt…….can you fucking believe that? I fucking wanted it to hurt!” Tears were starting in the poor girls eyes, “And….and….you know what?….. you know what?…..when they were caning me……….when they were caning me on my bare bum in front of the whole school…..I came………….can you believe that?……….they were whipping me, giving me ten with a cane, and I had a massive cum in front of the whole school………and all the other girls….. the other girls……they………they all cheered…..they just fucking cheered!” Genutha sobbed…..……….And the judge was a fucking bitch. Three-months hard labour for a bit of teenage naughtiness…………. and it wasn’t even me….it wasn’t even me!………..”

Amanda longed to embrace and hug the emotionally hurt and crying stunning girl.

“Still. I got a job now, if you can call it that” Genutha whispered with an tearful croak, before she once again outshone the summer with her smile and a rainbow in the tears that topple-teetered on her lower eyelids.

As Genutha turned off her individual shower, Amanda continued to luxuriate in the first warm shower she had had for a year.

“Do you want to fuck?” Genutha asked casually, in a tone indicating that she expected rejection, as she wiggled out to find a towel.

“N….No!” Amanda reflexed in shock and surprise, with a tone she regretted, the instant after she had emitted the sound, for its possible misinterpretation as communicating disgust at the idea of love making with a girl whose name she did not even yet know.

“Suit yourself” Genutha smiled, removing all eye contact in her hurt…………..

…………Only moments later, wet Amanda proffered still towel dabbing Genutha a warm soft white towel.

Moments later yet, wet Amanda was being gently towelled dry by a serenely sunny smile with effervescent emerald eyes.

Moments later still, still wet brown and still damp white were in love’s embrace, face to face, lips on lips, sighs on sighs, hands caressing hips: candy: sweet candy: sweet chocolate brown: and sweet white chocolate, melting merging and melding in the supreme inferno of mutual desire. And, as all Genutha’s lovers were compelled to do and never ever did not, Amanda’s lovely long fingered hands were gently treasuring Genutha’s head as she, Amanda, was lovingly licking exploratorily over and over, up and down and side to side, slow licking and savouring, the proud prize: the insolent upturned pouting pert upper lip that adorned Genutha’s adorable freckle-pixellated “cheeky-pixie” rapturously-smiling face, as Genutha’s eyes closed and rolled to heaven in ecstasy behind her flickering eyelids and her stunted grunted sexy sighs.


Amanda kissed the forehead of the still slumbering Genutha alongside her in their bed of eight-lips-two-tongues-kissing, licking, and trickle-wine-sipping, soixante-nerf passion, as she, Amanda, rose to shower for the day.

Sugar had not needed to prod Amanda awake. It was already 5.00 a.m. and a minimum fourteen-hour day awaited Amanda, firstly on station at the train station at six a.m. prompt.

On hand, because it was Amanda’s first day, Sugar had clipped a large metal disc, containing a round document labelling Amanda with her own name forged on a “Community Service License” Amanda had no real right to. The sharp pin of its clip pierced Amanda’s left earlobe painfully.

Amanda sweet lips sucked fresh fruit for her breakfast.

Two pills she then took “one for each one”.


Amanda reached with her moist pointed pink tongue and tasted. Then she languorously licked, later lusciously folding her fellationic flagellum along the length of the choice item, sucked it with luminously luxurious negress’ lips into her orgasmic oral offertory, worked worship with talented tongue and teeth until it was teetering, and then swallowed it: all of it: every last lucky morsel.

Today, it was apple.

“Jingle” “Jingle”

“Yellow Pretties” was another of Miss Elspeth Zanori's entrepreneurial notions.

Nobody could possibly look prettier in yellow than the negress-brown Amanda.

“Yellow Pretties” took the “misdemeanants”: girls who were found guilty by the Courts of Girl-Misdemeanour. For such crimes as speaking out of turn for example, maids were usually sentenced to community service: degrading menial tasks such as washing and scrubbing the sidewalks clean.

Elspeth had approached the authorities with a money making proposition. She would take the prettiest of the girls guilty of misdemeanours and use them to work for payments, from which the girl would get nothing, but the authorities would receive a cut on top of the taxes Elspeth was already obliged to pay: Income Tax from 2084 onwards being at ninety cents in the dollar for women, and twenty cents in the dollar for men of course.

The only rule the authorities had laid down, was that they would label the misdemeanant girls with a license: no girl without a license could be employed by Elspeth, and no work was to be provided for those such as Amanda and Genutha, who had served sentences imposed by the higher courts.

Sugar was therefore letting her kind heart take two risks: discovery by the authorities and discovery by Elspeth, both of which could soon see Sugar serving a sentence secured for crime, it being far more than a mere misdemeanour to be found employing unlicensed girls with Yellow Pretties.

“Yellow Pretties” were cabs: taxis. They were called a “Pretty” because they employed a pretty girl to propel them: the name reflected a play on the olden day horse-drawn Hansom Cabs that had plied the streets of London when the 19th century had turned into the 20th.

With the world’s oil supply at its nearest yet to expiry, and with girls abundantly available as cheap labour, plus the hook of very attractive girls providing the motivation and the motivation: the motivation to use such cabs, and the power that drove it in motion, Elspeth was sure she was onto a sure-fire winner.

Amanda was on station at the Central Station Glasgow. The painful injections in her breasts and the daily pills would soon operate on her hormonal balance and make her self-sufficient, but, in the meanwhile, the loving lovely Sugar had fitted a cloth bag over Amanda’s face, by means of string drawn around behind Amanda’s delightful little ears: a bag containing slivers of apple for Amanda’s luncheon nourishment: a nosebag.

The pretty bells on Amanda’s yellow leather neck choker jingled as sweet Amanda’s long loving tongue used the skill it had learned in intimacy with the honeying slices of her lovers, to lever slices of apple into her oral orifice.

Today, lunch was apple.

Amanda’s bells prettily sounded: “Jingle” “Jingle”


The Chinese coolie’s style hat was in yellow rubber as was the rest of Amanda’s uniform.

Amanda was four-month’s into her work for Sugar now.

The hat, strapped under her chin, was for the sun and Glasgow’s rain.

Amanda stood high like the figurehead on the prow of a wood hulled sailing ship but more upright: she was in heavy bondage.

She wore a yellow rubber brassiere that held her huge tits very tight and close-huggingly contained, making them somehow look more massive than their actual natural enormity. Tight, very tight and close-huggingly, she wore yellow rubber knickers. Apart from hat, bra, and yellow rubber knickers, Amanda was bare: golden negress beautiful brown bare, including her feet.

Nobody could possibly look prettier in yellow than the negress-brown Amanda.

Running between Amanda’s amazing cleavage was the steel upright, which below, forked to include a wheel, a three-foot diameter “bicycle” wheel, and at top had curved equals of handlebars, that went in fact under Amanda’s armpits and ended in rings that enabled her to be strapped and padlocked to the upright by means of the underarm “handlebars” on which her 100-pounds of girl rested its wonderful wonder.

As a secondary means of holding her delicious mass, Amanda straddled a cunt-saddle, a triangle of steel protruding from the upright, this triangle going between the arch of her powerful thighs, this triangle offering her its apex on which to rest her most sensitive organ: her slit, her slice. Even though her tight yellow rubber panties intervened, to sit long on this saddle offered Amanda only pain and no solace to her slit.

The saddle curved up so that the triangle offering Amanda’s cunt spiteful respite, having formed a saddle to straddle, curved to make a chair back by rising up behind Amanda, and finishing with a “crossbar” comprising curved wings that gently hugged Amanda’s slim female nothing-wasted waist: lucky wings.

Amanda’s arms were pulled behind her, girlackled at the wrists to each other, and tethered to her bell-decorated choker: “Jingle” “Jingle”, forcing her to hold her head up to avoid choking.

Up from the steel upright ran two pipes with open ends curved forward and then back again to be in reach of Amanda’s tantalising tantamount to torment of temptation negress’ lips. These pipes were rigid stainless steel as they came up from the upright, but changed to yellow rubber at their bottom ends. From where they were welded to the upright, they were connected by yellow rubber tubes to the tips of Amanda’s tits within her bright yellow straining her huge breasts to remain contained, rubber brassiere.

Amanda’s astoundingly beautiful legs were bare as were her dainty feet. Her big toes were fitted through rings padlocking them and her thus tip-top-toe, binding her big toes to the pedals she must work. These big-toe-gripping pedals were each twenty-four inches from the centre of the large cogwheel they drove: so that Amanda’s wonderful legs must describe the most indescribably erotic cycling circle of girlmuscular pose and poise as she worked her obedient way all day.

The length of the pedal strokes necessitated Amanda being high from the ground to allow for the four-feet between top and bottom of the cycle circle, when one pedal was at the top of the circle and the other at opposite, and her legs must also stretch full forward and back as she cycled the circle. Her lovely legs would always be at some stage of erotic apogee and perigee to one another.

The long pedals, using the beauty and power of Amanda’s lovely legs, turned the large cogged wheel, and thus a chain running down to a smaller cogwheel, turned the “bicycle” wheel to which the lower cog was mounted at one end, to spin the axle through the forks of the upright to which Amanda was strapped the stunning “figurehead”.

A triangle of steel came forward from the top of the fork in the upright to which Amanda was tied. This triangle of tubular steel included the bigger cogged wheel with the four-foot distanced pedals, from which the driving chain went back to a much smaller cog that drove the “bicycle” wheel. It was the “apex” of this triangle that held the major cog that Amanda must drive.

The bar that formed the cruel triangle saddle of pain for Amanda, as well as bending up to form a chair to hold her straddled in place, also dipped down behind the wheel she was to monocycle, and then ran back to form the connection with the two-wheel two-seat carriage Amanda was being made to pull. This backwards-leading connecting shaft was hinged halfway along its length so that Amanda could turn corners and take the cart the way she turned.

The cart had two six-foot diameter spoked “bicycle” wheels, a comfortable bench-seat with back, all upholstered, seat and back, in yellow rubber, and a canopy of yellow rubber material supported by steel hoops congregating at the open-ends of the inverted ‘U’s they comprised to a single axis, so that the passengers could raise or lower the hood as pleased them, or best suited them, come shining rain or pouring sun.

Amanda’s forged “Misdemeanour Licence” dangled from her left earlobe. Within her right ear she wore a receiver transmitter through which she could be tracked for location and given spoken orders for her next destination. This had a microphone to Amanda’s delicious mouth.

This bicycle-wheel based “tricycle” with Amanda obliged to erotically pedal what was in effect a connected frontal “monocycle”, was a Girl-Cab: a Pretty: the female equal of a Hansom Cab. Its yellow accoutrements marked it as a “Yellow Cab” a taxi a “Yellow Pretty”. This was how Amanda must now spend twelve hours per day every day of her sweet young life.

Nobody could possibly look prettier in yellow than the negress-brown Amanda.

Amanda was now the mere motor of a taxi: she was a taxi-girl. Amanda’s beautiful thighs were to be employed as the pistons to drive this vehicle: her lower legs were the pushrods. By 2084, environmental concerns had seen society capture the power of the wind, and the wonder of the waves, and the flow of the waterfall, to drive the dynamos that lit the cities: captured captivating wonders of nature, combining grace and overwhelming sometimes fearsome beauty all. Now society had framed and harnessed the incredible power of the greatest wonder of nature of all, combining captivating grace and overwhelming sometimes fearsome beauty: girls’ legs with their nuclear-powerhouse sigh size thighs.


Amanda was now four-months into her employment as the erotic motor of a Girl-Cab.

Manika and Marika were eighteen-year-old twin sisters.

Amanda waited strapped to her monocycle her lovely legs relaxed the while, whilst her would-be passengers readied themselves, regular customers they, to go to Strathskye university for the week: Manika and Marika.

Whilst waiting, Amanda reached her precious lips and sucked on the left one of the two pipes to refresh herself with the milk she thus drew up. She then drew milk from the right-hand pipe up the tube. She was suckling on her own breasts. Amanda was suckling on her own breasts. Hormonal treatment, painful injections and daily pills, had enabled Amanda to suckle on her own breasts. The painful injections through her nipples, and the daily hormone pills had brought on Amanda’s milk. She had now been lactating for weeks. She thus carried her own very natural refreshment, combining drink and food: she must drink her own milk to quench her thirst and feed herself. The pipes on which Amanda drew with the sweetest kiss of succulent lips, ran down to the tips of her stretched straining-to-bursting rubber bra, wherein her enormous nipples nestled: Amanda was sucking milk from her own nipples.

The ability of a taxi-girl to do this gave her independence and range and enabled her to be worked 24-hours a day if demand demanded. Amanda’s own milk was the fuel for Amanda the motor: the motor of the Girl-Cab she was integrally intimately tied to. Amanda’s own milk fuelled the harnessed power of Amanda’s powerful thighs.

At the other end of matters, Amanda had fought it at first. She found the very thought completely revolting. It also went contrary to all her childhood training and subsequent adult innate conditioning, but now she peed into her rubber knickers whenever she had to, though she had so far managed to avoid defecating into them.

Amanda was a taxi-girl, she was a piece of machinery, there was no time to demount her when she needed to answer a call of nature, and she was not going to be allowed to pollute the environment, and so, if she wanted a pee, she must pee and, if need be, shit into her rubber knickers, till it could be sluiced out at the end of her never-ending working day.

Amanda would have preferred to save her wine for Genutha’s lips. Encouraged by the overwhelming enthusiasm of Genutha for Amanda’s superlative salty-citrus fruity full-bodied wine, Amanda had tasted Genutha’s, and now both girls savoured the shear exuberance of girl-wine hot from the still, controlled in spurted trickle to tease and please, or squandered all over pretty face like millionaire’s champagne at a victory celebration: no shower before bed now was ever complete or completed or replete without Amanda and Genutha taking in turn, a savoured full-flavoured mulled libation of the smooth wine of heaven: girl-wine fresh from the girl.

Whilst she sucked up some more of her own milk, Amanda felt her clitoris dance as she thought of last night in bed, when Genutha had removed her nipple-cap and given Amanda her tit, and Amanda had made long, long-loving, long-lingering, long-lithe-fingering, gentle love to Genutha’s day-long girl-wine-marinated slice, whilst suckling on Genutha’s warm honeyed milk.


Manika and Marika were twin sisters. Manika and Marika always ensured the Girl-Cab’s canopy was raised.

The girls were coming. Manika and Marika 18-year-old identical twins: and oh god how lovely they were.

From a wealthy family, their mother being a government minister, Manika and Marika were relaxed in their femininity and assured of their place and rights in the world. And, oh god, how sexy they were in their light-blue split-sided micro-micro-mini-skirts, with tight white panties, red woollen elastic-topped stockings half up their ecstatic bare thighs, pirouette tiptoe-topping soft kid red leather balletic shoes, unbuttoned and indeed buttonless light blue long sleeved cardigans, and completely bare breasts: breasts bare that is bar nipple-caps: the twin beauties wore nothing on their twin bosoms, indeed their quadruple bosoms, except golden conical, real gold, conical nipple-caps.

Manika and Marika, Amanda never knew which was which, they were both so gentle and so kind to her. And she must not look at them. Blonde soft curly hair tumbled to shoulders. Ice-blue eyes shone with love and intelligence. Four rock-firm titties jiggered on their chests, unbidden, unhidden, and uninhibited by their open cardigans. Their soft blonde hair shone bright ripe corn in the morning sun. Between shapely legs, their maiden purses pouched out their tight white panties, clearly flashed by their pleasingly teasingly super-short skirts. And their four cheeky bum-cheeks were cheekily cheeky, and they just knew it: and how they knew it!

“What are you looking at taxi-girl?” Manika or was it Marika asked Amanda, with eyes that flashed with pleased and pleasured knowingness, and gentle teasing, as she stroked Amanda’s magnificent left calf in greeting, lovingly.

“Are you looking at my pretty sister and seeing me?” Manika teased.

Hasn’t she got a lovely bum?”

‘Shall we both show you our bare bums so you can tell us which of them is the prettier?”

Amanda, her slit thus teased moist, gently pouted a kiss from on high toward the loving twin girl.

“You have such gorgeous lips taxi-girl. I do wish I had lips half as lovely.”

Amanda pouted a kiss of desire once again.

“Which is the prettiest of us?” Manika teased once more.

“Bet you think Marika is prettier than me don’t you?”

“No!” said Amanda, “You are both very very beautiful.”

Manika blushed: “Thank you taxi-girl”, she smiled, and sighed, her own slice sluiced damp with horny honey now too.

The twins held hands as they mounted the carriage, “The Strathskye University please taxi-girl: and slowly, so we can enjoy watching your wonderful legs”, Marika called as both girls cuddled and love-giggled.

The girls had put a dollar coin in the slot next their seat, and that had registered over the radio with headquarters. Amanda was thus ready to go.

“Am on way to university with regular passengers”, Amanda whisper-breathed into her microphone as, already she could hear the sexy gasps of Manika and Marika as they, though sisters absolutely forbiddenly shouldn’t, kissed passionately in an ongoing masturbatory relationship, in which the body of each twin was the body of the other, and thus freely kissed stroked and cuddled to sate individual mutual desire: desire fired by the fact that, as twins, the girls needed no mirror to admire their own sensual sexy sensational beauty.

Amanda’s erotically wonderfully beautiful long strong legs began to work the pedals on her “monocycle” by means of her imprisoned big toes, and thus turn the big cogwheel to drive the chain that drove the little cogwheel below her. Such a leg-display as must cause an instant explosive orgasm to watch for a microsecond, displayed Amanda, with her power-packed thighs the dynamo of her performance as human motor of the cruel taxi in which she was integrally intimately irremovably incorporated. But no motor, Rolls-Royce or Cadillac, was ever so beautiful, and no pistons ever packed such natural power and compulsive attraction, as the traction supplied by the supple wonder of an arrangement of sinew and muscle that combined such monumental strength with the magnificent beauty that Amanda’s legs supplied: power and beauty, beauty and power both.

Amanda’s legs on the two-foot-long-each, four-feet apart pedals, went through full stretch to tit-touching full monumental thigh fold at the top of their circuit in the circles of delight in the circus circles she cycled. Amanda must sit her slice on the cunt-saddle, and hurt became pleasing, as teasing with her legs so, she made the carriage go with her leggy leg show. And, poor girl, with her wrists tied such as to pull on her choker, she must have her eyes raised always front to follow the road and find her route, and so she was deprived of the heaven of watching her own beautiful legs as she pedalled.

If she must steer, she must turn her body and hurt her slice on the unrelenting cold apex-of-steel-triangle saddle. If she must brake, she must slow the cycle of her incredible legs so as to slow the vehicle with slow leg show, or else suffer agonies by trying to stop in an emergency, by holding the pedals stopped; but inevitably having even her strong legs continue to be ripped around, by the wheel now turning her rather than she it: forced to continue in the sexy cycling motion in which her gorgeous legs rose and fell and rose and fell.

And even as Amanda was cycling the taxi into town, and they risked being seen, Amanda knew that Manika and Marika had been kissing mouth on passionate mouth to arouse each other, and would now be masturbating each other with the pleasure of watching Amanda’s legs at work, and watching Amanda’s orgasmic thighs rise and fall and rise and fall. And Amanda would soon hear synchronous gasps and co-ordinated cries and uninhibited sighs as the two sisters came and came, one and the same, two and the same, again and again, watching Amanda’s legs turning their circle cycle, cycling round and round and round again: leggy-leg stretched and huge thigh forcing down and around in circle cycle motion, to the eye emotion’s potion: the pistoning of powerful pretty legs to supply from supple sinew, speedy smooth, sensationally sexy, sexual sensual motion.

“Thank you taxi-girl” smiled Marika or was it Manika as Amanda slowed and stopped her superbly supremely extremely pleasing display outside the university on another mundane Monday.


Amanda momentarily reflectively watched the free twins wiggle their way into college, hand-in-pretty-hand………..free from Amanda’s cruel subservient imprisonment………and then came yet another call……

“…….Cab 357: go to George Square and pick up a Miss Serena Redhead and her husbandgirl: that’s George Square for a Miss Serena Redhead please 357…….” came Sugar’s pleasant friendly tones in Amanda’s earphone.

“………357 on its way now………” Amanda obediently replied, as she set her erotically powerful, powerful legs to work once more: Amanda the Girl-Cab motor.

And as Amanda’s beautiful legs circled the cycle as she cycled the circle to cycle the circuitous route to her next call of duty, the astounding beauty of Amanda’s captured captivating body proved once and for all, that the seventh wonder of the world is a girl: just as are the other six!

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 6 – Of Service

“…Cab 357: go to George Square and pick up a Ms Serena Redhead, and her husbandgirl: that’s George Square for a Ms Serena Redhead please 357…….”, came Sugar’s pleasant friendly tones in Amanda’s earphone.

“………357 on its way now………” Amanda obediently replied, as she set her erotically powerful, powerful legs to work once more: Amanda the long-leggy-legged Girl-Cab motor.

And as Amanda’s beautiful legs circled the cycle as she cycled the circle to cycle the circuitous route to her next call of duty, the astounding beauty of Amanda’s captured captivating body proved once and for all, that were there an eighth ninth and tenth wonder of the world, they would each and all be a girl: just as all the others are, were, and must be forever for ever!

Amanda was human. Amanda was emotion: Amanda had brains, a heart, feelings. She was more than aware of the humiliation she endured strapped to this machine for the sole purpose of employing her legs purposely erotically as well as, almost coincidentally it sometimes seemed, functionally.


Yellow Pretties had grabbed a huge hold on the market as soon as their first machines had appeared on the streets. Elspeth Zanori, the founding owner of the Le Rosbif restaurant chain, had another super-success on her hands.

The mundane journey by rickshaw had all but become a thing of the past. Why endure the boring slow jerky tug of a girl pulling you along in a rickshaw, when you could enjoy the smooth speedy ride, and the wonderful view of luscious legs in emotional motion, from the seat of a Girl-Cab?

Besides, a Girl-Cab carried two side-by-side, and a woman could cuddle, caress, and kiss her girlfriend as they were speeded along.

Girl-Cabs were now the fashionable vehicles of choice for couples. Amanda had often been hired for the evening. Waiting outside the best restaurants on standby whilst her hirers enjoyed their tryst, could mean long tedious hours; unless another cab was on hire to the same location, so the cab “motors” could park nearby each other and have a surreptitious girly-chat.

Pretties were also used long distance. Glasgow to Edinburgh was a favourite. Visiting American girls also loved to tour Edinburgh, and would hire the likes of Amanda to transport them for the day, or even a whole weekend.

On such long journeys, there was an additional stipulation in the contract of hire, that the Girl-Cab’s “motor” must be refuelled by giving it one nosebag of food in every 24-hours; but, even though the nosebags were provided with ready made-up contents in them, it was surprising how often the women hiring the cabs forgot to feed the cab’s motor.

Fortunately, they had her own milk to draw on, but sometimes, or so Amanda had heard, cab’s motors were taken advantage of, and girls on a night out would take the engine’s bra off, and suck its tits to drink its milk for their own pleasure, and then not put its bra back afterwards, so that its milk would eventually begin to dribble down its breasts and drip to the floor, helplessly, hopelessly wasted!

A cab returned with “damage” such as this, was supposed to have been compensated for, by the $10 deposit left by the hirers being withheld. But that was rarely insisted upon: Yellow Pretties had competition and the customers might go elsewhere next time: or so the thinking went.

Over time, the rickshaws had found their niche in the market. Short hauls were rickshaw territory; medium to long hauls the all but sole province of the Pretties now.

But rickshaws had only kept their one remaining niche by charging so little they could barely make a profit, and by making the girls that pulled them, do so nearly completely naked, as an attraction. By contrast, Yellow Pretties’ prices had doubled, till rivals, particularly ‘Chequered Pretties’, had driven the market price down again.

Chequered Pretties had added “complimentary wine” to their attraction. An additional pipe had been run down from the black-and-white-check rubber-knickers of the girls made to be the engines of Chequered Pretties’ cabs, so that the engine’s pee would fill a bottle: a bottle on offer free for the passengers to enjoy at will.

But “Wine Divine”, the weekly column authored under the pen name “Bacchanalian” in the prestigious national paper for Scotland, ‘The Scotswoman’, had complained …………

“Novel only in the means of its delivery and arrival, ‘taxi wine’, shall we call it, is decidedly nouvelle naïf and novice. We all enjoy the ochre and sepulchral nose of the wine of a well-worked girl, but to serve such a wonder in its pre-youth and unchilled, is a travesty verging on the criminal. And to deliver such a joy of enjoyment through crude crass tubes, is to invoke a distinctly rubbery poise nose and subliminal noise, in what, were we in the spirit world, should be comparable with the very finest of fine crystal-clear cognac.

What an unfortunate contrast with the latest Californian Girladoc, produced by free-range girls imbibing the purest springwater and selectest fresh citrus fruits, as they are hard worked treading the luscious grapes they are urged to glory with their silvern silken sprinkles as they tread their busy way all day.

This sennight then, I have tasted splendid blended heaven, and bland boring hell.”

………..And so Chequered Pretties had found themselves pouring gallons of actually extremely good girl-wine away.


As her supreme dream legs pedalled Cab 357 to pick up the two passengers she had been directed toward, Amanda reflected on her enforced subservience and the use she, an extremely gifted and intelligent young woman, was being put to.

She was just a functional decoration, her lovely legs stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, and stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, and stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, and stretched to tiptoe, and folded to tit height, as she pedalled, a compulsive attraction to draw passengers on by turning them on.

Of course she knew she was lucky. After the hell of twelve-months hard labour, as a dropout student, a failed waitress, and a self-dismissed personal maid who had breached her contract, society would have had her cast on the scrap-heap and had indeed done just that.

She had had such chances in life as, from 2084 onwards; society offered a girl of her origin and consequent class. She may be a classic beauty, but she was an unintended and unwelcome side-product of the brothels, and a female side-product at that; so society had no use for her other than the uses it had offered her and she had singularly signally failed to adequately fulfil.

Was what she was forced to do now, her last opportunity to make herself useful? Being enslaved like this was at least better than working the coalmines. But for this too, her body was being abused, even to the extent of her being brought on to lactation in order to provide for the long range and long hours she was expected to cover as the motor of her Girl-Cab.


Amanda peed in her rubber panties as she cycled supremely orgasmic circles with her long legs. Amanda peed in her rubber panties because she wanted to do so. She wanted that night, as every night now, to offer her slice to Genutha, prepared the way Genutha loved it: steeped all day in girl-wine.

At least Genutha was love; or was she?

Amanda enjoyed sex with Genutha, whose tongue was wickedly accomplished. She felt deep affection for the sensitive vulnerable girl. But perhaps Genutha repeated the story of her caning at school, and how ashamed she had been at cumming under its taste, just a little too often. It was appalling and appealing; but it was now fast going past palling.

Amanda’s spiritual and characterful depth and dimension, also contrasted so with Genutha’s hollow shallowness.

Amanda lay in bed with Genutha every night now; when neither of them was on 24-hour duty that is of course. But Genutha had no conversation other than which film starlet or singeress she had had in the cab that day, or the latest happenings in “Celebrity Wrestling” or “Tart Town”, the soap opera currently taking the TV ratings by storm.

At least Genutha and Amanda could both agree that the girl acting the part of the Girl-Cab motor in “Tart Town”, had no idea what she was doing, and that no Girl-Cab had pedals that short; but the rest of Genutha’s conversation was for Amanda unreservedly the equivalent of an undeserved dessert of desert dissertations.

No: this was self-indulgence. Amanda knew she should be grateful for the little she had, and Genutha’s skilful tongue, the thought of which, as Amanda pedalled, was making Amanda’s clitty pulse in her slitty.

She must think of something else: something perhaps, like the very attractive redhead she had just spotted in the near distance: the redhead who must surely be the would-be passenger she had been directed to pick up.

…………Oh my goodness it was Siabon!

The realisation had dawned on Amanda’s subconscious mind before she gave it voice in her foremind: it was Siabon. Oh my goodness it was Siabon. Siabon who had been Amanda’s fellow hard-labour prisoner not yet five months ago.

Amanda’s loving heart filled with joy as she drew the cab up alongside her passenger to be. She wanted to shout out a loving greeting, but knew it was not her place to do so, and something about the look on Siabon’s face said that, although Siabon knew it was Amanda, Amanda must keep her own counsel.

“Cab 357 picking up Ms Serena Redhead at George Square” Amanda whispered into her microphone.

“Cab 357 received and understood. Ms Redhead and her husbandgirl are to be taken to Claremont Gardens: repeat Claremont Gardens. Okay Amanda?” Amanda heard in her earpiece.

“Cab 357 to take two passengers George Square to Claremont Gardens”, Amanda confirmed in sweet contralto answer.

Sadness had overtaken Amanda once more. Here she was with Siabon, for some reason calling herself “Serena Redhead”, entirely within greeting distance; and yet Amanda was obliged to stay silent unless she was spoken to.

Then, when another girl appeared on the seen, Amanda had hardly noticed her.

Amanda had hardly noticed the new girl. But that was only at first, for this girl was absolutely astonishing. A cool calm clearly collected confident maybe 26-year-old blonde, with her hair cropped to shimmering shining cut-corn-stubble, she wore a ‘business suit’ in dark blue and black pinstripe, skirt and jacket both, black stockings, the tops of which were stretched by suspenders peeping below the hem of her very-mini miniskirt, 7-inch heeled black kid-leather stilettos, and a white blouse, buttoned to the neck and at lace-cuff-bestrewn wrists, with a necktie Amanda recognised as being that of a graduate of Maidenhead College, University of Camford: Amanda’s own alma mater.

This Amanda knew was Michaela Redhead, the youngest fellow of Clitoris Hood College, Camford, a girl who had graduated with a double-starred double-first from Maidenhead College at *****teen, and had been lecturing at H****** in the USA, when Amanda had been up at Maidenhead.

Amanda felt her heart melt. Oh girl! Oh girl!! was Michaela beautiful!!!

Amanda had seen Michaela’s portrait when she had dined at Clitoris College Hall as a guest of her then girlfriend. Now she could see Michaela for real, and Michaela was incomparably incomparable.

Suddenly distant Genutha and close-at-hand Siabon were both forgotten, as Amanda found herself staring almost open-mouthed, longing to be noticed, only turning her longing eyes away from Michaela momentarily, to check that she, Amanda, was displaying her lovely legs at their most dangerous languorous best.

Michaela’s cornflower-blue eyes hardly looked at Amanda, but Amanda was hooked: Amanda was hooked lined and sinkered.

“What a very attractive cab-girl”, Amanda heard Michaela saying, as if in Amanda’s dreams, as she felt her pulse racing, her heart pounding, and her purse purring.

At the soft sweet sound of these words, Amanda instantly lowered her sweet eyes in flush of blush like a newly-teenaged girl given her very very-first compliment.

“Serena Siabon Redhead, you are one darn clever little honey!” Michaela continued as she kissed Siabon on the forehead with lips that Amanda looked up with shy deep-brown eyes to see, praying to have that mouth preying on her own willing oral orifice.

Amanda had been out of circulation. She had not heard the gossip and the ‘tut tutting’ behind the headline: “Boffin Prof In Ex-Maid Marriage Scandal”. The newspapers had made a meal of it.

Michaela had a heart as gentle as her brain was brilliant. Seeing Siabon was being beaten up by prostitutes, who had thought Siabon was seeking to steal their patch in the Glasgow “pink light district”, she had driven them off with her swordstick, and quite literally swept Siabon up into her girly arms.

Michaela had then called a Girl-Cab, taken Siabon home to comfort her, and they had wound up in bed. And they had been in bed almost ever since, save for an hour at the altar when Serena Siabon O’Neil, had become Serena Siabon Redhead, a transformation sealed with a kiss.

The lovely Professor Michaela Redhead, might have been brilliant of mind, but too long a time staring at electronic books had clearly kept her ignorant of the wiles of winsome women on gainful warpath.

Siabon, being an ex-convictess, had decided to revert to using her first name in thin disguise of who she really was, and her recent herstory, and was now answering to “Serena”, her given name too, but a name she had hitherto always hated, in favour of first use of her second name: “Siabon”.

Serena Siabon had never asked what Michaela had been doing drifting around in the pink light district, and Michaela Redhead therefore did not have to confess her enjoyment of feeling guilty about enjoying tawdry sex.

And, for her part Michaela’s thinking presently was, until the urge to despoil herself took over again: ‘Why would she, Michaela, need now to pursue tawdry sex on the streets when, to her mind, in regard to her wife of but one week’s standing, she was now enjoying tawdry sex at home?’

Of course Serena Siabon had said “yes” to Michaela’s proposal of marriage. Serena Siabon was otherwise without work, food, shelter, or hope: she had just been thrown out of gaol.

And Serena Siabon’s confidence in the love of Michaela was growing too; perhaps too quickly if Serena Siabon did but reflect, as she was not wont to do………

……….“Honey?” this the voice of Serena Siabon who, along with Michaela, was now sitting on the rubber covered bench seat of Girl-Cab 357, fascinated with the glory of Amanda’s extremely supremely lovely legs, as Amanda propelled her passengers smoothly along.

“Honey?” this the voice of Serena Siabon once again.

“Yes sweetheart”, came the warm calm tones of Michaela, sending a coincidentally echoing excited shuddering shivering quiver down Amanda’s shapely spine.

“………..Nothing”, answered Serena Siabon.

“………..What kind of nothing sweetheart?” Michaela teased gently, feeling herself to have won that particular exchange of womanly guiles, before it had got past the opening serve.

Finding herself outgirlmoeuvred, Serena Siabon knew she must now get to her point quickly, or else lose the game and, probably, this particular set of girl and husbandgirl metaphorical conversational tennis.

“……….Well…remember how you said we could afford our own auto, and how you could pick up a good second-hand Girl-Cab for next to nothing on the dollar scale………” Serena Siabon wheedled.

“Go on: say it……….” Michaela lovingly laughingly teased.

“If not as just a car, we could use her as a maid……….She’s got great legs”, Serena Siabon teased in return.

“But we don’t even know if she’s for sale, and why this one anyways?” Michaela mock exasperated in response.

“Please! Please! Please! You could find out……….”, Serena Siabon goaled.

Then came a silence and Amanda’s legs nearly turned to jelly as she thought of the kiss Serena Siabon was undoubtedly receiving from Michaela, full on her oh-god-how-lucky lucky mouth.


Being discussed was disgusting. Amanda heard her body being discussed as if she had no right or say in her sale. That was right: she had no right: right?

Amanda of course knew that Serena Siabon was merely really, trying to help her fellow former prisoner. Serena Siabon would know that Amanda had to be “an illegal”. Serena Siabon would know that, having been before the courts and served her hard labour, Amanda was denied employment, even unpaid employment, even the employment she endured as a Girl-Cab motor.

“I’ll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda”.

Amanda cycled with lovely long leg strokes from long lovely legs, knowing she was best advised to take the help Serena Siabon was engineering for her; but feeling she was letting Sugar down by so doing, if she so did, and knowing she must betray Genutha who loved Amanda; if Amanda not she in any way more than naturally Amanda’s gentle way.

“Oh please look at my naughty slavering shiny slippery shaven succulently sliced slit!”

The sale was agreed. Sugar knew too that it was for Amanda’s best. But Michaela and Serena Siabon could not have the Girl-Cab framework Amanda was mounted within, even second-hand. That was the property of Yellow-Pretties. However, Sugar knew the circles where old cab cycles went for recycling, and a second-hand new framework for Amanda’s height and build was eventually found.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.


Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

Amanda’s new position was legal. Amanda was no longer an illegal: she was now a slave.

“Whereas Amanda Heavensent (also known as the maid ‘Mary’) an unintended by-product of the ‘Sensation Brothel’ of Sauchehall Street in the City of Glasgow, having served her term as prisoner of the state in the year calendar 2084, and being thereby and therethrough deprived of all rights legal common citizenry and humane, it is hereby declared that the said Amanda Heavensent is made the slave absolute of Professor Michaela Redhead and her wife Serena Siabon Redhead of ‘The Old Manse’ Claremont Gardens Glasgow Scotland, pending only upheld objections. All intended objections shall be referred, on Girl-Ministry Form SLA36/24/36 – ‘Enslavement Objection Registration – Pre-Court’ - to Messrs Smith, Smith, and Smith, Attorneys at Law, within 30 days from the date of this notice, the expiry of the said 30 day notice whereafter objectionless giving effect absolute to the enslavement aforesaid.”

This was but one of 200 such notices appearing in the Saturday edition of ‘The Scotswoman’ newspaper, under the name address and other details of “Messrs Smith, Smith, and Smith, Attorneys at Law”, alone. Other legal firms had other girls listed by the hundreds also. Other pages in the paper showed already sometime-since-enslaved girls up for subsequent resale.

From 2084 onwards, girls were entirely regularly enslaved in this manner. All the law required was that no objections be raised within the thirty days required of a publicly published notice in legal form.

However, if objections came up, it could be an age getting a hearing at the Girl-Courts, and thus, more often than not, the case was not pursued: cost and time and trouble being judged to be hardly worthwhile. There were plenty of other girls available to enslave, so why bother with one that was going to cost money and time to secure? The fact that the poor girl in question would probably have to resort to prostitution, or else starve, was of no consequence. Objections were an obstacle not worth leaping. Objections just made a girl, quite literally, more trouble than she was worth.

“I’ll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda”.

It had been six-months now.

Amanda’s notice in ‘The Scotswoman’ had resulted in no objections. The majority of potential slaves were nodded through like this. Amanda was now five months become, since thirty-day notice expiry, legally a slave enslaved.

Amanda curtsied to Michaela, and rose tiptoed supremely and extremely-extremely on extremely supremely dreamy legs, stretched on tiptop-of-tiptoe in her curved-back–soled steel-reinforced balletic shoes: shoes in which she could only balance, and only just balance, as she must and as she was forced, on the top-tip-top-tip-top of her big toes, and her big toes alone, so that her big toes took all 100-pounds of the all-girl Amanda, as her body glided and side-to-sided her bottom, with swishes and swaying producing sexual enticement, inducing incitement and excitement.

Amanda was bare-legged brown strong and bountifully boundlessly beautiful in her little maid’s outfit.

Michaela liked Amanda dressed chiefly cheaply to cheapen her.

Her one concession to expense was Amanda’s glass brassiere. Michaela loved breasts: she was a “tits girl”. Amanda’s enormous endowments were supremely erotic to Michaela, and she wanted them on display, day-by-day, all day, in all ways always visible to enjoy.

Around her supremely naturally slim waist, Amanda wore an open-bell skirt. It was of bright-yellow rigid plastic, swelling stiffly out, so as to hide nothing of the delights Amanda would hide were she able, beneath it.

Amanda’s skirt, micro-mini and sinfully sinny, rigidly belled like an opened flower inverted, with her tension-dimpled-bummy as bell clapper or flower’s stamen and pistils. And it skirted her with a hem down to bottom of her bottom height, but so far out from her bottom that were she to bend, she would send a sensational message unavoidable, of her vulnerable availability for penetration by the nation, had it the notion.

“I’ll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda”.

Amanda wore a glass brassiere. Her supreme bosoms were contained and lifted and thrust before her, in the finest of blown-glass half-globes that shaped her tits profoundly roundly and massively, and from which her enormous nipples were pressed through purposeful holes, hard sweating and swollen, and showing their sensational aureole brown-pink, with her milk being dammed with plugs, so that her tits swelled to fill the transparent glass bells, as she suffered a lactating dammed damsel’s damned hell.

Amanda was to serve table for Michaela and Serena Siabon, and had been made to go without being milked for three whole extremely painful days now.

Of necessity, to keep her in milk, Amanda as slave, had hitherto been milked twice daily by Serena Siabon. Serena Siabon, as a wife-girl, had charge of the Redhead household’s servants and slaves, of which Amanda was but one. Amanda’s milk contributed to the rich and varied diet of the Redhead household. As Amanda was not allowed to touch herself, her breasts must be squeezed dry twice per day by Serena Siabon, or the Redhead household’s chef, a charming French girl, Nanette.

Amanda had been taken as a slave, and her owners wanted not only her milk, but also her wine and her chocolat. Amanda thus had continued to take her lactation pills, so that her breasts filled: so she could fulfil and spill her white delight in glass or saucepan or basin, for her owners to consume or use to make the delights they were to have served by Amanda this very evening, including cheese that Amanda had been made to make from her own milk, tincture drizzled with her own wine and a soupcon of her own chocolat, as the semi-concluding course

Amanda was in agony: agony not only from her swollen breasts, but because she was deeply deeply in love.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

Amanda’s breasts hurt terribly, with a constant ache of pain from their swelling, with her ducts being full of the milk she had purposely not been relieved of at Nanette’s instructions. The little chef, still an apprentice but clearly highly talented, wanted to produce ‘Latte Rouge’ and had instructed that Amanda’s nipples be plugged, and that she not be milked for at least three days prior to the feast.

This need not even be mentioned to her gourmand mistress, Michaela, whose rapid rise in the ranks of academe was assured, and who saw the free-range given to her chef to produce the delights she did at dinner parties, designed to impress, as necessity not needing second thought on her part.

To prepare her delights Nanette had also insisted that Amanda be fed, for one whole month now since, only on pure milk-chocolate, and distilled rainwater. And these instructions too, had been obeyed to the letter by Serena Siabon. Amanda’s obedience being without question least of all enquiry of Amanda: as Amanda’s cooperation was unquestionably guaranteed, as Amanda had no choice.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before.

Amanda was in adoration of Michaela. She longed for a look, she craved for a touch, she cried and sighed for a word or a whisper of a whisper of a wisp of one syllable that would allow her to reveal the love she felt for this wonderful but wonderful blonde.

Amanda was a slave also enslaved by her love. She must contain and restrain every grain, and go insane, for not saying or showing what she was not allowed to say or show, and would never know if her love knew.

Amanda could not look her mistress in the eyes to flash her love by Morse’s loveliest lamps. Nor could Amanda smile her love with her lonely lips, negress-kiss-compelling-come-on-and-kiss-me-mouthed though she was. Amanda had no right to speak unless she was spoken to first, and no expectation, remotely possible, that she would ever be allowed to say this side of her grave to Michaela: “I love you”.

Amanda was a slave and her mistress had more right to spit on her, than Amanda to tell her mistress, even in the slightest way subliminally, the sensation she had, from her pounding pulses and heaving heart whenever Michaela appeared, let alone when she neared.

Amanda had never ever felt like this before. Her love was for the stronger woman with the higher intellect. She wanted the protection that Michaela’s confidence, gifted accomplishment, and guaranteed earning-power afforded. But above all she also wanted merely to touch Michaela in the minimum of minimalist way: oh god please make it today!

If only Michaela would notice her and see her as more than merely a lovely face and sensational body. Of course it was an honour and a pleasure to treasure, to be on display all day the way her mistress wanted her. But this would ever be the overture, and the opera would never begin for Amanda, so in need of the sin of touch upon her love’s cream dream skin.

Amanda was in agony. She was deeply deeply in love.

“I’ll wear the white silk stockings please Amanda”, Michaela ordered, and Amanda curtsied and wiggle-swayed her way, in her one-inch hobble, tiptoe wiggling, with her bottom supremely deep side-dimpled, simply to fetch her mistress’ choice of the evening’s stockings.

At the dressing table’s draws, eyes lowered, Amanda bent, and her straight legged bending lifted the hem of her bell-skirt clear of her rear, and she cried inside: “Oh please look at my naughty slavering shiny slippery shaven succulently sliced slit!”

Amanda knew she was flashing her vertical smile, her trump card, the centre of her love, her warmth her moistness her succulence. Yet she knew too, that though it drew Michaela’s eyes, and she could sense their delight, as they glanced the heaven between the sigh-high thighs of Amanda’s bent over body, she, Amanda, must not linger as she longed to, to seduce, for she, Amanda, had no right to the love she felt so profoundly.

Were she free she could have been saucy and naughty, and wiggled her bottom, and lingered to let Michaela’s eyes have feast.

Were she free she could then have straightened and turned and smiled, or let her shyness prevail, and leave Michaela to assail her with an embrace and kisses that would cause dual juices to flow, and knowledge to be sought with hands and fingers and loving lips.

But Amanda was now a slave. Amanda was now owned. She was human only coincidentally. Amanda was an item of goods of marketable value. Amanda took divine human shape and supreme human form, but these merely added to her market value, rather than marking her out as remarkable, in any sense that would have value among the people that now owned her and used her.

As a slave, Amanda must be celibate. Amanda knew that she might never ever again make love with another girl. Amanda knew that her sensual feelings were of no account: that her physical needs for sexual release were unanswerable, because she had no right to have them answered.

Amanda was a healthy girl who simply loved to masturbate herself to the highest of pleasures; but it was now totally forbidden her. Michaela had warned Amanda that she would whip her if ever she were caught touching herself.

Michaela loved the power she had over Amanda. Michaela did not know that her power came in considerable part now, from the astounding pounding love that beat in Amanda’s poor heart for her.

The power that Michaela enjoyed, was the darkness of psychological submission she could impose, with gentle politeness and kind consideration.

Michaela had in fact never yet whipped Amanda. Six strokes of a rattan cane had never yet kissed Amanda’s squirming bummy, raising wicked welts and making her bottom bleed.

But Amanda knew that when Michaela told her she would be whipped if she were caught touching herself, Michaela really and truly meant it. And the threat of punishment she had never yet experienced at Michaela’s hands, was mentally more ensuring of Amanda’s obedience, than if she had in fact been whipped by Michaela in realisation of the promise and threat.

Amanda’s swollen unmilked breasts hurt horribly, and yet the pain was forgotten almost as if enjoyed rather than endured, as she bent straight legged to flash her wickedly wanton shaven slice, before Michaela’s wide shot pupilled eyes, as she, Amanda, bent to pick up her mistress’ choice of stockings.

By her glass-cupped brassiere, Amanda’s breasts were thrust out like conical mountains. They filled the bra’s cups to overspilling with their natural enormity. And through the circle holes at the ends of her bra’s cups, Amanda’s huge nipples poked and provoked: pained with the plastic plugs in her nipple holes to dam her, and condemn her to hold her milk fast within her ducts, though it would pour forth were it obedient to nature rather than Nanette the chef’s purposeful nurture.

And to be so swollen hurt. Amanda felt as if her breasts must burst. Amanda thought it a marvel that her nipple plugs did not shoot out like bullets from a gun, such pressure did she have mounting in her mountainous bosoms.

Amanda’s nipples shone with the moistness of perspiration, representing as they did, the only means of her lovely skin breathing, where the rest of her breast was glass encased. And her nipples were showing the pain she was in, in each tit, and both tits.

And Amanda straightened and turned, and tiptoe-wiggle-hip-swung her long leggy legged way to her love and her mistress united in one, and humbled her head, as she lowered her chin to hide her eyes from sin within, to curtsey and present the white silk stockings to her mistress.

“Put them on me Amanda please” Michaela ordered.

Oh god was ever torture more cruel than Amanda’s now, for she must bestocking her mistress and her love, without meaningfully touching her lovely legs. Her mistress watched Amanda’s nimble long slim fingers roll one stocking up, for its role of being unrolled up the leg of a supremely attractive girl to adorn her: she that Amanda adored.

And Amanda’s face must be red-Indian emotionless, but not insolent, or suggestive in the least of anything other than willing obedience, as she wiggled to side her love, sat with bare leg and foot reached out outstretched, to put the rolled up stocking over toes dainty, and unfurl it slowly on leg saintly.

Amanda was used to performing such duties. She had shaved her mistress’ legs and bikini-line only that morning, and more recently this evening, fitted her mistress’ choice of brassiere and rolled her micro-panties on to her. But there was something extra-especially erotic to Amanda, about the rolling of fine stockings on to Michaela’s curvy legs.

Of course there would be touch. How could Amanda perform these intimacies without touching her mistress? And at each touch Amanda’s poor heart would leap, and her pulse race, and her face fight not to show, the electricity that shot her through with a whole quiverfull of Cupid’s arrows, as her touches must be businesslike, and accidental, and coincidental to the function she was to perform, though mental torment to the love whom she was with white silk stockings to adorn.

This was torture to Amanda. She could not say, she could not show, she could not convey with touch, her touching love for Michaela, a Michaela so oblivious to the lust and longing she had stirred in the glorious negress, that she was even now merely talking on her mobile phone, even as Amanda fixed the suspenders to the second of Michaela’s stockings, and wriggle-wiggled around in front of her mistress and longed for love, to curtsy and await her next order: her heart’s pounding compounded and her breathing astounded, as her face must not fluster and her thoughts not muster to other than her slave duties: the duties to which she was equal for the mistress to whom she was not.

“Thank you Amanda: that will be all for now”, said the sound of her love’s loving warmth, in a voice that filled Amanda’s dreams, till she wet-dreamed of schemes impossible.

“Thank you my lady”, Amanda whispered routinely, compulsorily neutral of the high emotion she felt, as she curtsied to the love of her life, and went to get herself prepared to serve table.


At table before guests Amanda bent and bowed, and was bowed by the bow, as she poured generous flows of her very own chilled silken soft sprinkles: her salt-citric-Sauterne, into a guests’ glasses to recharge her mistress host, and her mistress’ guests.

The wine of girl, Amanda’s wine, was being sipped with reverence, as the guests replete, finished with the penultimate item on the menu: “Bisque Femme au Fromage”.

“Bisque Femme au Fromage” A baked biscuit of Amanda’s chocolate based chocolat, slivered with slices of cheese manufactured from Amanda’s milk, and then marbled with the marvel of her menses: cheese made from Amanda’s milk and then charged through with droplets of her monthly discharge, before being salted with the supreme sensation of trickles of her girl-sweat.

At table before guests Amanda bent and bowed, and was bowed by the bow she wore, as she poured generous flows of her very own chilled silken soft sprinkles: her Sauterne, into guests’ glasses to recharge her mistress host, and her mistress’ wife, and her mistress’ guests.

Amanda wore a bow. Amanda was a violin with a string within playing her to sin.

Amanda’s huge bosom glass-cupped bra-encased, forefronted her front, without affront to the onlookers, who sensation sought, and saw the tremendous tits, full and painfully swollen, bounteously near seemingly to bursting, with Amanda’s unmilked milk.

Amanda snaked her hips as she wiggled on toe-tips in curved balletic shoes, that carved her legs to curves of conspicuous consequence in their consequent femininity, as her shoes fantasticated them fantasticality: for Amanda’s legs were among the beautiful of the beautiful, even without their enhancement steepling to lend curves to their gracefully disturbingly sexy and sensational stunning curves.

Amanda was hobbled at the ankle with a ratchet hobble, making her place each tip-top-of-tiptoed foot exactly before the other, in alternative turn, in order to be able to walk, for no release from the ratchet at each ankle was given, till she met this enforced stipulation, making her wiggle the more, in sensationally sexual bum rotation, as she carried her tray of food or glasses of soft sweet wine to her guests, her superiors.

With the three-inch wiggle-ratchet on her dainty ankles, Amanda must pass one orgasmically wonderful long leg before the other, to swing-rotate her hips even more that she did in nature to adore, as she daintied the floor with her flawless 100-pounds of wholly holy female femininity.

The ratchets were in each ankle cuff, with a rigid bar between the cuffs. The wearer must pass one dainty foot exactly in front of the other as she walked, as only by doing so were the demands of the one-way ratchets fulfilled. The ratchets would only allow one foot to be advanced at a time. They would also only allow a forward step: the girl wearing a ratchet-hobble could only walk forwards one step at a time, and must advance her chosen leg, the choice of two equal beauties, beyond the grip of the ratchet dictating forward motion, till the ratchet had fulfilled its function, and allowed the advance of the other lovely leg.

A girl in a ratchet-hobble must walk adagio, performing by even this most natural of human motion, her locomotion in slow motion, causing emotion and commotion as she danced in veritable ballet in sway, on her obedient way.

And thus did Amanda’s hips swivel all the way all the day, as she ground her slit with her thighs, by rotating her legs routinely before her, to tiptoe balance, as she swivelled her next enormously strong and enormously beautiful limb exactly before her in turn, to ‘stand’ momentarily, legs crossed and feet in exact aligned line, before she could bless the ground she adorned with her grace, with her next swivelled tip-top-tiptoe robotic erotic step.

And Amanda was being played by a bow, as she swayed to persuade that this wonder of wonders could only be what god made, as you prayed that your eyes should not be blinded, so as to be unable to see this she of shes.

And Amanda was being played by a bow, as she swayed and stepped one lovely foot robotically erotically to the fore, to adorn the floor, as her tiptoes blessed it with her delightful light-full lightness.

No wasted poundage she in tiptoed heavenliness not heaviness, with sweet finesse in her all-girl mass: a mass worthy of prayer to thank the goddess who made her thus this, a walking kiss.

Amanda was being played by a bow like the violin she out-shaped with her curves: with her neck more swan than a violin’s upon, and a waist less waste than that instrument’s unblessed comparative excess.

Amanda was being played by a bow like the violin she out-shaped, being more curved than Cremona’s finest contrastingly useless ukulele. No Antonio Stradivari could shape such sensation as she, or string and stretch sinew with such worldly other-worldly supremity.

In the rear and at the front of her tightly squeezed waist, was the bow that played her. This bow was long. It was a longbow. This was no pretty bow as in ribbon tied; it was a bow for arrows as in hunter’s hide: and it hid its string snug in her snick.

The tight wooden hoop-band at Amanda’s waist-rear, included one tensioned half of the bow out horizontal at the middle of her back, the other alike torsioned half, being at the front of her. In essence combined, they comprised two strong, curved, multi-ply Yew wood, spring-wooded arms, of a bow that was fitted at Amanda’s front and rear, between which a string could be drawn and intentionally tensioned tight.

And the longbow-like bow ends, Amanda wore thrusting out fore and aft of her, were originally curved upwards prior to their bending from stringing.

And the longbow-like bow ends Amanda wore, had been bent down and strung with a strong bowstring, and the string’s tension released to slap into her snick and tease and please her, and play her like the very least vile of viols, as her every movement ran the bowstring within her moist most intimate instrument, and was instrumental in her mental torment, as it drew along inner-lips soft and supersensitive to the music it plucked from her, as it fucked her, and as her moisture consequent, rosined the string that played across and up and down her sex’s sexual wings.

And Amanda’s natural wiggle was enhanced as the bow string supremely tight, taught her walk the pleasure of pain from the rub of the insistent persistent longbow, strongbow, bent and pulled up within her intimacy, to play her like a one-girl orchestra, with every little move she made.

And the ratchet-hobble necessitating Amanda’s erotically robotic adagio steps, played into the violin bow’s intentions, as its tension rubbed her intentionally constantly, to constantly consciously arouse her publicly, and thus to defile and humiliate her, and thus to add to her sexually complicated uncomplicated compliment of compulsive eroticisms.

The bowstring was hard up Amanda’s nick. The bow arms front and rear bent back from being curled up prior to the stringing, so powerfully did they pull upon and tension the string drawn up within Amanda to delight the onlooker, who could only imagine the pain this torment must be causing, the angel who wiggled on tiptoes in a slow glide before them, to serve them subserviently, with the delights of her unsurpassably lovely face and unexceedably wonderful negress-brown body.

The bowstring had slapped intentionally in-tension immense, intently tight, and was now dividing the banks of Amanda’s unrivalled rivulet spring, with its string making her sing with sin, as she swayed, and it played her soft insides with pleasures she just could not hide, though her face only showed righteous pride in her holy wholly feminine wonder.

Amanda graced across the floor, and the string of the bow she wore, the string tensioned tight with the might of the pull of the two halves of the bow arms before and aft of her, was pulled hard up in her slit, and it had played all eve on her emotional hormones, till mental whore-moans showed in her gentle face, as she was bowing herself like the violin of heaven, with her every wiggle, and bend, and bow, and curtsy, as she slavishly slave for her mistress behaved.

“Latte Rouge” was the last item on the menu.

Michaela prepared.

Amanda’s glass brassiere cups covered her immense tits as she stood obediently. These cups of transparent glass so as to hide nothing of the magnificently mountainous scenery in Amanda’s upland regions.

Plugs temporarily in her teats where Amanda’s sensationally sensitive nipples were boldly visible bare, poking pressed out so hard from the open ends of the globes of glass that contained and restrained her enormous wonders.

“Latte Rouge” was the last item on the menu.

Two underservants held Amanda’s wrists behind her, as Michaela rose from the table and came to the “violin-bowed” to near-orgasm girl, of profound negress-brown beauty.

“Latte Rouge” was the last item on the menu.

And Amanda was cupped by a secondary bra of transparent plastic over her glass globes. And Amanda screeched with eyes wide-open as Michaela lifted her truncheon and smacked it down hard to smash the glass of Amanda’s original bra within the over-bra. And Amanda nearly buckled at her lovely knees with the pain, as Michaela brought the truncheon down again and again, to smash the glass globe cups of Amanda’s now under-bra, and drive the razor sharp shards into Amanda’s supreme softness, so that she screamed as she streamed with blood within the hood of her temporary second over-brassiere. Within the hood of her temporary second brassiere, Amanda’s breasts were spiked and ripped as the glass was smashed, until it was slivered splinters, that entered Amanda, to rip and tear her to tears of terrible torment. And then Michaela put aside her truncheon, only to rub Amanda’s bloodied and bleeding breasts with gloved hands, now that her glass globes were smithereened, so as to drive the shards of glass within the outer bra still contained, into Amanda’s sensational breasts more fully and extraction-never-after assuredly, and to increase Amanda’s howling with the horrendous and terrifying pain. And Michaela now ripped off the outer bra, its purpose having been served to contain the smashed glass to pain the girl, and took a cigar-cutter with which, each in turn, she casually nicked off the ends off each of Amanda’s nipples, in turn also thus pulling out the plugs damming Amanda’s tit-nipple-tips. And Amanda’s three-day pent-up milk began to flow, and mix inexorably with her streaming fresh blood and her screaming. And Michaela squeezed the middles of Amanda’s tits to force her milk the more from her. And Michaela ripped off the remains of Amanda’s original bra, so that Amanda’s fresh milk and blood trickled white and red down Amanda’s tortured brown body, as Amanda screeched with pain, and again with the gain of the dammed-up milk squirting from her, to run the curve under her graceful tits, and onto her firm belly and into her navel, as the guests gathered to lick her profoundly brown body, of the white-and-red “Latte Rouge” the host had tortured from her beautiful maid. And Amanda had whispered as Michaela had worked the glass slivers into her tits. And Amanda had whispered in agony of ecstasy to Michaela, as Michaela had razored her tits with the glass shards in the over-bra, and as Michaela had nipped off her nipple-tips and rubbed and tugged Amanda’s tits to torture the “Latte Rouge” from her. Amanda had dared to whisper to Michaela: “I love you my lady: I love you”, and had had her face slapped hard for her insolence, even as she had begun to cum, and had the remains of her under-bra whipped off, so that her milk and blood poured, and her body was adored by tongues arduously amorous galore, licking and lapping her red and white mix, and wanting to dare her nicked nipples, to draw the blood and milk of “Latte Rouge”, dribbling unstoppably from its succulently suckable sources. And Amanda, highly strung, had felt the gain from the pain of the bow that had strummed her most musical instrument constantly: the tight string drawn up so hard into her intimacy, with which she had been violed relentlessness conspicuously constantly, by its musk rosined string, so mightily tightly pulled hard up into her nick, to bow and scrape her in her inner-lips, inescapably to incapability, in cum-teetered surrender-pending crescendo tremendous. And the pain of her bowing by the bowstring that played her violin within, at last screamed Amanda to high pitch C fortissimo, as her love juices streamed feeling Michaela’s lips kiss her bloodied-milk-streaming left nipple: and Amanda had cum with a scream of a dream come true, as her love sucked her, and the string of her bow played her violin violently violatingly vibrato tremolo, as Michaela suckled her of milk and blood, and blood and milk: of “Latte Rouge” to Amanda’s perfect pitch high-C fortissimo-fortissimo soprano scream-squeal of ecstatic pain…………

Eve Adorer
06-23-2007, 06:17 AM
2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 7 – Imbalance

Love was not without its price. But that price was surely way too high in anyone’s opinion bar Amanda’s. Amanda no longer smiled.

Amanda no longer smiled. Amanda no longer laughed. Amanda’s gorgeous face no longer shone with the shear joy of being alive: of being a girl. Amanda’s lips still cried out to be kissed, but her gentle eyes did not sparkle with the champagne of her shear girlity anymore.

Now, only an occasional ray sparked this daughter of heaven, so that lightening flashed once more from her lighthouse beacons, with the return of her nucleonic radiant radiation: shear devastation: the look that would turn the hearts Amanda, the “she” in the word “she”, the “girl” in the word “girl”, had already melted, into vaporised love and longing for her.

Amanda was girl, and girl is, of course, naturally used to leaving total devastation in her wake. Amanda could not help that her very presence caused earthquake, or that her absence thereafter only heartache. She could not help that she brought joy and lifeworthlivingness. She was girl, and girl lights and warms the world incomparably; not the silly sallow sun: girl is the sun the moon and the stars.

The only worth of the sun is its gravity to keep the earth in orbit. And the only worth in the earth continuing its annual sun circle cycle, is that it contains girl, the creature created by creation for procreation. The finest creation of creation: creation herself: the ultimate of perfection: the proof that perfection is attainable: the goddesses that princess our humble lives.

Amanda no longer smiled. Love can be such a serious business.

The cruelty meted out to Amanda at Michaela’s dinner-party had only increased Amanda’s love for Michaela: the highest love of all loves had pierced Amanda’s heart: the love of a girl for her fellow perfect perfection: another girl.

It was not that Amanda was incapable of loving boy. She had adored the joy of boys’ favourite toy in her dark tunnel. Amanda had willingly given bum. Amanda had felt no shame in having her beautiful bottom fucked.

Her boyfriend, Simon, had given her the joy of enduring the slow poking of her tightest pocket. That constant feeling of being spilt asunder by a spit that her body would eject were it able, but which forced itself upon her and within her, be she willing or un, as it ploughed the valley between her fabulously provoking undulatory mountains: the monuments with which her every mere motion teased and tested with taunting temptation.

A girl with a bottom as pert and provocative as Amanda’s was bound to get it fucked: that she should get it shafted and enjoy it was a bonus. No rapist could have resisted turning Amanda over to pound her pert posterior. Simon had had the joy of cumming in her deepest darkness, ripping and paining her for his gain, again and again, and Amanda had been gently and sweetly game for this game.

Amanda’s bum should have been forbidden fruit, but she delighted in knowing she had been naughty with it. To be at a party holding hands with a boy, talking with her fellow-girls about love and sex, knowing that no other girl there would dare have given a boy the ultimate joy of his toy in the tunnel of deepest darkest sin, did not abash the superlative Amanda, who felt no blush or shame in giving boy this game, and would, even there and then be rubbing him, surreptitiously deliciously, with her delightful derriere, so he would know she was there bare below the thin material of her dress or skirt or jeans, materially handy and randy, ready to go, even as his crop was being teased inexorably aloft by Amanda’s every womanly warm wild wiles, wriggling, wiggling, stationary never, all-too-knowingly stroking, stoking, and provoking: being girl in fact: being girl in deed: indeed being girl.

And yet Amanda’s pleasure at having her beautiful brown bum fucked, had never ever been replete with a cum for her. There was only sacrifice in it for her; and its blood, and its pain.

Amanda’s brilliantly keen mind would never have admitted that she just loved having her bum impaled, because it was a secret sacred indulgence. Amanda’s bum was forbidden fruit not plucked but fructuously fucked, and thus tasted all the sweeter to both the penis that poled it, and to Amanda’s subliminal wicked inner-girl-innocent-and-sweet-mischievousness.

To have her sphincter sundered with no more preliminary lubrication that her lover’s spittle was sacrifice. Pain was certain. But Amanda was a girl who needed pain. Not openly would she ever admit to such, but secretly, so secretly it was even hidden from Amanda herself, Amanda was made even more beautiful by pain and sacrifice, and gave her beautiful brown bum bountifully to be “nailed”, so that man might thereby live.

And, just as she had no shame, and why should she, at having her bum shagged, so Amanda had no shame at loving girl. Amanda was a giver. Amanda received by giving. If her incredible beauty provoked another girl, Amanda gave. What right had Amanda not to give the gift that the goddess who created her had blessed her with the benefit to bestow?

But Amanda’s love for Michaela was perversely reversed. Even at twenty, Amanda was experiencing the first time she had ever had her love unrequited by another girl. It hurt. Amanda no longer smiled.

Amanda wanted to save the purest pure gold of her girl’s smile for Michaela, in order to show the love for which Michaela was oh so obviously oblivious. But Amanda would thus just bank her smiles and earn no interest; just as her interest was spurned by Michaela.

Insofar as Michaela saw Amanda at all, it was as a slave. Amanda was Michaela’s slave in fact. One did not pay heed to slaves. Slaves had no right to feelings for goodness sake! Any rights slaves had had, they had foregone by letting themselves become slaves in the first place. If one began to worry about slaves, one could only do so at the expense of those who really mattered in this world, and that would never do.


Despite her unfortunate choice of wife in ex-convictess Serena Siabon, Professor Michaela Redhead had arrived socially.

The highest calling for the moneyed, intellectually gifted, and / or artistically talented woman, was and still is, the Clitton Club. Founded in 1684 in London, the Clitton Club had opened a subsidiary in Glasgow in 1884, and Michaela had been admitted as an associate member at the Glasgow offshoot’s double-centenary year.

One had to be careful about seeking to join such a prestigious organisation. One heard so often, though it was meant to be kept completely secret, of women who had been blacknippled. Women who had sought election to the elect, but had had their selection rejected by the full-members in plenary session, by one member or more slipping into the secret ballot box, the conical marker of her choice: white for “yes” not being the choice over black for “no”, and with no second chances allowed.

The Clitton Club was decidedly not for every woman. The Clitton Club was the most exclusive club in the country: be the country in question England or Scotland.

To be discovered making even indirect-indirect enquiries about joining the Clitton, was to ensure ones being blacknippled: shunned and expelled forever from what one had never in fact even been allowed to enter in the first place.

A girl got into the Clitton only by being selected and elected by the existing membership. Only the cleverest and best were invited. One did not turn down the invitation to join either; any more than one turned down an account with the extremely exclusive Lady Love Lady Co Bank Limited.

In this at least Michaela admired Amanda. To arrive fully on the very highest of the high social scene, one had to be at least an associate member of the Clitton. To arrive at the Clitton in anything less than the sleekest and slickest of automobiles was to risk a back-step. For Michaela to have the supreme advantage of owning a girl-car pedalled by the extreme supreme graceful wonder of a girl like Amanda, therefore sustained her, Michaela, high in the esteem of her fellow members.

A clearly envious, indeed jealous, admirer was observing to Michaela one evening outside the Clitton, discussing Michaela’s girl-motor: Amanda, braless and in rubber crimson hotpants, her nipples plugged to stop her milk seeping……..A dowdy frumpily dressed young girl, a member of the Clitton: a full member and not merely an associate member, which latter was Michaela’s only achievement to date, walked around the vehicle within the frame of which Amanda was bound, with her beautiful legs tiptoed on the peddles four-feet-apart.

Amanda was being admired. Amanda was being admired not as a girl, so much as a piece of machinery: the literal driving force of Michaela’s girl-car…….

“Very sleek: very sleek indeed! One has always thought of getting a bleck one oneself”.

“Totally, but totally scwumptious legs on it: waaarther!”

The bleck ones are so much more ethletic they say! But is it worth paying the extra mark-up for one though: thet’s what one really wants to know: what?”

“What’ll this one do I wonder. Bet its got stemina: the bleck one’s are so good in the old stemina stakes, even when only naturally espirated like this little model.”

“Got huge tit-tanks on it too. Bet it does demned good miles-per-litre. Must be very self-sufficient with the old fuellers: what!”

“Bet it’s better on the long rens, then the odd little shopping twips about the old town: eh?”

“With those legs it must do forty-miles-per-hour easily on the apen-road.”

I suppose it’s worth the secrifice of the extra corst for a bleck one”.

They heve to be a little temperamental these sporty models though, what? And this one looks a frisky little number. What is it I wonder; eighteen or nineteen perheps?”

“Gorgeous masthead. If it weren’t a mere motor-gel slut, those superb lips would be worth a kiss any-day: Waaaather, eh?!!”

“Maind you though: Melissa hez a bleck one. She say’s it’s a sullen little slut, and a beggar to get going from cayled especially on a demp dey!”

This was the only side of the conversation that Amanda could hear as the frump and Michaela strolled around her, because she was being obliged to listen to a conversational monologue, from this very attractive brunette young-woman in brown tweed micro-miniskirt and matching jacket: gingham shirt tight-buttoned full length to her neck beneath the jacket, self-support brown woollen stockings half-up her very pretty thighs, and with a monocle over one sparklingly startlingly grey eye.

This pretty girl, from the English upper-classes was no more than *****teen, but she dressed as if she were forty. She was evidently full of admiration for Amanda and all but thinking out loud, as Michaela just listened, having no other choice, to this frump’s ruminative rhetorical recitation.

Michaela had arrived socially. She may only be but an associate member for the present, but full membership of the Clitton beckoned come its due time. It needed the retirement or death of one of the one-hundred core-committee: the so-called “elect”: the full members of the Scottish Branch. Michaela was young: time must literally tell in her favour.

“You really ought to do something about those tyres Michaela. Those treadless “slicks” you have on the bleck girl are jolly well illegallers don’t you know: what?” Amanda heard, as her mistress and the dowdy but very attractive frump sauntered into the club together, leaving Amanda to wait among the girl-cars parked on the main road outside, until such time as Michaela might choose to end her evening: most probably, yet again, in the early hours of the upcoming morning.

“Would you like to take her for a spin?” Michaela quietly enquired of the frump.

“Would I ?!! Waaather!” came the answer, “But one is too young for a dwiving licence….”

“You don’t need a licence to drive on private land. I’ll bring her over to your estate” Michaela smoothed.

“You wouldn’t!? Oh what a sweet gel you are Michaela!”

“Not tonight if you don’t mind Cecile, but I’ll let you take her for a solo spin if you wish” Michaela coaxed purposefully: her support for full-membership, on which Cecile, as a full-member already, had a say and vote after all, never very far from mind in what she said and did to and for Cecile.

“Michaela! Oh Michaela! That would be so scwumptious! Oh please!” Cecile was heard by Amanda to gasp-gabble, as the two members, one “full”, one as yet but an “associate”, strolled nonchalantly into the Clitton’s main entrance.

Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope was, by far, the wealthiest girl in Britain: heiress to the Tiapaolin (pronounced “Marpin”) estates. It was said that her mother, the Duchess, coincidentally favouring Japanese girls, owned two slaves for every day of the year. It had been the Duchess of Tiapaolin who had seen through the so-called “2084 clean-up laws” making soliciting for the purposes of prostitution a punishable offence.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it’s shaven!”

Michaela had not originally set out to cultivate Cecile’s support. It had just happened that the two girls had hit it off so well together: Michaela the brilliant intellectual mind, and Cecile, no dullard, but whose comparative lack of academic attainment was only the result of a tendency toward the laziness that such a fabulously wealthy girl could indulge.

Michaela herself was, of course, from a family of wealthy farmers who owned vineyard-girls and herds of girloxen. More than one-quarter of the girl-milk on the supermarket shelves came from the estates farmed by Michaela’s mother: so too, almost, with all the best selling girl-wines.

Michaela’s family was therefore “trade”. In olden days, the likes of Michaela would never have been allowed to truly mix with the likes of the Duchess Infanta Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope of Tiapaolin, but even the full Duchess herself, the sexy frumps mother, had had to lower her standards. The Duchess now owned the state brothels, having snapped up the shares when the government had decided to raise money by privatising them.

The Duchess had seen no conflict in owning brothels and living from the income from them, even whilst promoting legislation to outlaw prostitution. After all, the street hookers she had successfully sought to have banned, were competition for her brothels. This was so, even though the brothels were for the men of the country to have their relief in, whilst the street girls plied their trade with other girls. The Duchess knew the risk that even the bovine menfolk of post 2084 Britain, might one day latch on to using the street girls for their weekly one-minute-at-most one-sided pleasures.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it’s shaven!”


The Clitton Club, even at its entry, smelt of mulled wine, cigars, and leather.

“Good evening Miss Cecile and Miss Michaela”, Amanda heard an obsequious very feminine voice, voice to the two Clitton members as they entered its familiar luxury.

“We have your usual table should care to honour us by dining within our humble portals, my ladies”.

“We’ll take dinner at 20.30,” Cecile peremptorily instructed……………


After dinner prepared by the new French chef, their seat in the smoking lounge comprised twin Nubians. Cecile and Michaela nestled comfortably in the chair these unfortunate girls were forced to form. The Nubians lay on their backs on the floor. They had had their thighs drawn up and strapped such that they were tied to their upper bodies, and to the floor. Their lower legs were bound at the ankles and tied to the wall against which their heads also rested.

The backs of their beautiful long thighs and of their lower legs combined, thus formed, respectively, the seat and the back of a black “leather” chair: the black “leather” chair on which Cecile and Amanda settled back, replete from a meal concluded with milk fresh and direct from the super-firm breasts of a *****teen-year-old virgin schoolgirl. This milk-girl had been so sweet: pretty as any picture, and so incredibly shy.

Despite herself, Michaela with her micro-miniskirt lifted off her perfectly poignantly pert bottom, let alone her excelling excellent thighs, found the warmth and smoothness of the thighs of the Nubian slut forming the seat of the chair on which she perched her highly erotic highly intelligent beauty, was turning her on, as was the sight she and Cecile glanced at casually, as they discussed their comparative prowess at golf.

As Cecile and Michaela sat on the naked Nubians chair, they watched a girl swimming in a wine-tank. Michaela had been indifferent to the idea, but Cecile had wanted to taste the little angel’s fear-wine. Cecile’s instructions not being possible to disobey, behind the scenes the lovely shy *****teen-year-schoolgirl, whose milk the girls had sucked after their meal, had been immediately stripped more completely naked and forced into the tank.

The tank was full of Scottish mountain stream water. The water flowed into the wine-tank insistently steadily from a header tank, and from its being pumped in a circle via a chiller, from the lower tank back to the header again, and so round and round.

To breath, the girl must swallow the water so as to ensure a control valve in her tank would stay open to let air continue to come in. To keep from the bitter chill of the wickedly cold water, the girl must swim. If she failed to swallow the water continuously, the valve that let in air for her to breath would close, and she would drown. The girl must also retain her wine. If she peed in the water it would fill the tank to close the air-flap valve, and she would undoubtedly die. As it was she must fill herself with water such that her bladder would be as near popping as any party balloon on a piping-hot day.

The poor little angel would be drinking without thirst: drinking till she was sure she must burst. She would be drinking and swallowing desperately, wallowing in the oh so bitterly cold Scottish stream water, and gulping it with her heavenly unkissed lips, so that it would pass through her virgin schoolgirls’ body and thus, the mere product of a Scottish highland trickling stream, be transformed to the soft silken smooth pleasure of a girl’s treasure: her golden piss, her silvern pee, her pussy piss, her she-pee, the wine of the goddesses from the carafe of a goddess: the wine accompanied by the swish hiss of her piss singing as a girl pours her largesse, unreining the rain with which she reigns the world: her golden treasure, richer than avarice with its specific spices and its spicy specifics, purer than the honeybee queen’s honey, her potent pee: her waters filled with the aroma of feminine hormones, the nectar of nectars: her girl’s wine: her girl-pee: girl-wine: the wine of all wines: the intoxicant pumped from the upper heart of her cunt: the wicked trickle she produces to seduce us to worship her, as if she need add such a gloriously glistening incidental to her infallible unfailing recipe.

Once the poor girl’s terror and horror and fight against hypothermia was over, and the timing of that would be at the whim of club member Cecile: her wine would be garnered. The dreadful trauma would ensure that the schoolgirl’s wine would be deliciously tinge-tanged with her terrible fear of the certainty of death if she failed to drink, or if she let go her pee in the tank.

When, at long last, her shivering quivering body was fished from the tank, and she stood, thankful to be still alive, dripping Scottish mountain stream water and her angel’s tears, goose-pimpled, teeth chattering uncontrollably, her legs shaking, her knees twitching a St Vitas, she would be ordered to release her pure gold personal waters, for Cecile and Michaela to sip and enjoy, from a carafe accompanied by the amazingly crafted crystal glasses the Clitton Club was famed for.

“A dollar a feel!”

One of the statuesque Nubian girls bound up to form the club’s smoking lounge chairs, let out a gasp of terrible pain, as an obscenely fat woman sat on the backs of the Nubian’s fabulous thighs, and leaned back on her glorious calves, pressing the black girls toes into the wall she was backed up against.

Michaela heard this not. The Nubian would undoubtedly be whipped later for her insolence. Michaela thought about that not. Michaela was distracted.

The club’s servants curtsied to Cecile and Michaela after, to Cecile’s dismissively airily wafted general directions, they had positioned the tank with the schoolgirl in it fighting not to drown, so that Cecile and Michaela could enjoy watching the schoolgirl’s struggles and thinking of the joy of her wine in due time.

Michaela was distracted. Cecile put this down to the rich meal they had just jointly delighted in.

At the click of Cecile’s fingers a cigar-girl approached and curtsied. As with all the club’s servants, she wore the club uniform of tank-top, pleated micro-mini-skirt and ballerinarising shoes, all in crimson kid-leather. This girl was one of Cecile’s favourites. Again, as with all the club’s servants, her head was shaven completely bald but, unlike almost all the other girls serving in the Clitton though, this girl had not had her slit shaved. Her pubic hair was an incredible delight. It dangled, fully one-foot down in long pitch-black curly ringlets of impossible intertwining complexity. She bore a tray, bearing her wares, horizontally at her waist’s very slim midriff level, the tray hanging from a single crimson strap looping around the back of her graceful neck.

“Your wishes my lady?” the girl with the wonderful pubic hair whispered as she curtsied submissively.

“Havana and anoint it. Give it five”, Cecile snapped dismissively.

Used to being spoken to so cruelly abruptly, the girl took a large Havana cigar from its protective tube, bit off its end with her lovely white teeth, swallowing that she had bitten off, and then proceeded to moisten the bitten-off end of the cigar, by inserting it into her vagina and gently working it within her to arouse herself and thus give it her intimate flavour.

Table-girls crawled on their bound up legs. Each table-girl had had her ankles strapped to her upper thighs near her crutch. She wore crimson leather kneepads and crimson mittens. On her back was strapped a lipped rectangular dark oak elaborately carved tray, that formed a table for which the girl was literally the legs, when she crawled into and “stood” on the points of her knees and the flats of her pretty hands, in position, her beautiful breasts gravitationally pointed by being gracefully pulled, by no means disappointedly, straight down.

In anticipation of the cigar’s ash and the wine from the girl in the tank being eventually served, an exceptionally pretty black-girl table-girl wiggled across, crawling into place to act as Michaela and Cecile’s table, the loveliness of her pert mouth lips almost a match for the unmatchable poised pout of the unmitigatingly kissable lips of the glorious Amanda. The Clitton prided itself on such observant quiet efficiency, and the extreme beauty of the cream of the dream slave girls it employed to serve its honoured customers.

Then, an extremely long-legged six-foot-five-inch tall Russian girl, next wiggled over, and placed a crystal glass ashtray on the girl-table, curtsying as she did so, and as the cigar-girl continued to masturbate herself among her superlative pubic tangle, readying Cecile’s upcoming smoke. Such super-efficient foresight was what the Clitton Club was world-famed for.

Michaela was distracted.

Michaela rose from her half of the twin-Nubian seat, and glided over to where a girl, one of five, was bent over at the waist like an inverted “L”, tied with her pretty mouth fixed to a steel rail gag that she shared with her four companions: a rail gag that occasionally spurted into the lovely mouths of the five girls, water that they must drink to “top them up”.

From the rear of the girl of Michaela’s choice, and her four fellow beauties, protruded a pipe that entered her slot. These pipes were also supported by a rail. Michaela picked up an exquisitely-fine bone-China cup-and-saucer, and casually operated an upright lever at the end of the pipe protruding from a black girl’s cunt, to draw off some of the chosen girl’s wine: hot and fragrant, and fresh from the girl, a truly lovely negress.

This was a pee-girl, this was a “tea-girl”. Michaela seemed lost in thought as she walked around to the front of the same girl, put her delicate cup below the negress’ right nipple, and squeezed her breast to infuse milk into the hot wine, to make hot wine tea.

And yet, after but one sip of the deliriously delicious concoction, Michaela simply put her cup-and-saucer down on the tea-girl’s achingly artistically arched slim back, and returned herself to her seat on the smoothness and warmth of the lovely shining black Nubian girl’s thighs.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it’s shaven!”


The Girl-Police loved to patrol outside the Clitton Club, and Constabless Miranda Fulsome had just found the perfect find to make her evening worthwhile: a girl-car with illegal bald tyres.

All those rich bitches inside the club, with all their fine wine and fancy cigars, were a target for resentful revenge in the minds of the poorly paid Girl-Police. After all, you joined the Girl-Police so as to avoid becoming a victim of those vipers. Most Girl-Police constablesses were from poorer families. Many of their sisters had ended up as girloxen, or in the Duchess of Tiapaolin’s brothels.

If they wanted to keep their jobs, the Girl-Police had to do the bidding of their superiors, but part of their jobs was, in the clear view of the Girl-Police themselves at least, to ensure that the cliché that: “all are equal before the law”, had meaning, by treating “the toffs” as they called their superiors in scoff, unequally, in favour of finding all they could by way of wrong needing righting, so as to avenge their sisteren.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome had a particular motive for revenge. Her *****teen-year-old kid-sister, Apina, had been chosen to have her milk brought on, so that she could be used as a tit-girl inside the Clitton Club itself, giving her lovely little virgin’s titties to the toffs, for the toffs to suck-off her kid-sisters milk, as an post prandial pleasure.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome was an angry young woman. Had she known that, even as she was writing out a ticket for the girl-car with the illegal tyres, her lovely little sister was fighting against the bitter cold water and being all-but drowned in a wine-tank, the Clitton Club might have seen a wild and angry invasion from one very strong young woman Girl-Police officer.

Miranda Fulsome checked the vehicle’s registration number over her radio: finding the owner’s name to put on her charge sheet. She then, having completed the multi-part form, tore off the front page, licked the glue with which it’s reverse side was painted, and slapped the sticky side on Amanda’s lovely left thigh, so the girls back at the station house would know the charge, before radioing the tow-truck to have this girl-car taken into the station house pound.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome had moved on when, two-minutes later, Michaela Redhead appeared from the club’s oak-panelled doorway. Slinking across to the parked-up Amanda, she immediately noticed the ticket on Amanda’s gorgeous thigh, and simple ripped it off and, without reading it, screwed it into a ball and tossed into a rain-drain.

“Balantine Street” Michaela ordered and, obedient to her love’s every whim, Amanda began, once Michaela was suitably suited and seated in the seat, to peddle with her stupendously lovely lower limbs in the direction Michaela’s order dictated her girl-car must go.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome was around the corner, sitting with companions on the tow-truck, as the lovely Amanda peddled her mistress to her wished-for destination.

As the gorgeous Amanda pedalled her awesome legs by the tow truck crew and Miranda, taking an unofficial chat break, Miranda all but instructed: “I think we’re on to summat if we follow dem”.

“You ent a sarge yet, Mirra me gel, I ent gonna tek no orders from you”, the truculent truck driveress insisted, inevitably truculently, but with friendly jest in her rough gruff tone.

“No”, Miranda Fulsome uttered distractedly but audibly, “But I ‘eard where der goin’. We cud get a two-in-one ‘ere: a prozzy, and a fuckin’ illegal motor an’ all!” she joyed, her voice rising slowly as she reached her goal in her imagination.

“Oh, all fuckin’ right den; but you is fuckin’ doin’ all der fuckin’ paperwork!” the truck driveress insisted, as if offering a deal.

“Done!” Miranda laughed, and the truck began to follow the rapidly disappearing but never disappointing Amanda.

“Where dey off to anyvey?” asked the driveress.

“Balantine Street”, Miranda answered quietly.

“So vye didn’t you fuckin’ say so den?” comicked the truckess, with glee that catching two-girls-with-one-stone was indeed in prospect, and a “tallyho!” was in order, as the hunt for sinning cunts was on.


Glorious old-gold autumnal in torrential twisting flow, it tumbled, a veil, a cape, then a train, from crown to ankle, in a mesmerising tangle of coiled curled springs of teasing taunting haunting glistering glory, her tired ghost white freckle-frolicked face telling the entire story of a girl new to the streets. It mattered that it was tangled, knotted, and matted, and she not clean, days gone no wash, no spring-daisy fresh as she deserved, now deserted sweat-stained and smelling strongly wrongly: hungry, oh so very hungry!

Cheaply chiefly in cast-offs dressed: twelve-inch stiletto heels with pointed also stiletto toes, precariously poised, on precipice stilted, so tall, so slatternly, she slithered slim with her bottom bewitchingly twitching its ‘come-hither to my quiver’ infernally infurnacely eternally sexual siren beacon beckon.

Goose-pimpled from over-half-starvation, and the cool chill of the night on her shop-window near nakedness, her voice tremulous with fear as her body tremendous curved within curves of compelling charm, poured out of the micro-micro-mini-skirt, in hand-me-down black, unsuitable for her ghost white complexion: the micro-micro-mini-skirt that formed a band around her buttocks and no more above and only just below, bare else, bar trunk with bountiful chest in sweat stained nipple steepled twice, white tee-shirt, points-provocative-nipple-poked peaking peak peeking, and those impossible-to-walk-in shoes: this was girl as poor whore.

“A dollar a feel!”

“A dollar a feel: it’s shaven!” ……….she desperately rejection-expectantly whispered to the shadowed sweet-scented brunette in the girl-cab seat with her girlfriend: the girlfriend the brunette wanted to see being sucked-off by the whore of her choosing: the girlfriend, losing love, so desperate not to depart being part of her love’s life, that she would willingly submit her whole soul, as readily, or as well as, her holy hole, to be sucked by even Satan’s slattern to please her love and keep her love aflame and alive.

Then she gasp-shrieked with tears tearing her eyes, as the owner of this, the tenth girl-cab or girl-car she had had stationary before her that eventide, and had leaned into to beg, kicked her unwanted to the sidewalk, and her semi-bare bum was slapped by the pavement onto which she was rejectedly suddenly dumped, as the girl-cab crawled on down the line of her fellow girls, her fellow prostitutes as they would be, were her prostitution ever to be consummated by her finding a customer: the girls flaunting their wares on Ballantine Street, the pre and post 2084 beyond-sinking-further, sunk-and-stinking, despond-slough-end of Glasgow’s notorious pink light district.

Amanda, not new there, knew there was where she was headed, and felt the tears of her gentle nature nurture in her glorious goddess’ deep-dark-brown orbs, as she contemplated seeing once more her pitiful sisteren, sunk so low as to solo the streets with sallow sunken cheeks, helloing with smiles bad-breathed, and bodies cheaply, fully-unflatteringly, flaunted: daunted by death, pending their clients not spending: haunted by the day they were not hunted for cunt even at starvation’s single dollar, for a feigned enjoyed feel, and an actressed orgasm, minimised by the maximised need to move on to the next customer’s dollar: praying for to be prey to their fellow girls’ prying fingers, and survive for just another day.


Amanda’s long strong supremely lovely legs cycled slowly the circles of the four-feet-parted pedal pads, to which her big toes were pinioned to give her legs swooning shape of extremely sexy sexuality and sensuality, as their sweet brown-sugar strength and fitly toned length, lithed live lissom erotic stretches, and thighfull Eiffelled searful sighfull sightful incitefull eyefilling eye fulfilling folds, to behold impossible without the desire being inspired by such an earthly heavenly earthy orgasmic sight: the sight of a beautiful girl with beautiful legs, both functional and decorative, in their nuclear powerful performance of such meaningful, other meaningful, simple menial, but congenitally genitally side-meaningful work: the site of the sight, of absolutely the, but the absolutely most wonderful means of emotional motion: its locale the locomotion of her legs: a girl’s legs.

Amanda used her wonderful legs so naturally with the pedals. She did not mean to taunt, she did not mean to haunt, she did not mean to tease, but heaven was blessed, as her legs and dainty feet caressed the pedals, to which for now belonged her long longing luring alluring belonged: as her legs pleased to poise and point and anoint the world with the beyond artistic blessing beauty of pure girl, as she pedalled her mistress, Michaela, toward Ballantine Street and Michaela’s meet with the meat that was mete to be met there.

Amanda tried to make her mind go numb as she was ordered to slow her pedals to a poised curb-crawl, so her mistress could spy out a slut with whom to lower herself as she longed, having this longing drive long since arrive, seemingly in parallel with her bachelor graduation as a brilliant MSc, but still in companion and parallel a virgin untutored in any degree of love.

Michaela had a need to debase herself. Michaela enjoyed the risk of being discovered to enjoy whores. Michaela wanted sex without pleasure for either combatant. Michaela wanted to be soiled: her wet-dreams were that she was the whore, and she only wished she were brave enough, to attempt the contempt incumbent upon selling herself on the street, with no need to, as these poor creatures, her fellow girls, they to whom Amanda was bringing Michaela slowly, ever so, ever closer, must, by the economic imperative and the survival drive compulsion.

Oh goddess in her heaven, who was this stunning beauty? Michaela had never seen this whore before: she must be new and Michaela knew she liked new, because new meant debasement: for the poor girl forced to sell herself was still full of her humanity, and not yet a nail-hard, casehardened, experience-seared street-walker, with her cynicism sharpened to bluntness.

This whore’s walk showed she was new: she walked as if she were a free girl, and thus must yet learn to become unprovocative, by attempting tempting provocation through feigned fake swinging of her bottom between nation and nation, as she patrolled her sales pitch station.

Michaela watched this girl as she showed the hurt in her toes, steepled as she was in cruelly uncomfortable pinprick pointed tiptoe shoes, with twelve-inch heels tipping her calves to stupendous curvature.

Her flesh was so white: so white, so pale: so transparent, she was apparently an apparition, she was so ghostly. She was further pitiful in her paleness probably from days without proper food, as she was yet to earn even a pittance prostitute.

Michaela drank with dark pleasure, the rear view of this whore’s saunter, a view haloed by the whores clearly unkempt and unclean fall, of stupendously stupefying curled coiffure of a colour Fall-leaf-copper, from her still queenly raised head, till its coiled ends tangled where it dangled her handsome ankles, a train in training, the floor to adorn come a soon dawn.

A momentary flash cruel of this girl made to crawl, her ankles tied to her head by her own hair, to force up her head so her mouth could serve service to Michaela’s slot, as the girl’s eyes were wide-open-pulled with her scalp being tugged hard back by her unroped bondage with her own natural abundance of autumnal gold, wetted and whetted Michaela’s slit as she gasp-dreamed of it.

Then another eventide-wet-dream flash of this girl’s golden glory, pristinely serviced and burnished, as her only, but absolutely her only garb at wedding altar, caused Michaela to mentally moan with longing to lower this whore, and whore herself too, all too utterly below the gutter.

Michaela watched bewitched by the swish of this girl’s natural bottom swing, as she swanned gracefully. And the girl turned, hearing the wheels Amanda pedalled, the golden autumnally haired pallid pale soiled but unspoiled beauty turned, showing the face of a beneficently befreckled angel, with shy shining greener than green eyes.

Tears were trickling down Amanda’s adorable face. Amanda did not need for this girl to turn to recognise Rosetta. Oh goddess in heaven, how had Rosetta, Amanda’s first love, come to this? Oh what hell was 2084 society when a woman as so beautiful in nature as so in appearance, could be as so despoiled, as so lowered, as so despised, as so deprived, that she must sell herself on the streets to her sisters so?!

Depraved though it might be, there was just something about the sizeable sighable enormity of Rosetta’s stupifyingly stupendous thighs, so creamy and so ghostly-white, and so in complete compliment with and to, Amanda’s perfectly contrasting wonderful dark brown, atop the cycle before her, that turned Michaela finally on to getting this soiled temptation over, and having a feel of her heaven havening in harbour between her powerfully erotic legs.

Rosetta, so tired, so hungry, so worn and weary, so reduced by her being sacked by her cruel mistress, because no longer trusted with her mistress’ daughter, whom the mistress had caught kissing the irresistible Rosetta, or “Eve” as she was called when working as a personal maid, did not even notice let alone recognise the lovely Amanda, silently sobbing with pain for her poor broken former schoolfriend and first-ever-lover and love, now one-week since reduced to prostitution, and still to gain her first client.

Her face dying for trying not to show fear of further rejection, or the desperation of her need for money, Rosetta leant forward to the rear of the girl-car, for which Amanda was the motor, toward a longed-for client she could not see for the tears beginning to spill from her lovely lustrous green eyes, as she croak-whispered to the shadowed Michaela: “A dollar a feel! A dollar a feel: it’s shaven!”

Michaela’s sensitive nose was momentarily flared by Rosetta’s unwashed smell. Michaela could smell Rosetta’s unwashed slit, and knew she was filthy. Poor Rosetta had had not even a roof over her head this week past, let alone the luxury of means of keeping herself kempt and clean.

“Let’s see your tits”, Michaela ordered…………. and, as Rosetta reached up to release her top so that her bountiful bold bosom would tumble and flow and swing and settle, and then rise and fall vibrate and side-to-side with the vesper whisper zephyrs of her angel’s breath, as if the she that was Rosetta herself lived independently from her tremulous titanic titular twins with their tempting teats, and the two too each and both semi-independently from her beautiful sister, the Girl-Police surrounded the scene.



Michaela was, of course, off, scot-free. The Girl-Police purposely ‘did not notice’ as she dismounted from her girl-car, leaving Rosetta under arrest for soliciting for the purposes of prostitution, and Amanda being demounted from the girl-car, because it had unroadworthy bald tyres, an offence for which Amanda, though it was in no way shape or form her fault, could, and would, be punished in order to “punish” her owner.

Girl-Police Constabless Miranda Fulsome hated this. She had wanted to see Michaela Redhead suffer the rigours of the law for what Michaela and her kind had done to her *****teen-year-old kid-sister, Apina.

But Michaela was a member of the Clitton Club, and so too was the Chief of Police. And so Constabless Miranda Fulsome had had to: “Yes ma’am” and “No ma’am” to Michaela, and agree to call Michaela a girl-cab, so as to get Michaela safely home.

Miranda would avenge herself on the tart that had lowered herself to become Michaela’s slave and the motor of her vehicle, but she metaphorically ground her teeth as she thought of her sister Alpina’s sweet innocence, and how she was now being forced to offer her nipples to be sucked to draw off her milk for the pleasure of the Michaelas of this unjust world.


Astonishingly beautiful green eyes looked into agonisingly wonderful dark-brown eyes, as Amanda and Rosetta stood face to face in the centre of the square where they were to be publicly punished for their crimes.

Women and girls had gathered to witness, and national television had a camera crew in readiness.

A preceding week in prison, preceded by proceedings before a magistrate, was to result in a public flogging, made entertainment so that the state could charge admission, and sell the television rights to the highest bidder: a subscription channel that had cornered the market in “girltainment”, as the entertainment of seeing girls suffer punishment at the hands of the law was now styled in the popular press.

“Minx Television”, the channel with the monopoly, was presently showing a so-called information film, in which a very attractive Asian-Indian beauty was whispering guidance on the “correct” way for a girl to masturbate: a film intended for schools to teach the would be wives under tuition there, how to entertain their hoped-for future husband-girls.

Minx Television’s schedule was running late, and so Amanda and Rosetta’s whipping must be delayed till the end of the programme showing, the subsequent advertisements, a news bulletin, a weather forecast, and the introduction to the outside broadcast Amanda and Rosetta were to be the centre of. Minx television had paid a million dollars for the rights to show the rite that was to follow. Compared with that, Amanda and Rosetta’s anticipatory suffering was of no account whatsoever it seemed.

At very long last, a red light atop camera 1 flashed on, and: “Action” was called into the hidden radio-contact earphones of the front-of-camera crew, by a girl who looked no more than *****teen, but was in fact Minx Television’s 25-year-old star producer.

“Have we any leg-lovers among you girls watching at home?”

This was Subretta Patel, a doll of mixed Indian and Chinese parentage, who should have fronted camera more-often in future, but had been granted state leave to have a baby, by artificial insemination, for her husband-girl, and was thus conducting her swansong programme before becoming a full-time housegirl.

“Have we any leg-lovers among you girls watching at home?”

“Yes: I know it’s a silly question, but just look at the legs on these two truly astonishing beauties and even if you were not particularly a leg-lover before you must surely be a convert.” Subretta Patel lisped, with sucrose sweetness in a natural sexy whisper.

“I know I love legs, and these girls are like wow! leggy!!”

The camera played on the indeed very very beautiful legs of Rosetta and Amanda, and then panned back to show how they had been bound.

The two girls, Amanda and Rosetta, supreme brown and glorious white, dangled at the end of a wooden joint cunt-divider thrusting an eight-inch-long one-inch-diameter penis-dildo, one apiece, into their super-sensibility and super-sensitivity. Around each girl’s waist a tight silk rope was passed, and looped such that its loose end could then be drawn between the mountainettes of her bottom, before being looped through a hole in, and thus tied to one end of, the cunt-divider they shared as they hung face-to-heavenly-face.

One end each of the cunt-divider to which this rope was tied on each and both girls, was at their respective perineums. The divider, based on a two-inch broad, quarter-inch deep twelve-inch long length of splinter-rough wood, was then pulled hard up between the sensitive lower lips of the girls, dividing the gates of their heavens, with its narrow-side pulled hard up them, and thus thrusting into their super-sweet-scented sexual scabbards the eight-inch-long one-inch-diameter penis-dildos on which each supreme dream beauty was painfully impaled.

Between them, at the halfway point of the splitter that divided and ruled their magical majestic magnificences: the shared cunt-divider their respective heavens harboured, there was a hole in its middle. And from this hole in the middle of the balance of injustice on which they teetered in torture, rose a strong chain to a crane that had hoisted them extremely painfully so that both girls could now barely touch the ground, with their respective big toes reaching down to stretch their sexy legs to erotic maximum of curvature, as they dangled very leggily on heaven’s weighing scales: scales weighing their incredible beauty in the balance, and not finding it in any way shape or form at all wanting.

The cunt-divider pulled up between them so hard by their dangling from the crane by it, was also curved so as to press at the top of their respective mons, and their clitorises were being bullied by the pressure: pressure their leggy legs fought to relieve, lest lost grip force them into entangle-dangle-dancing till they could gain big-toe-tip toe-hold ground-grip once again.

Each girl: both girls, shone with sweet sweat from the strain of their enforced dance stance. The camera moved in at the director’s command and showed the astonishingly erotically agonising site of the sight, of the poor girls having had their nipples sewn to one another’s, by needle and nylon thread having been unmercifully driven through their sensationally sensual sensitive nipple flesh, so as to sew each beautiful breast to its opposite and equal beauty, and so as to torture their breasts inescapably capably during the capers to follow.

Thus were the girls tied face-to-angel’s-face at slits and at tits. And so too were the two at wrists, bound by leather amulets that put their pretty hands to sweet use, as they could not avoid each hand holding the other girl’s dainty opposite, and they now visibly comforted each other by the gentleness with which their lovely hands touched and caressed.

Janus-like they now dangled in their shared pain as they were pressed to one-another with their faces cheek by jowl: two jewels: two pearls of god in a pod: the black pearl and the white: the black girl and the white: two ends of the spectra and the racial-rainbow, and both supremely extremely girl, peered with peerless faces over the other’s shoulder, feeling each other’s fear pumped heart palpitatingly pound, as pound for glorious pound of priceless girl, they were bound in the compound of the penitentiary: bound assuredly shortly to be flogged.

Subretta Patel lisped in her sexy husky whisper, “What a study in contrasting but equal loveliness these two girls are, aren’t they ladies? We especially asked that Rosetta’s overwhelmingly lovely auburn hair be allowed to dangle for your pleasure. Just look at those impossible curls. Surely even the gold in Fort Knox could not outshine that autumn-leaf tumbling fall! And have you ever, but ever, seen a girl whose lips were so made to be kissed for ever and ever, like those of the delightful Amanda?”

“Lady’s these girls are former lovers fallen on hard times. Two such wonderful creations of nature were made for love and to love each other. But the law must be obeyed and the law will drive these girls apart. Love each other they may now, but that love will be challenged and broken by the law for your coincidental entertainment.”

“The cane is to be used on those delightful bottoms, and guess what. The cane is very very painful, and the girls will fight for our delight so as to swing each other around, and make it so it is the other girl whose bottom gets the flogging. And so too would you if you could know the pain of the cane on your bare flesh! I am told that it is akin to being red-hot-flame branded.”

“Now, if you phone 00 69 362436, it is not too late to place a bet on which girl will receive the most lashes. It’s your call!! Calls cost a minimum of five-dollars, so make sure you have the permission of the phone’s owner to make that call-bet! There will be two winners: the two winners being the girls whose names are the first to be drawn out of the hat. One-million dollars is the prize to be shared 50:50, so get those calls calling girls!!! Employees of Minx television may not participate, and see the MinxTV website for full terms and conditions”……

“……….Well, so much for the plug: now let me now see if I can get one of these girls to talk to us…..”

Subretta Patel slinked over in her New York fashion suit, her Paris Passion scent, her pure Chinese silk stockings, her London designer underwear, and her Italian stiletto mules, to where Amanda and Rosetta dangled, and had now dangled in preliminary pain for at least a full hour. Subretta must not let the girls know how they were to be punished: that was for the authorities to convey, not a fragrant, flagrantly overpaid, television presenter.

“Well, I am standing now, as you will see next to these truly delicious young women, and I can smell the natural scent of Rosetta’s glorious hair, and believe me it is truly as erotic as it is exotic. One day soon we may have smellyvision perhaps!” Subretta lamely joked. But, till then, imagine the most erotic scent in the world and then some, and you will still not have imagined the awesome aroma of Rosetta’s incredible copper-gold tresses, believe me!”

As Subretta moved in with her microphone, Rosetta’s hair was being rolled up to bare her body to the lash, and what with that taking place, and the fact that Rosetta was sobbing with pain and fear, and had diamond-clear-rainbow-prismed-tears running down her angelic freckled face, Subretta brought the microphone up to the ever-forever-kiss-compelling negress’ lips, of the divine Amanda’s exceptionally lovely mouth.

“You’re Amanda, is that right”

“Yes my lady” Amanda gasped as she flexed one of her lovely legs, lifting it to twiddle her delightful toes, feeling cramp potentially threatening her compellingly curvaceous calves.

“What is your crime Amanda?”

“There were illegally bald tyres on the girl-car I was the motor of, my lady”.

“Wow ladies! Just imagine having this delightful creature as the motor in your girl-car. Wow and how eh?! Just look at the legs on her!!! Imagine those pedalling for you! Heaven eh?!”

“You’re a very lovely girl Amanda, how old are you?”

Amanda’s eyes showed her consternation at the compliment: she was flustered at being flattered, and not least at having had her girlness recognised by another human for the first time in what seemed to have been a million years:

“Thank you my lady: I am twenty my lady”

“According to my notes Amanda, you were once a student of mathematics and astrophysics at Camford: is that right?”

“Yes my lady”

Amanda flexed her beautiful left leg trying to ease the oncoming cramp caused from having to stretch so as to get her big toes to ground, and she winced with the pain as her right calf instantly cramped up.

“Could we ask for a more sensationally sensual combination than brains like Amanda’s with beauty like Amanda’s?” Subretta Patel inanely asked her television audience.

“It’s a big come-down from astrophysics to girl-car motor Amanda. What went wrong? Weren’t you a very naughty girl? According to my researchers, you were a very naughty girl indeed! Tell us about it.” Subretta insisted, insistently thrusting the microphone like an erect penis to Amanda’s seducingly succulent lips.

“I lost my job at a restaurant chain my lady……….”

“………No. No. That’s not how it was, was it Amanda.” Subretta interrogated, looking to camera for effect, and to give point to the fact that this was key to the interview, and viewers should take note of how clever she, Subretta, was to get the confession that was about to follow, out of this lovely reluctant interviewee: Subretta the tough ballsy television interviewette, so easily in command over such a tough job, and so very attractive too: “You slept with your mistress’ daughter didn’t you? That’s what my notes say. You got caught in flagrante delicto with your mistress’ *****teen-year-old schoolgirl daughter.”

“I humbly beg to beg your pardon my lady……….” Amanda cried in pain from her cramping calves.

“………According to my notes Amanda, your first mistress surprised you letting yourself be kissed very intimately by her very young daughter …………”

Amanda instantly yelped with the terrible pain of cramps hitting both her calves once again.

“We’ll let that one slide then Amanda, but our viewers will take note that you have not denied it….” Subretta Patel departingly taunted, with a look saying ‘journalist of the year and Pulitzer surely in the bag after that’ showing on a face that was pretty, serious, and seriously pretty.

“No…..No my lady please!……….” Amanda could be heard to call to the retreating Subretta, but Amanda’s would-be protest of innocence was lost in her cries of pain, as the cramps made gain in her deliriously delicious calves twice again.

Even after three years in the job, Subretta Patel had not learned to spot the planted turn-on-question, intended to put wow! and kapow! into the moistening panties of her viewers. Nor had she spotted that the “Pulitzer prize question” had been posed by her to the wrong girl: it was Rosetta that had been seduced by her *****teen-year-old-nymphet charge, not Amanda.

The pain of the cunt-splitter dividing the lips divine of the heavenly Amanda and Rosetta, hurt with a constancy consummately clever in its constitution. Both beauties had need of moving and the moves of each was bound to echo through the splitter, into the supremely sensitive slice of the partner to which she was so intimately bound.

Neither too could either girl move a mini-millimetre, without pulling her own, and thus the other girl’s nipples, and pressing on the other girl’s cunt. Bound as they were, their every tiny twitch was bound to torture both themselves apart and both each other together.

Their bodies, so sensitised and sensitive to and for sensation, the desire that would in nature drive them to have flamed afire, with procreations proclamation of the purpose of their perfection in a performance leading to parturition paramount: thus were Amanda and Rosetta.

However, modern society solely sought for sensational sexual sights, and torture of girls such as Rosetta and Amanda kept other girls at home focused on masturbation, and thus away from the risk of pregnancy among those who might still desire men, even when their own kind was on regular ready offer: this was the post 2084 way.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome had a short-sleeved blouse on, as she readied the cane. She had been trained in the proper way to cane a girl. She knew the main lesson was that the stroke must not be aimed so as to stop at the point where it impacts the victim, but should be aimed at an imaginary target at least as far away again as the target herself, so that the cane is in full flight toward that further target, and therefore at fullest speed, when the victims lovely body is impacted.

In this case it was going to be easy to essay her lessons. In aiming to cane, let’s say, Amanda’s bottom, Miranda would imagine she was trying to cut through to strike Rosetta. Thus she would take up station such that she was aiming to whip way-beyond the target that would stop the cane’s flight, rather than, as an amateur would, caning a girl in the manner where the girl herself is the target, and the cane thus used less effectively and productively, by the fact that it is slowing by the time flesh is struck.

Miranda could not deny that she found both girls extremely erotic, and that she was moistening her panties’ gusset copiously as she flexed the cane, gripped in her two parted hands to bend it up and down, in readiness.

“Right you whores!” Miranda’s voice echoed over the public address, from the microphone in her already heaving cleavage.

“Right you whores, which one of you wants to taste the cane first?!”

“I will only cane one of you: the one of you whose lovely bottom is facing me!”

“So you must fight whores! You must fight so as not to be the one who tastes the kiss of my cane!!”

“Who is to be first to be kissed on her gorgeous thighs by my wicked witch switch?!”

Amanda whispered in Rosetta’s ear as Rosetta clung close and sobbed in dreadful fear: “I’ll take it for you my love………”

The cane whistled and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ struck Amanda’s sensationally firm side-dimple-concaved bottom, with red-hot fire, cutting her skin, so that she bucked and screamed and lifted her sexy legs, kickilly threshing them to try and relieve the agony of her brutal welt, with the horrible burning echo matching the rut stripes rising, and the pull on her paps and those of Rosetta as her body arched back, and the pull on her cunt as she danced her legs off ground, unbalancing Rosetta, and causing both girls to swing in a sexual dance being fucked brutally by their dildoes. Amanda had not expected it to hurt so terribly much, but she fought to settle her toes to ground and ground her lovely teeth to ease the hurt and prepare her for the next stripe. And ‘THWICK!!!!!’ her gorgeous thighs were striped with the red hot fire, and Amanda screeched as her sexy legs danced and the girls danced, and they pulled on each others nipples, and their cunts jigged on the splitter in a see-saw of searingly painful, but sensationally sensually sexually-arousing rough splinter rubbing, as they see-sawed up and down and up and down, dangling on their splitter by their cunts with the huge hard dildos fucking them hard, with their shared splitter hanging by the chain from the crane above them. And ‘THWICK!!!!!’ Amanda took the third stripe on her extremely beautiful calves, and both girls were swinging and see-sawing on the shared splitter, their sewn-together-by-the-nipples-titties, being pulled and stretched horrendously unmercifully as they bucked, being fucked on the see-saw up and down wild-broncoing of the tearing ripping cunt-splitter and dildos, so that their cunts bled both. And both girls’ moans and gasps were now musically sensationally heavily heavenly sexual, as their cunts were ridden roughshod bare-back on the bucking fucking bronco of the splitter on which their most girl-parts were chafed and rubbed and pressed and kneaded scraped grazed torn and shagged, such that their inner-lips were raw and their clitorises pulsing and dancing and prancing aroused and alive to pain: the splitter that they rode and thus were fucked by, and thus by fucked each others’ slits. And their nipples were brutally pulled by Amanda’s arching her already supremely extremely naturally arched back in agony, as ‘THWICK!!!!!’ Amanda’s beautiful bum was striped again, and lovely legs brown and white and white and brown entangled in a dervish waltz, for two, also too for two all too lovely bodies. And Amanda’s loving mouth sought and found Rosetta’s for the sweet need for human contact and human love in her shear agony. And Amanda’s plus-perfect lips kissed and were kissed, as they were made for to be forever, as Rosetta’s tongue sought the sanctuary of the sanctity of Amanda’s heavenly mouth, and Amanda became certain of what her brilliant mind had already foreconcluded, that Rosetta was turned on to orgasmic passion by the see-sawing and the nipple pulling, and above all by the dancing, when Amanda was whipped, and by the sadism of having her lover whipped whilst so close in her arms. And the crowd cheered the passionate kiss, as ‘THWICK!!!!!’ Amanda’s thighs were striped again, and the girls just kept kissing, as the blood from where Amanda’s stripes crossed, trickled, and their bodies danced a toe-trying-to-purchase-ground long-lovely-legs-stretched intermingled long-legged-leggy-leg-jig on the splitter on which their cunts were saddled. And the kiss was approaching oblivion for both girls, as Amanda knew her sister’s will and want, and turned them with her powerful and powerfully beautiful legs toe-down-stretched in their bonds, turned them around till: ‘THWICK!!!!!’ Rosetta pearl-white pear-shaped bottom was afire with its first stripe, and their mouths melted and moulded, so that two girls became one, as Amanda held her love and her lover for the stripe she instinctively knew would tip her, and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ Rosetta danced her supreme dream legs as her thighs were cut with the vicious cane. And she came in Amanda’s kiss, she came to Amanda’s kiss, she came from Amanda’s kiss, she came to the kiss of the lips, of an angel on earth from the highest angels of heaven, to the lips of a negress, a black-pearl girl of pulchritudinous perfection, with a mouth and lips of pouting prominence, pouring out love even in their prominent provocative repose on her face when composed for her daily dalliance with life, adorable demanding and commanding she be kissed for the kiss can only be perfected by such lips, the lips of the negress girl, the lips, not just lips, but the lips, the lips that god made in her wisdom to give to the negress, to please us and tease us, the lips that the dictionary must define as the apotheosis of the kiss, not lips but a kiss, a constant kiss, a walking talking eating sleeping breathing kiss, the lips of perfection girlsonified, the lips of a negress girl. And Rosetta came and she came, and the crowd jeered and cheered as a curtain fell on this performance, with the stays holding Rosetta’s hair undoing, and the slow motion rolling fall of russet rusty copper glory curls of girl’s coiffure, cascading and bouncing in spring coils, to cover and caress in curls of mesmerising wonder, both girls, as ‘THWICK!!!!!’ Amanda’s pert deserving smack-me-hard-and-harder-slap-me, insolent excellent unexcellable bum, was striped as it deserved to be, as it demanded to be, as was its inevitable fate, for its supremely desirable inspirational come-hither enticing spicy spectacular wonder, and she screamed as she arched her head back concupiscent to the cane’s caress, her wonder of wonder negress’ lips still moist from Rosetta’s kiss, as her cunt-juice creamed down her sweat-glowing inner-thighs, and she came to the gain of the cane’s caressing cruelty, again: and again: and again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ again: and ‘THWICK!!!!!’ ‘THWICK!!!!!’ again and again ……


………..Inspired by the secret orgasm the dreadful but oh so exciting sight of Amanda and Rosetta being whipped had given her, as she sat among her peers watching the legal proceedings on MinxTV, seeing that channel on the 3-D hologram-cube television floor-screen, later that evening a girl walked down Ballantine Street in the pink light district of Glasgow. A girl with close-cropped shimmering shining cut-corn-stubble hair, and startlingly bright, cornflower-blue eyes. A girl in black leather micro-miniskirt, naked breasts below black leather jacket, a black leather choker, and black leather twelve-inch needle-point-toed stiletto-heeled shoes. A girl with her pretty lips lipsticked an unnaturally loud crimson livid red, in lurid contrast with her lovely lively intelligent, but clearly extremely nervous and very pale in consequence face: a face with a look of “I cannot believe I am really doing this’ tormenting it bravely terrified. A girl fulfilling a dream and answering a drive. A girl walking the streets for the first time in her life, staggering slightly from beginning a stagy attempt at adding to her own already naturally terrifically-provocative slink. A girl calling in a dry-mouthed whisper that no-one not close up could possibly hear, she was so very very nervous: “A dollar a feel. A dollar a feel: it has genuine soft blonde curls!” ……….A 26-year-old girl with an overwhelming need to debase her incredible intelligence and astonishing beauty: Michaela… Michaela Redhead.

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 8 – The Tempest

Amanda’s body still bore the evidence of her public flogging with a vicious violent viper of a vivacious vibrant vituperative cane. It was but 36-hours later, and she was for sale to the highest bidder, her ownership having transferred to the state once she had been found guilty of the crime of being the motor within a girl-car with illegally bald tyres.

Amanda being already a slave, the state could take ownership of her without recompense to her former owner. This was considered to be punishment to her owner for having let her “goods” (i.e. her slave) break the law. The proceeds from Amanda’s sale would go toward offsetting the cost of her imprisonment, and contribute to a “whipping bounty”: to award the girl who had whipped her.

Amanda’s supreme dream brown body was completely naked. As she paraded in a barbed wire surrounded square cage for her would-be buyers to assess her, her lovely full fulsome breasts flowing freely, her poor bottom, with its multiple ridged stripes from her recent frequent flagellation, still enticed with the spice of its mysterious rhythmic rhythm, as it rolled with her almost preternatural come-hither girl-gait: her lovely mouth with composed lips seemingly screaming “kiss me”: her supremely lovely dark-brown eyes showing the painful lessons in life she was learning from having been born to live in post 2084 Britain.

“Everything must go ladies!” called the auctioneeress.

“Everything must go!”

“This is lot number 362436, Amanda Heavensent. Amanda is aged 20, an exceptionally attractive purebred negress. Amanda has a fabulous D-cup 40-inch chest, an incredible 22-inch waist, and measures a perfect 36-inches around that truly lovely bottom. She’s five-feet-ten-inches tall, and now weighs-in at a wonderful 105-pounds. As you can see ladies, she is strong and fit, with beautiful and powerful legs. You could absolutely certainly say, without the slightest fear of contradiction: 105 pounds of 100 percent pure unadulterated girl.”

“Use her as a pet: would she not make you proud as you walked her around Mayfair on her lead?! Use her as a pony for your trap: think of those lovely legs trotting you shopping! Buy her as a present for your daughter: what a birthday treat for the *****teen-year-old schoolgirl just learning the thrills of lovemaking, and needing something to practice on!”

“Amanda has brains as well as beauty: use her in that laboratory – remember, you don’t have to pay a wage let alone a pension, and you can throw her away when she’s worn out!”

“Amanda has experience as a personal maid and as a girl-car motor. She is still in lactation: so you could use her as a kitchen cow, or to make your friends jealous by serving her pure negress’ milk and wine at that important dinner party to impress the new boss, or to make that crucial sale!”

“What do I hear for this delightful creature: shall we say………5-dollars?”

The bidding went slowly as Amanda strolled on display, stealing the show. Behind her lovely face, in mask, she hid the hurt that her first love, Rosetta, had been sold earlier for 10-dollars to become a sheepgirl on a sheepgirl farm, where she would be kept and sheared of all her hair twice a year, so it could be sold to wig-makers, with her wine as a side venture, and her tits being brought on to milk, so as to help feed Rosetta herself and the other sheepgirls in the herd, at least partly self-sufficiently.

“15-dollars?! 15-dollars?! Do I hear any advance on 15-dollars?”

“20-dollars! Now that’s more like it”



Do I hear any advance on 20-dollars?”

“Come now ladies: look at that lovely mouth and those divine lips………….No more bids?

“No more bids for this heavenly creation with the oh so apt surname?”

“Going for 20-dollars, then?”

“Going for 20-dollars, for the first time.”

“Going for 20-dollars, for the second time.”

“Gone! Sold for 20-dollars to the attractive young lady with the monocle!” came the knock of the auctioneeress’ gavel in parallel to the “gone”, a hammer-blow to Amanda’s tearful heart.

………..“Next is lot number 362437, an extremely shapely very tall hazel-eyed blonde, with an exceptionally petit kissable mouth, and incredible long-long-leggy-legs: a Russian girl: a one-time world tennis champion, Maria Shared Dreamvauckel by name. She is, I’m told, by the equally lovely Miss Semenova, capable of producing a demitasse of incredibly fine divinely flavoursome full-bodied mellow-yellow wine. Miss Semenova would know of course, as she once insisted Maria surrender this whilst still hot and sweaty, to thoroughly humiliate her, before they shared their shower and their loving mouths, just after Maria had been thoroughly soundly beaten by Miss Semenova in a vigorous three-set game on court at Juliana Larose in Paris back in 2082……..”


The ever-refilling hopper of coal was behind her, the furnace doors before, the sergeantesses’ strap-whip had kissed Amanda’s bare back with the frequency of hell. Around her neck she wore a steel collar with a long chain running to the hoop in the steel deck to which she was anchored, on her feet she wore heelless balletising tiptoe shoes so as to, purely coincidentally, maximise her decorativeness, for the new owner of this huge sea-going yacht - Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope. The Duchess Infanta Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope of Tiapaolin, no less - liked even the lowest of her navygirls on her yacht to look sexy. Even so, the shoes Amanda wore were, in the facts of the case, and in Girl-Navy parlance: “Shoes - pair - leg shape enhancing - balletic - universal-size - sailor bottom class - standard female”.

With the but tremendous heat from the furnace, even with its never-satisfied maw not presently open to beg for more coal, Amanda was naked for coolness. Her lovely body shimmering with its perspiration lubrication, and the occasional trickle-diamondic-pearl of girl-sweat that rolled down her supremely soft brown skin.

Amanda licked her dry lips, her perfect perfection-of-the-kiss lips: she longed for water.

A hiss was heard. Horrible humid yellow sun-strong glowing radiant heat brightened the room. The top and bottom jaw-doors of the boilers’ furnace had slid vertically open. Amanda shovelled coal from the hopper into the jaws of the burning hellfire in which even her brown body glowed for the moments before the jaws that were doors closed again, reflecting flickering yellow gold and red.

Amanda was being punished for being found too attractive.


Amanda’s shaven cunt sweated in the unyieldingly close-woven material of her cheap nylon navy-blue tanga-knickers. Her free-flowing breasts bobbed up-and-down provocatively in the blue-and-white-hoop-striped standard-issue contour-clinging sailor’s short-sleeved nylon tee-shirt, which clung close to outline her significantly mountainous frontal protrusions. This was her uniform top leaving bare her excelling excellent midriff, showing her supremely flat smooth belly.

These, along with a miniscule crimson-red nylon micro-miniskirt, an American-style sailor’s hat in white nylon, and her navy-blue nylon tip-top-of-tiptoe-enforcing balletic shoes, her white nylon stockings hanging from her nylon suspenders, the stockings’ tops clearly stretched openly visibly below the hem of her tiny skirt: these were the all of Amanda’s uniform: her traditional, patriotic, and very becoming red white and blue Girl-Navy uniform.

Amanda had been bought at auction by the monocled Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, who had decided she would make a decorative cabin-girl on her yacht the SS [Steam-Ship] Naughtylass. Cecile’s mummy had bought this yacht for herself, become bored with it, and past it on to her youngest daughter. Cecile had been sweet and gentle to Amanda, even though Amanda was one of “the lower orders”.

Amanda knew her place and how lucky she was to have such a gentle and kind purchaser. Amanda also knew that she was now under navygirl discipline, and that the captain of this vessel, the ship on which Amanda served, could order her punished for the least infringement of the Girl-Navy code.

Amanda had accepted the Queen’s cent: she was in the British Navy. Cecile had had enough compassion to use her influence to free Amanda from slavery, but Amanda had been obliged in exchange, to sign up as a cabin-girl in the Girl-Navy. For this, Amanda would be paid one-dollar a week, receive one free meal per day, and be provided with uniform. She would also receive training, including combat drill, and be subject to the Girl-Navy disciplinary code: the so-called “Queen’s Regulations”.

Living in the peaceful world of post 2084 Britain, the British navy no longer had any of its own ships. Instead, as its only preparation for the remote possibility of the return of war, its sailoresses were “boarded out” free-of-charge, to sail the private yachts of the wealthy, such as Cecile, so as to keep in training, and because such vessels could and would be commandeered and adapted for war in the event such trouble ever arose again.

As another money-saving device, the post 2084 navy was also now all-female, as it could be girled so readily and so cheaply by slaves, or freed slaves such as Amanda, who would be only too glad that they were not driven to the alternative desperation and degradation of prostituting themselves to their fellow girls, or being bound up as a triple-orifice fuck-provider in a brothel.


Amanda was released from stoker duties at Cecile’s insistence. Cecile explained to the captain that it was she, Cecile, who had initiated the attempted kiss, and that Amanda was blameless.

“It was just that she looked so demnebly sexy, and one was jaast an incey-wincey bit tiddleypoos on the old girl-champers, don’t yer know. It wasn’t the little gels fault. Oh no: it wasn’t the little gels fault at all: what”, Cecile had explained disdainfully superiorly.

Name rank and number Amanda Heavensent: Cabin-Girl Bottom-Class: 362436 (with the emphasis decidedly on her wickedly sexy bottom where Amanda was concerned), was therefore once more free to wiggle the decks in her navygirl uniform; but Amanda knew that she could not expect Cecile to get her out of every scrape.


Amanda still bore a heavy heart and a torch of love that shone for Michaela Redhead. If anything, and as such things are so often fuelled by perversity, the adversity of being completely ignored by Michaela had only fuelled Amanda’s sweet natured love and gentle desire.

Amanda knew that Michaela was on-board the SS Naughtylass. She had heard her seniors talk of Michaela being confined to her cabin until the vessel was outside British territorial waters for certain, and that there was some kind of scandal attendant upon Michaela’s presence. Something had been said about Michaela starting a new life in the New World.


Professor Michaela Redhead had indeed experienced a very heavy fall from society’s highest pinnacle. Arrested for soliciting in the pink light district of Glasgow, Michaela’s explanation that she had been carrying out academic research; had not seen it as either right or proper to ask any of her students to run the risks in the experiment she was conducting; and had therefore put herself in the position of guinea pig, had been all but laughed out of court.

That nobody in fact dare laugh at what Michaela had been caught doing, or her explanation of why she had been doing it, was the result of her being a member of the Clitton Club. By now, of course, that should read, “former member of the Clitton Club”, as Michaela had been obliged to tender her resignation from the associate membership she had been so very proud to have attained.

Michaela’s friendship with such an influential family as the Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthropes, and Cecile in particular, had saved her from a public flogging to go with her disgrace.

Constabless Miranda Fulsome of the Girl-Police had made Michaela’s arrest. Miranda had been overjoyed at, at long last, “nailing a toff” as she put it.

Knowing how easily her metaphorical fish might escape the hook, Miranda had, she thought, been scrupulously careful with all the paperwork, and the arrest proceedings, and the interrogation, so as to ensure she gave no ammunition for clever lawyers to “Houdini” Michaela out from under the legal system.

At the news that Michaela had been sentenced to twenty lashes, Miranda had hit the roof with a scream of joy that she could avenge her sister for this bitch, Michaela, and her palls at the Clitton Club, having nearly drowned Apina for the pleasure of tasting her kid-sister’s fear wine.

A girl already very strong and very fit, as Amanda’s sexy buttocks could once have testified, Constabless Miranda Fulsome had doubled and then doubled-again her fitness and training regimes, so as to be as ready as she was determined to be, for Michaela’s punishment. And she had begged to be on whipperess duty that day.

But Miranda had not reckoned on the slipperiness of a Chief of Police looking for re-election, in a city in which the Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthropes held overwhelming sway.

The technicality that Miranda had not been in proper uniform, because she had forgotten to put on her police-girl’s cap as she got out of the girl-car patrol vehicle, and thus that she had not properly legally cautioned Michaela at Michaela’s arrest, saw Michaela released, and a very angry constabless wreck the precinct locker-room on hearing the news, that: “the fuckin’ bitch toff has got fuckin’ clean off!!” as was barely decipherable what Miranda was bawling from within her angry beyond anger screams of frustration.

The fact that the security camera video that purported to show this error on Miranda’s part had very clearly been very amateurishly doctored from footage at a different time and place, angered Miranda beyond measure.


Cabin-Girl Bottom-Class Amanda Heavensent tried so hard not to be sexy, but with a face and body and legs like hers, such was completely impossible.

As the SS Naughtylass sailed into the Atlantic beyond Ireland on a humid day, Amanda’s nylon clad body glowed where it was exposed, with a halo of her perspiration, and she could feel tiny rivulets of her sweet sweat trickling the supreme contours of her bottom, naked and boldly thrusting from the tanga-panties beneath her nylon micro-skirt, in her close-clinging (god how lucky for it: and how!) nylon uniform.

Amanda moistened her lips with her pointed pink tongue. There were one-hundred civilian berths on the ship, and she had just completed tidying the bedding and cleaning, all one-hundred cabins. She now had the cabins of the ten officers and fifty crew to perform the same duties within, and must then repair to the galley where it was her shared duty to prepare three meals per day for the 160 combined crew and passengers, to serve them at table with both food and wine, to clear the dining area and wash the crockery and utensils after every meal, and then to serve as a waitress in the, fortunately, neighbouring, officer and passenger lounges, fetching and carrying drinks and side meals to order.

Other sailoresses bottom class, worked the ship’s laundry and scrubbed the decks, the latter wagging their provocative bottoms side-to-side, as they knelt huge thighed, stripped to the waist, working their scrubbing brushes two-too-pretty-handed back and forth, with their titties swinging side-to-side like wild silent church bells.

Amanda was worked unmercifully, and yet must pick her deliciously delightfully dainty very leggy way among the passengers lounging in their bikinis on the deck, whilst she and her fellow sailoresses hurried hither and yon always all ways on duty.

At work from dawn to midnight, the sailoresses were also expected to keep watch in turn during the night hours, and woe betide the sailor-girl who fell asleep from her exhaustion.

Amanda continued to be supreme dream girl, leaving total devastation in her wake, as she wiggled by with her rear undulating and swinging from her ultra-feminine walk, with each tiptoed foot neatly placed exactly in front of the other, as her gorgeous legs carried her with the carriage of a queen, and the gait of a gazelle, about her duties: a true transport of delight: 105-pounds of unambiguously unadulterated undiluted unsurpassable unequivocally undoubted girl.


“Panties Off!” was one of the drills the sailoresses were obliged to perform every evening. It was a requirement of the British Girl-Navy, that a sailoress wearing the standard issue miniskirt must be able to take off her navy issue nylon tanga-panties in no more than three seconds.

In the modern British Girl-Navy, achievement of “Panties Off!” in two-seconds or under was commonplace, since the backroom scientists had come up with the “mark-two panties”, with their waxed bow-ribboned side-strings, that were guaranteed to undo instantly, when the built-in tassel dangling ever-ready from the panties gusset was tugged firmly by the wearer.

In this sense at least, Amanda had been fortunate in the timing of her entry into the Girl-Navy, as the mark-two panties had become standard issue. She had therefore immediately learned the new “Panties Off!” drill. She had also not had to re-learn, as longer-serving girls had had to, how to obey the order: “Present Panties!”

With the “mark-one panties”, the order “Present Panties!” could only be properly fulfilled by the sailoress holding her removed panties at the tip of her extended right hand forefinger, with the panties held by their gusset at her chin’s height, so that they could be collected as she stood to attention on parade at the end of the day.

With the mark-two panties, the undoing of the side-strings when the girl ripped her panties off, left her panties collapsed from panty-shape formation. Accordingly, a new drill had had to be devised with the issue of the mark-two panties, and Queen’s Regulations now decreed that: “Present Panties!” would be fulfilled by the sailoress holding her removed panties dangling from the gusset pull-string, twixt her right-hand’s finger and thumb, at the height of the top of her right breast.

The navy blue nylon tangas that Amanda and her fellow sailoresses had worn all day, up to their hearing and instantly obeying the orders: “Panties Off!” and: “Present Panties!”, would be advertised on the internet as: “genuinely worn, still warm, British sailoresses’ panties” and thus sold to girls all over the world, delivered by air, having been preserved till the vessel reached port so as to keep their glorious head-over-heels dream aroma intact. Proceeds from these sales went to the Girl-Navy’s uniform fund, to keep the sailoresses in the minimal clothing they were allocated to wear.

Smartness was a key concern of the post 2084 British Girl-Navy. Panty removal comprised an evening drill. The morning inspection, with the girls standing to attention, included an examination by the sergeantess of each sailoresses alternate horizontal-blue-and-white-hoop-striped top, to ensure she had fitted the nylon vest it comprised so as best to close-cling to the shape of her bosom, and show two hints of nipple. The parade also always concluded with: “Display Thighs”, requiring the girls to grasp and lift the side-hems of their red-nylon micro-miniskirts, for an inspection to ensure their panties were secure, and their nylon suspender belts and white nylon stockings both secure and straight.

The significance of all these drills was that the girls in the modern navy had seductiveness as their major weapon. This had been a British first, now copied the world around. But it was still acknowledged that British girls were by far the best trained on the globe.

This seductiveness was to disarm the enemy, always these days another girl, as instantly as possible. Amanda had learned basic unarmed combat, and wore her fingernails long and sharpened in readiness to ruin the face of some pretty enemy, if she were forced. She had also learned where best to bite an enemy’s breast, and how to grasp and torture a nipple or a clitoris to gain a submission and surrender, or an admission in interrogation.


It was, as Amanda had already briefly experienced, the stokeresses who had the hardest job on the SS Naughtylass. In constant nearly unbearable heat, they must shovel the coal into the furnaces that built up the steam to drive the yacht’s twin-screw propellers.

These girls were as if a breed apart. Tough, though only femininely softly muscular, they were hard drinkers, and could quaff the cheap and watered-down girl-wine given the serving sailoresses, by multiple litres, in their brief off-duty spells in the sailoresses’ mess hall.

Amanda had to join the stokeresses during coaling. The passengers would disappear ashore during coaling. But the sailoresses would all strip to just their tiptoe shoes and their tanga-panties, to heave the heavy coal brought to the port before the ship sailed, and hump that coal in canvas sacks to where the coal rolled down the chutes into the hoppers from which the stokeresses drew shovel-loads to feed the ever-hungry furnaces when these were lit and the yacht at sea.

Coaling was one event during which the Girl-Navy allowed some relaxation. It was thirsty and dirty work. Copious cheap girl-wine was in barrels on the yacht, for the girls who were allowed their five-minute break in every hour of steady heavy coal heaving, to relax within.

One of the Girl-Navy’s traditions would also occur during the coaling exercises. If there was a stokeress new to her trade, and yet to undergo the initiation rite, that new stokeress would be given her stripe.

To effect this, her bare bottom would be whipped horizontally with a cane by the chief stokeress, thereby ensuring that the coal-dust with which every girls’ body was smothered black during coaling, would, in the case of the whipped girl, enter her welt, to very effectively tattoo her bum indelibly for the rest of her life. That was how one told a stokeress from among her sisteren sailoresses: her pride in the black stripe her bare bum bore.

It was in witnessing such playful but painful activities as this, that Amanda had discovered something new, or rather begun to acknowledge what she always knew about herself. She must needs avert her dark-brown pretty eyes when the new stokeress was caned, because she, Amanda, was disturbed and distressed by the feelings she had in her slit when she thought of, let alone witnessed such a thing. And the mass swim when the girls who had been coaling all day, dived in the sea to let the saltwater wash their bare bodies of the greater part of the sweat-glued dust with which they were by now heavily caked, from hair to toes, despite wearing shoes, was also exciting to Amanda in a profoundly disturbing way.


Amanda must take off her panties when her senior officer ordered her to do so. Amanda knew that any girl who refused to do so, or who failed to do so within three-seconds, was severely punished.

The order “Panties Off!” was barked every evening by the sergeantess at the sundown parade. By another tradition of the British Girl-Navy, its sailoresses went commando (i.e. wore no panties) between sundown and sunrise.

Often of an evening, Amanda would serve in the SS Naughtylass’ mirror room.

The mirror room, was a lounge favoured by the older guests, who adored being served by such a lovely creature as Amanda, gliding in graceful tiptoe ballet beauty on the reflective floor, that allowed a clear vision of the centre of her femininity nestling between glorious sweat trickling brown thighs, above her tight-clinging leg contour confirming white-nylon stockings: her mystery, her tight lipped smile, her sensitive sensual sexual siren, succulent, and shining seductively with sweat: her pouch posing prominently, with its purse properties, proudly performing its profound purpose of impertinently prompting its parting with pumping pole penis, to pound it in performance purposing propagation: to divide her and rule her and remind her of the reason for a girl. Her minx, her pod, her slice, her slot, her slit: her juicy pink-brown interiored negress’ slit, with its tight-closed love-lips longing a lingering licking.

Amanda felt shame to be displayed this way. She had been even more incredibly indelibly embarrassed when she had discovered that the floor that reflected upwards to show all her would-be hidden glory, was a one-way mirror arrangement, that enabled girls in the massage parlour below, to lie supine, enjoying the incomparable vision of the exciting decisive pristine precision incision between Amanda’s divine thighs, as they watched her tiptoed trips around the floor of the room above, which was also the transparent ceiling of the room they were in, and could see and study her legs, her thighs, her bare bottom, and her sweating shining sin-inducing seducing slit.

Amanda’s natural lovely shyness was of no account, as she must, under orders wiggle the floor of the mirror room sans her panties, showing her slit to all who would wish to look down, in order to look up her skirt and try and glimpse it: and that meant everybody in the room in which she waitressed.

Even at the mirror room’s tables themselves, Amanda must note down orders from a civilian or a naval officer, whilst having the long-handled hand-mirror that was placed for that purpose on every table, being used by one or more of the girls at that table, to take a look up behind the front hem of her skirt, at the smooth bald-shaven glistening squeeze-box, that Amanda secreted and always carried with her between her fabulous legs wherever she went: her incredibly irresistible incisive incision: her beautiful brown cunt.


As the sailoress removed the stub of the cigarette that she had let burn down until it was almost about to burn her, the smoke rose from her lips in twisting curls of blue-grey, as if her lovely lips were those of Cupid’s pistol after it had just been fired.

She lay on her back in a hammock, a pillow under her rump to thrust her groin upwards and thus arch her aching back to ease it, after she had been bent over a washtub all day. She had managed to secure one of the too few hammocks in the ratings’ quarters, for some blessed sleep.

Needing her tobacco fix, this Cabin-Girl Bottom-Class immediately lit another of the strong-shag-tobacco filterless cigarettes she habitually smoked when off duty, and placed it between her lips so that, as she now lay back on her back, putting hands with interlocked fingers behind her head, it stood bolt upright, its smoke slowly winding toward the ceiling, a red and yellow glow showing where it was just now burning, a Pisa tower topping of toppling tobacco ash tilting atop it, gradually appearing as the cigarette burnt slowly downwards.

The joy of the relaxation a cigarette brought to this girl could be seen in her eyes, before, with her being exhausted beyond exhaustion, she could keep her honey-gold startling devastation-starters open no longer, and fell into an instant deep sleep, her cigarette still burning slowly between her lips……

…….It was Amanda who saved the day: the potential for a canvas hammock to catch fire. Just back from serving all eve in the officers’ mess, she took the still burning cigarette out of the girl’s lips, and looked left and right location for, before locating fore, an ashtray to stub out the smouldering stub.

Amanda hated cigarettes. She had never smoked and would never smoke. Of course Amanda had no say in the fact that the Girl-Navy allowed tobacco to be used by sailoresses off-duty. But it was the Girl-Navy way of smoking that most distressed Amanda’s sensibilities.

Time after time Amanda would come across this or another of the younger girls, fallen asleep with a cigarette still between the lips of her cunt: cunt smoking being a tradition in the British Girl-Navy that was so old in origin it would have preceded the discovery of tobacco had that been possible.

Even as she saved the deep sleeping exhausted girl (was she *****teen maybe?), who now snored with the pretty purr of a kitten, from having her love-lips burnt, Amanda watched another young sailoress dampen her middle finger, and load her slit with a second or maybe a third piled helping of snuff, from a tin she held in readiness. This girl then kneaded herself with her fingers on her mons, to bring on a little of her arousal moisture, in order that it should enable the supersensitive inner walls of her slit, to absorb the nicotine from the tobacco, that was causing her slice even now to glow with comforting and sexually exciting warmth.

The hoary old Girl-Navy joke that the way a sailoress smokes “gives a whole new meaning to the expression shag tobacco”, was to Amanda’s mind representative of the indifference of the authorities to the rising number of smoking related diseases, especially among the very youngest sailoresses. Had it been that the moneyed classes indulged cigarettes or snuff this way, something would have been done in an instant to save their health.

A very pretty yellow-eyed sailoress in the hammock next to the girl Amanda had saved from the burning cigarette, took her half-consumed cigarette from the lips of her slit, and offered this cigarette to Amanda, who politely shook her head to decline it.

At this, the second smoker just shrugged, and put her cigarette back between the lips of her cunt, where it drooped down as if she had acquired a mini-penis, holding her thunderously titanic thighs as close together as she dare, so as to keep as much of the smoke that filled her purse, within her for as long as possible.


Punishment in the Girl-Navy was, in its ferociousness, commensurate with the high discipline expected of the girls who served in that proudly traditional branch of the British armed services.

The cat o’ nine tails: a rope whip, with the handle comprised of the rope with all its individual strands still twisted together, and its nine implemental, instrumental, incrementally instructive destructive tails, comprised of the nine sub-ropes that made up the handle, separated such that they could individually thrash the victim (each of the nine tails of the cat being knotted at two-inch intervals and at its tip), was in readiness in a glass case mounted on the bulkhead of the sailoresses’ sleeping quarters, among the ten hammocks allocated to the fifty ordinary rank sailoresses who must take turns to sleep in them, and were not allowed to sleep anywhere else.

Use of the cat was now rare. Only the yacht’s captainess could sanction its employment. Where a beating was given out as the punishment for a recalcitrant girl, the cane would more often be used.

Most of the disciplining was in the hands of the seargentesses, who were empowered to give up to ten strokes on a sailoresses’ bare bottom, or, in the case of a very serious offence, up to ten strokes on the girl’s nipples.

This latter punishment was referred to among the sailoresses as “slapping the paps”. It was excruciatingly painful. The cane would be used on the girl in a series of downward strokes on each breast alternately, with the whipperess standing to the side of the victim, the downward stroke being aimed so as to hit the naughty girl’s nipple, in the traverse of the cane through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree ark, in which the poor nipple was struck at about the one-hundred-and-ten degree point, with the very tip of the cane, with that very tip at its very highest velocity.

To their everlasting shame, some girls, exceedingly few, but some, try as they might not to, would become animalistically sexually aroused by a nipple whipping. Queen’s Regulations therefore discretely decreed that……….

“434.4 During the progress of her punishment, at the first sign of the punishee showing heated interest in the process of her punishment, her chastisement shall be ceased until that heat has fully subsided, and shall not be recommenced until the victim’s ardour has completely cooled.

434.5 During the cooling process, the punishee shall be instructed, quoting Section 434 sub-section 434.5 (i.e. this present sub-Section) of Queen’s Regulations for Sailoresses of Her Majesty’s Girl-Navy, dated 1 April 2084, to the effect that: ‘punishment is for the correction of wrongdoing, and that enjoyment of punishment is strictly completely and utterly forbidden’. Furthermore, the punishee must be ordered to calm herself and to regain control over the natural functions and reactions of her mind and body, so as to be fit, ready, and worthy to receive the next stroke.

434.6 In the event a punishee becomes heated to the extent that there is clear risk of orgasm and / or orgasms occurring, punishment shall cease whilst the punishee is additionally calmed by the employment of cold water upon her person by the hose or bucket(s) that shall have been readied on standby (see sub-Section 434.1 above herein) for that purpose.

434.7 In any instance where the punishee attains orgasm during or in the immediate aftermath of punishment, she shall be punished to the same degree a second, or, if another orgasm and / or orgasms results therefrom also, a third time, in the immediacy of the occasion (i.e. without break of any duration in time) consecutively and not concurrently.

434.8 Any punishee attaining an orgasm and / or orgasms from or during three consecutive punishments, shall be subjected to a repeat of the equivalent of the same three punishment sessions collated as one continuous session, within 24-hours of the conclusion of the session she enjoyed. (Should enjoyment continue during the repetition, refer to Section 666 sub-Section 666.69 – ‘Orgasm in Malice’ - below herein).”

Other punishments available to the sergeantesses to hand out, included the so-called “slammer” also referred to by the sailoresses as “the cage”, and what the sailoresses called “Jilling the Jack”.


Amanda would never forget the punishment of Zudina Palermo.

Zudina was a thirty-year-old Italian Jewess of astonishingly startlingly attractive features. With her twisting ringletted black hair, her ghostly pale complexion so in contrast with her hair’s darkness, and her stunning black eyes, Zudina was always fumbling clumsily at the order that semi-concluded the sundown parade: “Panties Off!”

Zudina was just a nervous girl. She was a classic in her breeding and exceptionally highly strung.

Historically, the family having fallen on hard times, the Palermo’s, had wandered to Austria, and Vienna in particular, in the 13th century. Zudina came from a line that was as supremely sensitive as it was highly intelligent, and high achieving, and, in the case of the women folk, with Zudina being no exception, incredibly beautiful.

Zudina had been a concert violinist, a soloist who had performed to rapturous acclaim in all the major classical music capitals of the world. After her Garnogie Hall - New York performance of the Messlen (Opus 5) Concerto, when she had been but *****teen, three other female violinists, who had come to see and hear the already world renowned prodigy, declared in the instant that they would never perform the Messlen again, as they could not possibly approach Zudina’s perfection of interpretation, let alone the plus-perfection of her incredible facial and physical beauty.

Zudina Palermo’s more immediate ancestors had fled Vienna for London in the 1930’s with the rise of Hitler in neighbouring Germany. Unfortunately for Zudina however, they had failed to move on, and thus failed to escape the ban on female musicians, bar vocal soloists and choristers, that had been introduced in 2084 by Adele Halter in Britain.

Zudina could have escaped to the USA or Uganda, but had chosen to stay with her ailing parents, despite their pleading with her to go, and was now an orphan who had wandered into the Girl-Navy because, with Adele Halter’s ban on women holding passports, she had no country left to go to, that she could legally get to.

Zudina Palermo’s plan was to sail to New York on the SS Naughtylass, and jump ship there to seek political asylum as soon as she could, after the vessel had docked in New York harbour.

Unbeknown to Zudina, however, the NYPD-GCS (the New York Police Department - Girl-Control Section – motto: “We Beat the Beat to Beat the Bad Girls”) had already been flash-messaged by the New Scotland Yard Girl-Police, and Zudina would, even if she had succeeded in escaping, soon have been rounded up and returned to her ship to receive, highly probably, a whipping on her bare breasts, in front of the assembled crew with the cat o’ nine tails.


Zudina and Amanda had kissed.

It was the natural and right thing to have happened: heaven decreed it: the sun the moon and all the stars in all the universe of universes demanded, nay, commanded it!

Amanda had held back in the kiss. Such was completely against her passionate nature, but she had held back because of her continuing love for Michaela Redhead.

It had happened when both girls had been on laundress duty. Zudina’s highly-strung highly temperamental nervous and constantly agitated and skittish jumpy emotional being, was completely unsuited to the heavy work of shifting, sifting, soaking, soaping, and stomping the mass of nylon uniforms that accumulated daily, with it being Girl-Navy regulations that every sailoress, officer or rating, must have fresh clothing every day.

On top of this, there was the soiled clothing of the passengers, and the towels and bedding from their cabins, etc, to be laundered.

Zudina was only too aware of how hopeless she had become since the loss of the music she could flow her emotions into through and out of.

To Amanda, the answer was simple: it should be that, in their team of two, Zudina would be the one who stood in the soapy-water-filled wooden-barrel wash-tub, to agitate the nylon skirts they were assigned to wash, by “stomping” with her lovely legs and pretty feet, in the soap and water filled tub, while Amanda loaded the tub in which Zudina would work, and removed the skirts that had had their twenty-minutes stomping, to rinse them, shake them to mere dripping wetness, and finally hang them on the wash-line that carried them over the rising warm air vent from the engine-room below, as the wash-line slowly circled, to dry them.

The brilliant success of this assignment of duties, came to the incredibly sensitive and emotional Zudina, as such a relief: the relief being in her realisation that she could indeed deal with the mundane practical. And, at the end of their shift, with the soap soaked Zudina still in the wash tub up to her creamy dreamy thighs in the wash-water, Amanda had merely pecked Zudina on the cheek by way of girly thanks to the lovely creature with the ever side-to-side flicking frightened doe eyes.

It had been Zudina who had kept hold and held tight Amanda. It had been Zudina who had recognised in Amanda an instrument more finely fashioned and highly tuned than her own Stradivarius. It had been Zudina who, with the long left hand fingers she had used with such supreme delicacy on the neck of her viol, had caressed the unbelievably lovely mouth of Amanda, and drawn the softened shocked and sensually sensated Amanda to her, to play with her lips on Amanda’s lips, a tune attune with the heaven in Amanda’s soul.

Amanda’s fire was immediately aflame and her body an instant all-enveloping all-embracing all-over erogenous zone. Her nipples pulsed, her minx moistened, her clitoris danced………. and yet Amanda had pulled away!

This was a kiss supreme and girl was melting and melding into girl in the crucible of crucial compassion and passion, but this was not Michaela, and Amanda had pulled away, whispering her sweet apology to the devastated Zudina, whose emotions ran in rivulets till its self-evidential tears salted her lovely mouth.

It had been Zudina’s over-emotional echoing sigh that had alerted the laser-eared sergeantess to inspect what progress Cabin-Girls Bottom-Class, Heavensent and Palermo had made.


Were it not so erotically wonderful, the sight of the incredible Zudina, snapping splashily to attention, arms rigidly by her side, her head erect, her eyes, still skitter-scatter with her highly strung tension, but staring unseeing obediently out front between whiles: snapping splashily to attention at command, because still standing in a barrel three-quarter-full of dirty soapy water, whilst bubbles of soapy origin slid down the silken smooth complexion of her shapely thighs: were it not so erotically wonderful it would have been farcically funny.

Amanda too, her mouth still moist with the attention paid in praise of her by the tender lips of Zudina, also stood rigidly to attention, with her naturally heavy chest heaving with fear, as the sergeantess on lower deck patrol, tapped her disciplinary cane on her own long nylon stockinged long legs, as she tip-top-of-tiptoe leggy-stomped briskly brusquely over.

All the sergeantesses carried canes when on duty. That was why the sailoresses wore tanga-panties: tangas ensured the sailoresses’ bottoms were bare if the sergeantess needed to order a sailoress to lift her skirt, so as to receive a summarily swift and painful on-the-spot reminder of who was in charge.

“What in god’s name was that noise?”

“You: Sailoress Bottom Class Heavensent: what has been going on between you two?”

“Ma’am nothing ma’am!” Amanda answered in a voice intended to be monotone, but quavering with the guilt she had no right to feel for having fulfilled her earthly function as a heavenly instrument for Zudina to make love’s music with and upon.

“Have you whores been kissing on duty?” the sergeantess enquired suspiciously, and as if knowing, as she looked at the moisture of passion drying on Amanda’s mouth.

“Ma’am negative ma’am!” Amanda answered with a flicker of her eyelids that was natural reflex, but could almost have been intended to fan away her defensive lie.

“Don’t you lie to me whore!” came the snapped response.

“Heavensent and Palermo, you are both on a charge. Your punishment will be decided at sundown parade. Now get on with your duties……………..”

The sergeantess had turned her back to slink away, and must now turn again.

“…………..Ma’am it was I ma’am!” said a sweet soprano voice suddenly, a mini-moment later.

The sergeantess had turned her back to slink away, and must now turn again.

“Ma’am it was I ma’am. Heavensent had nothing to do with it ma’am” Zudina’s fear tremolo vibrato voice quavered in repeat of her confession.

“Well, well, well, how refreshing”. The sergeantess’ sarcasm ladened tone, slowed a little more with each “well”, till the last lasted thrice longer than the other two put together.

“I almost believe we’ve had us some honesty. How refreshing indeed” she sneered.

“Now then Palermo, you little Italian tart, your kindly sergeantess is gonna see the captain about you, and, if I have my way you whore, you’ll be Jilling the Jack till we get us to New York!”

“And as for you Heavensent. You may think Palermo’s got you off; but that ain’t the way it works. When I’m on watch nobody so much as farts without written permission you whore. So the captain’s gonna hear two names and yours is the second you little bitch!”

“Now the pair of you: get on with your duties!”


Had she needed it, it would have been the final excuse the sergeantess had needed.

At the sundown parade Amanda and Zudina Palermo stood tiptop-tiptoe shod to rigid sexy-legged attention on the foredeck of the SS Naughtygirl, in the front row: the cream of the dream girls that stood there with black, and titian, and russet, and brown, and gold, and straight, and curled, and frizzy hair, fluttering in the evening breeze under their white nylon sailoresses’ hats: especially Amanda’s dark-brown tight negress’ ringlet curls, teasing with their pleasing, as the reddening sun shone on her femininity and her femininity shone back to put the sun in shadowed shame.

“Panties Off!” ordered the sergeantess routinely, and all twenty girls reached under their red nylon miniskirts to rip off their panties in synchronised unison.

“Present Panties!” snapped the sergeantess and, in a flash, all the removed panties were dangling from pretty fingers, all that is bar the pair that fell to the wooden deck: Zudina’s.

One of the sailoresses not on parade and currently on laundress duties, went down the two lines of ten girls at attention, and took the supremely aromatic day-long worn nylon panties for preservation in anticipation of sale over the internet.

One pair of panties she bent with her legs straight, to show beneath lifting revealing skirt the ravishing full glory of her bare bottom, rising like two momentously monumental moons, to pick up: the pair on the ground: the pair dropped by the trembling Zudina.

The grin on the honey-blonde sergeantess' face made her high-cheek-boned classically chocolate-box pretty visage, look almost ugly: not that that “ugly” was really possible with such a face as hers; but there was decided cruelty in her dark-green eyes.

“Cabin-Girl Bottom Class Palermo: you stupid clumsy bitch: two steps forward: march!!”

Zudina lifted her gorgeously sexy right leg in a knee-upward jerk and toe-tip downward thereafter stomp, followed by a drawing forward of her equally sexy left leg in the same manner: followed by another knee to tit level curvy right leggy upward jerk and downward dainty-footed stomp and left leggy-leg repeat, in obedience of her order to take two steps forward, and stood to attention before the sergeantess, who now strolled slowly around the exquisite Italian Jewess: a Jewish girl, the product of a race and faith without a heaven, but the product of heaven in metaphoric fact nonetheless.

With her long swan’s neck and her classical curvature, Zudina outshaped in wonder the Stradivarius with which she had, not long since ago, made the world weep at her feet. This supremely talented cultured and exceedingly intelligent, as well as exceptionally beautiful girl, more highly strung than any string of her viol: sensitive in mind, sensitive in body, super- sensitively tempestuously emotional, loving and gentle, shook from head to ballet-tiptoed feet with fear.

“Cabin-Girl Bottom Class Palermo: at ease!” the sergeantess bawled, and Zudina instantly parted her tiptoe standing feet to the exact one-foot gap required and drummed into her by her training, whilst also crossing her hands behind her back with her fingers straight out, and her left thumb grasping her right, her chin up, her eyes looking at the horizon, her crossed hands resting on her delightfully full round pert and firm micro-miniskirt-hugged bottom demispheres.

“Johnson, and you, Smith, swing the bowsprit inwards: we’ve got us a Jill for the jackstaff”

The proud prow of the SS Naughtygirl boasted a ten-foot long nine-inch diameter bowsprit rather than a jackstaff: a bowsprit, a pole extending straight out and upwards at a thirty-degree angle like a thrusting penis, with a rounded dome at its top-end like a flagpole, usually ten feet out over the ocean below it, with that ocean being combed aside by the incurving sweeping speeding bows of the yacht.

As Zudina stood with her legs apart before her, Sergeantess Charmaine Fulsome, the oldest of three sisters, with middle-sister Miranda Fulsome a constabless in the Glasgow Girl-Police, and little Apina, still at skivvy-school back in Glasgow the last Charmaine had heard, admired the Italian Jewess’ perfection.

Charmaine took her disciplinary cane, and eased up the front hem of Zudina’s micro-miniskirt to touch and run her cane back and forth on the supremely extremely sensitive lips, of this hyper-tensile supremely extremely emotional girl: who flinched with even this, the lightest of light touches.

“My, my, my…………I do believe our lovely little fiddle-twiddler here, has got herself a hair-trigger twat: a rocket pocket. Bet she goes like shit lightening as soon as someone even looks at it.”

Charlotte wanted to make Zudina’s fellow sailoresses mock Zudina with laughter, hence the cruel commentary, but the exceptional sweet tender beauty was adored by all, and nobody so much as stirred.

Nonetheless, Zudina blushed, knowing without understanding why, that she was very turned-on by the humiliation she was being subjected to.

A momentary flash of an erotic dream in which she was playing a violent violin solo, completely naked, before an audience of five thousand, flashed before her mind. Yet she had refused to do just that when it had been the condition laid down for her continued career as a classical violinist.

The authorities had broached the subject in the wrong way. The world was owed the sight of such a face and such a body. Her nude glory could only have told the story of what all the greatest music is ultimately about, as she bowed her naked violin naked

Angered at the lack of response to her feeble joke, from the ranks standing at attention behind Zudina, Charlotte returned to the enjoyment of her power………..

“Strip you fucking whore! Strip fucking shit naked now!!”

Zudina was genuinely confused and shocked by the feelings in her mind and body. She wanted the other girls to see her in all her natural glory: in nothing but the nothing and everything that nature provided.

A vertical flash fork of unlimited lightening lit the dusking evening, but no girl there on that parade had any care or attention for the storm on the horizon, when in the current clammy air currents they could caress their eyes with the curves of the callipygian Zudina, and see her unbounden breasts swing out to either side of her chest, as she stood now obediently naked bar her shoes, the shoes compelling the completely compelling girl to completely erect attention fit to erect to tense attentive attention, the erectile tissue of girl or even boy.

Girl was set upon girl by the harsh disciplinary code of the Girl-Navy. Johnson and Smith knew nothing bar obedience from fear as they brought the steel arm stretch cangue for Zudina’s neck and slender wrists.

The cangue’s central ring was hinged so that the two arms were alongside each other initially. Johnson, a strong ex-police-girl, placed the opened central hoop of the cangue at the back base of Zudina’s slim graceful neck, and then opened out the arms of the cangue so that they rested on Zudina’s slender shoulders as, at the front of Zudina, the ring having closed around her neck, the neck brace clicked locked.

Lifting the arms that had embraced the Stradivarius that had caused empresses and queens to tears openly with the beyond heavenliness of Zudina’s playing, Johnson and Smith locked Zudina’s slim strong long and lovely arms out horizontally, by padlocking her wrists to the end hoops on the cangue, unavoidably enjoying watching her breasts lift and swing and lollop, and finally thrust to soft forcefulness, out to the stormy horizon, where lightening forked and thunder rumbled in worship of the power of girl.


The air was so still that its only disturbance was the single trickle of girl-sweat that glided in the sweet soft canyon dividing the supreme pink-brown peaked monumental mammary mountains, that forefronted the forefront foremost beauty of the incredible Amanda, as her gentle eyes filled with tears for the suffering of the Jewess Zudina, whose incredibly shapely and strong thighs were now straddling the bowsprit near its very tip, with her folded legs tied at the knee close together, and her big toes roped together by a rope going over the sprit behind her bum, so as to pull her legs up and sit her on the unyielding bowsprit by her softest most supremely sensitive succulent and sweaty sweetest girl part.

A huge round wooden batten bar was in Zudina’s soft mouth, to gag her, and the ropes that tied her gag were knotted in a pretty bow at the back of her neck.

The Italian Jewess’ eyes were closed in fear and denial of what she knew to be the truth, and tears tickled down her spectrally especially spectacular features. And, with her fear-torn breathing, her huge breasts rose and rocked and rolled and waved in the thus twice blessed air, with their gentle reminders that heaven is on earth for as long as girls’ breasts doth hold sway.

The air was so still that its only disturbance was the single trickle of girl-sweat that glided in the sweet soft deep plunged canyon dividing the supreme pink-brown peaked monumental mammary mountains that forefronted the forefront foremost beauty of the incredible Amanda, as her gentle eyes filled with tears for the suffering of the Jewess Zudina, and at Amanda’s own guilt that her supremely sweaty cunt was moist, and her clitoris throbbing at the sight of the jewel Jewess, as Johnson and Smith wound the crank-handle that inexorably slowly swung the adorably adorned bowsprit out, back out, right out, over the cruel sea.


Guilt and glory warred in Amanda’s gilt-girl’s fair face, as she fought not to let her tears flow, or her arousal show, as her poor friend, the lovely Jewess Zudina now rode the bowsprit out over the ocean, Jilling the Jack as a live tormented terrified and torturously teased and tempting temptation masthead: an incredibly beautiful masthead mascot: a figurehead comprised of the unsolvable mathematical conundrum that figuratively forms the fabulous figure of the unfathomable creature that is girl, weighing her 100-pounds of 100-percent girl down-bearing on her soft down bearing, shaven smooth bare cunt.


No sailoress’ eye turned to the sound of the heavy steel cage being dropped atop a hatch just behind them.

A muffled moan mixed with misery magic and majesty, musically mystified their ears from distant over the sea: the sound of girl suffering early, already with the combined fear and fulfilment of her mind heart soul and body: suffering solo solipsistically, riding her minx astride a mistressing mast pseudo-clit-penis thrust, she straddled, asweat with sweet surrender to her reconnection with her herness, her sheness, her shear girlness: poor Zudina.

“Cabin-Girl Bottom Class Heavensent: two steps forward: march!!”

The negress brown Amanda lifted her gloriously gorgeously supremely sexy negress brown right leg in a negress brown knee-upward jerk and toe-tip downward thereafter stomp, followed by a lifting aloft of her equally incredibly shapely and sexy negress brown left leg in the same manner: followed by another negress brown knee to tit level curvaceously curvy acutely cutely curved right leggy upward jerk and downward dainty-footed stomp and left leggy-leg repeat, in negress brown obedience of her order to take two negress brown steps forward: and she stood to negress brown attention before the sergeantess.

Amanda negress brown and natural as nature herself, nurtured the universe as her soft petite acutely pretty mouth, with its curved cupidic constant kiss proffering full negress lips, kissed without kissing, and constantly called for the kiss, by forming the bliss of a kiss in its completely compelling come-hither composition on a face adorable in its grace and fervour and compassion: the face of an adorable girl.

The hedgehog is a small insect-eating hedgerow-dwelling animal, whose defence is to curl into a ball and rely solely upon the sharp short hairbrush-like spines that adorn its head back and sides: a porcupine on a compact scale with shorter sharper close-gathered, rustling when she walks, spines.

Amanda had been stripped naked and wore and bore the pain of the hedgehog bra that the seargentess herself had tied over Amanda’s soft negress brown tits. The sergeantess had stood behind Amanda and tortured the poor girl’s naked nipples, by enveloping Amanda’s tits in the copious cups of the hedgehog brassiere: cups comprised within, of hedgehog skins, with their abundant terrible spines turned in, to embrace the tit that was to be thrust therein. The sergeantess had stood behind Amanda and tortured the poor girls naked nipples by running the bra, still as yet not tied on her negress brown tits, side to side to spike Amanda’s nipples tormentingly.

Amanda was nothing but girl and as but girl she could not help that her supremely sensitive nipples pulsed and throbbed with the wicked pain, or that she screamed, and her clitoris shot from its hidey-hood, when the sergeantess pulled the cups of the hedgehog bra fully on to Amanda’s full-on fulsome handsomely-huge breasts, scratching and paining every single square micro-millimetre of their supremely firm soft feminine formation, so that Amanda now stood “at ease” her eyes wide with her conspicuous concupiscent compulsions, her body counterplaying with her mind as her nipples throbbed and pulsed and were torn and spiked, and throbbed and pulsed all the more as they were torn and spiked, precisely because they were torn and spiked.

Amanda’s gorgeous mouth momentarily formed an “O” for orgasm, as with her eyes wide to match, her beautiful bouche opened from its supreme dream status norm of “kiss me: I am the way the truth and the kiss” to “orgasm me: I am the kiss and nothing but the kiss, so help me girl”.

The hedgehog bra was tied off tight at Amanda’s back, and she emitted a girly sigh mixed from shock surprise and mental torment and conflict, as her body messaged pain and compulsive pleasure, as her breasts were massaged by her unavoidable breathing, rubbing her feminine front within the unrelenting, unyielding, constant spiking spines, with which she was penetrated and impaled at tit and especially nipple, as she licked her gorgeous kiss-me-constantly upper lip, to ease her arousal fire: the fire with which she was being shamed before her crewmatesesses.

The stocks were round: they formed the steel lid of the round steel barrel that was the cage that was strapped to the top of the hatch on the deck behind the sailoresses. Johnson and Smith lifted the lid so its front semi-circle encased Amanda’s pretty wrists and long lovely neck, before closing the rear half to surround Amanda, and leave her by padlock, locked in its encasing round inescapable embrace, her beautiful graceful face above and her wonderful figure forming fantastically below.

Amanda was to be caged in the steel barrel to punish her for kissing, or rather letting herself be kissed by, the supreme jewel Jewess Zudina.

It was as if a dream as the dream Amanda was knelt to melt the heart and make her crawl back into the barrel. This was the “slammer” also known to the sailoresses as “the cage”.

Amanda obeyed her instruction to crawl backwards, for fear of the pain from the cane the sergeantess swished at the ready at her side.

Then suddenly, Amanda open-mouthedly gasped with astonishment. As she wiggle-crawled backwards into the barrel under the threat of the seargentess’ wicked wand witch switch cane, the Venus-vase that was the shape of the girl that knelt and wriggled and wiggled her entirely enticing body backwards into the barrel, was now kneeling on knees horny huge-thighed. Amanda’s momentum had a moment of pause because she had met with some resistance in the barrel she could only feel near with her raunchy rear.

Amanda’s brilliant mind recoiled in denial and horror at what her slit had felt.

Amanda opened her small mouth and parted her kissy-kiss come-on-and-kiss-me-constantly-it-is-my-kismet negress’ curled lips, and licked them to moist compelling come-on-and-make-me-cum dampness, as her devil-deep-dark-sinful-brown-brown eyes closed down, knowing that the moisture of her mouth was only capturing and reflecting the moisture of her other mouth, as she re-began her earthly heavenly Venus-vase wanton wriggle wiggle backward crawl, to part her lips, and suck into her vacuum, the vast mast of a central punishment penis, whose massive steel rigid mass protruded in the path she adorned, ensuring that the only way she could fulfil her order to fill the barrel with her beautiful body was to have the two-foot long three-inch round ball-knob-ended steel rod penis, fully fill her slithering slavering slot, with its completely cold copious cruelty, till she had it in her to its hilt: till her cunt became the scabbard of the sword that was to be the main source, along with her hedgehog bra, of her punishment pain.


The top of the barrel-cum-prison-cell had been locked on Amanda an hour since, and she suffered in silence, kneeling within the steel barrel, with her slice filled to its ultimate, by the cold brutality, that it now shocked her mind to recall, that her acutely female body had welcomed within her, to fill her to fulfilment just an hour since.

Amanda’s lovely face looked out between the dainty fists made by her pretty hands, as her head and hands protruded from her barrel cage, strapped against its rolling free, to the top lid of a hatch. Outlined against the still slowly setting sun, Amanda could see in the distant near but so far, the cruciform outstretched arms of the sublime black-ringlet-haired, ghost-white complexioned, Jewess Zudina, riding astride the bowsprit, way out over the sea, moaning in pain and horror and terror and fear, as she Jilled the Jack, rodeoing the rod: saddled, her thunderous thighs astride, riding astraddle on the nirvana-nurturing nerve-endings of her opened cunt.

The hour that had passed now saw darkness descend, and the sky become rent with streaks of lightening that flash photographed the searing sight of these two too beautiful women suffering for their indiscipline, by being severely sexually disciplined, in true Girl-Navy tradition.


“Listen up! Listen up! Listen up! Attention all passengers! Attention all passengers! Be assured of your safety, but please go below deck immediately: immediately go below deck! That is all passengers, below deck immediately now please!”

“Listen up! Listen up! Listen up! Attention all passengers! Attention all passengers! Storm ahead! Storm ahead! Storm ahead! Be assured of your safety, but please go below deck immediately: immediately go below deck now! Thank you!”

There was a feedback yowl just before the tannoy clicked off after the captainess’ announcement.

Immediately below in a first class cabin, two girls had just finished making the extreme of the supreme love: physical and spiritual love girl with girl, with bodies so made so for the “little deaths” that their orgasmic cums had surrendered them to: two to cum in two cums: too comely maids made to cum by each other.

Now one in the shower, as if by its soft sprinkle prompted, prominently breasting the silken soft water removing the eager saliva from nipples that had been sucked to steep peaks they still sustained, a sweet young voice voiced: “Oh I do so hope it wains: one has never seen wain at sea don’t ya know: what!”

The cornflower blue eyes of the showering girl’s lover, her legs lengthily long on the bed having just been the whore she dreamed, were wide with the satiation of satisfaction. Her face, spiritually pale, contrasting with lips painted livid crimson, high cheekbones brush-blushed to an unnatural red flush, and eyes eye-shadow anointed to an over-heavy coal-black hue.

The girl on the bed bore crimson fingernails and toenails, painted thus to match the lipstick on her lovely mouth, and now smudged on her divine nipples: for this eve had even lipsticked her nipples this eve, to entice vice.

Her black leather micro-miniskirt was ridden up off her smooth rotund callipygian mountains, and her soft blonde mons’ down stubble, shone in the artificial light: the lips of her slit still being parted by the rolled up one-dollar bill she had insisted her lover must insert in her as payment for her performance.

One-thousand more dollars had previously been electronically transferred from one account to another at the Lady Love Lady Co Bank Limited, and an inspirational lady had embarked on her longed-for career, as an upper-class class of call-girl: a courtesan cupid concupiscent for the conspicuous enjoyment of the wealthy.

“Oh I do so hope it wains: one has never seen wain at sea!” came the unmistakable upper-crust drawl of Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope of Tiapaolin: the cutie in the cabin’s shower cubicle, the owner of the SS Naughtylass on her, the owner’s, first voyage at sea.


The storm grew apace and Zudina Palermo and Amanda Heavensent found they were both now riding bucking fucking broncos. As the yacht dipped the delicious Jewess down toward the sea so she slid to the end of the pole she straddled so girlfully, only, as the yacht rose high once more, to slide back on the rope that tied her toes to prevent her sliding off, as she Jilled the Jack, riding on her cunt in terror rising to madness at her helplessness, as she was arms outstretched adoringly adorable above the wicked sea, that split beneath her split, as the proud prow of the SS Naughtylass sliced its way to New York, below her heavenly slice sliding in torture on her penis of pain: a figurehead of overwhelming feminine beauty, literally breasting the rain that now slash-slanted down, and rivered her heavenly body to ribbons of magnifying transparent streams, showing passing enlargements of her magnificent beauty, as it torrented and twisted whirlpools around her noble naked nobility, and she gag-screamed-out into the pitch of the night, the wonder of her complete and utter girlness.

Meanwhile despite its roped-down strappings, a girl, perfection in her negress brown complex complexioned completely smooth softness, was being rolled side to side, and within her barrel, and sliding forward and back uncontrollably, despite her fitness and girl-muscularity, and her pretty little mouth with its negress’ upturned upper and negress’ full bold lower kiss-me-conspicuous lips parted with sighs and cries of pain and pleasure, as she was being fucked by the massive cold steel dildo rammed to its hilt within her slit, till it was to its tip, two long strong feet within her girlness. And the sight and the sound of the gagged distant cries from the supreme Zudina, Amanda could see shadowed and then revealed in all her glistening glory by the lightening flashes, turned Amanda on to enjoyment, as her imprisoning barrel rolled and rocked and slid her impaled body, fore and aft, sliding her slavering slit on the huge ball-knob-ended steel shaft that she hilted and could not halt from shagging her cunt.

Despite its stabilisers, the SS Naughtylass rolled and pitched, and two glorious bitches moaned and squeaked, as they were slowly but inexorable inevitable stoked and stroked to the heaven of a cum, as the rain anointed them two princesses royal, girl of girl, as it swirled down Amanda’s face, open-mouthed with astonishment: eyes opening and closing with pain and pleasure, and pleasure and pain, and pain and pain, and pleasure and pleasure, and plain pain, and extraordinary pleasure, as the ship bucked, and she was fucked to emotion by its motion, her cream caressing the shaft on which she now easily and eagerly slid, with the cream topping the tip of the cum on which she teetered, being the sight of Zudina bewitching the horizon, revealed by the lightening sheet and fork, as both girls rode the stormy road, that rode them riding on penises within and astride, which made their beautiful maid made-for-it bodies succumb to the fact they were undeniably, undeniable, outwardly and inwardly, undoubtedly girl.

Zudina’s cries had hitherto been from fear, but now she rode that she bestrode far out over the sea that rose to splash and salt her to flavour her supreme flesh to increase of its lickability and succulence, with her only fear that the two-hours she had endured Jilling the Jack might not come to the cum, for which she now longed as her thighs pronged either-side the pseudo-penis she astrided, and tried to grip with her feminine softness, to halt her inexorable slide back and forth and up and down and side to twisting side, on the stallion on which she was stationed, ecstatically static, and stoic for the strike of lightening she was terrified would kill her before her cum.

A full third hour of storm mated these girls cumless on their respective rides, Zudina astraddle and Amanda’s inside, as the barrel cage in which she was bare and bore the prong of the strong two-foot-long penis within her fucking her by its endless reckless motion, as it shafted her cunt deeply painfully, soundly strongly endlessly, as she sighed and moaned and begged for this never ever to stop: a girl till queendom come, longing for a cum, as she surrendered mind and body and soul, to her sole desire to be fucked endlessly, as her imperious mouth lips parted with the sighs from her thighs being parted by the shaft that deep fucked her to oblivion’s oblivion of all else bar her cunt.

From all the pleasure of the forceful pain Amanda was forced to endure as the storm raged and washed the deck with salt, with waves that assaulted her tortured body with its extended painfully hard erect nipples impaled within the hedgehog-skin brassiere in which her pendulous breasts were being unmercifully caressed, as her body slid from side to side and back and forth as she slid, knelt on her knees, with an axle on which her body must slide and twist hard up her supreme femininity.

“Oh do come on you naughty gel!” snapped an upper-crust voice Amanda knew so well, as she, Amanda, slid in her barrel being fucked unbid by the buck of the yacht on the front of which Zudina slipped and slid with her cunt snail-trailing her girl-lubrication on the pitiless bowsprit she bestrided.

“Oh do come on you naughty gel!” snapped an upper-crust voice Amanda knew so well, and Amanda saw a vision in the next flash of lightening, of a girl tied as a bitch, on a leash naked with a studded leather collar around her neck, and her legs tied at her ankles to the tops of her magnificent thighs next her crutch, to make her walk on all fours with her hands as her forepaws and her knees as her rear paws, as a young girl in a transparent yellow plastic mackintosh and souwester hat, running with the rain that seemed to excite her, wearing nothing but these and balletic shoes, a girl of maybe *****teen with a steamed up monocle over one eye, dragged the totally naked older girl, with over-red painted lips, dark-black eye-shadow, excessively rouged face, red in fingernails and toenails, along like a bitch-dog.

And the sea pitched Amanda forward, and she gasped with pain and pleasure again as the ship now rose and impaled her painfully on penis pole again, and she saw the cornflower blue eyes of the bitch-dog-tied naked girl on the end of Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope’s leash: and she came as she saw the bitch-dog girl’s rear, and came too in unison with the masthead Zudina, as two and one, as if by telepathy innate to beautiful girls, synchronised their cums, and two girls came as one. And Amanda came again as she saw in a lightening flash Zudina’s arking body, arching with the incredible cum for which she had been aching, astride the bowsprit Jilling the Jack. And as lightening struck the SS Naughtylass’ central radio mast, Zudina and Amanda came again in a flash in its flash in united unison union.

“Oh do come on you naughty gel!” Cecile snapped playfully sexily, as she tortured Michaela on her leash, making the brilliant university professor crawl in the pouring rain, as her reign as a whore now knew its pain. And Amanda came again and again and again and again and again, as she rocked and rolled in her barrel and slipped and slid on the unyielding cold pole that penetrated the loveliness of her warm wet nest, and as her eyes watched Zudina orgasming out at sea, and more so still at what she could see as the love of her young life crawled by her, tied as a bitch-dog tugged on a leash by a mistress, the pretty frump Cecile: as Amanda could see Michaela’s soft blonde down stumbled minx, and the rolled-up one-dollar bill that it chewed upon, as she was wiggled supremely thighilly by Amanda: Michaela with her breasts swinging silent bells with clapper nipples tense and peaked, past the girl in the barrel: Amanda in ecstasy and orgasm, and orgasm and ecstasy, and orgasm and orgasm, and orgasm, as the sea, having had its homage paid by the two sailormaids made to worship it, now calmed.

“Oh do come on you naughty gel!”

Eve Adorer
06-23-2007, 06:26 AM
2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 9 – Sophistry

All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs.


The girl on the bed bore crimson fingernails and toenails, painted thus to match the lipstick on her lovely mouth, and now smudged on her divine nipples: for this eve had even lipsticked her nipples this eve, to entice vice.

One in the shower, as if by its soft sprinkle prompted, prominently breasting the silken soft water removing the eager saliva from nipples that had been sucked to steep peaks they still sustained, a sweet young voice voiced: “Oh I do so hope it wains: one has never seen wain at sea don’t ya know: what!”

It had been at Michaela’s prompting. The walk on the deck had been at Michaela’s prompting. Cecile had insisted on a shower. Michaela wanted to go aloft before the storm was over. The storm she knew would have cleared the decks of all who might see her, save those two Girl-Navy sluts being punished, and they hardly mattered.

Michaela wanted the humiliation but wanted it to be private. Michaela’s perversion she had only once before braved in open public. That had been in the pink light district of Glasgow and had led to her arrest even before she could fulfil her fantasy of selling herself to a stranger for sex.

Michaela had wanted to give Cecile a surprise.

The two girls had talked on equal terms despite Michaela’s fall from grace and her being expelled from the Clitton Club. Cecile was wealthy enough to indulge a seeming indulgence of the lower orders to which she now, in truth, considered Michaela to have returned. Democracy comes easily to the wealthy, and easier still to the incredibly well-off that numbered Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope near the top of their list.

For Michaela, getting Cecile to bed her, had been no problem at all. After all Cecile had been to St Catherine's Academy for Girls, the famous Scottish public school, where she would undoubtedly have spent some nights in bed with the so-called School Slag: the prettiest girl in the school who would be under orders to service the others on demand.

To spice it up, Michaela had dressed as the prostitute she had endeavoured to be that fateful once before in Ballantine Street, with the added spice to the vice this time that she had used her crimson lipstick on her nipples to excite Cecile.

Cecile had loved the role-play.

“A dollar a feel! A dollar a feel: it’s got short curly blonde fur!” Michaela had whispered in honeyed tones, playing the streetwalker to a tee.

Michaela had been only too pleased she had negotiated a one-thousand-dollar pre-payment for her body, and seen Cecile use her mobile to order the transfer to Michaela’s account.

This was real enough. Now Michaela had fallen on hard times; Cecile had offered the money as a loan to help out her friend. It had been Michaela who had prompted that it be connected with the pretend naughtiness, in a bedroom scenario she had pre-whispered to the intrigued *****teen-year-old Cecile.

Cecile had been rough and all but raped Michaela, literally biting the older girl’s nipples, so turned on was she by the sight of the bewitching twitching crimson cones.

Michaela had wanted it rough, but not that rough: that is till the aftertaste. During their joint combat, Cecile had even slapped Michaela’s face.

Michaela had been harshly used till she cried out “Stop! Oh please stop!!” and it was then that Cecile had slapped her hard across the face and, still carried on with her four-finger fun, having her one-dollar feel and some, even as Michaela cried tears of distress.

Michaela defended Cecile that it had been Michaela’s idea that the one-dollar payment for her pretend services be inserted in the lips of her bush: but in truth it had been Cecile’s notion: Cecile whom Michaela shock-realised must habitually use her girlfriends the way that she, Michaela, had just been used.

For Michaela it had been pretence on the pretext of a kinky indulgence. But, Michaela had soon realised, that for Cecile the veneer of role-play, aside from her enjoyment of the spiced-up painted nipples, had seen no acting by Cecile at all: Cecile used her women this way: they were of the lower orders, what right had they to feelings?

Nonetheless, now it was over, oh so quickly over, Michaela knew she had enjoyed her role as a slut in a simulacrum of the life of a real prostitute, despite the brevity of the sex and the cruelty, and the face slap that had been so very hard and so very real, and despite that she, Michaela, had had no cum from the encounter, bar the cums she encountered once she had been thrown on the bed, used, abused, and discarded.

Michaela had had to pretend she was stimulated and had had a multiple orgasm from her rape: it had been the only way to stop Cecile hurting her. It was the slap and the rough tossing aside afterwards that had made Michaela shock-cum. So unfeeling and cruel had this been, that had Michaela hit the floor when Cecile had slapped her, or after Cecile had used her, Cecile would not have given a tinker’s curse.

It was this that had turned Michaela on. This was Michaela’s first experience of being treated as if she were “rough trade”. She had actually cum multiple cums after she had been slapped and thrown aside, and as she thereafter watched the rear of the naked Cecile, as Cecile had cast off her stockings and swayed a swathe to her shower cubicle, having, as Michaela’s amateur acted girl-gasps had deceived her into thinking, just sent Michaela to heaven.

Something of the deepest darkest desires in the fabulously lovely 26-year-old blonde professor, ten years older than the girl who had just raped her, had had its call answered. But that inner darkness was but the dusk, and darker still were the preparations that Michaela had made next.

She did not have the kneepads or the mittens, but had sneaked in the thigh straps, and the collar and leash. The two girls, before the so-called lovemaking, had talked of the excitement of New York, where Cecile had never visited before, but where Michaela had worked at WOW headquarters (Women of the World having succeeded the disbanded United Nations in 2084). Michaela knew of the latest New York fashion accessory and wanted to give Cecile a foretaste.

As Cecile had showered Michaela had slipped quickly off the bed, thrown of her skirt and ripped blouse, donned her collar, left the leash obvious on the bed cover, and strapped her gorgeous legs, ankles to thighs, near her crutch. She had then risen to her knees, to use her knees like the rear legs of the bitch she had bound herself as, as she had waited obediently for her “mistress” to come out of the shower.

Outside a storm raged and the ship rose and fell. Waves crashed over its bows, and rain scuttered down the cabin’s porthole windows, fresh water washing off salt water and turn and turn about. That it was already raining was apparently unknown to Cecile, perhaps because of the noise of the pulse-stream shower she was playing on her still erect nipples the while: “Oh I do so hope it wains: one has never seen wain at sea don’t ya know!”

The look of no surprise on Cecile’s face as she came out of the shower had been a deep disappointment to Michaela. But somehow even then, the genuine humiliation, had turned her on once more.

“Oh one is going to play doggy for one: how vewy scwumptious” Cecile had muttered matter-of-passing-notely, more concerned to dry her hair than to feast on the fabulously fantastic sight of Michaela’s truly wonderful huge thighs forming a bridge of sighs as she stood four-legged in her bondage.

Cecile had seemed so little interested in continuing the intended-to-be-sexy game, Michaela had lowered herself to undo her thigh straps, when a harsh voice ordered: “Stay as you are: there’s a good little gel!”

In truth, Cecile had seemed more interested in the rain on the porthole window than in the gloriously erotically compelling sight of a woman as beautiful as Michaela Redhead bound as a bitch.

The plastic mackintosh that showed all of Cecile’s slim young growing-to-full-womanhood body, including her heavy dark triangular bush, was a turn-on unintended to please; more in fact intended as a quick fix for the rain Cecile longed, for some reason, to taste the experience of for the first time at sea.

The attachment of Michaela’s leash and the harsh tug with which the bitch-tied beauty was pulled to her four, including her rear leggy-legs’ torment, showed little consideration for Michaela’s enjoyment of a submissive experience, and Michaela had then been dragged running on all-fours as best she could, out to the elevator and onto the top deck where the warm rain skeeted down on her flawless complexion, drowning her blonde corn-stubble hair as she crawled at her mistresses command, with the one-dollar bill Cecile had insisted in pushing back into her pod, waving like a mini-tale as Michaela wiggled.

This was not as Michaela had intended it to be. This was not erotic. Her poor knees were raw and skinned as Cecile still insisted she crawl: oh and the noise those two sailoresses were making in their torture: they almost seemed to be enjoying it, the dirty little sluts.

Oh yes and that little negro girl in the barrel: oh god was she pretty?! Michaela’s one time girl-car motor: ‘Amelia’ was she; or ‘Asana’, or some such name like that? What lovely lips she had and those soulful dark brown eyes………

The sight of the lovely Amanda in her cage suffering a fucking from the pole on which she was impaled within it and within her, had turned Michaela fantastically on, and the turn-on removed the hurt from her knees. But Michaela had not been allowed to look around after she had wiggled past Amanda’s cage and heard the wonderful negress in the agony and ecstasy of total orgasm as if the scene that had tipped her to catastrophic cums had been Michaela’s bitch-bound body.

Michaela had not been allowed to look around after she had wiggle-crawled past Amanda’s cage and heard the wonderful negress in the agony of total orgasm. Cecile had become bored and had dragged Michaela once more back below deck.


All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs. There is no smoke without fire.

New York Central Park was below. Cecile’s mamma, the Duchess of Tiapaolin, owned five Manhattan apartments: Cecile now occupied the grandest.

Amanda’s relief when she discovered it was not true, as a shipmatess had told her on the SS Naughtylass, that servants and slave-girls in America had their tongues and their clits cut out, was, and you can surely imagine, more than considerable.

Another frightening idea that had haunted Amanda’s mind from the lies she had been told by ignorant taunting teasing sailoresses on the Naughtylass, was that on Long Island there were whipping brothels where, for five-dollars, you could flog the girl of your choice to death.

These wicked tales had been told to tease the brilliant but innocent Amanda, who had half-believed, until the teller of the tale had guffawed, that French girls were being selectively bred so as to have three breasts!

In fact, New York was a disappointment only insofar as it was but the Glasgow of post 2084 writ larger. A magnificent city yes, but Adele Halter’s views were shared by Presidentess Georgina Whip Birch, and girls were now just as irrelevant to the economy of the USA as they had become in Britain.

For New Yorkers post 2084, the height of fashion was to own a bitch. No self-respecting established or would-be socialite would be seen dead without at least one bitch on a leash and better still several.

Post 2084, girls were incredibly cheap in the US. For an outlay of just a few cents, two or three pretty little wonders would be wiggling their naked wares on long leads before you: only too grateful that this way they would get fed at least once per day; as long as they were good little bitches of course.


All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs. There is no girl without there is desire.

Cecile had bought Amanda out of the Girl-Navy. Cecile had liked the look of this negress since Amanda had been the motor in Michaela’s girl-car. Cecile had a vacancy for a maid whilst she would be in New York, and Amanda would do as well as any other slut to fill the role.

Amanda had therefore been given two choices, continuing in the Girl-Navy or working for Cecile, and had decided to risk the latter. After all, had Cecile not been very gentle and kind in buying her at auction to give her her chance in the Girl-Navy and free her from slavery in the first place?

Cecile liked to be surrounded by beautiful things. Although but a maid Amanda, undoubtedly a beautiful thing, must thus dress to please the eyes.

All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs to see if the seams of her canary-yellow stockings were straight. What a trail her tail could blaze!

Teetering on murderously high twelve-inch stiletto-heel-and-toe-shoes, Amanda’s lovely legs needed all their feminine muscularity not to tremble and cause her to teeter totter and topple, such was the miniscule purchase her sharp-pointed shoes’ toe-ends and super-thin heels gave her with the ground she blessed.

The twelve-inch heels of Amanda’s canary-yellow shoes ran parallel with what would be their soles, save that soles touch ground to define them as soles, and the arched soles of Amanda’s shoes merely bent her feet so as to ensure her big toes took all her 105-pound weight, by making her big toes point vertically to ground within the toes of her shoes which rapidly tapered from where her feet were squeeze-enveloped in fact, to a pinpoint mini-“front-heel” of no more than one-sixteenth-of-a-square-inch round running three-inches from the encased point of her big toes to the ground.

These pointed stiletto toe-ends were only two-inches in front of the twelve-inch long stiletto heels, which ended in just the same minimal one-sixteenth-of-a-square-inch round ground contact for the outstanding standing Amanda.

Amanda’s gorgeous legs thus stretched and arched at calves to an infinity of indefinable divinity in their girlmuscular glory, and the seams of Amanda’s canary-yellow stockings led the eye along the straight and narrow path with the smooth undulating curves that takes the sight to the site of heaven. And heaven still nestled a divided undivided god-made slot with its virginal incurving outer lips between Amanda’s fabulously strong shapely thighs.

A light-refracting zigzag prismatic pattern mesmerised the eye that must but must look at the tops of Amanda’s stockings from whence this compelling confusion was emitted: stocking tops which were no more than one-quarter up Amanda’s coffee-brown thighs: stocking tops held there and stretched to inverted vees by garter suspenders.

At the top of each of Amanda’s handsome thighs, touching at rear the very cheeky cheeks of her very cheeky bottom, were side-ribbon-bowed lusciously-lacy-frilled to thrill, sun-yellow garters, that performed a function both erotically decorative and functional, in that a suspender ran down from the front and back of each, to hold up Amanda’s stockings.

Each garter in turn was then held up by suspenders that ran up front and back – the back ones over the mountains of Amanda’s callipygian moons - to the supremely extremely tight corset Amanda wore: a canary-yellow lusciously-lacy-fringed leather corset that hugged her middle down to a breathless breathtaking eight-inches, so the poor girl was wasped to a breathless breathtaking wisp.

Amanda wore no panties, but relied for her modesty upon the elasticated-lacy gusset stretched between her garters to hide her completely shaven and immaculately smooth incurving virtually virgin innocent-looking lower lips.

Her cantilevered corset’s cups lifted Amanda’s magnificent bosom, heaving and separating her, so that she pointed very femininely forward, with decidedly delineated cleavage, and quarter-cupped her, covering her only to the extent of discreetly secreting her nipples, so that Amanda’s breasts heaved with her every soft breath like the bosom of a horror film heroine at her first sight of the prehistoric monster from the lagoon predicating a helpless feminine scream and swoon.

This underwear was almost Amanda’s outerwear. To finish her ensemble, a canary-yellow choker at her delicate slim throat, and frilly cuffed sun-yellow gloves on each lovely hand. From the choker there swept down all around her to a hem just below her devastating derriere, a surrounding semi-translucent canary-yellow cloak-like A-line dress, with long sleeves opened at the ends like those of a magician-sorcerer from which Amanda’s lacy gloved dainty hands emerged.

Amanda wore canary-yellow eye shadow. It suited her. The flash of the sun-like yellow on her flawless brown complexion fascinated when she blinked: that is of course, if one could take one’s eyes off Amanda’s lips, offering the kiss of kismet, caressed in the choicest moistest wet-look lipstick in the most brilliant sun-yellow.

Top all this off with Amanda having her negress’ curly hair clipped to a cute boyish curly crop, and you have a recipe so devastating in loveliness that she could raze New York to the ground with a chance glance of her wonderfully intelligent eyes. Oh that terrorists should never acquire such a weapon!

The three-inch hobble-chain between her shapely ankles would cap her captivating wiggle.

All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs to ensure the seams of her canary-yellow stockings were indeed straight.

She then donned her mini-sombrero soft floppy straw hat, and placed it on her natural negress’ cute curls at a decidedly ravishing angle, as she could not help because she was she: all she and nothing but she was she: and was she she?!!


The piercing went through her tongue. She wore a studied ball stud. It was the half the size of her tongue and filled the upper cavity of her mouth when her pretty mouth was pretty-well closed. A stud that was a big dome above the tongue and an only marginally smaller one below, dominating her mouth to all but silence her. It was a gag but less blatant. Her mouth still looked natural when closed. So much more decorative than a gag as such it was. Such it was that quietened a bitch.

Earlier in trow, Amanda had squatted astride and let go her pee into the trough to refill it nil it empty. The soft white wine from the mountain dew she drank, shimmered as if in a summer breeze as it tumbled trickled and tinkled into that already in the trough ready for the bitches. Such was what a bitch drank: a heaven blessed bitch that is.

The bitches in Amanda’s gentle charge were sleek and shiny with soft healthy “coats”. Their flawless skin shone with the protective sunscreen Amanda had caressed their bodies with from forehead to toes. Such was all a bitch wore.

Her body shone shaven and immaculately smooth. Her hair was drawn up in a binding band so that it stood up on the top back of her head formed into a poodle-tail’s ball. This was decorated always when out and about, with a perfectly tied ribbon-bow of colour complimentary to the cutie’s coiffure. Such was a bitch’s topknot.

A cartoon Pluto would have been proud of the long thin tails that rose in desperate defiance of gravity, only to parallel the parabola, and curve back down toward ground. Thin whippy pinpoint-ended spring-cored black rubber clitoris extensions in truth of the short story. Clamped over and down to the base of the clitoris with a pin-piercing to keep them in place. A constantly aerial antenna or aerial, wobbling waving and wanking the bitch as she wiggled with it bobbing between her bound up legs. Such was a bitch’s non-male tail.

The rings through the nipples included kerknockers. With the breast gravity blessed, gold rings in both nipples dangled down. From each ring dangled two two-inch rods each with a ball-bearing tip. These were her kerknockers. Such were a bitch's mammary medallions.

Unless a choke-chain was necessary to curb a fractious one, the leather collar was either studded or spiked. The colour of its leather would always match that of the padlocked straps that tied her ankles tightly to her upper thighs at crotch level, so she must use her knees as her rear paws. Such were a bitch's containing constraining restraints.

On the knees were air-cushion pads with a string strap around the back of the knee to hold them on. The hands were in wrist-padlocked mittens with air-cushion pads in the palms. Black rubber these. Such were a bitch's front and rear “paws”.

Walking wanked the bitch as her tail whipped and wobbled. Walking wanked the bitch as the balls dangling from her nipple-rings swung past each other side-to-side and fore-and-aft, or sometimes struck and bounced out in reaction in torturous teasing pleasing.

All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs to ensure her stocking seams seemed straight, for were they seen to be unseemly she would be whipped.

Amanda knew now the completely compelling beauty of her body was being used. The toleration of her survival depended on her outstanding stunningness. This was her fate.

She bent at hip letting slip her dress’ hem revealing her two profoundly round rear moons as she attached the leashes to her three charges.

Six bright eyes shone submissively adoringly at her: two black, two emerald-green, and two in the most incredible shining cornflower-blue.

Such was the power and wealth of Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, that she could afford a maid solely for the three bitches she owned. Amanda had been appointed and had not disappointed. Amanda had been made a kennel-maid.


Time awhile back: as she listened to the howls of protest, Amanda routinely proffered her breast.

Siabon’s Irish lilt was obvious. The words were decidedly indecipherable through the muffling walls. Siabon was speaking, nay shouting. In answer there seemed silence, but Cecile was always calm and assured despite her teenaged youth.

Siabon’s secure living had disappeared along with her husband-girl Michaela.

With her last shard of shared savings she had sailed on the SS Menses, queen of the Red-Streak Line, bottom class from Cork in Southern Ireland, where she had returned briefly to live with her mother when Michaela had been arrested, arriving New York two days since and after Amanda had already been there some three months.

Siabon had tracked and trailed and tailed Michaela to the USA. Of course Siabon had known about the Clitton Club, not that Michaela would ever take her wife there. Of course, nobody at the Cltton would let Siabon in to make enquiries.

As of then, Siabon, having made a good marriage, still had status in society. She had therefore overcome her fear of the Girl-Police to ask at Girl-Control headquarters in her native Cork, where Michaela had gone once she, Michaela, had been let off her sentence and freed from gaol.

Indeed, though desperate for her only assured future, Siabon had quite enjoyed the “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” respect with which the Irish Girl-Police had had now to treat her, seeing that she wore a wedding-ring on her right-hand wedding ring finger: thus indicating she was married, and anyway obviously recognising the name and connected prestige – notoriety now of course, come to that - as Siabon had introduced herself to them as “Mrs Michaela Redhead” with her marriage certificate to hand had they needed proof of the truth.

Amanda now heard frustration’s tears in Siabon’s voice as she, Amanda, squatted on her gorgeous haunches routinely proffering her breast.

Twenty-four hours after the blazing row heard through the wall, and otherwise not at all, Amanda had another mouth to feed.

Stark choice had found Siabon stark naked. Her tongue had been pierced and fitted with the double-hemispherical tongue controller, but was still very sore. Her hair, her red hair, looked amazing in its poodle topknot and emerald-green ribbon. Her ghostly white body was still pink in patches where she had caught the sun, and would be evened in its colour in days as she must now wiggle with her new tail wagging and wanking her, as the rings and kerknockers dangling from her near-transparent freshly pierced pink nipples threshed and thrashed and bashed.

Siabon had been lucky. Cecile could have had her arrested for being without monetary support. The courts would soon then have divorced her for her inability to produce her husband-girl - the limit being 48-hours to habeous-corpus - to prove her marriage had not been split by divorce voiced the statutory three times: saying “I divorce thee” thrice, being sufficient for a husband-girl to sunder a marriage under the Girl Laws.

Siabon had been lucky, because it had appealed to Cecile’s decidedly sexy mind to have black, blonde, and red haired bitches in her kennel.

Amanda now had another mouth to feed. The bitches must be fed thrice per day.

Amanda knelt on her gorgeous haunches. On her right nipple were the lovely lips of a blonde-haired cornflower-blue-eyed bitch. The bitches must be fed thrice per day.

Amanda’s soulful eyes closed as the bitch suckled. She could feel the tip of the bitch’s constrained tongue lick her nipple to entice the flow of her milk.

Amanda’s milk was the only food the bitches were allowed. The bitches must be fed thrice per day. This blue-eyed bitch was clearly very hungry and did not want to let the nipple go, even though she must know that Amanda had to share her milk with the black-eyed Italian Jewess bitch, and now the redhead: the cornflower-blue-eyed bitch’s emerald-green-eyed wife.

Amanda’s soulful eyes closed as the bitch suckled. How could she help but feel emotion and arousal as the beautiful bitch, the girl she loved, sucked her milk from the teat of her tit?

As the blue-eyed bitch suckled her right breast, Amanda had kept her fingers on the nipple of her left breast to stop it leaking in sympathy. Now with a “come-on-then” beckon by uplifted eyebrows and gentle smile, she called over the black-eyed bitch, and tried not to sigh as more succulent lips, no less succulent than those already suckling, began to suck her milk for succour and sustenance.

The bitches must be fed thrice per day. The long needles forced into her nipples to inject her with the hormones had made her scream with agony. This, along with the daily tablets, one for each of her 40-inch double-D-cup tits, had returned Amanda to the lactation her Girl-Navy service had seen dry up. And now she must service the bitches with her milk, because the bitches must be fed thrice per day, and this was the only food they were allowed.

Now Amanda no longer needed the daily tablets. As long as she gave suckle her milk would continue to be produced. The nutritious value of her yield showed in the silk-smooth complexions of the bitches that sucked on her breasts so eagerly this morning and would again at noon and eve.

It was said to be good for the bitch’s health for them always to feel hunger. Accordingly, Amanda must restrict their suckling to a strict three-and-a-half minutes, and besides, Amanda now had three bitches to feed with the same amount of milk being produced by her as before when she had only had the two bitches to give breast to.


Later. Every morning it was the same. Amanda would take off the panties she wore in her bed in the room that housed the kennel, having returned the bitches locked in there for security while she showered, and every morning she would discard the panties soaked, nay saturated, in her musk from her arousal at the suckling she must perform as the obedient kennel-maid.

Amanda must then put on her makeup, and dress in wickedly-tight front-strapped corset and kennel-maid uniform to walk the bitches in Central Park. Amanda wore a three-inch gold ankle-hobble at all times when out and about, but was free of that on trust with the key to unlock it when about her duties in the kennels.

And this bitch exercising was such hard work, as on return she must strip again to bathe and shave the bitches in turn: waxing their legs and their sexes to keep them immaculately smooth. Cecile demanded the highest standards in appearance, both of the bitches and of Amanda herself, when they were out in public.

All smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and glimpse the backs of her own legs to ensure that the seams of her canary-yellow stockings were straight. There is no girl without there is fire.

Looking up she watched as Michaela’s succulent lips pout-sucked Amanda’s scented wine from the trough Amanda had not long since peed into to top up. This was the love of her life. Her tongue held useless by the piercing stud, Michaela’s soft sweet lips forming a kiss, the kiss Amanda longed for from her, to suck the piss-wine for her thirst.

Michaela was blissfully unaware of the stirrings in Amanda’s gentle heart that the sight of Michaela’s bitch bound body sounded.

It was but a matter-of-fact glimpse that Amanda’s eyes took in, but her pupils instantly flared wide with arousal at the sight of the 26-year-old Michaela’s full-grown-woman’s wares, her dangling breasts ‘bells’ swinging to toll soundlessly the victory the bonds had over her bound body, as she bent now and kissed the golden-clear liquid in the trough and sucked it up with a kiss, just as she had earlier sucked to suckle on Amanda’s mothering breast.

More lovely lips that had suckled on Amanda now joined the sucking of the wine from the trough. Amanda had been amazed at the success with which Zudina Palermo had surrendered to her subservience: she had also tanned a little in the sun and her extreme whiteness was moderated to a modest but delightfully Italianate olive hue.

Siabon was white still. In the fire of the sun, her lovely flesh would only go red. She was a redhead with the translucence of complexion that goes with the flaming glory of fiery hair. Her protection against the glare of the fierce globe was vital. An extra strength of sunscreen was needed for her.

Even so her freckles were absolutely delicious, being constantly now full-out on her creamy dream-soft face, over the bridge of her dainty nose, adorning her forehead, and trepidatiously touching upon the edge of her pouting-kiss lips. Too so were her facial cheeks now bucolically rosy. The flame-haired Siabon was sunned to a stunning freckled cider-Rosy: a pouting emerald-eyed Emerald Isle colleen posing positive perturbation.

At the sight of Amanda holding their three leashes at the ready, the bitches looked up eagerly all three.

All three bitches were unleashed by their leashes. They loved “walkies”. To walk wanked them. A bitch’s bondage masturbated her constantly but more concentratedly when she was walked or allowed to run.

All three of her charges now stood on their all-fours, using their padded knees and palms as their four paws, standing with their aerial tails wobbling as if wagging; but with no “as if” about it as the wagging wanked their clitorises.

Bending so her full firm naked bottom mirrored an upside-down-world’s double-moonrise below the horizon of her dress’ hem, Amanda attached the leashes to her bitches, the bitches in her charge that is, and prepared for them to charge as they always would in eagerness to be wanked as they wiggled to and in the park.

As they crawled to the elevator, six breasts swung wide-to-side-to-side-to-wide with their snaking bodies, and kerknockers swung on nipples and knocked and rebounded to give them pain. Wire tails aloft wagged and wanked their glistening clits as they walked doggy-bound bound for the park.

Amanda was up on the stiletto tips of the toes of her double-heeled-shoes as she walked away asway with a belly-dancer’s pronouncement, because her corset enforced eight-inch waist widened her wiggle, and forced her into fantasy femininity to mesmer-eyes.

Amanda’s mini-dress rustled breezed leaf’s sighs. On top of her stiletto-toed shoes, so that her ground grip was vicariously precarious at best, her tiny steps were forced and enforced by her dainty three-inch gold hobble chain. In her frilly-cuffed gloved left hand she held all three long leashes. In her right hand frilly-cuff-gloved, she held a bitch whip, the handle strap of which arounded her dainty wrist, and the business strap of which, tip-ball-studded, hung down two-feet toward her shapely ankles, angled in readiness for use in an anger that sweet Amanda had never known in her life, she was so lovely and loving.

As Amanda and her three bitches left the apartment for the elevator, Cecile was returning from her night at a party with Long Island friends.

Instantly on their meeting, Amanda returned from her toes to stand also on her twelve inch heels and bend her glorious negress’ brown legs in a double-knees-bend worshipful fully subservient duly observant courteous curtsy of eroticism stupendous, as she moist-wet-look sun-yellow-lipsticked vesper-prayer-lip-whispered, in a sweet scented zephyr of Marilyn Monroe restrained giggle sigh, her hatted head, eyes initially raised then lowered in a head-nod bow: “Good morning my lady”.

Cecile’s appreciative eyes ran Amanda ceiling up to floor down seeing in microseconds her in no-way second place flawlessness, and answered in the instant: “Good morning indeed Amanda. Golly gosh: but do you look pwitty today!”

“Oh. Thank you my lady” Amanda breathlessly breathed as, pleased by the praise but disturbed and perturbed, she curtsied again and blushed, while Cecile in sweatshirt and jeans swept busily by.


“I know your not weally a bitch, but pwease do it for me!”

Even at 9.00 of the morn New York sweltered and Amanda was glad of the shelter of her wide-rimmed straw hat. The bitches naked needed the protection of the high Uv factor that their gorgeous bodies were screened with, and which made them shimmer and shine reflectively haloed in the searing heat.

Sun worship was in order, suitably protected. Cecile liked her bitches to maintain their overall suntans. Blonde Michaela Redhead was a lovely nut-brown now. Cecile had also praised Amanda for introducing a tan to the pale exceedingly sensitively skinned Zudina Palermo. And she had excused Amanda from seeking to get a tan on the delicate flesh of Siabon Redhead, Michaela’s wife, recognising that the redhead’s ghost-white skin must be protected from being burnt, and adoring the freckles the sun had brought out on her face.

Sun worship was in order for Amanda too. The sun had permission to worship the incredibly lovely creature, even though Amanda’s unmatchable beauty put its mere majesty ashamed in the darkest shade.

Amanda timed this morning’s walk in hope.

There had been nothing innocent about the look: it had been completely disingenuous. Midnight black hair and saffron-yellow eyes.

One of those stretch-limousines cruised by. White for a wedding? Did they realise the amount of energy consumed to produce the supposedly environmentally friendly hydrogen on which these ran? There was little oil left now, so the comparison was with coal consumption and its exhaust products. And Amanda supposed that coal had to be used to initiate the energy for hydrogen production, unless coal were to be used to directly power the automobiles the Americans still used, which would be hideously clumsy…..

…….Oh these damned dogs. There were so many now. Real dogs running wild in packs returned to feral nature as pack animals. They were mostly Alsatians, last year’s fashion now that bitches were in. Their owners were unknown since no dog wore a collar like the bitches had to do by law. Their owners should be taken to court for letting them loose to nuisance citizens the way they now did…..

Amanda was lost in intelligent, if not particularly profound, thought as she belly-dancer-wiggled with her bitches on their leashes pulling eagerly in front………as……….

………“Wow! And Wow again!” the business girl’s expressive appreciation brought Amanda back from her thoughtful reverie as she routinely walked the bitches in Central Park.

“My god are you a dream?! Honeeey, you are just sensational!”

“Thank you my lady” Amanda courteously smiled bowing only with her head and eyes and just dipping her knees in passing duty to her superior, as the bitches on their leashes hurried her on, and the awe-struck businessgirl walked backwards the while to watch Amanda swing and sway her angel’s way.

“Oh it’s a doggy! Cecile you are so so so marvellous I want to kiss you!”

“Give her here: I’ve got a little something for her!”

“No: you mustn’t!”

“And why not!?”

She was there. Oh god she was there. She was with a friend today.

Amanda’s heart pounded. The cardigan was off her shoulders again. Schoolgirls treated their clothing so roughly. But the way it bared her smooth sun-browned eggshell-brown lightly freckled shoulders!

She wore balletic shoes again today. Amanda had not seen her in those that first time. Bare legs. Lovely legs.

She was giggling and her pretty hand was up to her precociously bold sweet lips, fingertips on the bridge of her freckled nose, as she tiptoed backwards doubling a little, as if in recoil, with her soprano laughter, and then tiptoed forward conspiratorially toward her comparatively dowdy friend again. Their heads were close together and from the way they were giggling, they must be talking about sex and girls.

She was maybe, just maybe, *****teen.

On her own that day two months ago as Amanda had passed with the bitches, she had looked unsmiling at Amanda. There was nothing innocent about the look: it was completely disingenuous. She would have said hello had Amanda been quicker and braver. But then her eyes had turned and the time was lost. Yellow eyes. This girl had raven black hair and saffron-yellow eyes.

She was not seducing so she was so seducing. She was, back then that first time, probably waiting for the pal with whom these many weeks later, with a strange meeting between Amanda and she in-between as Amanda now reminisced, waiting for the pal with whom these many weeks later she was now today giggling and tiptoe-giggle-wiggle-dancing so prettily.

Amanda could not say hello that first time. The girl had not seemed to really see her that first day. She was just being polite. Had Amanda said hello she would have answered out of pure courtesy. She could see that Amanda was only a maid, but she, Amanda, was the elder, and it was therefore not right for Serna, for this was she, to speak first. Mummy had brought her up to be polite, even to mere maids.

At the third time of their paths crossing, Serna was proud: she was wearing her first brassiere. She wanted her best friend to notice but was not going to tell her. Serna wanted to be grown-up. For grown-ups, wearing a bra was the every-day norm, so Serna pretended she had always worn a bra and there was nothing special about today; even though her mummy had held her and hugged her and kissed her forehead with loving tears in her eyes that morning.

That third time, out of the corner of her eye, the giggling Serna saw her as if she had been waiting for her.

Amanda had assumed she would get no stir from the schoolgirl whose look the first time she had seen her had burned a heart-shaped brand on her soul from the grace of a face no angel could compete with: this having been confirmed signed sealed and delivered the second time they had met.

But no: this third time the two schoolgirls stopped their chatter and turned in silence toward Amanda as if they had been stoking up each other’s courage.

Then: “Hi” had said a voice so sweet with the giggle that the girl who owned it suppressed, but which was no less sincere for it, or its monosyllabity.

“Good morning my lady” Amanda answered in astonished pleasure at having her dream come true and the raven-haired saffron-eyed Serna greeting her as she passed.

And then the two girls had collapsed in giggles once more, and Amanda realised she had aroused their love and that their preceding conspiratorial chatter had been to find the courage to say hello to the lovely negress she, that she, Serna, had been telling her best friend at school about obsessively these weeks and days past.

“Oh isn’t she just so amazing?!……..” Amanda heard Serna gasp gawp gulp and then collapse into tip-top-tiptoed-legs leggy-legs dancing wiggle giggle as she, Amanda, had continued on her dutiful way.

And Amanda had finally realised that her love was just lust, and the object of her desire only just awakening with no skill or experience, at the dawn of her dawn, and that she should be ashamed for wanting a girl so young and untutored in life. But oh Serna’s first look and that coal black hair and those saffron-yellow eyes!

“I know your not weally a bitch, but pwease do it for me!”

“Oh it’s a doggy! Cecile you are so so so marvellous I want to kiss you!”



Amanda watched the wibble-wobble of the tall tails that Plutonically curved up from the clitorises of the three bitches she was walking in the park, and realised how they were being frankly wanked, and knew that this was to keep them tame, and longed for to share their shame.

Twenty Alsatians passed at a run chase. They really must do something to round them up for the dog pound! Just what was City Hall thinking of?!

Yesterday and the day before, Amanda’s nipples had been feeling sore. She knew the sensation. It was not from her having to give suck to her three lovely charges. It was true what it said in the magazines though. Siabon’s was out of step yet, she had not lived in the kennels as long as Amanda had constantly with the other two this last while now. Michaela’s and Zudina’s now coincided with Amanda’s though.

It had come on this morning. Her red rain held reign reining her in. Zudina and Michaela were seeping too. It was distressing to openly drip into her garter-panties’ gusset like this, but Cecile forbad a towel let alone a tampon, and poor Zudina and Michaela were clearly dripping their red on their naked thighs.

Amanda shuddered at the howl and the hairs on the back of her neck momentarily stood up.

The toe-tip-two-heeled shoes wiggle-walking progress momentarily ceased: Siabon needed to pee.

Progress halted as, on a verge, Siabon parted her thighs and a stream of her lovely wine spouted hot for a while, till it ending fell to just a drip on the grass. Now, Amanda gently tugged Siabon’s leash to get her back with the group.

Another howl made Amanda shudder.

Siabon must now defecate and Amanda be patient. None of the bitches long since felt any shame at performing their bodily functions in public. An early whipping from Cecile had taught Zudina not to pee on the floor of the kennel. This was part of the reason for the walk the bitches were being taken upon by Amanda. Amanda readied her poop scoop and a plastic bag for when Siabon had finished her natural offices from her natural orifices.

On the path behind, the jingling of a girl-cart with a wild-eyed red-haired ponytailed lovely pulling with all her might, her nostrils flared as she stared scared past side-blinkers, passed in a blink of a lovely brown girl’s dark brown eyes, her trotting legs a blur of emotional motion, her reins and nipple-bells stretching and jingling, and her tits slapping her chest with zest, as her owneress ominously waved her whip to drive her in her tiptoed hooves faster and faster for the excitement of the speed, and because her owneress was late for school.



“Give her here: I’ve got a little something for her!”

“No: you mustn’t!”

“And why not!?”

Amanda moved her threesome on to a wooded area where she preferred they do their natural motions, and it was there the Alsatian dog pack, led in fact by a ‘she-wolf’ of grey muzzled might, whose teeth bared as she viciously snarled and dribbled her spittle, surrounded them.


“Ah yes. Amanda. One wants a word with you pwease.” Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope had beckoned to her kennel-maid that morn a fortnight since.

“Yes my lady”, the supremely leggy Amanda dipped her knees, putting one delightful shapely leg a step back beforehand as she curtseyed to her mistress.

“Amanda, I know your not weally a bitch, but pwease do it for me!”

“I humbly beg to beg your pardon my lady?” Amanda dared to query.

“It’s Vewonica Hayden-Standish’s hen night don’t you know. She’s goin’ to mawwy Amewia Jenkins-Wawd would you bewieve! What a stonker! I’ll say!! A twooley scwumptious gel! Bermooda for the old wedding day what!” Cecile spoke as if Amanda must know whom Veronica Hayden-Standish and her intended wife, or was it husband-girl, Amelia Jenkins-Ward, might be.

“And you know what: Vewonica’s hired one of those long motor thingies with wheels a mile apart and I said we could pway at pass the parcel!” Cecile seemed almost to be talking to herself.

“Anway, I’ve pwomised you. So you will do it won’t you there’s a good gel” at this, which was clearly not a question but an order, Cecile had turned to leave, before turning again.

“I know your not weally a bitch, but pwease do it for me! I have a little gel coming from the local school to put you on your wead.”

“Yes my lady” Amanda curtsied confirmatorily again as Cecile left.

“9.00 tonight then, and thank you Amanda: you are a tweasure!” drawled Cecile’s voice as she withdrew to shower for her evening out with the bride-to-be still free, before her wedding day bliss made her no longer a Miss: the delightful Veronica Hayden-Standish.

In the kennels it was the appointed time at evening, so Amanda now knelt huge coffee-brown thighed and lowered the bra on her corset. The first bitch to her thus bared breasts was Michaela with, the as of then new bitch Siabon, taking her left. Amanda squatted feeding the bitches with her breasts whilst scenting the floor with her cream as she became aroused by the dependence these lovely girls had on her and at their sweet lips and tongue tips suckling on her beautiful firmly-fully-full breasts, and as she felt her milk flow through her nipples into their ever-eager mouths.


If Serna was *****teen she was an exceptionally womanly *****teen.

“Cecile says to have a topless waspie on Miss”, Serna’s sweet but nervous voice called to Amanda, whom she of course recognised as being the lovely negress she and her friend Romany had lusted after when they had seen her in the distance walking Cecile’s bitches whilst they were on their way to school.

The naked negress: naked that is bar her eight-inch-waist-forming waspie, glided before the schoolgirl who was to take charge of her.

Serna instantly hung her head and blushed.

A stray single strand of her brushed and shining, clean but untidy, pitch-black hair was on her strawberry-red lips. As she breathed a virgin-firm-bosom heaving sigh, she raised her blossoming flush-red visage with her pitch-black huge-pupilled saffron-yellow eyes wild and wide, wanting to look and not wanting to look at Amanda’s supreme beauty.

Amanda’s felt her heart melt and took charge.

“You’re a very pretty girl my lady. May I know your name?”

“My name is ‘Serna’ miss”, answered the still amazed and discomforted Serna.

“May I make so bold as to call you ‘Serna’ my lady?” Amanda enquired.

“Oh no: that would never be right at all!” Serna then answered, rediscovering her composure and recalling that mummy had told her so many times that servants must but must know their proper place.

“I most humbly beg to beg your pardon my lady”, Amanda answered in immediate obedient reflex, and curtsied breast joggle swingingly thighilly low, making Serna blush once more.

Amanda knew that Serna knew that Amanda knew that each of Serna’s blushes confirmed she was anointing the gusset of her panties at the sight of the beauty of the near naked Amanda. But Amanda was kind and gentle and would never tease the lovely innocent, even though she was flattered to be the cause of the cream in Serna’s virgin sandwich.

“Have you never had hair on it miss?” Serna suddenly asked in transported awe, her stunning startling golden-yellow eyes flicking between Amanda’s mouth and her other lips.

“Oh yes: yes of course my lady; but a maid must always be completely shaved my lady” Amanda answered, astonished by the ingénue’s innocence, and pleased she had been admiring her, Amanda’s that is, virtual virgin tight incurving pee-pod lips.

Amanda was unsure whether to turn her back on Serna, as she reached up to fit her own collar. She didn’t, and reached up, and her bountiful breasts were thus lifted aloft and swung and swayed their milk-filled message of beauty and desirability.

“What are those little red things in your nipples miss? Do they hurt?”

Amanda’s fear at what she dreaded this evening might have in store for her, butterflied her tummy, and almost made her lash out, tongue wise, in the temper that being forced into what she dreaded could only be horrible, nearly made her express as a safety valve. But this innocent schoolgirl, Serna, was not to blame, and the brief cloud soon cleared from Amanda’s sunny visage…………

“I am lactating my lady: I am full with milk. My nipples have to be plugged or my milk will pour down me”, Amanda answered distractedly as she felt for the buckle on her collar with its outfacing needle sharp spikes.

“You’re very lovely” Serna whispered with her head hung down once more.

“Thank you my lady. You are very kind”, Amanda answered with gentle genuine sincerity.

Serna audibly gasped with astonishment as Amanda now squatted thus making her thighs monumentally curvaceously enormous to the erotically compelled eyes of the innocent schoolgirl.

Guessing that another compliment, well deserved though it undoubtedly was, was coming, Amanda busied herself binding her ankles to her thighs to make herself as if she were now a bitch, and then rising on all four “paws”: hands as forepaws and knees as rear paws, and thankful for carpet, this hurt her knees so to stand so.

“Sit!” ordered Serna.

And, in immediate reflex Amanda squatted just as she was bade.


Amanda moved her threesome of bitches on to a wooded area where she preferred they perform their natural functions, and it was there the Alsatian dog pack, led in fact by a ‘she-wolf’ of grey muzzled might, whose teeth bared as she viciously snarled and dribbled her spittle, surrounded them.

In an instant, Michaela, Zudina, and Siabon, squatted on their haunches to protect themselves.

Another red drip fell on Amanda’s now crimson stained garter-panties’ gusset.

“Good boy! Good boy!” Amanda nervously audibly whispered to what she was yet to realise was an Alsatian she-dog, who thus seemed to grow braver and snarled and crawled forward and snapped with her bared teeth.

Amanda knew not what to do. She breathed and heaved her heavenly chest, and the bitch drew nearer still.

Amanda would merely have to let go their leashes to let go the bitches she was walking for exercise, but in her loveliness she feared for them getting a trailing leash caught when they ran to escape.

She must let them free so they could run for protection, that much was clear. So she reached down with heavenly straight girl-confirmatory legs, and let her coffee-dream-moons shine brown and round and wonderful at the she-dog as she undid each bitch’s leash, and cast their leads aside from her left wrist, to clap her gloved hands to shoo them away.

This sight of Amanda’s beautiful bottom caused the dogs to bark and the bitch to get closer still. Michaela, Zudina, and Siabon squatted right down and hung their heads submissively.

Still fearing for their safety, Amanda again shooed them with her kiss-me-constantly lips, and clapped her prettily-frilly cuffed gloved hands once more to punctuate her message.

Her charges were too frightened to stir, and seemed to want to sink into the ground.

Amanda now stood with her head hanging, tiptoed in her twelve-inch heels with the soft ground of the wood making it so difficult to walk and her stiletto-toed shoes no help, and her anklet hobble even less.

She could not leave her bitches, so she could not run even if her hobble would have let her. She could not run anyway on this soft ground in these shoes and with her ankles tied together so closely.

Help would surely come, but it needed to come quickly if her poor bitches were not to be raped, that much was clear.

Amanda was too gentle by far to ever use it in anger, but now she swung her studded bitch whip to try and ward the dogs off, especially the she-dog pack leader.

All this seemed to do was to make the leader of the pack more courageous.

Amanda knew something horrible was going to happen. In an instant she turned and began to wiggle in her three-inch hobble toward her lovely charges, determined to protect them.

The Alsatian she-dog it was that jumped at Amanda’s back to knock her down.

Breathless stunned and astonished, suddenly shockingly dumped on her lovely knees, Amanda tried to get herself up, but with her twelve-inch stiletto-toe-and-heel shoes and her hobble chain, she would never readily stand again without help.

Kneeling she then reached to grasp her tumbled-off charming straw hat, and thus her dress’ hem revealed all of her lovely bottom and her waspie corseted waist and the suspenders that ran to her garters from her waspie over her cheeky bottom cheeks, and her frilly lacy garters with their suspenders holding up her stockings, and her seamed canary-yellow stockings.

And Amanda abandoned her hat in fear as the she-dog Alsatian growled at her to keep her down. And a male dog was now tearing, teeth bared and snarling, tearing and tugging at her garter-panties’ flimsy gusset, as two others fought to fight him off for the prize.

And at last Amanda gasped out loud as she heard and felt the gusset of-a-sudden volubly tear. And then she gasped and moaned as she felt a cold damp nose nuzzle her warm bare thighs. And she cried aloud with allowed fear at a tongue now eagerly lapping her crimson leak from within the lips of her now exposed slit……


Earlier saw her bitch-walking on the sidewalk where its stone paving was horribly painful for Amanda’s knees and was not quite compensated for by the fact that she could look at the extremely pretty and very shapely calves of Serna’s bare legs, as the innocent schoolgirl led her crawling on her leash, to the long white stretch-limousine with a waiting door open and music comprised of ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ accompanied by loud screams and giggles, and more screams of inebriated joy, as stroboscopic blue lights mounted under the auto, played their luminous havoc on the concrete roadway in rhythm with the beat of the disco music within.

Within came a laughing cry of: “Where is it then Cecile, you naughty thing: you pwomised a supwise!” This from Veronica Hayden-Standish in bliss, flushed and shiny-eyed with the girl-champaign she had quaffed all day, the next three bottles of which were in the silver ice-bucket on the luxuriously carpeted floor of the extra-long-stretch Lincoln Continental.

Amanda crawled beautiful beyond nirvana in her bitch-bondage trying hard not to show her pain.

“Where is it then Cecile? You’re a little fibber. Cecile is a fibber! Cecile is a fibber! Cecile is a fibber!” chanted Veronica Hayden-Standish before collapsing in intoxicated helpless giggles and crying out: “Oh the bubbles have just gone up my nose!” as she spilt the one-thousand-dollars-a-bottle French-girl-pee she had just sipped, onto her pretty fingers from where it dripped to the deep-piled carpet.

Let off her leash by the timid Serna, Amanda latterly lifted a second bound thigh to fully enter the limousine to astonished and delighted awed silence among the twelve girls touring the town to celebrate the upcoming wedding of one of their peers.

“Oh it’s a doggy! It’s a doggy! It’s a doggy! Cecile you are so so so marvellous I want to kiss you!” cried Veronica.

As she knelt on her knees her legs bound up tightly wearing nothing but the straps that tied those legs and the spiked collar that decorated her divine slim neck, Amanda knew nothing but fear and complete vulnerability.

“She’s wactating”, Cecile’s voice shouted above the din of the thumping disco beat, as the car’s door silently slammed and it lurched forward.

“Oh how scwumptious” cried the bride-to-be.


Thinking to protect her rear as she knelt helpless on the grass in the wooded parkland, Amanda managed to grasp her lovely straw hat only to end clutching literally at straws, as the she-dog captaining the Alsatian pack tore it from Amanda’s dainty gloved fingers with her raw snarling lip curled mouth.

Amanda knew she was going to be shagged. The gusset of her garter panties hung in torn shreds. Her shaven shiny slit slavered her menstruum. To the dogs she was a bitch on heat. Amanda knew she was going to be shagged………..


Amanda lovely kiss-me-constantly mouth opened with a heavenly sigh as gentle tongues licked the lines of the soles of her bare feet.

Veronica Hayden-Standish and Cecile loved her negress’ feet held up and exposed to the passion of their genuine kisses as they were by Amanda’s bitch-bondage.

Veronica and Cecile were fascinated by the boundary between Amanda’s glorious brownness and the pink and whiteness of the soles of her bare feet. It was so erotic that this one girl contained within her this rainbowic contrast, the boundary of which at the outer sides of Amanda’s dainty feet, they now followed with their tongues, as Amanda sighed to let them know how much she loved this, and then gasped open mouthed curling her pretty toes as they both kissed the hollows of her insteps one apiece.


The filthy cock of the first dog was already in her. His front paw claws were scratching Amanda’s back through the thin material of her dress, as his cock was thrust hard up her slit and he was shagging without a care in the world and least of all for her.


All twelve girls took their turn to kiss Amanda’s outstandingly lovely mouth: her literally outstanding negress’ lips, her literally lovely negress’ mouth. And Amanda was turned-on by their attention and her other lips were seeping as the twelve took turns to kiss her mouth again, whilst two thereafter returned to concentrate on her lovely white-soled feet, kissing them repeatedly and licking them to sensational tickling taunting arousal as Amanda abandondly sighed and girly-gasped.

Cecile now kissed her feet as Veronica showered her face with kisses and the car swept on to the ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ ‘thud’ of the disco beat, but with no more giggles but loads more sighs as Amanda felt her nipple plugs being removed and her milk begin to trickle from her nipples on to the curvature of her gravity hung breasts, and from thence drip to the carpet, until eager lips took her teats and with tongues licking, sucked her lachrymose lactation libation, her warm nurturing naturally creamy milk, into their eager mouths.


As her body rocked back and forth with her shagging, and four more dogs fought to be next, Amanda’s full heavy breasts spilled from the quarter-cup bra that topped out her savagely tight corset, and her milk began to drip and then spurt, staining her pretty dress to a transparency behind which her naked brown titties became as visible as if she were bare.

As the bitch tore at her dress to get at Amanda’s bosom, the same first dog had his cock in her to his knot: and Amanda was now screaming with pain as he slow shagged her for his and his alone gain…..


Veronica loved to kiss Amanda’s eyelids and Amanda loved the kisses as her natural reflexes closed her eyes in the instant of the warmth and sweet softness of Veronica’s mouth anointing them with the gentle passion the lovely negress aroused in her.

But Amanda could not help but shake her pretty head as she felt Cecile’s tongue exploring her intimacy intimately, intimating and invasionary intention, until with Veronica changing the focus of her attention too, Amanda was being kissed and tongued on and in her mouths north and south.


Her dress’ top torn to shreds, Amanda’s breasts swung and slapped, streaking her body with trickles of her milk: trickles dribbling creamy-white so in contrast with the glorious brown of her soft skin, down which it trickled to totally shameful waste, until her rocking body felt the hot spurt of doggy semen fill her.

As her canine rapist finally withdrew, a snapping snarling fight broke out behind her. Amanda tried so hard to rise, but a threat to bite her neck by the she-dog who led this Alsatian gang, forced her to stay down, and now feel on her bare bum, the doggy cock that was searching for her darkest tunnel.

Such feminine fluids flowed as milk dribbled and menstruum dripped and saliva shone on Amanda’s supremely gorgeous lips as she screamed when the next dog’s cock rammed into and reamed her anus.

This was so painful. His cock was so rough, She could feel it rip her sphincter so that more of her blood lubricated it and it, as the it that was the dog’s huge cock now, shot hard and fully right up her till this second dog’s cock-knot tied him too her and sentenced her to be shagged until he might cum and become flaccid once more, a process she could never help since she was so arousing that he was as like to spring to second life among the elect, erect immediately after spurting his first spunk in her bum, and all ready and already in place to shag her bum again.

Tearfully fearfully completely helplessly, Amanda screamed and moaned, and begged for mercy as the second dog now slow-shagged her anus….


Amanda was in rapture as Veronica kissed her mouth, Cecile her south, and lips loving sucked her milk.

She was a creaming dream as Cecile’s lips and tongue sucked her almost juiceless and nibbled her nodding nodule.

Then Veronica seemed to signal to a friend, ready and expert, to show her what she had promised.

“Give her here: I’ve got a little something for her!” the voice of an ex-sergeantess in the Girl-Navy, ordered as Charmaine Fulsome, present in the stretch-limo on sufferance as a servant and bodyguard rather than a guest, knelt behind Amanda and gently persuaded Cecile aside.

“No: you mustn’t!” Cecile protested insincerely and in fact in fascination, as her eyes went from Charmaine to Veronica’s wicked smile.

“And why not!?” said Veronica with a grin and drunken wink.


“No! No! No! No! No!” Amanda silently mouthed in total focus upon the message from her rear orifices, her sundered sphincter, and her dribbling cunt: her mind blinded by the pain, as the grown puppy shagged her bum endlessly, making her cream among her red, as despite her period she became a cum to come, her womanly body reacting as nature had programmed it even as she mentally prayed for her cunt not, please god not, her cunt not to betray her.


Cecile held her shoulders gently but firmly, as Amanda, almost totally lost in arousal’s pleasure became aware that all the other girls had gathered behind her.

At the exploratory entry of four fingers Amanda braced and let out a sigh that told her secret lover, whoever was fingering her, that she just loved it.

It was at the entry of the thumb that Amanda gave a sudden gasp of surprise and pain and fear.

This shocked the limousine’s chauffeuse whose eyes had tried, in the rear-view mirror, to see what they were doing to the fabulous negress honey that had crawled into the limo an hour back.

Because, the car lurched and wallowed on its too soft springing, as the chauffeuse got a sharp reminder from a front tyre hitting the curb that she had a duty to concentrate, the making of a fist inside Amanda’s cunt was horribly painful and she simply screamed and screamed with fear and horror at how brutally the cruel Charmaine had filled her.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” Veronica was screaming in joy at the sight of it, “I didn’t know you could do that. Oh my god that must hurt! Oh my god the poor wittle girl!”

Charmaine had made her full fist in Amanda’s cunt and Amanda was gasping with overwhelmingly agonising pain.

Charmaine then pushed her fist into Amanda up to the wrist, and Amanda screamed and hollered and then began to pant with pleasure at the deep plundering of her treasure, and to rock her body back and forth, and forth and back, to suffer the joy of this brutal pain.

Cecile had swapped places with Veronica so that the bride-to-be could see Amanda being fisted, and it was with Cecile’s passionate lips on Amanda’s no less passionate mouth that Amanda came: Cecile’s passionate kiss and the twisting and turning of Charmaine’s fist, fully filling and torturing and fulfilling Amanda’s love-juice-dribbling cunt of course.


The not-long-since-a-puppy Alsatian filled Amanda’s lovely bum’s dark mystery with pulses of his seed and withdrew.

Amanda made no attempt to rise as the next dog rose on his hind legs and on her back to enter her cunt, and another walked around to her front.

Too impatient to wait behind the fifteen others and the four she-dogs, lined up to take their turn with Amanda’s cunt or her anus, and also behind the first dog to take Amanda, which even now was barging snarling and snapping his way up the queue to shag her again, this clever hound was, Amanda just knew, no oracle needed, going to shag her oral orifice…….

White doggy semen, her crimson blood, and her delicious chocolat, trickled from the torn sphincter of Amanda’s anus. Crimson menstruum, doggy spunk, and her own excitement-cream dripped from her cunt. Amanda’s delicately delicious soft brown skin was spattered with the white milk that had splashed splurted and spurted from her nipples as her tits had been swinging so wildly widely throughout her unmercifully shagging. A while from now, and her hitherto innocent mouth would taste the salt of dog cum: dog spunk would soon drip from her nostrils, just as it would also trickle from heaven’s own lips along with her girly-spittle.

………Amanda knelt in agony from her doggy-rape. She watched the dog that had come around to face her face, and saw its cock throbbing raw red erect and ready. The she-dog growled to ensure she did not try to escape her fate. The dog behind her, the third to shag her, rammed his cock hard home in her hot wet cockpit, and she moaned and shock-closed her devil-dark-deep-brown eyes.

Minimal moments later, eyes open again, even as she was having her cunt shagged by the third dog to have her, and having no choice but to turn back shortly hereafterwards to accept the ordeal of a very stiff oral examination: all smoulder, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to try and see the backs of her own legs: ‘Oh god’, she prayed, ‘I hope my seams are straight’..

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 10 – Cross-Eyed Bear

A day after Amanda’s dog-rape ordeal, the headline in ‘The New York Penetrator’ read:

“Schoolgirl Heroines In Doggy-Rape Rescue”

The accompanying article was lurid:

“MANHATTAN - deadline Tuesday: *****teen-year-old schoolgirls, best friends Serna Hayden-Standish and Romany Charleston, today the pride of St Virgo’s School for Girls and the toast of New York, yesterday dramatically rescued a maid from the terrible ordeal of being gang-raped by feral dogs.

The stunningly sexy maid, one Emelda Scenthaven, 20, whom we understand originates from Glasgow England, had been very severely used by some fifteen to twenty dogs.

The dogs appear to have held Scenthaven captive all day. It is dreadful to conclude that many of them had probably relieved themselves in the unfortunate girl more than once; some perhaps three or four times. Terrible to relate is that they had used both of her rear orifices and the poor girl’s mouth for their pleasure.

At 09.00 hours when they were on their way to school, Miss Hayden-Standish and Miss Charleston saw Scenthaven walking three bitches on their leads, as was her daily routine. On their return home at 16.00 hours the same day, they stumbled upon the horror of seeing the exceptionally attractive maid being doggy-raped.

Miss Hayden-Standish and Miss Charleston, would not have come upon the dreadful scene and been able to make their dramatic rescue, had they not, on their way home from school that day, with their chaperone having forgotten their parasols, decided to go through the east-central woodland area of the park to shelter their delightful complexions from the heat of the afternoon sun.

City Hall declined to comment when the Penetrator’s reporteress posed, yet again, the question all New Yorkers are asking: ‘When will something be done about the dogs running wild in Central Park?’

The mayor’s spokesgirl was willing to discuss the issue offline, but unwilling to go on record other than to point out that what had happened, though regrettable, had only occurred with a maid.

Scenthaven is now back with her mistress, the wealthy socialite Duchess-in-Waiting Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, whose activities have delighted the high-life world of this great city since she and her entourage hit town.

Penetrator readers will recall that Lady Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope was recently the best girl at the wedding of her lifelong friend, The Honourable Veronica Hayden-Standish. The Honourable Veronica Hayden-Standish, now of course Mrs Amelia Jenkins-Ward, is the oldest sister of Miss Serna Hayden-Standish, the leading heroine of this report.

A spokeswoman for Her Ladyship, Scenthaven’s employer, said that Scenthaven was recovering from her ordeal and had returned to her duties as a kennel-maid looking after Her Ladyship’s pet bitches.

This same spokeswoman confirmed that Her Ladyship had thanked Miss Serna Hayden-Standish and Miss Charleston, and told them that they had both been: ‘very brave’.

The Penetrator’s intrepid reporteress was also able to confirm from Her Ladyship’s spokeswoman, that Her Ladyship hopes to exhibit her bitches in the ‘Bitch of the Year’ contest at Cwuffs later this year. As ever, the Penetrator looks forward to reporting for you, our dear readers, on this high point in the social calendar.”

“May I watch you miss?” asked the angelically sweet voice of the raven-haired saffron-yellow-eyed Serna Hayden-Standish.

“Of course you may my lady”, Amanda answered to the life-curious schoolgirl.

Amanda felt no bitterness. She could, had she wished to indulge sarcasm; had she dared to let her voice reflect the dismay and despair that she had felt at the time; she could have replied to Serna to the effect that she and her friend Romany were good at watching, or some other poor apology for wit.

For a whole half-hour in the wood that day, Serna and Romany had watched wide eyed as the hopelessly helpless Amanda was having her bum and her mouth raped by two ecstatic Alsatian dogs in tandem.

Of course they and their chaperone had been brave in rescuing Michaela, Zudina, and Siabon, who had then wiggle-crawled back home alone. But truth told, their status as heroines was unfounded, as it was the arrival of Cecile’s pet bitches at Cecile’s apartment without their kennel-maid, that had caused the other servants to turn out and save Amanda from her day-long ordeal.

“May I watch you miss?” the angelically sweet voice of the raven-haired saffron-yellow-eyed Serna Hayden-Standish enquired.

“Of course you may my lady”, Amanda answered to the ever-inquisitive schoolgirl.

In summary, it was the hot start of the long summer; summer-long, school vacation, and Serna had come to stay with Cecile, the best friend of her now married oldest sister.

Michaela, Siabon, and Zudina, the three lovely bitches owned by Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, Amanda’s employer, were eager for their morning feed. Amanda, wearing only the very briefest of brief g-strings, having not long since risen from bed, knelt on the patch of carpet she had put on the floor of the kennels, and lifted her huge full and very beautiful breasts cupped-under in her lovely hands.

Michaela and Siabon, girl and wife, tried to knock each other out of the way in their eagerness to gain their feed.

“There there my lovelies, I’ve plenty for you all”, Amanda soothed, as Siabon’s eager mouth was quickly on her right nipple, and Zudina on her left, and the sounds of eager but purposeful and practicedly efficient sucking filled the air.

“Don’t worry Michaela my darling, I’ve got plenty enough for you as well. It’s very creamy today. You love it creamy don’t you my angel?” Amanda cooed.

“Does it hurt?” Serna asked, with a look in her earnest intelligent face that suggested she imagined Amanda’s nipples were being bitten and chewed.

“Oh no my lady. You see, my lady, the bitches are not allowed any other food, so they suckle on me very gently, as they know it is the best way to keep my milk coming”, Amanda explained.

From where she knelt suckling her mistress’ bitches, Amanda looked up the lovely length of the sweet schoolgirls slim and exceptional pretty legs, to her firm thighs, their wonder being extensively visible in her very mini miniskirt. Serna’s legs were bare and suntanned. Balletic tiptoe shoes showed them off perfectly.

Serna was not as tall as her youthful slimness deceived the eye into concluding. Her five-feet-ten was inch-for-lovely-inch a perfect match for the sublime Amanda. But if those two treasures were not seen standing together, Serna would be concluded as giving Amanda an inch in her comparative rise from the ground they both made heavenly holyland by their merely standing upon it.

Serna had tanned readily, even without seeking the summer sun, to a lightly freckled nutmeg brown. She wore no make-up and needed none.

Her face was that of an angel’s angel, with those same pretty little freckles, clearly out to play for the summer, skipping over the bridge of her tiny nose and punctuating her completely untrouble-lined forehead.

Her mouth lips were strawberry-red with more than the mere succulence of that fruit. She had a bold upper lip with an emphatic Cupid’s bow, and an even bolder lower lip suggestive of sensuousness, such an innocent girl made more pronouncedly enticing, because in fact to kiss her lips would be to anoint them for their very very-first time ever.

Serna’s strawberry-lips were always magically softly moist. Her mouth was permanently a little open showing lovely regular very white teeth in her constant moist lipped smile, with those same lips always a micro-micro-micro-millisecond from kiss formation.

Serna’s eyes were a mystery in a mystery. She had inherited her saffron irises from no source known to girl or god. Only god’s god could have created such golden glory, and must thereafter have concluded that perfection was perfection, and the secret source of their sorcery must be destroyed. Her eyes, those amazing saffron-yellow eyes, showed intelligence and an undeniable underlying loving sweetness of nature.

Serna’s waist out-timed an hourglass. She would have been as trim as eighteen-years if years were measured in inches.

Her bottom was a profoundly round delight, beckoning and beguiling, with all of her young-womanhood in the way it teased and pleased as she walked and it swayed the way she sanctified as she went.

Her legs were slim and could, so long did they seem when the eye followed their dream, have been used as the yardsticks with which to measure the standard mile, with a mile still left over of each lovely long limb.

Serna had made a successful effort with her hair today. It was swept back and up into a raven ponytail, ribbon-bowed in place with white lace.

Pastel-blue ballet-shoes tiptoed her to the points of her big toes. Her suntanned legs were bare: her calf-muscles erotically visible and taut.

The white silk blouse she wore she had grasped at the hem to tie in a bow at the bottom of her ribcage, leaving her midriff bare. It was long-sleeved save that she had rolled the sleeves to above her elbows, and the delicious dark down on her lovely, slim, lightly-tanned forearms, was a delicious delight.

The French-blue skirt was so skimpy it showed her panties were white latticed-lace. Thus her mysterious pitch-dark hardly penetrable and unpenetrated pubic jungle, was teasingly clear to see, amidst the intertwining wild roses that her panties’ white lace was bobbined to depict.

And, when she turned, so short was her mini’s hem, that it showed where the acutely cute bare curves of her lower bottom were translating into the comparatively flat backs of her slim smooth thighs below. And just above, only just covered, was that that deserved to be severely soundly spanked for being so damnably provocative.

That Serna wore no brassiere was pointedly evident: as her very firm titties, independently and combinationally, seismographically jigger-jogger-juddered in mesmerising empathy with her every little extremely graceful move.

To say that Serna was pretty would be a lie. It would be a lie because the truth was that she was god-made, and very very beautiful.

“May I take the bitches for their exercise with you please Amanda?

“Of course you may my lady”.

Before the dawn of this morn, it had only been last evening that Amanda had watched the bitches at play in the kennel. Despite their months of bitch-bondage, they were just typically girl underneath.

Always it began with two of them taking turns to smell each other’s rears. Then by some unwritten code, it would be decided which bitch’s slit was to be tongued and nosed.

In respect of this, Amanda had concluded that the bitch exuding the strongest musk must be the winner. Most-times-out-of-ten it was the stunning Michaela who was brought to a cum with the noses and tongue-ends of either her wife, or that of Zudina.

The ball piercings with which their mouths were gagged prevented the bitches from emitting any understandable sounds, but they clearly did not stop them from licking and kissing each other’s mouths, north or south. Sometimes the sessions would go on all night.

To watch the bitches kissing and tail-ending each other, with their noses and tongues, made Amanda feel incredibly sexually hot, and she longed to join them and lick Michaela or, oh god how much better still, to have Michaela lick her.

The sound of the bitches panting with pleasure at their rising arousal, and then yapping and yelping when they had a cum, could keep Amanda awake all night. This was especially so pre-season. The week before the bitches, and Amanda come to that, came on heat with their coincident menstruation, sexual activity in the kennel was constant and Amanda’s frustration frantic.

“I think a girl should have her first time with a real woman, don’t you Amanda?” the sweet voice of the staggeringly sexy schoolgirl Serna opined, in a voice smacking of a rehearsed line, as well as the decidedly definite need for her pert pretty and pretty pert impertinent bottom to be given a damnably hard slapping.

“Please my lady, we mustn’t talk like that”, Amanda answered gently.

Amanda was walking Siabon and Zudina. Serna trailed in her wake with Michaela. It was randy-week for the bitches and Amanda, and Michaela was straining at her leash longing to have her bottom sniffed by Siabon and Zudina, rather than have her lovely left and right domed behind left right behind.

Amanda turned, her dark-brown eyes seeking eye-to-eye contact with her superior, to assure herself that her sweetly intended admonishment had given no offence; only to have her eyes unavoidably perceive the cleavage of the young angel, who must surely purposely have undone all bar one button of her pristine virgin-white blouse.

Morning sunshine seared Central Park. Both girls wore wide-brimmed hats, Amanda a new white straw Panama number, with floppy curled-up purposely tatty rim, and a huge crimson ribbon bow around its crown.

Amanda was dressed in a crimson version of the yellow kennel-maid’s underwear, and the choker-necked A-line translucent dress that had been torn from her during her terrible doggy-rape ordeal. Her eye-shadow and her lipstick matched this brilliance: red both: knock-them-dead red.

The outfit was in lace with huge silk roses on the outer-side of her suspender-garters. The seams of Amanda’s just-above-knee-length crimson stockings were straight, beyond the shadow of a doubt, as Serna could have testified, given that Serna just could not keep her eyes off Amanda’s lovely legs as the kennel-maid wiggled her way before her.

Suddenly, Michaela bitch-wiggled past Amanda, Serna having unleashed Michaela’s leash. Amanda now therefore stopped her wiggle-walk and bent to show the glory of her moons to Serna, who could also glimpse Amanda’s completely shaven slit, as it rose beyond the merest modesty provided by the gusset, stretched between Amanda’s crimson rose decorated garters, to make them garter-panties.

Amanda was bending on purpose, but not that purpose. Amanda was bending to let Zudina and Siabon frolic in the shadow dappled grass, where she hoped they would perform their obligatory orifice offices, and relieve themselves of their wine and their chocolat.

“Gosh it’s so hot!” came Serna’s sweet musical soprano suddenly, as Amanda straightened, only to be nearly bowled over as she gasped with astonishment at the sight of the schoolgirl, who had lowered her completely unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders, so that it lightly imprisoned her lovely slim arms behind her back, as she was pretending that she was looking at the bitches, and not at all aware that she had completely bared her beautiful breasts.

Amanda’s wide-eyed eyes drank in the dream she could just not believe. Serna’s breasts were exceptionally lovely.

An extremely firm thirty-six-inch-C-cup, they stood studiedly out from minimal underside touching upon her chest, curving to tips pointing skyward. And Serna’s tit tips were topped with fantastically fantastical, but supremely real, thimble-nipples. They were fully a half-inch round at their bases and an incredible one-inch long. She had supremely long nipples pointing out at forty-five degrees from otherwise vertically heavenward.

Clearly evident were their tight-closed horizontal would-be milk-ducts, that looked at Amanda as wonderfully beautifully as the huge black sexually excited pupils of Serna’s saffron-yellow eyes now did, as the girl-woman was blushed to the colour of Amanda’s underwear. Serna’s gorgeous bright-yellow eyes were lowered as if to confirm that she was offering herself in sacrifice to physical love, and was already moistening her white lattice-lace panties aromatically erotically.

“Are my tits too small for you?” This question arose to Serna only, and only them because of the teasing taunts of her fellow schoolgirls. And so she asked Amanda as her, Serna’s, angel’s face rose, blushed as a blushing rose, and then lowered again in acceptance of hurt if Amanda found her breasts too small, as her friends had always taunted and teased her they were.

“………..My lady, you are truly very very beautiful”, Amanda whispered to herself, but not out of the hearing of the heavenly heavily aroused schoolgirl.

“……….Teach me how to kiss Amanda! Please show me how to kiss! Nobody has ever kissed me! I’d be caned and expelled if I were kissed by any of the girls in school! They are only girls! I want to be kissed by a woman. I want to know how to kiss and how to please other girls. They want me to be a “No-Girl”. I am *****teen soon and they want to sew me up and make me a No-Girl. They’ll sew up the naughty-bit between my legs so I can’t do anything, so I can never have love made to me …I don’t want to be a No-Girl to be a virgin forever so that they can worship me in the church………Please Amanda kiss, kiss me please, please kiss me!!”

Amanda gently embraced the lovely girl and kissed her………. on her forehead…

Amanda felt a slight tickle. Reaching her impractically-long-nailed-forefinger and thumb down, inspiring inspirationally prettily, slightly ‘O’ open-mouthed in erotically compelling concentration on ensuring the perfection of her perfect appearance, she eased aside the surplus end of the suspender that was teasing the brown wonder of her supreme dream right thigh ticklingly, where it was completely bare above her white silk stocking tops, and long before the arrival on the scene of the hem of her micro-mini-dress. ‘Caress’ depilation cream ensured her supreme smoothness: along with the gift of the complexion that nature had blessed her with of course.

Now Amanda glanced up at the girl in the next seat, dark brown eyes admiringly meeting cornflower blue vivacious sparkle. This girl’s eyes had just now before been felt by Amanda. Amanda knew without need of looking up, that this girl was admiring her legs. Even as she looked up and smiled in greeting, Amanda’s eyes had already returned the compliment by running the shapely length of the neighbouring girl’s thighs in turn.

Two lovely girls smiled, and the lovelier of them by far, Amanda, returned to adjusting her suspender, with practiced pretty fingers, suspenders visible far below the hemline being this year’s fashion, before going back to her virtual catalogue.

Amanda wore ‘Nickelodeon’ underwear. ‘Nickelodeon Founded in 2084’ cried their advertisements. Their designs were so pleasurably teasing. ‘Just look at these’, she thought, as she admired the latest on Nickelodeon’s web-pages in her palm-mag, turning the virtual pages with a press of button by pretty fingers, all flustered and excited at the sight of the delectable clothing that seemed to form Amanda’s every other thought these days, along with makeup, and exercise routines, and healthy eating diets, and saunas, and waxing, and anything else that kept her natural beauty naturally beautiful.

Just having passed one intriguing garment, she flicked back to double-check and saw: “hand-woven pure wool cinch-panties”. The adorable model wore the next-to-nothing of these as no more than a string around her hips, with another vertical, that a rear view showed cleaved her bottom’s crevasse before dividing her love-lips. These were one-thousand-dollars a pair. Amanda made mental note to order a dozen pair.

The hem of her ten-thousand-dollar butterflies-in-flight multi-coloured mini-dress, ‘Parisienne’ of course, pressed into the back of Amanda’s bare bottom as she sat flashing her three-thousand-dollar-a-pair white-space-lace-tanga-panties: ‘Nickelodeon’ again, from the bobbins of slave astronesses, working in permanent weightlessness as they weaved their wares for the wealthy to wear. These alone were another five-thousand-dollars a pair.

Amanda thought nothing of wearing such fabulously expensive clothing and underwear. The newly wed Amanda was deeply in love, and Michaela was due back from Paris that eve. Michaela was their pet bitch of course: Cecile was her husband-girl, though sometimes Amanda dreamed it was the other way around. She loved them both with all the unquestioning unreservedly consummate passion that was the very essence of her nature.

Amanda was completely in love. In love Amanda knew no half-measure. She was blissfully happy. Love calmed her. Love was her balm. Love was what Amanda was made for amen. Whoever named her must have known that she would always and ever ultimately only love girl. For Amanda was deeply in love ‘aman’ – without man – ‘Amanda’.

It was just like a dream this transformation of fortunes. Here was Amanda, a guest of the Clitton: the wife of a Clitton Club member had this vicarious privilege. Here too was Amanda the supremely intellectually gifted girl, devoted solely to her body and soul as love objects, without objection, let alone rejection: and how lucky her lover: oh god how lucky her lover!

Amanda sat on a slave-girl, who was bent over lying on her back, with her legs drawn up so that her thighs formed the seat of Amanda’s chair, and her calves the back of the chair: her firm breasts pressed down by her thighs thus providing the springing for Amanda’s supreme comfort. This was the wives’ enclosure in the Clitton Club’s reserved area at the Glasgow Girliseum.

The softly stretched-muscular thighs of the very tall white Russian girl on which Amanda sat, bare thigh on bare thigh where Amanda’s pure silk white stockings did not cover her glory, were radiating human warmth, that Amanda’s sensitive slit sensed and glowed with. Amanda’s clit was also trembling with pulses, she was not aware of the source of as yet in her foremind. Her foremind in fact attributed the warming sensation in her intimacy, to the sexiness of ‘Nickelodeon’ underwear, and her mental picture of herself wearing it, and only it, when her husband-girl came home.

The action seemed far away but was shown in every detail in the three-dimensional mini-telecubes near at hand. But to Amanda the cinch-panties in the ‘Nickelodeon’ catalogue were a dream, and just look at that pure cool-cotton bra-and-panties-set too!

She danced on the very tips of the tips of her big toes on a raised stage with back and canopy-roof, from the latter of which she dangled on a chain.

The white elasticated-self-support stockings she wore gently squeezing her firm thighs three-quarters up from her dimpled knees, had lace-like tops decorated with pictorial angels: cherubs puffed out their cheeks to blow long trumpets, and chubby hands strummed Greek harps. The tiny white g-string had a plastic or nylon reinforcement to its heart-shaped gusset, and a red “X” cross upon it where her totally shaven completely naked passion-hole was imprisoned under its protection. The red “X” seemed to scream an indisputable “NO!” The red “X” cross: the symbol of the completely intact virgin she was.

Her arms, her supremely slender gender-confirmatory arms, were stretched from leather girlacles at the sweet wrists, from a chain dangling from stage roof supporting beam above.

Amanda glanced momentarily up at the TV cube close-up’s passing focus on the girl’s face, and watched the tears starting in the girl’s eyes, as the supremely slender and supple girl, with slim legs as long as a league, danced on the very tips of the tips of her big toes, naked bar her white stockings and white g-string: her breasts lifted high and eye-catchingly prominently protuberant still, despite her arms being so stretched aloft. The nipples, the astounding and astonishingly outstanding one-inch long nipples peeking up to the heavens, from whence they most assuredly could only ever have come.

Her lovely legs were stretched so long, because she was longingly longing to level herself from leaving the ground, and only just able to touch the dusty stage floor with her big toes to take her sweet girl-weight off her adorable arms.

Amanda was there as the wife of Cecile, who had intended to be there herself till called away on urgent business, but who still wanted Amanda to see this rite of spring, albeit late summer: the spring being in the body and mind of the birthday innocent who hung before the crowd in obvious pain and distress as well as almost complete undress.

“And just so it was that the original Eve tempted Adamina with the snaking slimness of her perfect body, and the succulent ripeness of her proffered fruits: her blossomed nippleberries, her warm wet slice, and her ever moist mouth, denouncing the supreme safety of No Knowledge!” the priestess cursed.

“Behold before you the sin that is girl. Original and ongoing sin are within the workings of that body, and must be banished by the sacrifice of this innocent to the one and only true Nogod, the Nogod of the Church of No Know No!”

“We await Nogod’s sign as to the innocence of this girl or whether she has practiced deception. Nogod will tell us the truth about this whore, this Eve, this snake of temptation, this seducer of Adamina in the Garden of Eden!”

It was Serna: her coal black hair was drawn up in a ponytail, her glorious saffron-yellows eyes ran with sweet nectar droplet tears from distress and pain, and how could Amanda help but feel pity for the lovely creature, were it not that Serna’s face and body radiated eradiating ineradicable breath-taking inspiration? It was Serna’s *****teenth birthday and her birthday present from St Virgo’s School for Girls, was her presence in her unpleasant predicament.

She was dancing before the mesmerised crowd. Serna was dancing on the tips of the toes of her long stretched very long legs. What wonder was it that held her stockings to the supreme dream beauty of the smoothest of smoothness of her creamy thighs?

Serna threw a leg aloft, and no limb before had seemed so completely compelling erotic, as the languorous lithe live lubriciously lovely limb that Serna picked up, kicked up, and bent at knee, in a fight she was fighting against some undeclared fate.

Now she twisted her gorgeous legs into a tight griping squeezing scissors that, had she been looking at other than her underwear catalogue, Amanda would have longed to be in the embrace of.

Beads of perspiration fevered the untroubled smooth brow of Serna’s sweet face, as she fought and fought, dancing unavoidable provocatively, dangling by her dainty wrists.

“We await Nogod’s sign as to the innocence of this girl, or whether she has practiced deception”, came the priestesses intended entertainment, invented nonsense, over the public address.

“Nogod will tell us the truth about this whore, this Eve, this snake of temptation, this seducer of Adamina in the Garden of Eden!” the mock priestess intoned once more.

Serna turned in her dance of restrained unrestraint, and the congregation gasped at the sight of her double-domed rear: her firm smooth derriere domes concave-side-dimpled by her stretched erectness and begging to be kissed in worship of the magical majesty and mistressy over all they enthralled, for all their lack of a seat to grace and make a throne by seating herself. All girls carry their thrones as the rears with which they were reared, the throne being that the girl has the wonderful majesty to furnish and burnish the furniture with as she sits, not the mere furniture that she sits upon.

And then Serna turned and turned about with a shout of distress, as her fight to constrain and contain something made her wrists have to suffer the torture of the damned condemned.

“Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!” the priestess prayed: “Is this your daughter, or is she the devil? “Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!”

Serna danced and squirmed exotically erotically…

“Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!” the priestess prayed: “Is this your daughter or is she the devil? “Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!”

Serna gasped and prayed as she twisted and turned, flexing her lovely legs in a dance and twist and turn in frightened fight with all her might to contain and refrain…

“Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!” the priestess chanted: “Is this your daughter or is she the devil? “Give us a sign oh Nogod! Give us your sign!”

Then, finally surrendered to the inevitable, Serna turned toward the crowd and hung her head, as her sweet white wine piss-hissed past the sides of her g-string, splashed her supremely femininely shapely inner thighs, corkscrewed around their magnificence, and soaked into her stockings to reveal the glory of the bare legs under their caress, as it seemingly slow-motionally, seemingly emotionally, drooled, to ripple around her legs, anointing her peerless calves, before finally pooling in puddled drip drops at her tiptoed toes: this the wine of betrayal: the sign of guilt: the piss of a holy intact, wholly intact, virgin girl, soaking wet her glorious young white-stockinged legs.

“Nogod has spoken: for this was Nogod’s sign. Nogod will now have her sacrifice! Scourge the trollop!” urged the mock priestess.

Amanda sighed, a little bored: how ridiculous some of the nonsense that surrounded these monthly entertainments at the Girliseum were.

Amanda turned a page in the catalogue of dreamy underwear: dark-blue was not her colour, not with her perfect negress brown complexion….

Serna was tied between two uprights by her individual nipples. Her one-inch-long half-inch diameter thimble-nipples were bound tight at their bases: so tight as to twist them brutally cruelly. From her nipples, the two lengths of nylon-line with which she was tied, ran up high to the upright wooden posts, eight-feet apart, on the stage that stationed these posts stationary.

Her pretty hands were clamped in girlacles at the back of her neck: girlacles at the back of a broad leather strap that surrounded her neck, and lifted her freckled angel’s face toward the heaven from which she undoubtedly must come.

She was pulled to tiptoe by her individual nipples. Her tits were pulled out and up high, ordering her up to the very tip-tops of her toes if she did not want to rip herself, so high and wide, and so very hard were her tits pulled, they were high wide and handsomely girl-confirmatory in their horribly beautiful stretchedness.

The look on the little angel’s face told it all. Of course she knew she was virgin. Of course she knew she was untouched. Of course she knew she was intact. Of course she knew she was pristine. Of course she knew she was guiltless. Of course she knew she was innocent. Of course she knew she was ripe. Of course she knew she was pluckable. Of course she knew what they were after. Of course she knew they were after her gift. Of course she knew they were after her hymen. Of course she knew that she was to be deflowered. She still wore only her girl-wine blessed stockings and her g-string. Of course she knew what the g-string was protecting.

She knew: of course she knew: but did she know: did she really know what they were after?

The look on the little angel’s face told more. It told of pain, but yet curious conflict. Were her admittedly huge nipples always that size? Her bonds disguised the answer one way or the other. Was the musky fragrance descending and ascending from her slit, giving accent to assent? Her g-string hid whether she was moist. But her eyes, those incredible saffron-yellow eyes had wide, super-wide, black pupils, suspiciously distended by her suspension. Serna’s eyes betrayed that she was in discovery of the dormant and latent. An innocent angel in need of love: she was about to receive the kisses she deserved.

Dressed top-to-tiptoe in black leather, behind Serna stood a left and right-handed girl: one of each hand: one of each girl: two girls therefore. They looked like Michaela and Cecile, but they were both in Berlin still, or was it New York, or Paris?

Each leather-clad, held a four-foot long wire-whip. Their whips comprised a single strand of bare wire that had been twisted at intervals, so that the strands of its composition were sometimes straggled to increase its viciousness. Each whip hand wore a rubber glove, and each whip handle, showed a cable cord continuing from its rear to the generator that had been started to give electrical power to the stroke.

The screams were horrendous as, with the swiftness of lightening, the whiperesses striped the holy domes of the wholly intact Serna with twenty bloody welts, accompanied at each stroke with the shock of electrocution, in their execution of the murderously painful duty on the beauty that was dimple-concave-sided in decided provocation in its provocative promissory prominent pert prominence before them, for them ideally to adore and not cruelly pandy to bloody stripes twenty plenty.

At each stroke and each scream Serna leaped and momentarily froze rigid, electrically stunned with lightening, for which her spine was the conductress as it blew blue into her mind, and echoed agony around in her skull, as if her highly-intelligent brain had exploded fragmentationally grenaded. The agony knew no bounds and thus knew bounds beyond bounds as her brain pounded her skull to escape its confines an exploding bomb from the stripe now bleeding across her bum. And then, after the electrical stunning, came the astounding pounding pain of the stripe itself, with her flesh fresh cut and bleeding, and her no-longer-numbed mind recording the searing of the savaging of her softness with a caress that was so excessively excess that this was what caused her scream. Her screams begged for her lovely bum to be striped no more, as her leapt and momentarily poleaxed body pulled back, having just been thrust forward by the thresh of the fresh slash, and blood oozing fine-line welt that coursed coarsely across her divine complexion, to join a complex of previous red candy bleeding stripes with which the candidate for date-candy was being bloodied and blooded. And so she pulled without let or hindrance on her nipples, and tugged her tits, as she threshed her body and kicked her pretty legs to beat of her beaters, would she could she, but she could not, for their mission was inexorable, and the next stroke followed, and she pulled on her long longing-kiss nipples, and thus torment tortured her tits as she tugged to escape her bloody fate, and was candy-striped again, stunned again, screamed again, and again hollered with the after taste of the post stunning stunning-stripe on her stunning derriere, as stripe followed stripe on her stripped body, as she was whipped without mercy, and she tugged her titties herself with as little mercy, as she could not help, for she could not run from the terrible pain of the wire-whips stripping the flesh off her buttocks, with real butchery in fact more refined, than the butchery with which her dainty devilishly sexy bottom was being profoundly precisely sliced to bloody bleeding meat.

After, as she sobbed and her tears ran in torrents, the magnificent Serna tried to turn in her tormenting bonds to see her stripes, even though she could be assured of their presence without pretence, from the terrible pain through which, even so, the trickle flow of her blood around the base of her astounding outstanding domes, onto her curvaceous thighs and thus to soak her stocking tops, was felt on her sensitive flesh.

Serna’s pretty mouth stood open in a penis-punishment invitationary innocent’s orgasmic ‘O’, as her tears poured; but what, oh god, what was happening inside her intimacy!? Serna return-turned forward facing from her severely lashed rear, and moaned with pain, with moans that apparently said something again.

Duplicity is girl too. Serna’s tortured nipples from her threshing body during the thrashing, told of the tug of love, torment having teased them into the lust thrust they telegraphed to even the undiscerning eye. And down under in the g-string, the wisdom of a soft lining towel, not only to protect her sacred virginity behind the toughened exterior armour against the amore of the whips, had found another purpose intended or not, as it was not only the wine droplets she had pissed in her fear as they had savagely whipped her rear, but the cream of her devotion to her emotional girlness was forensically evident in its eminent eminence, being not foreign but sovereign in the sweet musky smell it emitted, to prove that the brutal whipping had caused her to emote into that towel as only a girl can, and this girl still was, to the shock of her pretty mind as she realised it, among the scattered debris of her continuing savage pain.

Duplicity is girl too. Serna’s virgin-innocent’s blush told all as she tried to see her bum. She was highly physically and spiritually aroused, and her blush told of her shame that she was still soaking the towel in her g-string with what her whipping had promoted her to emit: that which is only in a girl’s body’s remit.

Duplicity is girl too, but it need not be conscious. Serna was girl, but what is girl bar the ultimate of the ultimate of refinement of the animal? Serna was blushing from the pleasure of the shock of discovering the pleasure in her nipples and in her treasure, as it continued to anoint the towel with the ointment of her appointment as a girl: the princess queen empress of the animals.

Serna’s sweet pink tongue tasted her dry soft impertinent pert and pertinent to kisses but never-ever-kissed upper lip, as she tried to see her bum: in fear as she peered with her imperious saffron-yellow sun-shine-eclipsing eyes, whether her poor bum would ever be as pretty again.

By this, of course, Serna’s conscious mind meant the opposite to the conclusion a passionate dispassionate observer, and her unconscious and as yet not fully awakened mind, would reach. Serna’s conscious answer to her eyed but unspoken enquiry was: ‘yes of course it will when it heals’. The observer and her sublime subliminal could consciously only have counselled to the same unspoken question: ‘It will never be more beautiful than it was before and than it is now till it heals fully and is then whipped to hell once more, as it should be, and must be, in worship of its perfection’.

Purple is the colour imperial, blue the colour of sadness, and purple and blue and blue and purple was the hue of the whip-striped fresh-flesh-stripped empress’-throne-confirmer, of the divine Serna, as they prepared to salt her.

Serna screamed in total agony as they rubbed raw salt into her fresh flesh wounds, working it into her cuts so astutely accurately, as to acutely increase the pain of her whipping again with gain, and certainty of certainty it would be without cease.

Serna screamed with her pretty tongue flickering out like a snake’s, but unforked and unequivocal: consciously and un this time was the focus of her mind on her body, and the strange way it was reacting to this terrible pain.

Amanda flicked a page: oh just look at those butterfly-fashioned nipple-covers at only two-thousand-dollars the pair!

Serna’s pretty mouth stood open in a penis-punishment invitationary innocent’s orgasmic ‘O’, as her tears poured. They had turned her around on the stage and she was now tied between the upright posts by her two forefingers: still pulled up to tiptop tiptoe.

Serna was helpless other than to watch in horror as the cutthroat razor was raised to the nipple of her right breast: the one-inch-long nipple of her right breast. Her breast was soft and gentle, but savagely seized, and she was about to have her nipple sliced open.

“You gotta ‘ave it dun darlin’. It’s orders see”, the girl with the cornflower-blue-eyes hidden behind the leather mask assured Serna, as if assurance were ********* against the pain.

“This ‘ere razors weally sharp innit, so it won’t ‘urt much more dan it az too will it nah?” the clumsy but kindly intended whisper of the torturer came, bad-breath and all, to the tormented schoolgirl, who heard it not in her abject terror.

The cry Serna rendered echoed in the Girliseum as the loving camera leered at her nipple being sliced open down to its root horizontally, and then each bloody one-inch-long half thus created, again sliced vertically to quarter the nipple. Serna panted and gasped with the pain as the same treatment was meted out to her left breasts nipple again.

Serna now looked down fascinated with the horror of the horrible sight of her quartered nipples, bloody, and dripping scarlet from their one-inch-long lengths now eight where heaven had granted her two: eight un-whole having replaced two holy wholly whole.

“Well….yer shuddant ‘ave’ ‘ad such luvvly nippies should yer darlin’? taunted her tormentor.

The insertion in the split-open nipples of the raw salt tablets was followed by the nipples being stapled closed, with the salt burning the raw sensitivity within, by needles thrust through in an ‘X’ formation at the nipples’ tips to hold the salt tablet in place: the salt tablets now already reddened by the virgin-girl’s fresh flesh blood.

Each salt tablet was bonded with wax, and the wax scattered with iron-filings glued too to the two-inch long wicks that now curl-dangled from the tips of Serna’s tortured tits: her nipples having been sliced into quarters to facilitate the insertion of these salt-and-iron-filing impregnated wax candles: for candles indeed were, the insistent persistent inserts poor Serna bore within her sliced-open nipples.

Salt secured certainty of sustained searing. Her bum, striped, was salted. Her nipples split-open were salted. Nothing had altered. This was worship of her untouchedness. This was the only way to make love to such beauty: the only way bar having her being had by another equally lovely girl of course. Serna was being taught the lesson that there are only two ways in which to make love to a truly beautiful girl, and that this she was enduring, though she had had no other lover love her, untouched by even herself let alone another girl as she was, was her only other truly worthwhile lover. Beauty and the beast: beauty and the best.

Compared with the horrendous throbbing pain from her sliced-open nipples, the agony of having the two tight barbed-wire crowns pulled over her tits, in the form of a barbed-wire-brassiere, that was wired across her cleavage, and wired around her back with more brutal barbs cutting into her, in violent imitation of the intimate gentle bra-strap in the latter case: the agony of the open wreaths of barbed-wire that were the “cups” of this brassiere being eased over her sweet sensitive softness, so that the barbs bit into her softness to hold themselves in mocking place around her tits’ bases by biting hard and deep into her tit flesh, was secondarily terrible.

The single strand of wire they put round her face, with its single barb over the tongue in her opened mouth, to rip her tongue should she continue to scream, was barbarous, as were the barbed-wire garters they drew up her stockinged legs, avoiding laddering her white red-blood-soaked stockings by some miracle, till the carefully measured inner diameter of their unyielding cruelty, caused them to rip her skin, as they were stopped in their climatic climb and twisting into immovably lodged place cutting deep into her thighs, to permit the commitment of the crime, of surrounding each of her magnificent thighs, to nail her stocking tops stopped, frorn whence they could not now fall at all, for the flesh of her thighs was ripped and torn where her barbed-wire garters adorned.

Scream would she, poor Serna, could she: but tongue would be ripped dare she.

Her blood ran in trickles that tickled along with her tremendous horrendous horrible pain.

She knew what they were after. She knew they were after her precious hymen. But did she know: did she really know what they were after?

Amanda turned back a page: ‘Parisienne’s’ new catalogue was out.

The log was huge.

It was safe now to remove Serna’s g-string. It had protected her from the whip. It was for sure that she was still intact inside her miss’ mystery, missed by the kiss of the lashes that had adored and adorned her adorable rear.

Such was the scrabble for that miniature garment of miniscule cover, pregnant with the scent of Serna’s fear-piss, and the aromatic betrayal musk from her bodies duplicitous reaction to the savagery meted out to whip her bum to red meat: duplicity that continued in multiplicity as her torture continued, and she suffered the unendurable, indelibly undeniably, and unarguably inescapably: such was the scrabble for that miniature garment of miniscule cover when it was thrown into the crowd, that the Girl-Police had to wade-in with batons drawn, to separate fighting women, who anyway, and all ways, at one and apart, tug-of-warred the worn still warm garment to shredded unrecognisable and unreconstitutable girl-scented shards.

There was so much blood on the poor girl, that the whiteness of her complexion around her wholly shaven holy hole, shone like a beacon showing off her keyhole, keening for a key to unlock her otherwise eternity of internal fidelity to negativity. A key to her charm was that her keyhole was still locked by a combination that was yet to be found, so that the tumblers would fall and her grace would be surrendered to womanise her from girl, and her mystery made history by the kiss story she was enduring, as her fate was to be unfolded and befall her fall before all once her petals had been opened so she came into full flower.

The log was huge. Serna must carry the huge log on her slender shoulders.

The inspirationally perspirationally peppered girl, freed from the uprights, now knelt to have her barbed-wire garters rip the saintly sensitivity of her sweet shapely calves, as she was made to go under the huge log, and lift it on her slender shoulders.

Once she squatted on her barbed-wire garter torn haunches, with her slender gender-confirmatory young adorable-freckle-tanned shoulders under the log, still as yet resting on its two ‘Y’ shaped supports, they tied her arms to it at her wrists.

Serna’s slim pretty arms were stretched out and roped at the wrist, as far apart as they could be stretched, with the ropes that tied her, tying her to the log, by being tied to the log in their turn.

The log, a tree-trunk, was massive. It weighed twice the schoolgirl’s delight-weight-category, catch-me-if-you-can-you-wish-you-could-weight poundage. It was heavier than anything Serna had ever lifted in her sweet young life. The tying out of her arms was to make it harder for her to lift it, and to make sure she lifted it, she would be flogged until she did, and still flogged even when she did.

But Serna must bear her burden and carry her tree-trunk log in high heels. But Serna wore no high heels! Oh my goodness gosh, had her high heels been forgotten?! No, of course they had not. As she squatted in thighy glory, Serna felt two of her tormentors put in place the devices that would lift her heels up one storey. Two uprighted ten-inch nails. They, her tormentors, lodged two uprighted ten-inch nails under Serna’s uplifted heels, as the innocent squatted preliminary to her lift, and already their points had penetrated her heels. Two uprighted ten-inch nails were in place so that they would be driven hard into the heels of her stockinged foot to form high-heels for her to walk in, shoeless but not heedless of heels, when she lifted the log. Cinderella had her high heels and would go to the princess’ party.

The “THWACK!!!” of her overseers’ strap-whips on Serna’s lovely bare thigh flesh echoed around the Girliseum, as Serna pressed her heels onto the carefully-placed-in-place two uprighted ten-inch nails, that were to be driven into the heels of her stockinged foot to form high-heels for her to walk in shoeless, when she lifted the log.

The pain of the lashes drove Serna to aloft her burden for certain, on feet raised to agonising tiptoe by the nails that were thus driven into the heels of her feet, as she staggered and ripped her tongue as, despite the barb of the barbed-wire over it, she ripped out a scream of pain and despair.

Two-inches of the ten-inch heel-nails stilettoed her heels, till a stop built into the nails at that interval, intervened to stop the nails being driven further by the huge weight Serna now alofted, and the dainty-weight of the schoolgirl angel herself, so that Serna now staggered, on eight-inch-heels, reddened with her scarlet blood spiralling slowly down their hafts, to anoint the ground at the flat heads of the nail-heels she now wore.

Her log bowed the beauty, driving her head, chin down, toward her chest, where she could not help but see the savage barbed-wire crowns that her bare breasts were squeezed through, and were now barbed-brassiered by, and the nipples; her lovely long, one-inch nipples sliced-open and salt-and-iron-filing-candle tabletted, and now searing her with agony, as they were closed around the raw salt and rough iron-filings, held in stasis within the wax of the candles they now formed, and by the pins driven through her naked flesh at nipples’ ends.

Serna’s lovely slim arms fought to hold the log from crushing her crashing to the ground, as her overseers ordered her to parade her tortured virginity, before the roaring crowd baying every obscenity that its all-female populace could conjure from the vilest recesses of their minds; most no doubt from between their legs.

Her allotted burden aloft her shoulders, crushed Serna down hard, such that her arms seemed pulled dislocated, her neck, with her head pressed chin-to-chest, closed at the throat so she could hardly breath, her shoulders smooth complexion grazed and torn by the raw tree-trunk’s uncultured coarseness, her slender spine compacted. Her glorious long slim shapely legs bore her burden, just as they bore so much of the beauty of the beauty of the beautiful schoolgirl herself.


Amanda liked this bit of the torture. She was going to enjoy watching. But first she wanted to freshen up, so she lowered her panties and girlnoeuvred her position to preciseness, before opening her legs wide, and ordering the Russian countess whose closed thighs were forming her chair seat, to urinate, so that the countess’ rising wine spout would bidet Amanda’s sweet but slightly sweaty cunt. This done and Amanda blown dry by the sweet lips of the countess, ordered to funnel her breath onto Amanda’s freshened minx, by blowing up from below, Amanda pulled up her tanga-panties and settled in her seat to enjoy the spectacle.

Amanda liked this bit. She liked to see the poor girl carry her impossible burden whilst they whipped her constantly, flogging her around the arena, making her carry the implement of her upcoming agony.

Serna’s enforced performance did not disappoint. Oh god how they flogged her with the strap-whips on that exquisitely shapely little behind of hers! The wounds of her wire-whip stripes were clearly being reopened, and more blood flowed from the sweet young flower. Those strap whips had multiple studs in their ends: that was a nice touch.

‘I wonder if they salted her’ Amanda half-thought dismissively, knowing that they would have salted the little angel’s open wounds very thoroughly for sure. Amanda liked that, and so did her minx as her little-penis began to throb mischievously. It was not that Amanda had not once got salt in a finger she had caught with a sharp knife when cooking: so it was not that Amanda did not know how much the salt must sting the lovely schoolgirl, over and above the pain of her whip wounds.

‘Oh! What have they done to her nipples?’ Amanda’s pleasured-eyes espied especially, as the cube-TV picture closed in on these again in close-up. Amanda raised lovely fingers to astoundingly outstandingly beautiful lips, as she gasped to see that the nipples had been sliced into quarters, and wicked candles, full of rough salt no doubt, pushed into the girl: ‘they must be candles else those are not wicks hanging down from her nipples’ Amanda mused drawing the correct conclusion.

The strap-whips percussive kisses ricocheted around the arena, as they slapped Serna’s bum as if it were twin overturned-kettle-drums: the wicked ‘THWACKS!!!!’ of their slaps rippling erotic waves in her supremely firm bum-flesh, as she teetered and toppled, in fear of falling under the huge weight she must bear up, though it bore unmercifully unrelentingly down on her.

They were flogging her to drive her around the stadium, and to make her walk on her heels with the nails driven into them, thus torturing her pretty feet. And yes, despite the savage slaps rippling her firm naked rump, Serna stayed on tiptoe, her beautiful slim legs thus made all the more orgasmic by their girl-confirmatory shapely muscularity their smoothness and their slender curvatures.

The whipping was constantly savage, and constantly constant, as they drove the poor little angel to display herself before the crowd, and now she was approaching the seats of the Clitton Club’s wives’ private enclosure where Amanda sat.

Amanda glanced down at her magazine, and then up at Serna as they whipped her around whilst she staggered under her massively crushing massively massive load, her lovely slim arms trying to hold and lift the gigantic log on her slender shoulders off her neck. Oh how could they have done that to her nipples? Oh god just look at her slit! Her lips were incredibly tight and keyhole topped. Oh she was so tight. How smoothly she had been shaved and depilated, so that she looked pre-pubescent, despite the evidence of her full-grown breasts with the torture crowns wreathing them as her breathing heaved them. And Amanda had not noticed before what they had done to her clitoris, which had been pulled out proud of her tight tight virgin outer-lips, and forced to stay out, by a needle driven horizontally through it.

Amanda could not deny the dampness in her panties as she ogled the *****teen-year-old schoolgirl, whose mesmerising bright yellow eyes looked up in her agony, unseeingly at the all-seeing Amanda, who could not deny the dampness in the panties she had pulled back up after her bidet shower, because her panties would have caught her in court, giving the lie to her lie.

The whips slapped and rebounded off the thus reverberating bare bum of the schoolgirl, as they drove her past the stand in which Amanda sat with her constant-kiss-me-it-is-what-I-am-made-for mouth lips, now as moist as her south lips, as she looked at the calves and thighs of the girl: thighs running with blood from the barbed-wire garters that mocked their beauty and locked her white stockings in place, and calves that were supremely girlmuscular in their tiptoe-erect temptation tension, as Serna wiggled and swayed her way in her torture, tiptoed on the nails driven into her heels to form high-heels, as in shoes that she wore not.

She had squatted with her log: squatted down on her nail-heels even, even as they continued to swat her thighs with the strap-whips. She had squatted with her log, and they had pushed her over on her back so she looked up at them, with all the unendurable pain she was enduring, in her adorable bright-yellow eyes.

Of course Serna knew the story. Of course they knew Serna would know the story. That is why, as she lay on her back her arms still outstretched to the further ends of each end of the log she had carried, they had shown her the nails: the nails and, of course, the heavy hammer.

They wanted it as people pictured it. The ropes would also hold her. They wanted it as people pictured it, so they would nail her by her hands.

Serna was helpless. She was tied out to the log and could do nothing bar kick, so she kicked up her lovely long shapely erotically orgasmically pretty legs, to try and ward off her fate.

Her tormentors simply watched till Serna had exhausted herself, even despite the extra adrenalin her terror injected into her superb slim supine body. Her tormentors simply watched till Serna had exhausted herself, enjoying the extremely leggy leg display, as the schoolgirl angel kicked at the air in the helplessness she knew she was in. Adrenalin kicked-in, and pretty legs kicky-bicycled the air to warn and defend her, but unavoidably too, to all too arouse her torturers, who knew a pretty leg when they saw one, and here watched two exceptionally pretty ones, kicking and bicycling thighilly, and sexily leggilly, at the fresh air, as the astonishingly pretty schoolgirl pretty-well exhausted herself.

“ ‘Ope yer dun nah den darlin’ cos we’re gonna fuckin’ nail yer anyway!”

The *****teen-year-old’s tongue, so torn by the barb-wire gag from screams, could hardly beg for mercy but tried.

Serna strained to see. Of course she could feel that they were holding her pretty fingers so that she could not form a fist. Of course she could feel the point of the nail, the iron nail, in the centre of the palm of her dainty hand. Of course she could scream as the hammer drove it through her hand and battered the nail hard into the log to nail the hand to it, so Serna could not move it without ripping it: and mirrored were the screams of her left had being nailed too to to twice and therefore fully crucify her.

As they nailed Serna to the log, Amanda had returned to her catalogue.

They had already stretched out and held out the virgin schoolgirl’s arms, by roping her to the log before she had been forced to lift and humiliatingly carry it. And now they drove flat-headed six-inch iron nails, with two-inch-diameter heads, through Serna’s palms, to nail her to the log she had born around the arena.

Serna’s screams knew new decibels from hell as they nailed her, but were as silence is, to the hollers that followed, as they hauled her up by her nailed hands and outstretched arms. With no support for her young body, they hauled her up by her nailed outstretched hands till the cross-member she had been made to bear as a log, could be lodged in the hollowed-out curve, atop of the single upright tree-trunk to which she was being crucified, or would be being crucified, were a “T” a cruciform cross.

High above and behind Serna, rose perpendicularly, the upright of her ‘T’. It was though, ten-yards away. That was a problem soon solved though. They attached ropes to the ropes that bound Serna’s arms to the log and dragged the log: oh, and Serna too of course, across to the ‘T’ to be made by the maid to form her ‘T’ cross.

Serna’s whip wounded buttocks dragged on the rough ground of the Girliseum, as she fought to stop herself being dragged along, by trying to dig in the nails that dug into her heels to form the heels of her no-shoe heels, but she soon discovered that her barbed-wire garters would rip her and she conceded her legs up to be dragged on her brutally lashed bum.

The frames with the pulley wheels were just behind the upright, so once Serna’s gorgeous raven haired head rested on the cross-member she was already nailed to, at the base of the upright, it was no trouble at all to haul her aloft, till the log she was nailed to would rest in the hollow made in the upright for that purpose, and the heavy-leather holding strap pulled over the horizontal of the ‘T’ when in place, and nailed to the upright, so as to keep Serna from rocking the arm to which her dainty pretty little hands were nailed.

The fact that the hauling up meant Serna taking all of her delicious-weight on her outstretched arms, and that it would undoubtedly rip the palms of her pretty hands unendurably painfully, was neither here not there. The job had to be done. The girl this time was outstandingly lovely, but she was going to be crucified and that was that.

So they hauled her along, and then hauled her up: and Serna howled; and howled; and howled; with the terrible; terrible; terrible; pain.

It was not as if the operation were smooth or gently. They tugged and hauled, and she was merely coincidental to the instrumental intention of their tensioning the ropes on the pulleys and getting the cross-member log essentially central.

She was firstly uprighted to a sit on her brutally whipped red-raw bloody bleeding assaulted insulted and salted derriere, struggling to avoid her barbed-wire garters tearing into the opposite thigh to that they crowned, only to soon find her back being ripped, as the barbed-wire ‘bra-strap’ snagged on the tree-trunk upright up which she was being hauled.

So, even as she cried-out with pain, she fought with her pretty legs to gain purchase with the cruel heels nailed into her heels, so as to lift her girl-curved, sweetly freckle-dappled, smooth back, off the bark of the trunk, of the chunk of tree: not to assist her being hauled into place, for that she now knew was inevitable, but to try somehow, anyhow, oh please god, to take the strain of her outstretched outreached lovely slim arms, and stop the nails, the horrible nails through the palms of her dainty little hands, tearing her hands, hands that hurt like hell’s hell’s hell, as they pulled the beautiful virgin schoolgirl up to her site of torture, in the sight of the crowd, Amanda among them, but she at least not baying for the blood with which the sweet *****teen-year-old-schoolgirl was paying for their entertainment.

Serna’s screams had known new decibels from hell as they had nailed her hands to the tree-log that was to be the cross-member of her ‘T’ cross, but were as silence is, to the hollers that followed as they hauled her up by her nailed hands and outstretched arms. With no support for her young body, they hauled her up by her nailed outstretched hands and rope-tied wrists till the cross-member she had been made to bear as a log, could be lodged in the hollowed-out curve atop of the single upright tree-trunk to which she was being crucified, or would be being crucified were a “T” a cruciform cross.

Serna’s tears had dried by now: the pain was too much for tears to ease her.

All nice girls must keep their legs closed, so of course they ensured she kept her legs demurely together.

Once she was aloft, hanging only by the nailed-through hands and tight-tied wrists: the nailed-through hands of her supremely sweetly slender arms: they had pulled the nails out of her heels. They were now ready to nail her feet to the upright.

All nice girls must keep their legs closed, so of course they ensured she kept her legs demurely together.

Serna’s divinely finely slim girl-woman’s body hung down in excruciating agony, with her nailed hands and tortured arms taking all her dainty weight, pulled to a ‘Y’ by that very weight, and her two feet, three-feet from the ground.

Standing on stools they lifted her ankles so she was put in a squat with her ankles at her thighs, and she screamed anew as new nails nailed her feet to her ‘T’ to a tee, totally nailing her crucified. Putting her feet flat on the upright of her tree ‘T’, they nailed them, and thus her. They nailed her feet, and thus Serna, into their, and her, final resting place: save that Serna would know no rest, nailed to her tree ‘T’.

Of course they ensured she kept her legs demurely together. A nice girl did not flash her naughtiest and yet nicest asset. They nailed her feet up so she squatted, and thus the virgin could use her handsome thighs to demurely hide her naughty-but-nice, on her ‘T’ “cross”, on her ‘T’ tree of total; total; total agony: crucified.

As Serna hung in that sum total of all total agony, the crowd started the slow-handclap-countdown. But they were not ready to finish her yet.

The interval had arrived….

Amanda had already determined on some milk from the bulbously endowed, red-nippled negress, who was just now curtsying to Michaela sat next to Amanda: at least it looked like Michaela with those incredible cornflower-blue eyes.

The negress wiped her nipple with a neutral-tasting-disinfectant-impregnated-wet-wipe cloth. “Do you wish for my wine also my lady?”

Amanda contemplated. There was no need for an immediate answer as she suckled on the outstanding black beauty’s swollen left mammary, guzzling eagerly on the warm milk, that easily and readily flowed from its enormously wonderful bountiful bounty full human bottle.

“Wine my lady?” the temptation repeated, reaching down with an empty glass to the spout on the tight, transparent plastic, codpiece-like, tap-g-string she wore.

“Remember my lady that they say the nearer the pitcher to a picture, the prettier the wine”

Amanda bridled momentarily. She could have this girl whipped for her insolence. But then she looked at what could have been her twin-sister, so adorably attractive was this girl, and nodded. After all, the girl was only repeating her advertising slogan.

“A little taster first for my ladyship?”

Amanda nodded again, and the girl squirted a little of her very yellow, very mellow pee into the glass, curtseying, as she offered her produce to the discerning nose and pallet of her superior.

The taste would have matched the superb bouquet and the ecstatic appearance, had it not exceeded both. It was proud without being insolent, mature in its youthfulness, silent in its jouis de vive, and shy in its genteel boldness.

Although the negress had spoken in perfect English, from just this one tip-of-a-sip, Amanda knew that the negress was undoubtedly French.

Amanda nodded again, and the negress peed to fill a fresh glass fully for her.

Raising her warmly filled, human-warmth-mulled, wine-charged glass in salute: “Vive La France” Amanda teased, and smiled at her mirror image, to the surprise of the serving girl, a translator who had lost her job with the disbanding of the United Nations, and had failed to find a place in the replacement WOW headquarters.

“Ah très biennie: merci mam’selle!” the adorable flustered milk-and-wine maid responded with a loving smile and very deep respectful thighy curtsey, her fully-laden fulsome bosom abundantly bounce-flowing with her graceful leg lowering.

Amanda waved her aside, and she wiggled on obediently, though a little hurt by her dismissal: her own fault of course for momentarily forgetting her station in life…”Bon apertise”, she dared to whisper to the adorable girl she had just so willingly served.


The slow handclap continued as Serna suffered and cried out with her excruciating agony, as her stretched-out arms took all the weight of her gymslip-slim body, that her nailed through feet could not relieve without the dreaded dreadful pain from the nails driven through them, to pin her, as if a schoolgirl pin-up, on her ‘T’ cross.

“Whip her!” “Whip her!” “Whip her!” the crowd bawled hoarsely, wanting even now, to see that there was for certain, no mistake about the unmistakeable agony the *****teen-year-old virgin schoolgirl was in.

Their wishes were the command of the slaves torturing Serna, and so they flogged her thighs with the wire-whips, this time without the electrical connection, but with no lack from the power-cut in their power to cut, as they waited for the natal hour, that was an hour away as yet, as Serna, fresh-whipped, hung in total agony. Her helpless cries for mercy being masked by her torn tongue, being yet more bloodily torn, by her daring to speak with the unyielding spike of the barb from the barbed-wire band that gagged her, above her tongue in her virgin mouth.

The seconds were hours; and the hours weeks: as she called out for them to un-nail her. The pain from her twice-sliced slit-open nipples, along with that from the crowns of barbed-wire thorns that wreathed her tits and gartered her thighs, was everything now, indeed as was the agony of her wire-whipped buttocks, as they rubbed their raw skin on the upright of her ‘T’, impertinent in their pert prominence, and brutalisingly bruised by the savage slaps of the strap-whips, as they had driven her to carry the tree-trunk-log cross-member, to which she was now irremovably nailed by the hands ending her endlessly lovely outreached outstretched would-be loving arms.

The crowd clapped unaware of the vital hour that was awaited, and that that hour was yet an hour away as: “Whip her!” “Whip her!” “Whip her!” they shouted once more, and Serna’s thighs were whipped afresh once more, her virgin-white stockings now torn by the savagery of the wire-whips, which were used, and which had ribboned criss-cross bleeding stripes, on her slim strong now whipped naked flesh.

In her agony, Serna looked up, and her young face was lined with pain, but yet her clear saffron-yellow eyes seemed to portray a betrayal, and yet again her pierced clitoris was distended surely, visibly when she inadvertently opened her thighs to flash her pre-pubescently-nude shaven slit, and yet her nipples seemed to be unmissably unmistakably pulsing, and yet her cries now seemed less of crisis, than of commentary upon a realisation, that what had nailed her to this cross, was the culmination of the only kind of love that a girl as beautiful as she could expect: the only kind of love she deserved.

Serna’s suffering was from awe of her beauty. She hung crucified, and yet she, the seeming prisoner, imprisoned the minds hearts and souls of her fellow-girls, more certainly nailing their love by the adoration her natural girlness would always compel, than Serna herself was nailed up by the hell of the nails that pinned her permanently to the wood on which she dangled. This agony was preliminary and introductory to the kind of love that Serna must endure, for she was a goddess among her kind, and this was the worship of her subjects that she would be subjected to.

The seconds became years to Serna as her pain gained ground. But she did not call for mercy now, she just whispered: “Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” until they whipped her with the wire-whips on her bared legs, till she was with flesh in ribbons, fresh with blood on her thighs. And still she cried: “Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” But the hour was near as was the spear. Up between her thighs it thrust: important portent potent precipice penile, in précis. The crowd bayed for it to be done.

The clock’s tick clicked to three minutes before the hour and a torch aflame was reached up to light Serna’s birthday candles in turn.

Serna screamed, as the wicks dangling from her sliced open nipples began to burn, flashing-off sparks all around, in celebration of the schoolgirl’s rapidly approaching natal hour. And she watched horrified at the impending additional agony, as the burning wicks sparked down to the explosive mix sewn into her sliced nipples, as the candles that were her lovely tits, mocked and marked her birthday: she the birthday girl flashing sparks of joy, till she screamed again and louder, as the burning wicks were down to and caught her brutalised nipples, and heated the wax of the candles within her, and this burnt her inner flesh, as it melted, and seared her, as the iron-filings heated, and now her nipples, her gorgeous one-inch-long nipples, were emitting birthday sparks, as the iron-filings heated, and shot red-hot out of her, or into the insides of her, and burnt her inner nipple, in her nipples both, as the wax kept the wicks slow burning, and the salt in the wax entered her old and her newly burnt wounds, and she howled with pain.

Even as the birthday-candle nipples of the sweet candy on the cross nailed burnt, and pretty sparks flew spectacularly, the clock ticked to the minute before, and the seconds were shouted out by the now informed crowd, as if in climactic Canaveral countdown.

“Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” Serna sighed, but was denied, as there was no time, but the time was approaching: “Ten!”…. ”Nine!”….. ”Eight!”…… ”Seven!”… ”Six!”….. ”Five!”….. ”Four!”…. ”Three!!” …. Two!!!” ……..”*****teen!!!!” and the spear thrust up its tip between her tight-closed thighs: virgin schoolgirl’s thighs doing only their demure duty. The target of the cold steel spear was certain: entry not so sure. Would she let it within the gentle scabbard whose lips could surely make no resistance to its incessant insistence? Would they, even yet, have to whip her to make her open wide, so she would thus unfurl her urinational and parturitional petals, to allow her penetration?

The sliding doors were tight-shut: entry was thus barred, and no entry said the sentry.

The spear was not for taking ‘no’ for its answer, but she was tight. She was exceptionally tight. She had never been penetrated before, and her young muscles held her forcefully-strongly fully-clam-clamped-closed. But the spear, cold and brutal, would have none of this rejection protection, and cast the musky muscular tight mighty fighting gentle lips aside, to find the final sentinel, central and essential to the virgin she was: a cord across was come across.

With the spear now in her, Serna shouted out her agony from the pain of her tight, tight-closed, clamped-closed, clam-closed, virgin’s love petals being pushed aside to open her as she had never ever been opened before, and enter her her as it had never ever been entered before, will she or not she her will.

Now Serna pushed herself up by her nailed feet, in avail to stop the length of the penile thrust within her musk-scented centre: to make the spear’s endless length, have to go to greater length to fully have her.

Her agony knew new no bounds, as she hauled herself up by her nailed hands, to stop this rape short of the tight stretched protective sheath she knew they were after, and which when gone would be gone ever, for ever, forever, hereafter never.

But this lasted but seconds, as her outer petals were already parted, and the spear inexorably rose within the petals of the perfect rose of schoolgirl giggling excellence, and swiftly sundered the centre of her tension, ripping her hymen, so it’s released ends, flap-slapped tattered tails on the walls within the angel, who felt her new gap and knew she had been snapped, as the slap caused her to audibly merely sexually erotically sigh-cry-girly-gasp-astonished: “Naaaaah!!!!” And the spear that had risen to rip her ribbon, was reddened scarlet as it withdrew from the girl, who now knew she was no longer new, as indeed in evidence of the deed her hymen’s blood trickled from her no-longer innocent innocence, and trailed its betrayal, that the *****teen-year-old girl was now the *****teen-year-old woman, ripped ripe at the very second of the *****teenth anniversary of her birth, even as she sighed, nailed to her sacrificial ‘T’ cross: “Whip me!” “Whip me!” “Whip me!” whilst they let her close her thighs, and put the lucky spear that had been first inside her, aside beside her, and watched the scarlet single trail of her virgin’s ex-virgin blood, tell its tale, by the tail that dripped from her lovely love-lips, and then trailed down the inside of her beautiful left thigh, till it tangled in her cruel barbed-wire garter, and from thence drip-dropletted, silently, to the thus sanctified and should be forever-hallowed ground.

And Serna now just cried.

As Serna’s nipples continued to shoot out the sparks from her birthday candles two, Serna just cried as she internally erupted, into the eternal measure of a girl’s pleasure, in spasms of eking squeaking crisis cries, from her helpless hopeless all body pain: upon the ‘T’ cross to which she was now irremovably nailed: nailed indeed not by the iron nails through her palms and her feet by which she was nailed in deed; but also by her orgasms….

“May I watch you miss?” asked the angelically sweet voice of the raven-haired saffron-yellow-eyed Serna Hayden-Standish.

“Of course you may my lady”, Amanda answered to the life-curious schoolgirl, whilst she, Amanda, naked apart from the extremely brief g-string in which she had slept the night just gone, tried to ensure the lovely schoolgirl did not see the abundant evidence of the multiple-cums she had had, from the schoolgirl’s feature-length starring-role, in Amanda’s early morning, very welcome, wet-dream, only minutes since.

Eve Adorer
06-23-2007, 06:27 AM
2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 11 – Masquerade

Girl is a conundrum’s conundrum.

Amanda was sensuously curious. Were they as she had dreamed? Were they really one-inch-long?

Chess was a boring pastime for a girl as intellectually gifted as the astounding Amanda. Worse was that it had taken the novice Serna, three games before she realised why she was leaving herself open to ‘fools mate’.

It was pouring with rain outside. Unreasonable yes. Unseasonable no.

Summer vacation for Serna still meant school uniform today, and the way she had her white knee-socks, not folded over at their tops just below her knees, but pulled over her knees as if they were self-support stockings, which indeed they were, save in pure white elasticised wool rather than transparent nylon or silk, was essentially erotic, if an understatement were to be made about them.

And so too it was true about the bare tanned thigh that showed slim shapely till, as she sat on her chair, the hem of her tight grey miniskirt, with a fascinating surely tickling stray of undone cotton adorning her right thigh’s inner curvature by dangling upon her natural smoothness, invited the eyes into the shadowed darkness of the skirt-formed tunnel between her thighs where the gates to heaven were sweetly softly completely firmly closed, under her praetorian pristine white virgin-pussy-purse-pouched cool cotton school-issue knickers.

Lust for the older girl was not lost on Serna. She was only *****teen and not long since *****teen at that. In the reality of later that wet morning as opposed to the wet-dream morning of Amanda’s pre-dawn dawning with sticky g-string panties for the laundry, Serna had walked the dogs and been completely stunned by Amanda’s loveliness.

Of course it did not help that it had been raining.

Earlier than the chess, they had walked the bitches. Serna had been nearly pulled off her prettily tiptoed dainty feet in defeat, by the strength of the pull Michaela had exerted on her leash. Of course ballet-shoes for girls would always be the fashion now, they showed off the perfection of a girl’s legs so erogenously, and aroused such unquenchable passion in consequence. But posing the legs so, posed a problem when a bitch was being walked on her leash, and that bitch was longing for a slit-licking from her fellow bitches.

And then for Serna’s young heart, there was the sight of Amanda with Siabon and Zudina on their leashes in front of Amanda: Amanda’s rear thus in front of Serna near. How Serna’s best friend at school, Romany, and she, Serna, had lusted after this beauty! Okay she was only a maid, but that did not stop her being so bewitchingly sexy. And there she was now, today, and just in front.

Of course it did not help that it had been raining, so that Amanda was in her rainwear.

The A-line yellow PVC raincoat Amanda wore, ran from her choker, to a hemline allowing a peak of her peaks: her cheeky cheeks: her bottom’s twin-assuredly-curvedly-curved-bottoms.

That was arousing enough, but more perspicaciously provocative still was the fact the cape-raincoat was translucent, and the glorious brown girl’s eight-inch squeezed waspie-wasped waist, was causing her natural girl-gait to sensate the palate with a bum-snake to make an earthquake.

Amanda’s bright white waspie also held her magnificent brown mammaries up, and barmaid-buxomly out before. And below the waspie she had on fresh white thong in place of her night-soiled wet-dream soaked g-string ones, seemingly as if forgetting that this left the astounding glory of her bountiful bottom essentially bare, and very visible through her raindrop diamonded cape.

Amanda had wiggled before the impressionable Serna thus, impressing Serna with desire the teenager could only store as frustration of the senses.

The pouring rain had pattered on the primrose pattern on Serna’s umbrella, whilst it simply rolled in silken glory off Amanda’s saucy sou’wester, down her cape, and onto the supremely smooth complexion of her completely bare negress’ brown legs, running slowly, prayerfully, playfully, down their contoured curvature, as if tears of worship of the heavenly wonder of Amanda’s lovely lower limbs: lower in location but never in estimation of their contribution to her sensual sensation.

Tiptoed tall and long in balletic booties as Amanda was, the rain had run rivulets of worshipful holy water softness, patterning her legs with transparent droplet pearls and trickles, the eroticism of which Amanda herself seemed oblivious of; but the obvious ogasmality of which was burnishing the desires and fires of the blushing burgeoning Serna, who was, that day, anyway, patching inside her virgin white schoolgirl knickers, with red-hot passion, behind Amanda’s badly behaving rattlesnake behind. Astern a stern to stare at and be stirred to emotion’s highest of high devotion by.

Amanda’s bottom was beauty reared to a new plane save that there were two high planes in fact: rolling smooth muscularly-firm hills, which to call plain would deserve complaint for its non-compliance with the boldly obvious swinging bewitchingly twitching swaying mesmerising tantalising teasing pleasing truths. Amanda had but to turn around to turn another girl on: on further still, that is, of course.

And then Amanda had turned, and oh god those lips that mouth! What sin it was that she was not being kissed there then and forever amen! Every second was a kiss lost and thus tossed away: heaven foregone: unforgivable: unforgiven.

The face showed the pride of Amanda’s race. Her brown eyes borrowed no beauty from lesser lights or lesser heights. She was negress and proud, and her pride wholly warranted, for she was the epitome of the negress and the apotheosis of girl: an apotheosis for an apothecary’s potion in the every very emotive elegant motion of her grace and calm charm.

Serna’s panties were red-hot with fire for the incredible creature of god’s creation, her eye’s pupils wide, she was wide-eyed with want for the mistresspiece of the negro race with the haughty pride in her perfection, facing momentarily in her direction: Serna’s longing being just to be allowed to kiss Amanda’s feet, or even the ground her feet made sacred, by tiptoeing touch, in her temptation sensation wiggle-walking appointment-anointment of holy ground wholly around her, everywhere she graced, and thus made heaven on earth of otherwise despised mere place.

Back in the kennels the walk after, chess was a boring pastime for a girl as intellectually gifted as the astounding Amanda. Worse was that it had taken the novice Serna three games before she realised why she was leaving herself open to ‘fools mate’.

It was not that Serna was unintelligent: quite the contrary. She seemed distracted.

Amanda, as the inferior in life, puzzled whether it was the better part of diplomacy for her to let the little schoolgirl win the game. Amanda’s wonderful wits were well capable of deliberate error that the younger girl would never realise had been perpetrated to aid her; such was Amanda’s intellect and skill, and the schoolgirl’s present comparative ignorance of the board-game she was making a bored game.

Amanda would have suggested another pastime, but she was also obsessed with the *****teen-year-old’s cleavage, within the white blouse with buttons open to ventilate for the warmth of the summer, and the questions: Were they as she had dreamed? Were they really one-inch-long?

Amanda was behaving purely on a subliminal level. She was after all sublime.

Serna was stunningly gorgeous. Amanda never consciously sought the answer to her question; but she was a sentient sexual being, and her heavenly eyes just sought satisfaction of the question to which her unconscious mind kept wandering wondering and pondering.

Next Serna, bored and petulant yes; but also obviously tense from some other cause, simple swept the pieces off the board.

Amanda, ever and always the fully dutiful maid now, bent straight-leggy-legged over, to rescue the pieces, risking provoking the younger girl as her, Amanda’s, micro-miniskirt, showed the bottom-quarters of her round brown half-moons, when she over-bent to pick up the two sets of upset scattered nipple-shaped pawns, the whip-beweaponed-and-ankle-spurred-girl-on-ponygirl ‘knights’, the clit-shaped rooks, the leggy abbess ‘bishops’, and the two queens – girl and wife – with which chess was now played.

“Please forgive me my lady, but may I make so bold as to ask my lady if she has a worry? Please don’t think me rude for my daring to ask you my honoured lady”, Amanda enquired, curtseying extremely prettily to the girl six-years-her-younger, but her social superior.

Serna longed merely to say ‘sex’; but instead her chronic shyness, born of complete ignorance and innocence, made her say something trite despite and instead.

“You are entirely forgiven Amanda. But it is kind of you to ask”.

Amanda’s youthful wisdom intelligence and experience told her to wait, and the explanation would be revealed; but she was wrong. At least in the short-term she was wrong.

“Where is my ladyship’s lovely friend, Miss Charleston?” Amanda contributed to aid the blushes on the supremely lovely freckle-dappled visage of the angel with the hair that shone jade-black, highlighting the sensational bright-yellow eyes shining catlike: a haunting hunting tigress seemingly peeking from among the jumble of the jungle of Serna’s as ever forever unkempt coiffure.

“Oh: Romany is with her mummy this week. Her mummy and her mummy’s wife are divorced you see. Romany lives with her mummy’s wife when it’s term time don’t you know, cos it’s nearer to St Virgo’s for her you see. And St Virgo’s is such a good school, or so they say. And so Romany doesn’t see her mummy, ‘cept in the hols ………”

“But surely a girl as pretty as your ladyship has other friends…” Amanda began….

It was the right and the wrong thing to have said to the impressionable schoolgirl….

“Am I: am I pretty?! Serna seared with sensational passion, a metaphorical nail having been struck on its head.

“My most humble apology my lady, it is not my place to say. I most sincerely beg your forgiveness my lady”….Amanda began.

Time passed in electrically charged eye-contact-avoiding erotised silence.

“What is it like to be kissed Amanda?” the now sweetly aroused schoolgirl blurted from strawberry-sweet raspberry-pink lasciviously luscious lips, within the rosebuds of her scarlet-hot blushes, and with her siren’s saffron eyes downcast within the jumble jungle tangle wrangle of her wildly unkempt unruly scattered hair.

It was both the right and the wrong move that Amanda made next as, touched by the innocent girl, she moved to hold her head in gentle hands and kiss her fevered forehead. But Serna was quicksilver in her golden glory, and planted her never-before-kissed mouth in the path of Amanda’s heavenly lips: and it was a kiss; a palpable kiss!

Serna’s lack of knowledge of the kiss made it all the more wonderful: all the more beautiful as two girls who should have been welded together forever as they were, made the love they were both made for, with Serna now stood a student with her lips pouring innocent saliva, for she knew not yet that kisses have variety and range, and sought to eat the succulence of Amanda’s dream negress’ mouth, rather than letting the kiss just happen.

With an extremely pretty hand, Serna lifted and pulled the stray of her wild black hair that had interposed between the mouths of the two angels-on-earth, and told Amanda with her piercing yellow eyes that she wanted more.

Amanda was passion’s passion as she kissed the schoolgirl once more, and learned that the girl had learned, and what she could do now already, to answer lips with lips, still a little hesitant and under tutelage, but knowing now of the need to let the mature girl take the lead.

Amanda breathless broke free. She must know! She must know! The buttons of Serna’s blouse complained as little as Serna herself, which was not at all, as Amanda undid them all and revealed the breasts and the nipples. And Serna’s nipples were more real than the dream!

Serna’s nipples, more real than Amanda’s wet-dream, stood two-inches long at forty-five-degrees from the vertical, gazing up symbolically thimbolically – a half-inch broad at their base and hardly tapering in the twin incredibly erotically orgasmic lengths, of their two-inches to their tips.

With her saffron-yellow eyes and these incredible nipples, adorning outstandingly outstanding and fully virgin-firm breasts, what god of gods had made this girl? How could god be other than a girl to have made this likeness of her: for such Serna was as much as was Amanda herself.

The third kiss was longer in longing and length and strength, for Serna was new to passion, but now wore it as if fashion, so quickly had she learned to kiss, or rather to be kissed and adored. And how blissfully fully easy it was with Amanda, for Amanda was the kiss: Amanda was the kiss girlsonified.

“I’m safe” Serna passionately whispered, as if she knew of what she spake.

Serna’s skirt fell around her tiptoed toes the toes of a rose arisen and aroused, her love espoused, and her body exposed flawless, as her skirt was floored.

“I’m safe” Serna whispered, as if she knew of what she spake.

Her blouse joined her skirt and the full body of the full-bodied schoolgirl, with her nipples assenting candles nodding on her swaying breasts, was led by a sweet white hand in sweeter brown, toward Amanda’s bed, to have her passion explored and adored by a girl in need of a girl indeed: the girl of girls, the epitome of the negress: the epitome of girl: Amanda.

Of course Amanda should have known.

She felt the passionate heat of Serna as she held her close, and the erotically arousing press of Serna’s breasts with the two-inch-long candle-nipples, of such orgasmic wonder and beauty as to defy gravity and depiction description, beyond imagination being the sensation with which they provoked ardour and amore, as they conducted the music of the spheres from the hemispheres they adorned, waving unwavering upright stiff candelabra, conducting magical mystical music that filled the eyes with tears to see such wonder of wonder’s wonder, wandering, as the girl who owned them moved, and moved the heart and the soul by merely being.

Girl is a conundrum’s conundrum.

Amanda longed to throat Serna’s throbbing points, thrusting with passion no mere penis could replace, for penis has no place in the girl to girl interface, and the love thus longer softer fuller and truer, for girl knows girl like no-one but girl knows girl, and girl knows girl because girl knows herself.

Such love is more natural than nature. God made girl and god made girl. So for girl to love girl must be god’s gift: for she could not have made such wonders for any lesser love than girl-girl. Girl with girl is beauty doubled and duty is thus doubly-fulfilled in girl-girl love, which must be god’s ultimate plan, with man but a step on the way to the ultimate resolution of evolution: the final solution to evolution being girl: god’s perfect perfection in all her manifold manifest complexion of confections.

See girl and you see Her.

Girl is a conundrum’s conundrum.

Amanda and Serna furnaced flame.

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

Stirred by passion, Amanda must enter the panties. Her gentle hand rested on Serna’s firm hot belly, with fingertips easing up the elastic of the white school-issue knickers of the virgin angel, seeking permission, not refused, to sneak further, and ease Serna forward to search for the source of the certainty that she was indeed undoubtedly girl.

It was soon found in shocking abundance, for Serna was hot, for Serna was red-hot, for Serna was seeping, and her blood-soaked panty-liner felt when found, stunned Amanda; who immediately withdrew.


“I’m safe!”

“Teacher at school said ‘only make love when you’re safe’. I’m having my monthly naughty, so I’m safe aren’t I Amanda?” Serna whispered lisping with sweet soft succulent-lipped passion, with fiery eyes aflame, the tigress wild and wanting the higher fire of desire: the delirious deliciousness of girl with girl to unfurl.

“My lady. Please, please forgive me my lady…..” Amanda pleaded as she parted herself from the glory story leaking her compassionate confirmation, periodically rejoiced, that she was fecund female, foremost of the human race that girl has long since won by a million smiles.

Tears of innocence tumbled down the softly downed cheeks of the jet-haired saffron-eyed angel’s angel, who had been so mistaught by a thoughtless miss with an intentional twist to warp the minds of her charges at St Virgo’s School for Girls, the better to ensure their chastity by nastily instilling that there was one safe time in the moon cycle to make love with another girl, leaving her victim now distraught. For Amanda meant no hurt but could not feel a reddened slit: her passion being doused by the heat of Serna being on heat, and all the horror of the all-day-long doggy-rape Amanda had endured when, last but twice since, on-heat herself, not so long since.

“Amanda: we need to speak pwease”, Cecile commanded.

“Amanda one is so disappointed in you”, Cecile began, a volcano suppressed.

“You are such a tweasure with the bitches. If it were not for that I’d have you whipped.”

“Thank you for your mercy my lady”, Amanda pleaded with tears starting in her adorable eyes.

“It’s not as easy as that Amanda. It’s a matter of twust and honour”

“Miss Hayden-Standish, Serna, is the dearest sister of a vewy dear fwend: Vewonica: Mrs Amewia Jenkins-Ward to you of course. Vewonica’s husband, Amewia, will have to be told. Amewia will be fuwious with you when she hears. And I’ve know doubt she will want to whip you herself personally. And who could bwame her?”

Amanda hung her proud head in deep shame mingled with deeper fear.

Do you know Vewonica has wanted you as a pet bitch for Amewia, ever since Vewonica kissed you in the auto that night just before her wedding?” Cecile mused.

“Do you want to spend the west of your days bound up as a bitch rewying on another girl’s milk as your only food and dwink?” Cecile asked with cold precision.

“No! No! Please my lady: no!” Amanda pleaded soulfully.

Tears in her eyes, Amanda returned to the kennels trembling with relief that she had not received a more dreadful punishment for kissing Serna than a severe telling-off.

Still quaking, she knelt on the mat to offer her breasts to the bitches, who were soon suckling on their sustenance, their subsistence, Amanda’s wonderful warm mothering milk.

Two months later still, and Amanda was on her padded knees with her hands in rubber palm-padded mittens, a spiked collar around her swan-slim neck, crawling on a leash.

Two phone calls had been necessary. Veronica’s husband-girl, Amelia, holidaying in Moscow with Veronica, would accept nothing less in the first, and demanded Amanda be delivered up when they got home. The second had hired another wet-girl: a new lactating maid made for the three pet bitches that had been Amanda’s heretofore loving and loved charges.

Serna’s pretty legs were Amanda’s only solace as she was made to crawl past Cecile to begin her new life as a pet bitch.

Amanda crawled newly nude and naked as the day she was born at the dawn of her new life, the glorious brown beauty of her body bound and trussed for the loss of trust in her.

Serna, expelled from school for conduct unbecoming a lady, was gentle, as she led Amanda on the leash. Money would still see Serna alright; just as its absence would continue to see Amanda all wronged.

The glory of Amanda’s tremendously powerful legs was made more splendid still by the erotic hugeness given her thighs, by her ankles being bound helpless by straps binding them at her crotch.

Amanda’s forty-inch-double-D chest hung swung in significant absence of any insignificance, dangling bountifully fully-full and bulbous, swinging wide side-to-side, and back and forth, as she crawled humiliated, in soft imitation of a call to church by muffled bells: bells where the belle Amanda was concerned, whose total silence as they swung soundlessly boundlessly, was more musical and more of a call to worship by far than any cathedral’s clatter and clang.

The huge double-domes of the two hemisphere that topped and bottomed the axle that pierced Amanda’s tongue, silenced her loving lovely voice, giving her no choice not to talk, for to speak more than a squeak was now impossible.

Amanda had shed her tears, and now crawled to face her future years.

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

For the foremost Amanda it had been four months now.

A harsh slap on her wonderful left thigh told her to rise. This was how it had been these four months: four months in the space-girl’s helmet-mask she now wore.

Her beautiful dark-brown eyes showed her weariness and pain. The eyes, the eyes of the heavenly Amanda, were visible but could not see.

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

She was not blinded, but might as well have been for all she could perceive. The mask, a helmet, hell met, covered her head entirely. As if for a motorcycle, but lighter and darker outside and in, of plastic transparent apparently but not truly, it contained her head entirely, concluding in a choker around her neck. It was a space-girl’s helmet mask of cartoon imagination, for a girl who filled space with supreme erogination.

Sensory-deprivatory, her ears were plugged and padded within it, and where her ears were located was additionally marked visibly within the helm, by domes of ear-defenders-come-headphones, through which evil music throbbed 24-hours-per-day, or could if her mistress ordered it.

But Amanda in fact suffered enough from the shear mere fear silence and blinkered blindness in which she was, by the mask, the space-girl’s helmet-mask, forced to dwell.

The proboscis gave the mask its other name: the elephant-mask of that claim to fame. Into her still stud-gagged mouth it ran: the proboscis. It was her elephant’s trunk. Through it she must breath and draw up her food.

They, her tormentors, wanted to see the eyes. They saw the eyes. The eyes could not see them, for the helm was one part one-way mirror. Transparent on sides and back to let in light, but one-way mirrored at front so that all Amanda could see were her own eyes, filled with suffering and fear, being reflected in the mirror she constantly stared into, but could see no further than; even though her captors could look at her unseeing eyes and use them as the meters to measure the measure of her suffering.

Amanda had dared to kiss a girl from the upper classes. This was that girl’s sister’s husband’s revenge.

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

Amanda was worth something on the market, so she needed to be kept in condition. In the USA, a black bitch in good condition was worth one-hundred-times a white. And Amanda was with milk, so she was marketable as a milk and wine bitch.

Some gentleness remained among Amanda’s suffering, stumbling blind and deaf, a girl in hell: Amanda must live solely within her soul: within her mind. The supremely high intellect of the extremely intelligent Amanda, only aided and abetted her torment.

She could neither see nor hear nor hear nor see. Her only remaining senses were touch and taste. For touch she largely received wicked blows with the bitch-whip, or hard harsh pulls on the leash attached to her collar when they took her stumbling blindly as she must, on her twice-per-day wiggle-walk-crawls tied, as she now was permanently, as a bitch, to allow her to defecate in open public.

To let her crawl blindly crashing into obstacles or to graze her lovely complexion among thistles and brambles, was a consequence of the constant never-now-ending revenge being exacted upon her, for the assumption she had had the presumption to attempt to seduce the delectable Serna.

Some gentleness remained among Amanda’s suffering, stumbling blindly and deaf, a girl in hell. She was being milked. She was being milked for her milk as such, and for the supreme sauterne the negress wonder was producing in her stress and fear: the delectably delicious white piss from her pee-pod.

She was being immaculately shaved and smoothed, and sweet lips kissed her grazes and bruises, showing that someone cared.

A gentle hand would lead her to squat astride a stainless-steel trough, and a pat on her pretty bottom would encourage her to release her hot wine: wine for the connoisseurs’ connoisseur. The more beautiful the girl, the more beautiful the wine: Amanda’s was accordingly supreme within the supreme.

She knew she was being farmed for her piss. The soft spring-water she was given to drink was that she performed the miracle of water-into-wine with, through the still of her divine body: she the divine brown vine producing the supreme of the cream of all white wines.

Sometimes she was made to drink constantly, so she would produce her finest white. Sometimes they had her crawl on a rolling road for endless hours, to add the delicate ochre to the heavenly dewdrops. A day without moisture and hard running, crawling on her hands and bound-up legs, gave Amanda the knowledge they were after her deepest darkest spiritual cognac.

Among her worst times were when she was menstruating and they were after her rare red. Then she would run in thirst all day on the treadmill, sealed up, so that her pee would mix with her menstruum, to produce a blend more ruby than Oporto’s opposition at its finest

If anything, even worse still, was when they whipped her cunt with the bitch-whip to sting her into the arousal she could not help, anymore than she could help being a girl, so that her produce was mead: her mid-ochre sanctified with a tincture of her girl-honey.

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

Amanda would never know it, but she was more than paying for her kennelling and keep with her wine alone. Further profit came from her milk.

Amanda’s only comfort was the kissing of her bruises and being milked. Such gentle hands took hold of her, Small in span, it took both hands to seize around and lightly squeeze, with a downward pull and flow of the hands down the breast, to make Amanda’s milk spurt squirt from the nipple.

In the insulated isolated hell in which Amanda’s mind now dwelt, so that she was reduced to the status of less than an animal, she was being kept alive, it almost seemed, for the produce of her body: being, in blunt fact, farmed.

Amanda was milked three-times per day. Under each breast, unbeknown to her, save that she sometimes touched their coldness, was placed a shining clean stainless-steel bucket. And for the next fifteen minutes, as she squatted over them, her tits were squeezed in alternate turn, so that the white milk shot from the brown beauty of her full udders, to splash the side of each bucket in turn, with a sharp short white jet, time over time, till her ducts were emptied and her nipples plugged till she filled-up once more.

To be milked was to be touched, and the touch, though always strictly for the purpose of the performance of milking her tits, was gentle and human from the feel of the fingers, and the only contact with humanity Amanda in her mask had, along with her shaving and depilation-creaming, with the sneaked kisses on her bruises.

Twice per day too, they filled her helmet with a wash to rinse her hair and cleanse her mouth, and she would luxuriate, even though in fear of drowning, as she must trust that the spray introduced to cleanse her, behind the all-embracing helmet she was covered by, would be allowed to exit the proboscis trunk by which it had entered, so she could breath again.

Amanda’s diet comprised spring-water and soups. There was no intention to starve her. She had marked market value. She must trust. She could see nothing and so she must be without mistrust that the snout from her mask would be put into her food, for she would never ever be able to find it for herself.

In the solitary confinement of her soul-destroying helmet-mask, Amanda’s mind was in total turmoil. Loneliness knew new meaning from no meaning to life. If only she could hear another girl speak. In her lit kennel, if only she knew if it were day or night. She had even forgotten if it was winter or spring. Sleep and its oblivion were her only solace. The thought she must spend the rest of her life as a bitch in this mask was the thought she had most need to drive out of her mind, though, in fact, it was driving her out of hers….

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

‘Drip’ ‘Drip’

Amanda shuddered, and shook her hugely glorious tits to stop it; but it was unerringly accurate and hit her softly, twice more, and twice more, and twice more, and twice more, and twice more. It was cool, it was cold, and it was inexorable.

There was no court. Amanda was simply required to sign to say that she was guilty. Bravely she declined. Offered a second chance, she politely declined once more.

It had taken all four of the four months of Amanda’s bitch-bound captivity for Girl-Control to catch up with her. Statutory rape. Serna was above marital-age. Any girl of thirteen or more could marry post the 2084 Marriage (Girl-Girl) Amendment Act. But Serna had not consented; at least so her sister-in-law had insisted, despite, and to spite, and spike anything Serna herself might say.

Serna had refused to give evidence. Amanda had rebelled for the first time in her sweet young life, by refusing to confess: refusing to sign.

It was laser-guided: they were laser-guided: they were laser-guided not laissez-faire.

Amanda shook her helmet-masked, elephant-masked, head, and waved her glorious bosom, but still they hit her softly, twice more, and twice more, and twice more, and twice more, and twice more. It was cool, it was cold, and it was inexorable. It was alternating, left right: left right; left right; left right; left right.

Amanda’s nipples were driving her insane. And still they hit her softly, twice more, and twice more, and twice more, and twice more, and twice more. It was cool, it was cold, and it was inexorable, it was alternating, left right: left right; left right; left right; left right.





The voice in her ear was whisper-soft sensual and sexual and six-hours long since begun in the earphones in the helmet, in what the Girl-Control officers called the Chinese-Drip.

Amanda shook her breasts. Oh god it must stop. Oh god stop it. Oh god, don’t let it stop. And it dropped, and it dripped, and it hit its hugely swollen targets right on target, left and then right, cool cold drip, drip; drip, drip; drip, drip; drip, drip.

“You sure you set that fuckin’ fing up right, you stupid mare?” the sergeant in charge charged her junior.

“She’s bin onnit fer six fuckin’ ‘ours now. She’s fuckin’ enjoyin’ it. Just look at the nips on ‘er!”

Amanda’s nipples were hugely distended and plainly painfully pleasurably aroused

Her eyes, her glorious dark-brown-devil-in-the-detail-eyes, looked into her eyes reflecting off back from the mirror helmet she wore, steamed up by the vapour of her breathing, and the hyper-heightened state, of her all-girl arousal.

This would be her one-hundredth cum. Tied strapped standing fixed to a rigid upright rod, her helmet radio-signalled by the machine to interrogate her, the laser guided the drips of water onto the tips of her nipples, and the intermittent upward spouts that divided her love-lips to take her to final arousal, and take her to finality when aroused, were aimed so that she would cum and cum, till she succumbed to cums, and confessed to what her helm ordered; had it been set up as intended.

The laser-guided droplets on her nipples dripped unmercifully on.

The love fountain spurted upward with unmissing force, to force apart Amanda’s minx-lips and wash her out. But it spouted and she shouted within her helmet with the joy of her century of cums: cums meant to drive her long since to unbearable agony as her body could and would take no more, long since ago as the voice instructed:







“You fuckin’ stupid mare! Just look at dat fuckin’ switch will yer! Wot do it say onnit eh? I’ll tell yer what it sez. It sez ‘confess’ or ‘deny’. You iz supposed to put it on one or de fuckin’ uvver. You’ve left de little fucker neiver ‘ere nor dare. You fuckin’ stupid cow! We’ve ‘ad dis tart on der machine all dis time and it ain’t no fuckin’ wonder she ant confessed none, cos you ant set de fuckin’ switch and she dunno what she’s bin told over de earphones to do: do she eh?!”

The sergeantess was used to incompetence. She watched Amanda’s one-hundred-and-first cum on the computer-guided water-torture machine, and thought: ‘My god she is so fucking gorgeous’, as she turned to her junior, the girl she had been berating with resigned humour despite her exasperation.

“And wot iz it now?!”

“Ders a girl outside sez we got Amanda Heavensent ‘ere; and ‘ow she’s de one wot Heavensent is accused of ‘avin raped, and ‘ow she’ll sign anyfin’ we want ‘er to, to confirm ‘ow it were not nuffink of de sought”.

Amanda and Serna had hired two ponygirls: one a negress and one a white. They would have preferred the matching black ponies they had wanted to buy a while since, but Serna was not that wealthy. Better still than hiring or buying a girl-gig would have been to buy a girl-car. Amanda was willing to be its motor, but Serna would not let her wife lower herself, and they could not afford both the cycle-frame and a girl-motor.

Amanda looked sensually sensational as she sat in the gig. She was in summer colours. The dress, micro-micro-mini, was pure white, and tight on her supremely shapely figure. Braless full and bold, her breasts softly flowed and rolled with her enchanting movements.

Long sleeves to slender wrists, neckline high with Chinese collar, but it was, of course, boldly bountifully bulged-out by Amanda’s beautiful bosom. Over her shoulder from the front left of the hem, passing through her dream cleavage, was the seven-stripe decoration, depicting all the colours of the rainbow, ending in a golden glowing full-shining depiction of the sun and moon, overlapping with the sun predominant, both made three-dimensional in more than all that mere star and moon’s comparatively extraordinarily ordinary glory, because the sun and moon were depicted fully filled, and thus fully fulfilled, on the rear of the dress filled by Amanda’s glorious bum.

As Amanda sat on the glory of her bottom on the glow of the pictured sun and moon, her hem was high on thighs bare, for her stockings, snow-white contrasting with her incomparable comparative negress’ brown, sheer silk with fashionable seams, had their tops stretched and veed by suspenders long beyond her hemline, in line with the fashion for underwear outer-wear, and stocking tops just above, and never more than just, a girl’s knees: suspenders thus enticingly long from belt on hips below naturally narrow waist, with suspenders down thigh front and over cheeky bummy cheeks, now stretching them as she sat upon them, a light delight, back now to 100-pounds of one-hundred-percent girl.

On her feet Amanda wore tiptoe booties, with front heels, curving her feet to keep her on tiptoe, and thus curving her calves to that infinity of the complete definition of the ultimately divine curved curves, which are the curves that girl gives gift to the world: even girl’s straight being curved.

Girl is a conundrum’s conundrum.

And around her hips, atop her suspender belt, Amanda wore a hook-belt. On the hooks of the belt fore and aft, were the hoops. And the hoops were on a towel. And the towel was an adsorbent pad. And into her sanitary towel, Amanda was shedding her red tears, for she was anointing scarlet, being at that point in the periodic table when a girl makes white towel into minx-dawbed scarlet ermine or sable.

Her period was heavy, and showed in Amanda’s eyes, tired by her period pain. Serna would probably want her tonight. Serna stood by ensuring she only had Amanda when Amanda was “safe”. The mischief she had been mislead to believe at St Virgo’s School for Girls, was deep within the soul of the now *****teen-year-old Serna. And how long had poor Amanda had longed for a cum to come to her now - was it two whole years already of having to fake and fain orgasm? The time was of no account to Amanda’s husband-girl it seemed, as the sad Amanda sat while her red feminine streak, scarlet seep streamed.

Amanda had begged Serna not to ask for her hand in marriage. Of course it was necessary. In law, if pursued, Amanda had defiled Serna. Either Amanda had to be severely punished for her crime, or else the fornication had to be covered up by a wedding: and the wedding had to be soon, before word got around the upper reaches of society, where reputation mattered.

Had Amanda been kept prisoner by Serna’s sister Veronica, or rather Veronica’s husband Amelia, the whole matter could have been kept swept under the carpet of proverb. But the arrest by Girl-Control, after they had, at long last, caught up with their paperless-office paperwork, had risked the media getting hold of the story.

For Serna to marry below her class was thus an unfortunate necessity.

A wife of such low caste was not acceptable in society of course, and that is why Amanda sat patiently in the hired girl-gig. Serna was visiting her sister Veronica: Amanda was not allowed into Amelia and Veronica’s house.

And so it had been at the wedding, with no family there for poor Serna, who was marrying to honour a girl she had hated to see in pain, when her sister-in-law, Amelia, had cruelly kicked and whipped her: a girl whom Serna herself had insisted upon milking, so that she should not be hurt by the sadistic Amelia.

Of course Amanda had, if not at the time, subsequently realised how things had been during her months in the mask. She too had honour and, although the threat of undefined punishment at the hands of the state, for fornication, hung over her, had still begged Serna not to ask her to marry her.

But Serna had asked, and how could Amanda have said ‘no’?

Amanda and Serna had done all they could, but both girls knew that the marriage was a disaster.

Amanda’s social ostracism was a schism. Despite being married, Serna could take her wife to no worthwhile place that would admit her within its walls. Amanda was low-born, and had been a one-time slave. One did not allow such trash within one’s domain; even if she was indisputably divine.

Bed was boring. Amanda needed sex. Amanda needed good sex. Serna was hopeless in bed. Okay she had those incredible nipples; but she had no imagination and no finesse, and would not allow Amanda to take the lead, let alone teach her. Feminine pride was foremost.

So inept was Serna, that it came as a shock to Amanda, to find that Serna had somehow managed to lose her virginity. Amanda knew for sure that she, Amanda, had had no part to play in that wonderful wonder. Surely Serna had not dared to disobey the strict strictures and biblically brimstonic lectures at St Virgo’s, where a girl caught self-masturbating would receive one-hundred strokes of the cane on her bare bottom before the whole school, and even then be expelled?

Amanda had become quite an actress. She had had so to do. Only taken by Serna when her, Amanda’s, monthly was in full flow, Amanda had known no pleasure from her husband, bar that of imagining she was overdue the best best-actress oscar of all time.

The visits by Serna to Veronica had gradually, and of late particularly, become more frequent, and Amanda had had to sit for endless hours, an outcast, outside in the hired gig, with just the lovely ponygirls champing on their steel mouth-bits, for otherwise silent company.

And at the end of the evening, Amanda would have to cast her eyes down, because she could not bear to look.

Her treatment in the stretch-limo by the dozen girls, among them the lovely Veronica on her “hen night”, a pre-marriage last fling, drunk and irresponsible on girl-champagne, was now forgotten by Amanda, overwhelmed as she was by seeing the incredible Veronica again: for even Serna’s beauty was surpassed by her sister Veronica’s.

Not even the sun in all its midday Sahara searing glory could hold a torch to the glistering copper gold or the tumultuous torrenting twisting turning tormenting curling whirling tear-drawing amazement of the maze of Veronica’s way-beyond-ankle-length shimmering shining flowing flawless floor-trailing train of perfume-perfectioned hair.

And those eyes: eyes as green: no: more green than Serna’s were saffron-yellow. They looked at one so boldly, and directly, and warmly, and trustingly, and honestly, and alarmingly disarmingly, as Veronica smiled, with her sweet-scented mouth breathing air she scented with her personal perfections, so that you longed to draw near and draw the breath she had exhaled to scent the world with the perfume of girl, and to breath where her nose and mouth sent the air scented with sensation of girl.

And her smile, shy and yet brave, sent one into raptures that captured one’s heart, as her toy to enjoy or destroy, as was her right, for she reined supreme in her majesty, though her words gave only the routine.

“Hi Amanda. How lovely to see you. I’m sorry you couldn’t come in, but Amewia, my husband, insists on proper form…..”

The voice was calm, fabulously feminine, with soft cadences sing-songing to arouse one’s longing and love, for mere lust was lost, with the heart scorched by the supreme present of the mere presence of such a girl as Veronica.

“My you do look pwitty. I wuv the dwess”, Veronica shone out, with sparkling stars in her glorious eyes and her genuine delight.

Even on-heat Amanda felt her heart race as the heart-faced pale-ghost-complexioned copper-tressed temptress drew nearer, with her red-lips moist and smiling sincere sincerity and sweet soft succulence in immeasurably unequal equal measure.

“Oh. Thank you my lady!” Amanda managed at last, her heart nearly bursting into her mouth with the palpitations that overwhelmed her whenever she saw this goddess of the goddesses.

“Oh, come now Amanda, do pwease call me Vewonica! You have evewy wight to do so now. You are mawwied to my sister after all! We are all sisters now aren’t we?” Veronica soothed.

Veronica seemed not to know the spells she cast. Perhaps when every girl you speak to reacts with the same nervous devastation, you assume that that is the way of things, and do not attribute it to your ecstatic profoundly disturbing flowerful fragrant presence.

Amanda was obliged to go into a back room or stay in the kitchen when Veronica and Amelia return-visited as a couple.

Even if she were Serna’s wife, the wife of her wife’s sister, Amelia would not visit Serna and Amanda’s home, unless it was arranged that Amanda neither be seen nor heard whilst the visit took place. For Amanda even to be allowed to stay in the same house, was a concession.

When Veronica was on her own on a visit it was different.

Amanda had been caught off-guard that time. Serna was at her office in downtown Manhattan.

Platforms with twenty-inch heels are not the most practical of footwear for housework, but Amanda had just been bought this pair of dream shoes by Serna, as a token of love, and had been unable to wait to try them on.

The joy of being erected on tiptoe on the thirteen-inch-deep platforms with the holes for her big toes, as if a monument statue ordained by statute to her own statuesque beauty, gave Amanda a thrill as she admired herself in the marital bedroom’s full-length mirror.

The shoes were a gorgeous powder-blue as, by coincidence, was the throw-away PVC dress Amanda three-dimensionally voluptuously volumed for her household chores to come, turning to look in the mirror and sigh with smile and pleased eye, that her bum looked so big in this.

Serna had promised they would have a maid. But even a school-aged girl from the lower classes was expensive to hire from the agencies, and Amanda would not hear of them buying a slave: recalling all too well her own experiences, and knowing most slaves were girls who had been made to become slaves because they had been very naughty.

The throwaway dresses, such as Amanda presently wore, were a boon for housework.

Amanda giggled at a passing fancy fantasy as she thought of wearing such a garment at a party or fashion show.

‘And the fashionable Mrs Serna Hayden-Standish – “Amanda”, but only to her close friends of course - was delectable in a figure-hugging housework-mini-dress of genuine throwaway PVC, in the most divine powder-blue, ensembled with matching platform shoes, handbag, and pillbox hat, causing quite a stir and putting the models at this year’s New York Fashion Week to startled dowdy flight.’

‘So it’s back to the drawing-board for the ladies of the fashion industry, who perhaps should look to the shelves of the Volmart Hypermarket chain for next year’s look, as has Mrs Serna Hayden-Standish for her delicious little blue number, to create this year’s outrageous fashion rage.’

Amanda put a delightful four fingers to her goddess’ gift lips, as she imagined this fashion-page article in the New York Penetrator’s weekend colour pages, with lots of pictures of herself in this clinging second-skin of course.

The smile and joyous laugh was added to, and caused lovely breasts to flow with the imparted impact of girly-giggle, as Amanda imagined she would also be interviewed and photographed for ‘Hi’ magazine in her housework apparel too.

Amanda turned and admired her bottom again. Then she kissed a pretty palm, and blew herself a giggle-kiss in the mirror filled with her divine behind, behind her.

Maybe she should kick off the shoes, she thought. Good job she was not going out in this dress too, you could see the outline of the ropette-girl-cinch panties she wore.

Amanda loved to wear these panties. They were so simple. The soft rope paid lip-service to being panties, as they passed around her hips where the upper boundary of her bottom began to smooth into her arched back. From the single strand around the waist, another soft ropette went between the legs and paid service to her lips, dividing them and holding her divided.

Amanda liked this for the excitement factor. They were meant to be for when she was on a monthly losing streak; but frustration with Serna’s inadequacies in bed, prompted Amanda to sneak a pair on when Serna was out. After all, it was not masturbation if you did not touch yourself, and she could not be blamed if her cinch-panties rubbed her up the right way as she wore them around the home all day!

The doorbell was ringing a second time. Amanda had heard it the first, and either not really registered it, or put it down to some tradesgirl or the postgirl, having dropped a package on the doorstep, and meaning to summon the maid that Serna and Amanda did not in fact have, because they could not afford.

There was no time to change now. Perhaps indeed, it might be something important for Serna.

Amanda was all wild wide wiggles as she strided the stairs down to the hall, tall in her twenty-inch slopping platforms, and only too conscious, of her braless breasts beating flowing time on her chest, with her every delightfully dainty tiptoed step on a steep downward tread.

From the frosted-glass side-widow next the solid front door, Amanda could see the Russo-Siberian enchantress Amelia and Veronica owned as their girl-motor, or at least as their second girl-car, since they also owned a six-girl model, that could do 50 when the motors were at full-pedal.

Of course Amanda knew that Veronica used the smaller vehicle as her runabout, adoring being powered around by the long long legs of Verishmikaya Katayashikia Verimshayata, the overwhelmingly lovely silk-blonde Siberian, who was as wonderfully warm and charming, and as full of uncontrollable feminine giggles and smiles, as she looked superiorly serenely coldly aloof, and tsarinarally imperial, with her supremely high cheekbones and startlingly brilliant Antarctic-sky-blue eyes: the blood royal still pulsing through her passionate veins, despite her come-down to mere motor-girl.

Amanda just knew it was Veronica outside: Veronica come to see her sister Serna.

Amanda just knew it was Veronica outside, even before she caught the stunning haloed rusting-gold-copper warm glow of Veronica’s gorgeous gorgeous hair through the security spy-hole, and began, with her poor heart thumping in her lovely chest, for feelings she knew she had no right to feel, to undo the lock on the door.

“My lady…Veronica: you are so very welcome: you do look so lovely” Amanda blurted out autopilotly, with understatement to the fore, as she bid the flawless Veronica have the floor, and the angel’s angel’s angel sanctified her home with the tiptoed steps with which she made the world heaven, her russet-gold glory gliding in cloak at her hind and over one arm, after tumbling in cascading caress down her femininely finely arched back, over the white silk blouse her bosom fored, and the blue jeans her bottom afted, both fore and aft oppositely appositely blessed by their undoubtedly girl-full, full filled, fulfilment to no excess.

The glorious curls-within-curls that bubbled and bobbled down from this girl’s lovely head, she must needs carry over one pretty arm, were they not to be dragged on the dusty sidewalks, but now she could release them on Amanda’s spotlessly clean floors, and in slow motion bounce and flounce they coiled and sprang and recoiled in cupric copper swing, as she shook her head to settle her crowning glory, and the fragrance of her hair, caught Amanda agape with astonishment, as it filled her sensitive nostrils, and made her faint with barely disguised desire, as the cool coiled copper of Veronica’s hair now graced the floor behind Veronica’s graceful fragrant feminine tiptoe-topped presence.

“Serna…. my husband…. your…your sister, is out my lay….I mean……Veronica”, Amanda stumbled out somehow, as she gazed at all the glory that is girl, her pupils wide and widening to take in the light this creature gave to the world.

Veronica smiled, and the sun gave up the contest. Her smile was sad, but the lips and the eyes told of its full and complete genuinity.

“May I come in……?” she smiled again, and Amanda realised that she, Amanda, was simply staring stunned completely, and as completely forgetting her manners to an honoured guest, she was still detaining just inside from her front doorstep.

Amanda blushed. She had been looking at the shear silk white blouse Veronica gave feminine form to, and realising that, although Serna and Veronica as sisters seemed so different in so many ways, their colouring of hair and eyes not least, two things were a family heirloom, and these were what were making Veronica’s blouse contain two tall tepee tents. And Amanda felt quite breathless as she thought of the beauty of those tents’ intense tent-poles.

“May I come in……?” Veronica smiled repeating yet again, and a light delightful approaching giggle-laugh told Amanda that her obvious admiration was wholly welcome, but that her guest needed looking after as well as looking at, and should be allowed to fully enter Amanda’s home.

“I’m so sorry………” Amanda began………

“No apology needed sweetheart….” Veronica smile-whispered with a look of the sweetest tenderness…. “I’m very flattered”.

This honesty spake what should not have been spoken between two already bespoken wives, and Veronica’s sudden pink-rose flush told Amanda that she should act as if she had not heard this said; as if it had never ever been thought, let alone spoken.

“Do please come in. I’m so sorry. Didn’t expect. Housework. Would have dressed properly had known. Most unbecoming. Throw these dresses away when you’ve used them. Love your broach. Bought it who? Did Amelia? Lovely husband you have. Shoes? Oh Serna bought them for me. Whim I think. Likes me tall and leggy: you know what husband-girls are like! Are they diamonds? It’s so pretty. Did she? Soon be a director. She’s heading for the board. Amelia works so hard too. Still they have to earn if they want us to look pretty for them! Hope to get a maid if Serna gets her directorship. Selling those Canadian girls to Australia was a brilliant move. Amelia. Arbitrage. Quick off the mark like that. Better slavery than starvation. Brisbane? I hear it’s very humid in summer. Just visiting? Fly around the world like that. I bet. Tiring. Must be. Bet she loves those leggy airhostesses though! She’s such a one for the girls. No disrespect. No offence. She just has a sparkle in her eyes. Sure she’s faithful. Girl always knows. Sorry I said. Not meant to come out that way. Know Serna loves Amelia. Like another sister to her. Marriage suits you. Lovely couple. Marvellous home. Your choice décor?. Only seen it through windows of course. Perfect taste. Somehow thought might be. Sure Amelia too. Joint choice? Husbands know better, but we know best! Have to let them think they are in charge. Incredibly long. Really so lovely. How often wash. Shampoo? Oh, I know. So expensive! Always look immaculate. Never cut? Never ever? Two maids to comb and brush? Only toast with girl-butter. Catches the 06.30. Weekends sometimes. City. So hard! Need to make relax. Always wants me at most feminine. Run her a bath so she can soak. Shower mornings. Likes fragrances. Bath salts. Vegetarian. Girl-milk. Girl-cheese. Girl-butter. Girl-yoghurt to take to work for her lunch. Likes quiet. Hard day after. Not vegan. Make my own cheese. Recipe in ‘Hi’. Use own milk. From supermarket; not me! Sorry. Talk like a maid. Once maid always a maid. Did not mean offend. You’re marvellous listener. Real lady. Forgotten how talk to lady. Nothing to do but look pretty for Serna. Great honour. Love your sister. Humbled by her proposing. Such an honourable girl. Such a loving giving girl……… More tea?”

Amanda rambled and gabbled as she sat conspiratorially leaning toward Veronica, who perched her pretty-pert pretty derriere almost off the lounge couch, with her glorious curled whirled copper-red hair, a conspicuous cornucopia in glow and flow, arranged ranged on the throne she made by her sitting, long alongside her. Her lovely white hands nestled in her bejeaned lap, and her fabulously fresh and fully feminine heart-shaped face showed she was not listening to Amanda’s gabble; though not listening with the greatest of kindness and full-hearted gentleness and sympathy and empathy, and sisterly love.

A silence for which Amanda herself was grateful, such a fool did she feel she had made herself by her totally nerve-wracked, nerve-wrecked, wanting-oh-so-much-to-please monologue, now pervaded and prevailed pausally pregnantly.

As Amanda had leant forward unselfconsciously endeavouring to endear herself to Veronica, with no need of trying so hard, the curved neckline of her PVC dress had revealed her cavernous cleavage and her huge breasts, wildly free, sans bra, teardrop-shaped by the pull of gravity and the constraints of the plastic that enveloped and contained and constrained their top-end magnificence, had flowed and bulged and bowed softly out-and-in, promising to sweep out at any time into the world that longed to see them.

Her nipples making smoothly sharp twin outward poking indentations in the cloying clinging plastic her body stretched to give its basic shapelessness full feminine form, also teased and pleased.

Tight stretched across her bare brown thighs, the hem of her powder-blue PVC dress had formed a high bridge - the bridge over her thighs: the bridge of sighs. And the hem bridge was so high up the long range of her belonging long legs, that, when her lovely legs had parted and thighed together as she had sincered innocently enthusiastically animatedly, the dark tunnel formed by the bridge, had glimpsed enabled a tease of her mystery moistening the ropette of her cinch-panties.

The eyes of the stunning Veronica knew not what of this beauty to admire next. The display was shy making. She knew that she could not help but look, but that she should not be looking, because Amanda was not meaning to disport herself so wonderfully fully, but, rather was lost in her desire to please, which she never failed to achieve and had no need of trying so hard; rather than to tease, which she never failed to achieve and had no need of trying so hard either.

Thus were rose-blushes gilding the lilly-white achingly desirable smoothness of Veronica’s face, as she fought the desire of her eyes and her desire of desire, as her eyes ravished the ravishing Amanda. And thus was beauty’s beauty in Amanda form starting a tear in Veronica’s eyes and gentle soul, because of Amanda’s innocence of what was happening: what was decreed desecrated.

“You know they are having an affair, don’t you?” Veronica heavened with sweet scented accentuation silence-breaching breathless deathless breathing.

Instantly stunned: Amanda started, and her cup tipped over in its saucer, as the source of the story, surely a story, this seductive sorceress supreme, became a dream melting in tears of shock welling in Amanda’s eyes before her.

“My lady? I mean Veronica? Amanda startle-strangle-choked as her pretty left hand shakingly recovered her tumbled, fortunately already previously empty-emptied, translucent bone china.

The long slim legs Amanda had unknowingly been admiring, as Veronica anointed Serna and Amanda’s couch with her delightful derriere, were slimly curvedly shaping-out the blue jeans Veronica wore, as Veronica rose from her seat, a nerve of nerves, holding out her cup on saucer still, still as if she really wanted her cup re-charged.

“You do know? Of course you know!” Veronica repeated, emotionally exhausted, but supremely contained, as the weeks past of pent-up horror: now admitting she knew what she would hitherto never have admitted she knew, began to overwhelm her.

“Know? Know what my lay….Veronica?” Amanda stupidly stumble mumbled, as she too stood.

“They’re having an affair: your husband and mine: Serna and Amewia”, Veronica repeated, teetering tiptoe topped in her pirouette-shoes and teetering too on tears.

“Oh no. You must be wrong Veronica… my lay……. Serna is in the City at Lady Love Lady and Co: her bank: the bank where she works …. She’s headed for the board in time……….”

Suddenly, soundlessly, the scent of Veronica’s hair flared Amanda’s nostrils as the slim wisp-waisted waif with the train of cupric-curls, melted sobbing girl in arms of girl, her cup-on-saucer still held when Amanda had abandoned hers, comically clattering to shatter the peace of the union in harmony of two tiptoe topped teasers, four leggy legs of tall leggy pleasers.

From there no word was spoken for nature commanded and demanded and cup and saucer were abandoned tumbled floored as taller flawless Amanda platformed high shod, stooped to kiss and found fire. For this were Amanda’s lips designed, for the kiss lived and loved and its name was Amanda. But it was as if their kiss meant nothing more than sisterly solace to Veronica as she sweetly slipped away having sipped the divine, or tried to, till Amanda ceased her escaping, by seizing her fingers gently, and letting her know by touch that she could go or stay: that she was free as flight to fight the gravity of love or face the crucial crucible. Then, suddenly Veronica was girl and knew nothing of half-heartedness. Certainty seared her between her legs and she dropped her tiny dainty hands from Amanda’s, so that Amanda must take the lead and lift them to her lips in turn to kiss the fingertips, in seeking permission to kiss the girl, who now came-on with passion so full that it tumbled Amanda teetering tiptoetopically backwards, as she embraced the surrender and kissed the tender mouth, as scented as purely as it assented surely to the love that only a girl can give. And the timeless kiss over, Veronica’s sleep seeking head was nodded on Amanda’s bosom, and Veronica’s mouth kissing her breast, at her deep cleavaged décolletage. And Amanda knowing the need indeed to feed the love that longed, made to her rip at her plastic dress’ neckline, stretching the plastic that just would-not tear, and gently lifted out one bosom, baring, to give suck to the lonely girl who, wronged, longed for comfort at Amanda’s breast. And sweet zephyred breath sighed, and divine mouth closed upon nipple, to suck and tongue and suckle, so milk softly flowed, sweet warm white from Amanda’s sweet warm brown, and Amanda’s longed-for little orgasmic deaths were asided as she let the wanting-of-love love her nipple, and suck her fill, till the tiredness of distress took Veronica down-seated, still in Amanda’s arms loving, suckling like a babe on the beautiful pap, poked up peak hard by the sisterly suck. And still yet Amanda’s cunt wanted to turn the loving feed into love’s need, but her heart knew she must comfort before cum was thought. And now copper head was in coffee-brown lap, and the scent of Amanda’s love-honey-soaked cinch-panties told of the physical match for the feminine formulation, as love was born and slept on Amanda’s lap with gentle sigh, as it snuggled to warm bare thigh, and its copper gold curls coiled in priceless train long around Amanda’s top-of-top tiptoed platformed dainty feet, and scent of saintly sleeping mouth mixed with scent of assenting seeping south, as Amanda’s love poured in a stream of adoration-cream volcanic, from her inflamed-aflame fiery-frustration-burning sexually-searing sex-starved cinch-panty parted seam, longing so long now for a cum to come.

2084 (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 12 – Duplicity

Molleigh Malona was a stunning forty-year-old who had once gilded and glided the catwalks of New York, London, Paris, and Rome. So now it needed a little extra to the shampoo bottle to give her lustrous brunette hair its sheen. So what? Set high in practical ponytail for the working day, it still framed a face famed for its graceful Italianate looks, and its apparent imperiousness, sharpened by the nose and generously-lipped mouth, then softened by the hazel eyes: eyes that smiled above the gentle laughter lines that experienced her face.

Molleigh hated her job. Molleigh looked at the fabulous figure of the gorgeous younger girl at the desk before her. The girl’s bejeaned right leg was being worked back-and-forth in a nervous signal the girl herself had no idea she was telegraphing. She was a negress with, figuratively speaking, a wonderful figure-eight body, and, without metaphor let alone simile, a stunning face. Oh god those eyes shone with such intelligence vivacity and gentleness; and her lips: those lips: that mouth: a kiss from this girl and one could happily, unhappily die of longing sighs.

Her pretty fingers were writing the usual in the register with the electronic quill: ‘Mrs and Mrs Amanda Smith’. ‘How original’ Molleigh sighed in her vocal foremind.

A practiced eye, Molleigh’s, noted the wedding ring was new to the left hand. This was no husband-girl; this was a wife acting cross-borderly. There had been lots of these of late: indeed just an hour earlier another two…….

…….The straight-haired pretty blonde desk clerk, a girl of no more than eighteen, made no sign that she recognised the hotel detective standing in line behind Amanda, but pressed a button below the counter, just before she turned the register around toward herself once more, and, as Amanda put down the stylus quill, handed Amanda the card-key for room 503.

“Modom’s luggage?” the desk clerk enquired politely.

Amanda blushed. “I’ve just my purse. The rest is on its way from the airport by girl-cab: when they can find one… it I mean… find it: the luggage that is, I mean…when they can find my luggage…….. One of those mix-ups?” she whisper giggle lied: embarrassed at the way she had instantly forgotten her rehearsed answer.

The clerk’s face showed no reaction, and thus made Amanda feel all the worse for fibbing, and fobbing her off with a blatant lie.

“Will modom be dining at the Hotel this evening?”

“Thank you, but I have already booked a table here for my …my wife and I”, Amanda dry mouthed with jangling nerves.

Her heart pounding, Amanda glided an arrow through corridors broad and narrow, conveying sinews and muscles so lithe so lithe oh.

In the ‘Le Rosbif Hotel America’ chain, now so widespread, at least in New York State, casual dress was in order, as therefore were the blue jeans in which Amanda stroll strode, her rump by nature rocking and rolling their backsides, her legs shaping-out and out-shaping their legs, and, under her jeans’ legs, her jeans over them, her dainty feet in 10-inch tiptoe-stiletto, soft brown kid leather calf-hugging knee-boots too, making her shake the snake, giving metronomes and pendulums both, a lesson in the way to sway, salivating the sensual senses saluting, stunned attentively worshipfully erect, as she made her sensational way: census entry: Question: ‘Gender?’ Answer: ‘Girl!’.

Her duopoly ruled frontally too: her natural abundance at front, no affront, free to roam and roll within her figure-hugging citrus-orange long-sleeved roll-necked vest, fashion: wearing as she did, only an equally luridly glowing-lime-green thong under, over her tight inturning-lipped, immaculately smoothly completely depilated slit, and no other underwear such as might stop her nipples provokingly poking their pointed peaks, as her breasts wave-bobble swing-joggled to mind-boggle, as they were impacted, separately and together, parted by deathless’ valley’s breathtaking cleavage, imparted with emotion’s potent potion by the jarring of her pulse-race-making motion.

It was a warm day and there was a hint of arousal in Amanda’s nipples for which she should not feel the shame she was shied by, for she was only a girl being a girl.

And so too was there evidence of heat and humidity in the mint-green patch in her thong’s otherwise lime-green gusset: girl-sweat, suggestive of an even more potent potion for the promotion of emotion.

Why the shame? The mind intervened interfered supervened, and fear made butterflies in her flat smooth tummy, for this was a girl in love.

Longing had insisted on evidencing itself in her body: the body of a girl made to love and for love, to give and receive love: a lovely girl in fact as well as metaphor, and it was but the humidity of the outside world she had left to the air-conditioned coolness in which her nipples prominently provoke poked, that was also the cause of her panty-patch, or else it was the humility of lovely girl being lovely girl before which all the world should be on its knees in prayerful gratitude.

Amanda looked what she was: adorable. She, for Amanda was ‘she’ for sure, was made for love in heart and mind and soul and body, from dawn to dusk and dusk to morn, and she was in love. Amanda was in love heels over head, and Veronica was indeed its ‘true image’ as name meant: and her name meant new-mint ferment for Amanda’s heart’s turmoil.

The sailoress’ suit was seductively saucy.

Dinner had been arranged. Neither girl had admitted what they either or and both knew. It was of course; a palliative for two wives lonely without their husbands wasn’t it? Serna at the bank and Amelia at the slave-exchange, both long hours junkies with careers foremost, trophy-wives two, two too neglected unconsidered trifles who should be happy with ‘Hi’ magazine, and clothes and make-up, and the daily instalment of ‘Girl Street’ on the telly-cube, and simply looking pretty, shouldn’t they?

It was just to continue the frivolous chatter that they had just not had, as emotion had overcome the sensational Veronica, and swooned her into the incredible Amanda’s loving arms, wasn’t it?

Subliminal it was, but also criminal it was that these girls should not feel able to freely meet to make love. For negligence of husbands, now locked in each others’ arms, had harmed the duty they owed to their marital spouses, and they must now turn to the duty they owed the world, for love could in deed, would indeed, never ever know such personification in perfection as the physical molten moulding of such naturally smouldering girls as these: Amanda and Veronica or Veronica and Amanda, love in the physical fulfilment of the heaven on earth that such beauty is and is, and deserves and deserves.

For both, both, four, all pretty hands shook with high desire as fire denied and sighs asided, they decided their electronic diary dates, that examined, casually coincidentally, showed that Amanda had a hair appointment the next day, and Veronica would be shopping for a wedding present in town also, at similar times. So dinner could be more quickly arranged than either girl had thought likely: was that likely? What a happy coincidence: or heaven’s interjection: happenstance or manufactured confection?

That Amanda would need to bring her appointment forward from 19.00 o’ clock, and that Veronica would cancel a visit to her other sister to Serna, to make room for the melting both humid girls’ hearts were throbbing for, neither girl would ever tell the other, for white lie’s were fored for what they are for.

A casual, “Till tomorrow then”, was belied by the loving look in Veronica’s eyes as she parted from that visit to Amanda’s home alone: a look that said ‘I love you’ and that only the listening ears of Veronica’s girl-motor, with her long leggy-legs pedalling Veronica’s girl-car around to take her home, prevented Amanda saying to: “I too love you”. “I do love you”.

The sailoress’ suit was saucy. Red white and blue, with the round red cap perched perkily on Veronica’s sensational sensuous curls, making Amanda smile for its shear exuberance of exotic eroticness. The tight azure-blue trousers with their bell-bottoms and the pristine white and blue hoop-striped blouse, belled by Veronica’s bosom, were bonuses. This was a ‘sailoress’ so feminine, with the sweep of her girl’s curls pouring in copper-gold to her ballet-shoe shod tiptoed ankles, and trailing in train on the floor she adorned. Veronica’s look was confident of her beauty with all due cause, as she smiled soft pink lipped, and whisper-sanctified-mouthed, across the room to the breathtaken Amanda, a sweetly simple loving sparkling-eyed: “Hi!”

Gentle tears of love-found prickled Amanda’s ocean-deep-dark-brown-eyes, as she smiled back, swallowing the metaphorical lump in her throat, and felt her heart leap from noticing that Veronica still wore her ring, her wedding ring, on her right hand wedding finger, confirming distaff to Amanda’s switched over band making out as husband.

Even without that, it was assuredly surely written in the stars that Amanda would hold Veronica’s chair for her to sit, and have her senses reel at the scent of Veronica’s sensational coiffure, coiled curled and cascading interminably in tumultuous turmoil, as Veronica’s heart-shaped phantom-pale face rose in blushed green-eyed-flashing-momentarily-lightening-bright-blue, with a “thank you”, that was as completely sweet for the holding of her seat, as for the seeping of her secret scent sent into her pink tanga-panties, by a girl pent up no more as she smiled the love she felt for the one she adored.

Amanda’s eyes were transfixed by the upright stiffness of Veronica’s candle-nipples, as Veronica knew she would and should be, for why else would Veronica forego a brassiere, save to let nature have its day, knowing her two-inch long nipples’ way was indeed to persuade as they swayed that way?

Both girls knew that, in public, they must talk, even though they also wanted just to look and smile and kiss, and the talk they wanted to talk was not really of food and wine.

Veronica was now cool before the inexperienced Amanda, whose life had been sheltered and low caste, cast low as she had been by her lowborn origin in a world she had only risen in since, because of her sensational loveliness.

It was as if Veronica was unaware of her dancing nipples orchestrating a crescendo, as her breasts bobbed duoetically and sometimes separately, making her sky-pointing two-inch long teats, wave and wag and bend and contort, comporting come-hitherly, under her tight white-and-blue-hoop-striped blouse, poked out, far from disappointingly, pointingly pointedly.

In fact Veronica was studiously unaware: aware unaware, for she knew she fascinated with her tall thimbles, and turned girl’s heads galore, who must look a second time and a second time again, to be sure and store the sensation they were unsure their eyes on stalks had assured them were real, as they saw the tents Veronica’s teats contentedly pushed up in her blouse, and could only wet-dream of such wonders as could cause such thrusting two in number. And only Veronica’s sweet blush at their bold stares would make them aware, that these were the steeples and this was a walking cathedral of womanhood to worship, and that wolf-whistle was crude and rude, for this was girl to be pursued by one, and won by woo.

“Pwease may we have a bottle of the Vérone ’63, it’s a sweet white girl-pee best served moderately chilled. They’ll put it in an ice-bucket weady for our meal. It’s weally wewy nice Amanda!” Veronica softly and gently guided. “It was from fwee-wange peasant girls, fed only on a diet of white gwapes and water diwect from the local spwings….It has a mewodic bouquet and an aftertaste wedolent of carnival. The Fwench are unsurpassed in the girl-pee world….!” Veronica continued, latterly giving of the opinion of her husband, Amelia, who in turn had been quoting verbatim from ‘FemWine Folio’, the illustrated magazine that came free with the ‘New York Penetrator’, on every fourth Saturday, without attribution for its contribution.

“Anyway: that’s what Amewia always says………”

Veronica’s sparkling eyes said, ‘I love you, and I am nervous of saying the wrong thing to you’.

Amanda reached out a hand and touched Veronica’s fingertips.

In an instant, Veronica lowered her head to hide her lovely love blush, and buried herself in a menu she was not really seeing, for all and every nerve of her being was on the touch, and she would and could not remove the hand touched, it touched her heart so.

The wine-waitress hovered: Molleigh in disguise, checking.

“The ’63 Vérone in an ice-bucket please: we’ll order food shortly”, Amanda smiled.

Molleigh Malona was astounded by the lovely face that looked up so gently at her, and lowered her head not only in long practiced imitation of a servile waitress, but also in service of worship of the divine Amanda whose merest wish would be any girl’s command.

“An excellent choice modom”, Molleigh sincered, sincerely not practicedly perfunctorily, as Amanda continued to award her natural warmth in incalculably invaluable smile, shy and soft, and searingly loving and lovely.

Waitresses admired they both: Amanda and Veronica. Amanda now revealed she had, at a Le Rosbif Diner in Scotland, before Elspeth Zamori’s empire had entered the Americas, once waitressed too, to Veronica’s upper-caste astonishment, which had never held court to thought too much before that these girls were human, and had lives and worries and loves too.

The tall mature woman that had served them wine, wore a long dress voluptuously formationed by her, and marking her as maîtresse sommelier, a superior to the routine waitresses.

The young serving wenches were dressed to please and tease. The Le Rosbif Hotel America chain, lent lean keen to Beefeater uniform as in English castle guard of ancient fame, the Tower of London photo in frame, but no dames among them as in these damsels to set the pulses aflame.

White ruffles as choker at neck, and bands at wrists, witty in imitation of London’s fair city where the girls are so pretty and the world once set eyes on sweet Amanda alone: a strongly boned corset red and uplifting, and ruffled in white at décolletage deep, swept-up bosoms to peep, wide parted cleaved, by under-wired cups to on-counter their soft countenances, encountered popped up near to popping out, curved up, and heaved when heaven breathed.

Accoutrement: no panties, bar a thong-band fitted to front and back of tight red corset, to conceal that she was not a man, as if such a doubt could ever enter bout against her body’s shout. Bottom consequential consequently bare, hair in freefall tumble, divine dive controlled by white headband, name abalazoned at forehead, headband to free face, for smile customary for customer consumption, and presumption that she was bed-mate material to realise materialised, dream come true wise.

And the stockinged thighs and legs tiptoed skyscraper in soft ballet shoes leather red, red stockings seamed seemingly to add steam, suspended from suspenders two on the corset, but also with white ruffle as single garter too, worn left thigh by order, at stocking’s top: this was devastation from the female of the nation.

And Elspeth Zanori had had them ballet trained, so the girls had gained a walk that talked of deep seated sexuality unsated, to unseat with its heat, as each foot was not just put directly before the other, as she wound sleek her way, but over and beyond, to fore and then opposite side, so she swayed her way, her twixt-legs honey-lips, chewing on an imagined penis, in enchanting entrancing dance to trance, as her legs teased and pleased with the warmth of her wiggle, a wiggle with a giggle to smite the coldest heart with smart sharp start from cupid’s arrow shot by ingenious Venus’ genus: girl.

“Hi. I am Jessica: your serving angel? I am here to take your order and to make your meal momentously memorable. If my services are not fully satisfactory to you, you may have me whipped?”, whispered the ‘angel’ of the name she had labelled herself aptly now just, and justified thus.

This was shyly spoken by a girl knowing nothing of slyness, 5-feet-four to adore, with smile one-billion dollar genuine, as told by eyes taking toll with their dark blue sparkle, among wheat-corn-outglowing shoulder-length naturally sun-highlighted silken soft blonde hair.

“Pwease may I start with ‘girl-yoghurt tinctured with girl-honey’?” Veronica blushed, raising her flushed face, and not moving the fingers that were being touched by the girl touching her heart so.

“My wife will start with ‘girl-yoghurt tinctured with girl-honey’, and I will have the ‘soft girl-cheese en melon’ please”

“Your command is my deepest pleasure” the lovely waitress parroted as taught.

“You are very lovely Jessica”, Amanda awarded as the waitress began to turn to show again her gorgeous bare bottom melons, feeling, as Amanda must, empathy sympathy for a girl in the place she had once adorned with a bottom equally wicked in its wanton want provocation.

“I am sure you will serve us perfectly”, Amanda continued as the confused serving angel, turned and curtsied a second time, even lower than her extremely leggy-thighy first.

“Thank you my lady: you are so very kind”, Jessica whispered, overwhelmed to be recognised as a human with human sensibilities and needs and emotions, having just recovered from six-of-the-best from the cane on her bare chest, and unpaid unemployment because unemployable for a month till her consequent considerable stripes had healed.

Jessica’s ministrations were intended as significant: as significant as her legs were damned pretty, and thus pretty damned magnificent, as she served servilely entirely, the messages of her body massaging thoughts of love, that the pretend husband and wife she served solely, were husbanding in their souls for each other.

If a love tryst could be given an ideal twist, the fruity embellishment of the cocktail of the cockless coxless pair, fingers touching table across, star-crossed lovers, and leavers of fingers in sweet schoolgirl-like first love’s first touch wanting last forever embrace, then that embellishment was Jessica, for she too could hope for the love that she could almost touch, and was touched by in her heart and core, as she sold the lovers she could see absorbed by each other’s sensation, their choice choices from menu, and was discrete discretion not to overhear what she longed to, to learn of the love she could see, and longed to be a part of: the party to go to too.

Veronica learned a lesson from Amanda’s kindness to the girl, who was in fact an indifferent and rather clumsy waitress.

Her real husband, Amelia, would have had the Jessica whipped even had she been perfect, for Amelia knew no persuasion that girls such as Jessica, a fired mathematician who had inspired a team landing a roving robot on the planet Pluto not seven-years since, but now at twenty-seven, reduced by the girl-laws and sudden poverty to this, had any right to a happy life. To Amelia, Jessica was trash to thrash, the whip being all such rodents understood if they understood anything at all.

Neither girl minded Jessica’s clumsiness, as both admired Jessica on display for that purpose that way, and putting extra swerve into the walk with which she served, and the wiggle she reserved for when her rear appeared after tray she had emptied, and returned by turning and showing her bareness bold in her round rump’s pole-dancer’s exaggerated come-on-and-spank-me-I’m-naughty, taunting teasing seizing pleasing, Morsing message: “. . . / . - - . / . - / - . /- . - /// - - / .” repeat “. . . / . - - . / . - / - . /- . - /// - - / . as only a female’s bum can signal-drum, to the cries of humility that its incredible wonder imparts to the heart that would throw itself on knees her feet to kiss, or merely the former filth her tiptop-tiptoed toes had Midassed gold with her steps, but for only that its worship would cease the drumbeat bum beat, that so teased, it pleased pleasure itself to plead encore! encore! oh goddess more! till: “. . . / - - - / . . .” was tapped out for sure! Thus it was with Jessica swishing Morse without remorse as she flicked her sexy bum as nature made her, and it, for to do: for this was girl’s bare rear unbearably searing the seer!

But Amanda and Veronica had each other and neither would, as they could, order Jessica to their room so they could spank her.

And so the love fest was in the feast that followed, all light courses, with the discourse soft and gentle in a bubble-world in which the outside buzz of other voices was mood music, even while the second bottle of the vastly expensive 1763 Vérone, iced, half-consumed, in contemplation of love to be consummated, after a meal eaten one-handed, for neither angel could remove touched fingertips substituting for touching lips.

Amanda told of sailoress real she had been, as compliment to saucy sailoress scene, seen in Veronica’s mode of dress, not a dress, but trousers tight and blouse hooped blue and white, with perky peaks poking and provoking. And Veronica fascinated blushed to hear edited elided, truth asided, save of the way that girl-sailors smoked, which provoked pretty gasp of embarrassed astonishment, hiding pleased anointment of gusset, no disappointment.

Even as they ate ‘503’ was fored in Amanda’s foremost thoughts. Would it break the spell? Was it presumptuous? Would this moment be the only moment, or had this moment momentum to be monumental and the memento of Amanda’s lifetime lifeline?

Then Amanda was all girl and all loving giggle, as ‘504’ saw she in Veronica’s reticule, as nose to powder metaphor was fored, and Amanda must explain as Veronica arose a rose, that ‘503’ was ‘504’ too for two, and see Veronica blush, and smile with longing, and giggle too, that the two had concluded the same conclusion to their converse, was called for by all the angels in heaven overseeing these two on earth longing for their congress.

“May I have my hand?” Veronica smiled, knowing now that love was too far born to be torn by her need for the powder room, and that the loving tender fingertip grip born of love’s flowering, could be broken without either girl’s heart risking the flame dousing, the spell, cast like the die.

Amanda assented with eyes that shone with adoration, even as, to her surprise, Veronica re-seated herself and whispered, head shyly hung: “Shall I go, or would you like me to pee my panties for you?”

At this, Amanda’s thong, already mint-green patched among its lime-green, where her purse had poured out her love, from slippery lips shining with Eros’ exaltation, accelerated its exhilaration, as her mouth could not speak what Veronica knew was her answer, and knowing, thus settled more seated as the question was settled, to show that she would save her wine so Amanda could have her pee her panties, leave her to marinate her slit, or savour her mulled libation, poured straight hot from her love doors’ formation.

“I’ve tasted your wine, but never warm”, Veronica shyly ventured, blushing divinely, recalling Amanda enslaved in the helmet-mask, and tasked to piss wine and be milked.

“Then we shall both sip heaven”, Amanda boldly asserted in corn cliché, but still apt appropriate and not approximate, as each girl knew that 503 and 504 awaited.

The half-hour of trepidation tremulous, ticked so slowly as Amanda had showered and put back on her soft leather shapely-calf-hugging knee-boots, in thought of re-dressing for corridor and knock on 504 door, thus this betraying portrait, her nerves were distorting her thinking, for there was a 503 / 504 door adjoining.

Room pacing, naked bar boots, with wiggle pronounced, no less mystically magical, albeit andante, she could wait no longer, else her heart would burst her chest with its pumping: so she knocked and turned the handle of the partition door and found it opening, still, till she saw the heights of heaven standing before her, a little surprised at the early ingress eagerness, but smiling with love and arms out-held to embrace the graceful negress.

Only balletic shoes did Veronica wear bar her hair overwhelming, and thus she was cloaked in fall of autumnal majesty, a tumble teasing tangle wrangle of copious copper curls of such abundance that only her nipples poked erect and attentive, a secondary incentive incendiary to love, in that magical moment, compared with the auburn curls of the Titian girl, cloaking her round in such a dress of coils and curls and copper and gold and whirls and swirls and twists and turns and spirals flamed fiery, inspiring fired desire, as her crowning glory torrented from her head a falls to her heels, reeling and rolling in mesmerising autumnal wonder, flowing in fall-leafed dark goldwater curl coiled rapids to the floor, in its flawless abundance, as its owner smiled, eyes aglow, wildly proud and rightly so, of the sight she blinded with the magnificence’s magnificence of her queenly gold, golden wonder.

Love knew no help for Amanda as she knelt instantly on the floor, and reached out to kiss Veronica’s feet in complete and utter adoration.

“My darling! My darling! My mouth is for kisses, you silly wickle angel! Veronica’s lips wanting, lisped, as Amanda, prostrate in awe, kissed her tiptoed toes.

Then Veronica was nervous as Amanda looked love at her heart-face, and the kiss was to come, its delay promising poignancy, and the problem averted of how to react if it disappointed, as so surely it could not, could it?

Veronica’s high tensile tension prompted irrelevance, as her copper curls shook with her highly-strung fear and trepidation: “This woom is wewy nice. The service at dinner was wewy good and that girl wewy pwitty. I would weally wike wewy much to come here again when………”

…….But Amanda’s longing lips stopped the distracted angel’s lovely mouth with her own no less more heavenly oral orifice, and kissed away Veronica’s nervous nerve-wracked irrelevant words, as the universe imploded, with two girls made one, in the melting of the core, as time ended, and silence supreme reigned with nothing left in the universe bar the two merged peach’s in each others’ arms, so fully and closely and interminably unalterably perfectly intermingled, that they were one. Two was one and one no longer two, as the centripetality of the passionate kiss of two heavenly bodies, pulled them inextricably out of any further individual orbit, and they now knew no velocity could rocket them again ever, from their arrived entire eternity of mutual inescapable heart-centred gravity.

Then time momentarily exploded once more back to its current state. Momentary centrifugality, the real worlds noises around louder sounding. As if new heard, as girl and girl parted, Veronica’s eyes still closed and then opening with one focus locus, locust to consume the smiling love that Amanda was radiating in her eyes’ gentle near tearful sparkle, love having found love in love, as love loved love, as love must.

Then the sex imperial, that would seal love ethereal, arrived in all its joyous jousting, and the nipples knew the third kiss, as Amanda could no more resist, and Veronica softly sighed to return the day-before’s compliment, though she was without the complimentary milk with which Amanda had soothed her tears that day, when the unfaithfulness of husband with husband had driven finally home in Veronica’s denial mind.

Amanda, using sex to endorse the mutuality of the love of the two loves true loves, kissed just the tip of the two-inch-long love-candle that crowned Veronica’s elliptical left mountain mound, and Veronica sighed with her first cum, so sweetly softly sensitive was her succulence, as Amanda now sucked her, and Veronica held the negress’ lovely head in an embrace of adoration, as she came again to the suck of her left nipple, as her right throbbed, and her clit bobbed, and the bed now beckoned for the booted Amanda, removal forgotten, as timelessness and gentleness took the two heavens to heaven, with soixante-neuf six of one and nine of the other, as love’s lips kissed love lips, and bodies rose and fell with joy, and sighs and gasps told of cums, the music of the spheres, as what should be was, and who should be were, and girl of girl and girl of girl, biblically knew each other, and that heaven was true and on earth for all they were worth, and their worth was the universe, as their kisses were alchemy and catalytic, and cum succeeded cum, as Veronica said “no” and sighed “no” and said “no” and sighed “no” and shouted “no!” as she thunder came under the sweet lash of Amanda’s tongue flicking her clitoris licking and loving her little ball, and sighed “no” and said “no” and sighed “no” and sighed “no” and said “no” and sighed “no” and came again wild and insane with her golden head swinging on the bed in her coiled gold copper hair, wet with the sweat of the strain, as Amanda sucked her love bud and flicked it with her pointed tongue to anoint the angel’s nodule, queen over her body and scream over her mind, as she sighed “no” and said “no” and cried out like pain’s pain as she came again and again, and screamed again with joy with a cum to destroy, and sighed “no” and said “no” with her ringletted hair thrashing like a dervish’s dervish, as she came, and squealed, and screamed, and Amanda worshipped her love lips long tonguing her slot till Veronica was shot like a dove felled with love’s arrow, as her cum crisis cries hoarsed her to a holler, and she begged that the cumming should stop for she could bare no more, as Amanda’s licks loved her, and she begged and moaned and caressed and groaned and pleaded for mercy and pity, and screamed with a cum so massive, it arched every lovely sinew and muscle in her divine body, and bridged her back to such rigidity as only death could otherwise have achieved, as she ached arched, and a lightening bolt bolted through her every tingling nerve, and her eyes were wild and wide, and she bucked and screamed and tore with her nails at the bedding, as her cum crisis crucified her, and broke her voice to a squeak so weak in contrast with her cum, that her giggle and her laugh girlniacal, and her tears, and her pain, and her smile. and her frown, were making her clown, as her mind knew madness from the rigidity of her glorious archedness, with her legs like supremely shapely sculptures, so tightly girlmuscled, and her buttocks side-dimpled to statued hollows, and her back bent beyond the bounds of nature and endurance to perform in any normal state bar that of deliverance and paralysis insistent in persistence, till she screamed with unbearable gain of the cumming of her whole mind soul and glorious body, as she bent yet more impossibly further up and back, with a cum’s cum’s cum, and hoarsely whorely howled and hollered with love’s sweet pain yet again and final, with choirgirl’s cries cathedralic and carnal, innocent, elemental, ingénue, fundamental: erotic: eternal: eternity’s eternity: inverse-infernal.

As an angel sleeps so now too, instantly, did the copper-gold tousled Veronica, with fingers, hers, touching her touchingly lovely lower mouth to savour the love and joy just expended, such that her mind knew nothing but sleep could make her ready for more love than her physical and spiritual body could presently take, but would soon from her swoon refreshed for awake, as even her closed eyes showed the seraphic smile of the Sapphically satiated but insatiable, recharging for the fray that her nerves knew could break her, but which she could not forsake for she was love, and love must have love, for love loves love for love’s sake. And a thumb, hers, was touchingly sweetly in her mouth for sucking, as if a baby’s comforter for this babe of babes.

Amanda sleepless and so happy she could cry, looked at her love for the hours that tripped by with the curls of the girl that coiled in cupric joy, Cupid’s toy, sleeping, as Amanda looked at love’s sweet face and held guard over the love of all her sweet grace.

A commotion: a shout: and the door burst open!

Amanda shot up shocked on the bed, naked but for her boots. Veronica, a soft sheet drawn over her silken smoothness, but with one candle nipple poking sky-pointedly proudly provocatively potently over the sheet, as she sat up, sleepy still, with a: “What’s going on my love?” sigh yawn stretch, till it dawned that this was a raid and she two on parade to be arraigned, were it not by Amelia arranged.

Molleigh Malona stood by: Amelia’s hireling as well as the hotel’s resident detective, a thousand-dollar bribed on top of her agency fee.

“No!” cried Amanda, and leapt to her feet, for struggle brief, as two Girl-Control officers knelt her down and bent her, still knelt, till her shoulders were on the floor, and Molleigh, strong and well practiced in the art of controlling girls who struggled, bent Amanda’s lovely legs and boot-shod feet such that, swiftly and soon, Amanda could have her shoulders released, for she could not move, because she had had the ten-inch-long stiletto heels of her soft kid leather leg-hugging knee-boots, forced into her cunt, and they were holding her legs bent double, and tearing her sweet sensitive softness if she tried to struggle: her hands being behind her girlackled at wrists two, for good measure too.

Eyeing briefly her adept handiwork in stunning the stunning Amanda, with her hips broad and her waist so narrow, bent in agony on the floor with her high heels high hard up into her cunt, Molleigh Malona turned to the girl in the bed instead, calmly full-in-controllably: “You are obviously Mrs Amelia Jenkins-Ward. You are indeed as truly beautiful as Amelia…. I mean your husband…. said you were. Amelia is outside at the rear of the Hotel with a girl-cab. Aren’t you the lucky one?” (And aside in her mind, entranced as she was by the girl in the bed, came the thought: “And, oh my god isn’t she?”)

A nod from Molleigh and Veronica’s angel’s body was wrapped cave in a sheet she gave form female too even so, ever so, as she must ever, as, stunned still, she was led from the room to an elevator and her freedom, only momentarily to struggle and cry over her soft naked shoulder: “Oh god Amanda it wasn’t me! Oh please god believe me it wasn’t me!”

A silence ensued as Amanda just gasped with her pain from the invasion of her cunt by the two ten-inch heels of her boots, forced up her, to hold her from struggle as if she were trouble.

“Amanda Heavensent: I have here a warrant here for your arrest for fornication in wedlock!” Molleigh confirmed with more than a ‘I wish I was dead rather than do this’ tone straining in her voice.


The prison vest, once white, was filthy. Amanda’s only raiment for her arraignment was a garment too small for a girl stood as tall as Amanda in the dock.

There was one law for the rich and another for Amanda’s kind: unkind and cruel fate.

The mistake she and Veronica had made was replaying on the wall. Whatever her husband, Serna, had indulged with Veronica’s husband, Amelia, they had enjoyed it in the privacy of Amelia’s home. Sweet Amanda and lovely Veronica, had assumed than an hotel foyer, its restaurant, and their sacred bedroom, were privy only unto themselves. How sad it was and completely condemnatory of post 2084 society, that that should not have been true.

On the wall still, was a still of Amanda’s lovely face full of nerve-tingled joy and happiness, as she signed-in at the Manhattan Hotel Le Rosbif America, for ‘Mrs and Mrs Amanda Smith’. Thereafter, there were bedroom scenes, moving movies, deeply moving too in the emotional sense, of the scenes they showed of love’s proud road being tiptoed by angels two, in which one girl’s face and, curiously for some reason, as if they were particularly distinctive, her nipples, were opaqued-out with shimmering pixelations, though her stupendously beautiful hair, clearly of an incredible Titian deep dark copper gold abundance ample, told those in the know whom she was.

The 3D-telly-cubes had gone over the ground endlessly. The lovely woman who fronted-up ‘Girl Today’ had got as close as she dared to hinting at the involvement of Amelia’s lovely wife, till a writ for defamation had silenced her, and the court case broken her finally fully financially, seeing her being publicly flogged, and then sent, for just one week, so tough: so rough: enough: to the same prison as Amanda had suffered in awaiting trial.

Celcus was an absolute darling, and devilishly daringly sexy in her uniform: there being no uniformity about her gorgeous smile, which was as fresh minted as crisp dawn for everyone.

Eighteen, she would be just as stunning at eighty, for she had the highest of haughty cheekbones, in contradiction entirely with her sunny warmth and sincere soft gentleness. This girl could giggle for America, and win it a million Olympian gold medals. Six-foot-one in her bare feet, no measured mile could outdistance the length of her legs. She was slim, she was trim, she was fit, and she was proud of being a girl. And as proud were the twin protuberances that coned her chest with firm delights. Her movements out-willowed the proverbial, for this girl moved in a dance allegoric of allegro. Her hair was straight, and touched below her shoulder blades, blonde as the full harvest moon at wolf’s howl. Her eyes were a bright incredible entirely natural red, out diamonding rubies for their honeychild sparkle. And she Sapphic with no girlfriend at home yet in whose love she could trust, as her girl must Celcus herself, with her mouth that was all moist-lipped softness and welcome, and which would always kiss first and ask questions later.

Celcus had nipples two-inches long, and they were pointing up to the heavens, appointing her uniform bib with cause for the breathtaking astonishment she stirred wherever she appeared. Serna, Celcus, and Veronica: this Celcus, the middle sister, had insisted she wanted to work for a living, though she had wealth and no need to seek employment instead of enjoyment. She was the drop-out who had found university boring and, in rare show of anything other than loving kindness, had lectured her lecturers on their stupidity, for her mind had long since outdistanced their predecessors, when she was half her now age.

In her judge’s chambers just now before, Elspeth Zanori had been with her new maid ‘Mary’ - Imogene gypsy gazelle girl-woman, nerve of nerves of nirvana, shying creature of creation’s creation, with the goddess of girl-perfection’s seal of approval, as all-girl and nothing but girl, with hair so long so curled so indigo black, so magically magnificently ringletted and wrung in rings and rounds of soft sensual scent in descent from saintly head to brushed floor, curl-wave caressed, curtaining her as naturally in nature’s dress, even when nature herself, Imogene, was undressed. Hair in cascading crescendo, complex curling whirling in descent, from apex to carpet, as to ascend the senses to Saturnalian sensation.

Free-spirit child, Imogene must at all times bound by hobble be as ‘Mary’, else she would return run the wild to. Cruel was it, it was, to use her as maid, should when naked in the sun run woods in the be she. Complexion of complete on olive beauty dream was she, she was, of water splash as down peerless rolled pearls hair rung droplets run dropping drip helloed halo rainbow jewels refracted head shook after water she impacted slim slice-glide simply parted she as to shake the world slim shape swerve curves with of her she is was she transparent she heaven to transport she be so, all so, so all also very herself in of and through core to all girl and girl and girl and she and she and she and girl. Imagine image unimaginable majesty of she magical and she and girl and this Imogene be: if girl be girl, Imogene BC AD be she: girl: all girl.

“Mary: have you brought my spare panties to court?” Elspeth demanded of the captive gypsy wild-girl.

“Yes lady my”, courtesy curtseyed a dream’s dream: Imogene dipping, all legs long and shear lovely beyond the loveliest lovely mere ‘lovely’ could aspire to define.

This Elspeth was going to enjoy. Before entering court she would pull her panties up very high and verily very hard into her female crevice: into her lips and high too onto her hips. When leaving, sentence passed after, she would needs change, for the soaking sopped pair scented with her pre and pro orgasmic oils, were ruined for certain by her wriggling on the judgement seat, to surreptitiously and successfully stir, her potent pot to powerful secret cums, from the power that comes from power.

‘I am Elspeth Zanaori: the destroyer of girls’, said the pose she possessed, as all court stood when she progressed her legal regal way, to the seat of magisterial majesty, some poor girl to redress and dress-down, undressed in the dock, and shock to a hell for a spell in prison or worse, perforce perverse.

With wealth and new-minted US citizenship came this duty, and Elspeth Zanori looked magisterially stern with concern, over her half-moon spectacles, that she vaguely recognised the tremendously attractive negress in the prisoners’ dock. She looked familiar. Elspeth had had a maid, one of the many called ‘Mary’. They had all been ‘Mary’ of course, as was Imogene now, even when they were not. What rot was spoken, that such girls had any right to their own individual name.

Eclectic, with an eye for the finest, Elspeth had always selected the tastiest of the mortal morsels that worked in her Le Rosbif Diners over in Britain, and her new now Hotel Le Rosbif hotel chain, here in New York.

There had been several negresses. All girls were beautiful, but the negress has beauty’s beauty. This jewel was café-crème de la café-crème. If Elspeth could see her nipples, those two-inch diameter brown-pink areole that adorned ‘Mary’, and could adorn the obviously stupendous chest filling full that dirty vest, then she would know for sure it was Mary. The lovely lips were Mary’s. Perhaps, Elspeth thought, her honey already dripping, she should have broken with tradition and made that particular maid simply ‘Kiss’ rather than another ‘Mary’…

Amanda’s bare legs were tautly femininely finely muscular, as she stood to attention in the dock. The projector continued to play the scenes of her heaven-sent mouth, sending Veronica to heaven and beyond the furthest stars in heaven’s own fevered firmament, far beyond the capture of but earthly rapture; and yet she was supposed to feel ashamed.

Ashamed she was not: in pain she was, for she had the two soles of her pretty little feet twisted, and turned so that her gorgeous legs had their stupendous calves almost back-to-back, with her toes individually clipped by rings each to its opposite on her feet, and her feet thus tortured, forced into a wooden V-wedge in the dock so that she stood to attention showing respect for the court, and pain in her lovely face, in equal measure, with the soles of her feet pressed together like hands praying for her soul. With no support before her, Amanda must hold her wonderful legs together if she were not to torture her feet even more unbearably.

The vest she wore, was uplifted physically and immeasurably spiritually, by her 40-inch double-D-cup bosom, and this was aided by the fact that her slender wrists were girlacled to the back of a leather band, that ringed her swan’s neck, lifting her chest in praise of the word ‘beauty’: ‘beauty’ so inadequate as definition, unless Amanda was the exemplar.

Unwashed for weeks, she stank of her stale sweat urine and faeces. Her stance too, opened her sex for inspection, and its incurving lips were surrounded once more now, with the sweet curls of the dark brown hair pubic, of the negress girl.

“You are a slut and a slattern and your pattern of behaviour would shame a whore. You have risen from the gutter and prison, and because of the deception you practiced, became a girl-cab-motor, and later to mislead a poor innocent into marrying you, so that, no doubt, you could lead life in the luxury that your status in natural society would, quite rightly, have never allowed you.”

Elspeth Zanori was warming to her subject, and already anointing her chair, as she nearly panted for want of pronouncing the denouncing of the lovely girl before her. She seemed cool calm and acidic, but surreptitiously shifted on her high leather seat, to give her minx another thrill, because, as always before sentence, she had quietly adeptly lifted her robes so she could rub herself on the soft leather of the seat of judgement power.

“This country has, completely justifiably, become tired of the behaviour of girls like you. You are, or rather now thankfully, ‘were’, a fortune hunter. Through the only merit you have, your obvious physical and facial charm, you made the marital bed. But instead of being thankful for the mercy thus shown by proper society, to a girl from the gutter, you, at the first opportunity, showed your utter contempt for your social superiors.”

“You should never have been allowed to take the marital vow, for it is meaningless to artful schemers of your class and caste. The error was made and the inevitable happened. Married to one lovely sister, you purposely, and, with rapine a forethought foremost in your filthy mind, set out to seduce her oldest sister, a girl of incredible natural beauty that you sought to defile and deflower.”

“Honoured with the band of gold on your right-hand wedding finger, a wife, a position of the highest trust sanctioned by and sanctified by promises, you betrayed a husband, her sister, and your sister-in-law, by sedulously seducing your sister-in-law’s wife, your adorable wife’s adorable sister.”

“Sex out of wedlock, fornication, is an offence that no decent society can tolerate. In my view the public whipping of girls who indulge such hideous cravings is a service both to those girls and to society, second only to caning in schools to cure the scourge of self-masturbation.”

“But your crime is more insidious grave and despicable still. You were a wife. We can only thank god that the past tense applies here. You were a wife. You had vowed to honour and obey: but no, that was not for you. You were still an animal, and must pursue your vile lust, betraying all trust.”

“When god made that wonderful body and that loveliest of faces, and, as I understand from the background notes before me, a supremely intelligent mind, she did not licence them for unlicensed licentiousness. Those wonderful lips were made only for the chaste kisses of courtship and the controlled passion of the marital bed.”

“Instead you pursued seduction, and indulged the heinous crime of fornication within marriage.”

“Taking your victim to a respectable hotel, you ensnared her for the bedroom and there took her by force to spite your husband and your sister-in-law, for no known motive than that to be expected, since it is endemic in girls of your class. Pure evil!”

“The heartfelt gratitude of this court must go on record to the Molleigh Malona Defectives Detectives Agency Inc, for their skill and persistence in tracking you down, and providing sufficient evidence from their electronic installations, to remove the horrible necessity of calling witnesses to the stand.”

“Despite all your vile defects, you, my lovely lady, must now pay thanks to your ex husband who, despite the entirely justified and understandable objections of your sister-in-law, has entered a plea of mercy. That saintly girl is a husband that should have been treasured.”

“Unfortunately, the law allows such pleas, and I have to take them into account. I can therefore only pass the lower sentence for inter-marital fornication.”

“Accordingly, it is the sentence of this court, that you, Amanda X, spend the next three years in prison, without remission reduction right of appeal or of further referral, as a slave of the state.”

“Take the prisoner down to the cells”.

Her multiple cums echoed still as Elspeth, not showing her joy at her enjoyment of sentence passed so recently past, so practiced was she at hiding what only she and ‘Mary’ – Imogene – knew she indulged, moved to rise from her seat, ensuring her judge’s robes, covered her cum-aid crutch clutching crack creased high within, silk, girl-milt soaked panties, sopping wet.

“All rise” called the court clerk, and all rose, save Amanda already upright risen and silently sobbing for prison and her life’s next year’s three complete and utter robbing.

Celcus’ legs were bare this morning. She wanted to top-up her delicious tan, and the Postal Service allowed the ideal opportunity by not necessarily requiring stockings be worn by the postgirls in summer.

The six-foot-one-inch tall girl was slimly supremely sexy in her uniform. ‘Saucy’ should have been her sobriquet. Jaunty and sexy was the angle she always wore her red-banded, 50-white-star-spangled-on-blue-cloth, flat-topped, stiff-white-peaked, uniform cap. Her height, a model’s, made it look as if she were catwalking a creation, so dangling was the angling, and the choice to have the peak so that one lovely shine-smiling eye peeked past it, with her ever-loving ever-sunny face, feminine fortune to be greeted by at dawning. Her long blonde shoulder-blade bottoming hair wedging it safe, saved her cap from a tumble, and made the humble headpiece look adorable: adorable as Celcus herself indeed, and Celcus gave ‘adorable’ dictionary dignity from demeaning, for her demeanour gave the mere word its true meaning.

Wool was cheap and the US Post was pro fiscal economy. And so the material was minimal and so the white skirt, a frequent interval, integral wool-ball-bobble weighted, pleated Ra-Ra, was miniscule, combining within, within-itself, a woollen thong: briefs whose mischief in brief, was to be hard up on the curly-blonde-down-blessed lips, and thus hot on the trot, if the woollen belt that held the miniscule skirt up, was to be tied at such a height as not to leave a full-sized girl such as Celcus, completely cheeky at her wow-worthy rear. The belt for the skirt ended in bobble-tassels that regulations required dangle by the side, and which thus bounced and tickled left thighed.

The midriff was bare, and a sunny honey like Celcus, gave a belly-dancer no quarter for not wiggling like she oughta, as her hips flicked with her wild-wiggle-walk, a cockless peacock’s tail shake to seduce a mate, to make earthquake: mercy’s sake! come-hither cum teaser treasure in her wake, not taught but natural as sun and rain, and confirming girl’s rein on sweet mother earth, wiggling for all life is worth, for science has proven fact sound, that girls’ wiggles make the sun the moon and the world go around.

A woollen cuirass-front bib, polo at neck, tied at bottom-of-ribs height, with ribbon on bare smooth femininely finely arched back, bore the delightful burden, no burden, of bulging with Celcus’ firm breasts, high on the tall willow-wand of a woman-girl, and taken to the heights of ecstasy by the stiffness of her two-inch-long nipples, appointing high steeples in the stretched material.

This was uniform but hot, and chafed delightfully, deliciously building up static in the nipples that made them extend world without end, ecstatic, without bend, to send the willow-wand appointed by the heaven in which she was anointed, to point back to from whence she came. The woollen cuirass bib of the uniform, was pleasurably uncomfortable in this regard, but, curiously, of the bib, none of the postgirls had ever complained.

The bib was scarlet and bore on bosom top, the for contrast white writ script: “US Post”.

Celcus still smiled and giggled and put pretty fingers on saintly lips, lips to sip a longing, when she recalled her first week as a trainee novice, and how long it had been before she noticed, in her uniform locker, that in honour of her incredible nipples, for her second day, the other postgirls had sneakily cheekily added an extra ‘S’ to the ‘Post’ in the title on her chest.

No girl in the post room had failed to fall head-over-heels in love with this delight’s delight, when, on her discovery of the tease, her appealing giggles and sexy tears-of-girl-laughter peeled, and made their mere office a place of worship, with its token totem, this titanically feminine wistfully willowy tall, totally-girl girl.

Celcus’ eternally extreme supreme dream long legs, were bare out of choice, foregoing the blue woollen elasticated-top stockings that were her only winter warmth, for that this was summer, summery, in summary. But her long legs were longer elevated to the highest heights of high heaven, in the hard wearing reinforced-steel-toecapped standard-issue, blue US Post Service heelless tiptoe en-pointe booties, that finished the uniform Celcus’ furnished with such honour and beauty, to the red-white-and-blue patriotic duty, of delivering the daily post.

Despite 2084 and beyond, being a time when electronic and beyond supersonic were many communications, paper was still used, and parcels more so, and delivery door to door, needed the postgirls, who made six deliveries every day of the seven days that even still then measured the passing of a week.

Amanda stood patiently. She had no choice but so to do. She twiddled eight of her ten toes, the only free ones. Her legs looked what they were: magnificent. She was on tiptoe and extremely painfully so. She was on the tip-top of her bare big toes, but that her big toes were not bare.

Her big toes were shod. Her big toes were tightly gripped in holders, like unto candle-holders, and of rough iron, with side screws to tighten the iron of the holders around the toes, till the grip was significant, and the holders thus held in place, and held in place the individual plates to which the holders were mounted: curved plates: shaped plates. Amanda’s big toes pointed down centrally to them, from centre above those shaped plates: horseshoe-shaped plates, one for each foot, iron horseshoes, for Amanda wore horseshoes, screw-mounted to her thus tortured big toes, and was horseshoe shod because she was a horse: a pony: a human pony: a ponygirl: a no lack pony: a pack-pony.

Daily for her all-day duty bound was beauty bound: Amanda tacked out.

At ankles, stretched slim-waifed seductions from her leggy-legs steepling on her hooves, Amanda must wear security, lest she escape, and so ankles around surrounded tight and padlocked were, with girl-cuff-anklets, strong in shiny-shining-white-patent-leather, and a chain between, to hobble this queen of queens, by two-inches chain play, her walk the more to wiggle and sway, and save the public, her escape prevented, by the humble strong two-inch hobble to no fear their day.

Bent like an inverted ‘L’ as in ‘hell’ to spell, Amanda’s arms were crushed together at her back in a single shiny-shining-white-patent-leather glove, the multiple-lacing-up straps of which, had been unmercifully tightened so her elbows touched.

And from her pulled up wrists, hands together in prayer for alms she would never receive, ran too, two shiny-shining-white-patent-leather straps, as tight as bowstrings, to the rings that sided the bit-gag in her mouth, so that her head was pulled up with her arms too, too painfully hard both two too, making her lovely brown eyes, wildly wide-open, look obediently front, summaries of emotion.

Amanda’s arms were thus pulled hard up at shoulder and she could lower them for relief, only at the mischief of pulling her bit harder back into her gorgeous mouth, or lower her hard-back-bent neck, only by pulling up her arms in strappado. To see, and not be locked looking up at the stars, she must therefore in ‘L’ hell bend, her gorgeous eyes to the horizon to lend.

To ensure she held her head up, she also had a white-leather neck-brace, tubular and curving, higher under chin than at nape hairline, around her swan’s grace. And to ensure she looked front more furthermore, her eyes gorgeous decidedly, were sided, both sides, with letter ‘D’ shaped blinders or blinkers, in a continuation of her bit-harness, still shiny-shining-white-patent-leather on her lovely brown skin, making up her bridle in total, that also included a white leather band across her forehead, bearing in red lettering her beauty’s duty calling: ‘US Post’.

Her waist wore a saddle that bore resemblance to a shiny white strap, pulled so tight that it nine-inched her twenty-two natural, and went round her thus wisp-wasped waist, twice.

Her wonderful double-D-cup-40-inch breasts, long lactation not lacking still even now, hung down, bells from heaven, and swung free, but that her simply superb nipples were pinched and punished by toothed and sprung dog-clips. to hold needles inserted: needles hollowed to allow the passage of her hallowed milk to her mouth, through the two pipes that ran up to her mouth-bit: to give her range and sustainability, through self-sufficiency in the only sustenance she would have access to, to feed her during a twenty-hour out of twenty-four day, week long, weakness not allowed, seven-day week, of work in bondage.

Her nose was savagely cruelly ringed through the septum like a prize bull, and belled with a cowbell dangling on chain below her chin, so she rang wrong and strong to a ‘dang-dong’, ‘dang-dong’, for New York State and City Safety Law, decreed that a pony such as she should have forewarning of her coming, so that mothers could hide their daughters from the sight of her suffering, for this was Amanda’s punishment for seducing Veronica, or so she had been accused and convicted: the punishment for inter-marital fornication.

Celcus was never too sure whether to talk to the pony. She was a gorgeous negress. Celcus knew that this was Amanda. Celcus had never met her hitherto, because Amanda was too low of caste for Celcus’ social circle. She had not met her till now, when Amanda was once more cast down where society would have her. No wonder Veronica had fallen for her, she was an astonishing beauty. But that was two-years in the past now.

Celcus knew her pony’s past. She had not mentioned her specific pony to Veronica. After all, the pack-ponies were strictly nameless and, anyway, her lovely sister had enough troubles, what with her marriage. Her husband-girl demanded all manner of obscenities of her, and she was rarely without bruises or a blackened eye. Wife-beating was an awful crime in Celcus’ book; though perfectly legal in fact.

Celcus told herself she would never marry. She could not stand her sister’s husband, Amelia, and had told Amelia so to her face. This she now regretted, but only because she had not been allowed to see her sisters in consequence, Veronica nor Serna either, for this last year and more, such was the spitefulness of Amelia: and now she could only sneak phone calls to them.

Celcus was gentleness girlsonified. Even if lovely Celcus spoke to her pack-pony, and she always did so sweetly and kindly, poor Amanda had no answer she could make, for the steel penis-bit in her mouth was no fake, and pulled back in her mouth extremely hard, straps round back of her head to hold it, as well as the violent violin-string-taut straps from her wrists, so that the hollowed steel tube penis at the rear of the bit between her teeth, was two-feet down her throat like a sword-swallower’s sword.

Attaching a lead-chain to Amanda’s nose-ring, Celcus, at crack of dawn for the first post cannot be post and therefore late, led Amanda in agony to the post sorters’ gate.

In a row stood the fifty vans, carts called ‘barrows’, with two wheels at sides and one at rear, and a single, six-foot-long three-inch-diameter round ended shaft forward, temporarily resting on an unremarkable removable ‘Y’ prop. The vans’ shafts, one each van, cold shining stainless steel, were articulated to move up down or sideways as needed at the connection with the cart.

The cart itself, was the size of a mini-dumpster-skip, with two main wheels at sides, of farm-cart formulation, four-feet in diameter, wooden spoke multiple bespoke bespoked, with a tough rubber-rim forming the solid cartwheel tyre for the sidewalks where the postgirls must catwalk pussyfooting their pretty pussies, the far-distant distaff of male, to post the mail.

The counterbalance wheel at its rear hovered above ground, no more than one-foot round, but ready if the cart lifted from bump in the road or shift in the load, to come to the rescue, and touch ground, to enable the cart to continue.

‘Mail-barrow’ was their official name: ‘country-carts’ their slang reputation, if not necessarily pronounced quite the same.

These covered wagons, which angelic postgirls, legally uniformed leggy sweeties, even now loaded busily with ordered parcels and packages for the townspeople. Fifty wagons in the red-and-blue-with-white-stars-spangle of the US Post, in shining gold lettering on both sides of the curved-canvas-top-against-rain. Covered carts, blazoning brazen the emblem of a girl kneeling, naked, with a pretty hand before her chin, blowing a message kiss, and the name for the service they provided: ‘US Post Service (Sponsored by Girls-Fargo)’.

“We have a new round today pony”, Celcus sweetly soothed, as she loaded Amanda’s back with the saddle bags, bags at the end off a long strap slipped under Amanda’s uplifted gloved arms, and rested over the squeezed down middle, of the wasp that was Amanda’s waist that was: these bags holding the letters sorted by street and apartment.

Celcus then, casually backed Amanda up, so that the three-inch-diameter, cold cold-steel, dome-headed, round profile, six-foot long shaft, of the two-cartwheeled post wagon, now full of packets parcels and packages, touched tingly-singly-chillingly, on Amanda’s supremely sensitive rear lips, unparted united, as Amanda was forced to stay so bent over as to present them thus.

“Hold pretty pony” Celcus sang all-but with her loving tongue, as she backed Amanda to stand bent before the ‘Y’ supported six-foot-long cold steel shaft, the stainless steel shining shaft resting in the crook crutch of the ‘Y’.

The chain hung from a hook on the ‘Y’. Why this chain? This chain was the crupper.

For Celcus’ femininely pretty, feminine hands, the clip on the crupper-chain’s under-belly end, always needed both lovely thumbs to undo and hold undone as, with her long long legs lusciously lovely knelt folded, she under Amanda squatted and searched, till, to the strong ring in Amanda’s extremely supremely tight wasp-waisting-belt, the steel ring hanging down from its bottom rear, she clipped the chain to dangle, and then the pretty angel rose to rub her thumbs as she did daily for the strength this had needed.

As matter-of-factly, as it was indeed the routine scene seen of morn and dawn for all the US Post’s pack-ponies, did Celcus the postgirl now gently encourage Amanda to back-wiggle. And Amanda must reverse: ‘clop’ ‘clip’; ‘clop’ ‘clip’; ‘clop’ ‘clip’; obedient without stop, as her lady’s labia lovely parted, as the shaft pole started to enter her splendour profound, helplessly bound and bound to reverse, for torture perverse, to punish her for loving a girl above her station, a slave to deprave by pony formulation, at the hands of the nation.

Bound to take the cart’s shaft deep into her intimacy, Amanda would howl in pain were she able enabled, but her bit-penis gag prevented, as the pole slowly entered, inch by inch, flaring her succulent inner-pink flower formation, to slide along the cart-shaft, unlubricated and ripping, tearing her in torment, as tears teetered on heavens eye-rims lowered, as Amanda’s face wonderful her torture torment total showed.

Slid six-inches into Amanda’s cunt, and soon to be strapped in place there by the chain, the crupper, the chain to be run from the waspie around her belly at front, to the same waspie-strap at her back, both front and back of the waist-belt being provided with the strong rings needed to hold the crupper-chain to pull the cart-shaft in, into its designated resting place: Amanda was paused: her bell ‘dang-donging’ recording her insane, as her head waved in the agony of her pain, her cunt rape-filled-full with the searing steel dildo, six-inch cold dull, ripping her sweet sensitivity with insensitive insensate proclivity.

This was pure norm of dawn and day begun, as new day greeted the morning sun. Celcus pretty, soft, sensitive and gentle, would never pain inflict elemental, were not this the way, quite normal, to start her everyday day, today yesterday or tomorrow.

Seeing a loved friend arriving at the post and parcel sorting office, gentle Celcus stopped the backing with the three-inches-wide shaft six-inches into Amanda’s cavity, even as Amanda in pain was still mentally writhing.

Natalie, Elspeth Zanori’s gorgeously pretty little nymphet daughter, had grown, and how she had grown: she was significantly magnificent, working her college gap-year for the US Post ‘(sponsored by Girls-Fargo)’, and giving more glory to the cheap woollen red-white-and-blue uniform she filled as prettily as Celcus; but in a more compact and thus more roundly curvy swervy way.

“Hi Natalie. Wow do you look sexy!” Celcus called-out in a giggling tease, knowing that Natalie hated the uniform from which her lovely body gorgeously generously spilled.

Then she saw Natalie’s pretty legs stomp a little, as she wiggled to a halt and turned, and the angelic sweetie fisting her dainty little hands on her waistline in fury, and pouting and stomping her lovely leggy-legs, en-pointe shoe shod, titties pronouncedly abundantly bouncing, as in temper pretend. Natalie was astoundingly announcing annoyance, in toy temper’s distemper, about to turn in tantrum and wiggle her lovely bum in anger, away from the friend who had called her to tease her, because her astonishing young beauty pleased her.

Sorry, unsure, but teased to be deceived, Celcus now called: “I didn’t mean it like that honey!” in instant short-distance gentle sweet and wholly holy sincere apology.

And now, both recovered discovered, a duet of girls giggled divinely, as Natalie’s acting ‘humph’ had drawn from Celcus the response aimed for by the return joke, Natalie knowing, but not at first showing, she knew all along that she was only being teased.

From the distance they stood apart, Natalie could now but only blow a lovely kiss from the palm of the prettiest of hands, a greeting to the gorgeous Celcus, as she, Natalie, naturally late for work as ever, swung her lovely rear and wiggled her bountiful firm bum, into the sorting office, and Celcus giggled gorgeously supreme, a girl in a dream: a dream girl’s dream.

For Amanda, paused in pain, her cunt filled six-inches by the unyielding shaft, so cold and brutal, there was still some way to go, for the shaft was not so frugal.

And so soft Celcus, still shaking her head as she giggled at sexy Natalie’s triumphant tease, eased Amanda back onto the shaft, keeping an eye for the hole that would tell her when Amanda’s cunt had swallowed the whole of the pole destined to follow the six-inches it already surrounded in surrender.

Amanda ‘clop’; ‘clip’; ‘clop’; ‘clip’; ‘clop’; ‘clip’; ‘clop’; ‘clipped’ obediently back onto the shaft sliding inexorably in, into the centre of her joy and sin, till cold brutal steel stole one-whole one-and-a-half-feet deep into her cunt, her cunt forced to play host to such savagery as a cart shaft to which it must lend play and articulation and slide, as she pulled the cart all day behind her backside.

Bending her lissom length, and reaching with arms golden downed dream slim, Celcus reached with love’s lovely hands to grasp the dangling crupper chain, bring it up through the hole made for that purpose through the cart’s shaft, to fasten it to the pack-pony, Amanda, just behind the one-and-a-half-feet of its three-inch fatness, vastly inside Amanda’s vagina, took the chain through the hole, pulled the crupper tight, as Amanda gasped from the eighteen-inches of cold steel shaft now buried deep within her, and clipped it, two-pretty-hands’ strength needed again, to the answering hoop at Amanda’s nine-inch waistline-squeezing wasping-belt.

Clipping the crupper on the back of the bent-over Amanda, Celcus paused again as Natalie’s innocent of wanton, wanton wiggle approached, to greet her pretty friend, final late parcels carrying.

With lips to lips passion natural to both, they suddenly kissed, Celcus and Natalie, as they were for brides to be bided and bedded, once fate’s calendar decided, though neither girl knew it yet.

For the moment of one girl’s total agony, two girls had the world stand in standstill, as mouths made for kisses without cease, did not employ kisses, but kissed just the once, long, not prolonged but profoundly moving, as tall slim shapely, adored small slim curvy, and mouths not parted, imparted the kiss they were made for, as two girls flawlessly adorable, adorned the morn mist with a kiss never to be missed, and the mystery of love throughout history, asked if it had ever known such ambassadoresses as these, as kiss crescendoed, and gasping girls knew love was entered not ended, but sought to deny their passions’ high, and pretend they were not gasping for more sweet lips clasping: for two girls had kissed in the morning mist, and the whirled had stood still.

The wave that Natalie now gave Celcus as she, Natalie, must return to her duty, told how the sweetmeat was date-mate for the asking, even as Celcus, another heart’s token taken, never ever by her sweetness to be broken, sighed and turned to the bondage-bound Amanda, their day to start over.

“Well honey, we had better start our day” the ever-smiling Celcus intoned to the tortured Amanda, as she did daily, and led the pack-pony pulling the heavy cart by her cunt in a ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ short leggy steppy ankle hobbled wiggle wobble bummy shake earthquake wake, out of the gate, and onto the sidewalk where Amanda’s wiggle would wank her on the shafts constancy, constantly and without mercy.

As they headed for the new guarded enclave keeping the social superiors of society from the crimes of the wild girls now rebelling in New York, fermenting wished for revolution, and stretching the resources of Girl-Control with a crime wave, Central Park peaceful seeming not steaming, was full of bitches being walked by their maids.

‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, mere walk for Amanda was perforce a trot, as the hobble encumbered and she walk could not. Her bottom thus wiggled more as steps she took galore, four steps for one stride were her legs not deprived of the steps she could take and the progress she could make, were she not in a hobble, to make her sex grate on the rod up her cunt, the pole in her cunt, to plunge her and poke her as they strolled her by the ring in her nose ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, bound, to compose a girl in surrender, as the pole must send her, to hell, with the mail-barrow playing its part, in a torture with more to it, than simple intuit would spit was the case, as the poor girl suffered disgrace in wonderful gentle grace.

Amanda patiently trotted behind the wiggling rear of her lovely mistress’ of the long long long legs, Celcus, and hardly noticed the three particular bitches, with their Pluto tails swishing, being walked by a maid, a rescued prostitute and sheepgirl, called ‘Eve’, in fact Rosetta of the russet curls, a girl among girls, pale and beautiful under her parasol, walking the bitches on their three separate leashes, wiggling in her three-inch ankle hobble, their eyes shining with the joy of being exercised: two black, two emerald-green, and two in the most incredible shining cornflower-blue: those eyes, as Zudina Palermo, Siabon Redhead, and Michaela Redhead, crawl-swung by, oblivious of the patient plodding pony Amanda’s ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ hauling the morning post-cart past them, led by a chain in the ring in her nose by a wonderful willow woman-girl of incredible charm.

Amanda was being fucked by the shaft that filled one-and-a-half-feet-long into her cunt, and in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, of her, stretching the strain of the crupper-chain with the cart in train behind her, as she wiggled on her big toes, screwed by her big toes to the iron hooves, in which she could hardly trot, for her two-inch hobble forcing her not her legs to far part, as she played her part being screwed by the pole up her hole ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, shafting, shagging, stuffing, fucking, screwing, pounding, poking, poling, holy wholly holing her, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, bound in pain and helpless, Amanda wiggled, her bum’s eternal mystery of girl message, shagging herself, dribbling her cunt honey, and her sweat, and her spittle, and shagged being by the six-foot cold-steel cunt stealing cart-shaft up her cunt, relentlessly endlessly and endlessly relentlessly, in the rising of the morning sun.

Oh those legs before her! Oh this girl Celcus! How could one not adore her? Towed by her nose-ring bent with her arms up, her poor head nodding, in nodding donkey mock, forced by her arms clamped in single glove strap-tied, and her wrists so tightly to her mouth bit rings strung by straps tight unmerciful: Amanda’s arms rocked up and down like an oil-derrick, and her uplifted head went back and forth in rhythmic beat, this girl so sweet suffered so.

Amanda’s only comfort was to eye Celcus’ young beauty, free from the savage restraints she endured to be cured by the state of complaint that she had shirked her duty as wife, by seeking a life with love not arid as that into which she had married.

By closing her wonderful negress’ lips on the bit across her mouth, Amanda could suck on the tube, a single tube merged from the division into two running up from her nipples, and feed and drink on her own warm loving lovely milk, her only other comfort on a day in which she must comport to haul this trailer around non-stop, save for loading, with no care if she dropped. And drop before now had she with cruel postgirl, who had just whipped her till she scrambled to her feet again and obediently wiggled on once more as ordered.

‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, the shagging was endless: no pity for the poor girl her cunt pumped and penetrated, and the whip used to drive her if she became enervated.

‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, the road was endless, as endless as Amanda’s shaft-shagging was relentless and merciless.

A hill she must now climb putting her legs under duress, her legs, made to move her and move hearts, were in no distress, for she was lithe and fit, and her legs supremely shapely, could wiggle along in the hobble to make the incline so steep, though making her sweat so another mistress would have whipped her, her duty not to forget, to urge her to effort that hill for to climb with legs so sublime, or take stripes from the whip to make the trip.

‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’, in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, the park enclave entrance, oh god save her some rest, from the endless shaft shagging and its constant distress.

“Let me look at your face please” came a sweet girl over the security gate intercom.

“US Post, sponsored by Girls Fargo”, Celcus smiled with just her normal face, advertising her wares as she had been trained, an empress of beauty in the world girls’ now reigned.

“I recognise you. Celcus Hayden-Standish. Welcome honey”

An electronic buzz and the barred gate of steel opened, so Amanda and her heavy mail-barrow could be led through, till the gate swung and clanged locked shut behind her beautiful behind.

The bumpy cobblestones of the long drive to the superb apartments occupied by Cecile Mondelicuer-Meed-Arbinthrope, in the new walled and wired residential security enclave, was hard on Amanda, putting no strain on her magnificent legs, but juddering and vibrating the shaft up her cunt, and swinging her breasts, as the cow-bell on her nose-ring hung on hook dangling ‘dang-donged’ clanged to wake the dead, and her iron hoofs sparked as they clip, clopped and slid on the dew wetted stones, as the wheels of the mail-barrow lurched and lumbered, twisting the full one-and-a-half-feet of the cart-shaft in Amanda’s cunt to add to her torture.

‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, Amanda was led by the chain in her nose-ring in further progress. ‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, went the shaft relentless, to pole her and shag her and fuck her time endless.

A pause, as sweet Celcus hung Amanda’s lead chain around the hitching rail the byelaws required all new homes provided for ponies, as she searched in the van at Amanda’s rear and some parcels inside it.

Celcus wiggled to the door, rang the bell and smiled: no rehearsal, for this was how she looked all the while. “US Post sponsored by Girls Fargo” she called into the security intercom but no answer came at all.

Cecile was not at home. Amanda watched the incredible long legs of the sublime Celcus, as the smiling honey, picked out post and packages, and wiggled a sway to make any watching girl’s day, to the post boxes in the hallway, to return and smile at Amanda as the only salve for the pack-pony slave’s pain, as she led Amanda over the rugged rough granite cobbles of the enclave sidewalks again.

‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, pulling the heavy mail-barrow with her cunt. ‘Clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, Amanda pulled her post-barrow through the streets broad and narrow all long legs and strong legs so lithe so lithe oh.

The cold shaft of the mail-barrow went in and out and in and out and in and out of Amanda’s cunt as she wiggled along, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in obedience trained, constrained to pull a cart in carriage for desecrating marriage, bound in restraints for complaints against her conduct, wronged-up and holed-up in a prison of hell, to serve a slave to the state, working as an animal, being purposely submitted to public masturbation, as the passing girls saw her drag her mail-barrow and giggled at the sight of the shaft disappearing deep into the site of her mystery, her purse, her pussy, her cunt: her cunt being fucked by an eighteen-inch rod, knowing nothing of sensitivity or technique or gentleness or kindness or consideration, as it rammed her, and raped her, as she ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clopped’ long leggily, legally forced to suffer three whole years of having her hole wholly prodded and rodded by the relentless pole pushed up her, and held in her, from dawn to beyond dusk, prodding her thus, rodding her, plumbing her depths to the deepest, constantly relentlessly poking and stoking her holy hole, on the streets she must stroll, doing as told, ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out. There was no subtlety in the use of Amanda’s supple slot, her slit was being rodded and poled as her bottom rocked and rolled, as she wiggled her wonder way on legs divine all the way down to toes crushed on tiptoe in hooves to erect her aloft, fine calved calf muscles stretched and taut, thighs thunder strong magnificently shapely and ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clopping’ her in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, along. And the shaft would have its say and the shaft would have its day, for Amanda was only a girl, a girl being given such ministration, submitting to the will of the nation, her cunt must be shafted and shagged if that be her sentence to teach her repentance. And there was solace in Celcus so lovely and sweet her legs long and replete, each a repeat of the curvy path to the heaven of the haven between them beyond long calves and longing thighs to a rear that swayed away each way, every which way, all day, so near to Amanda’s tortured brown eyes, as Celcus’ Ra-Ra flicked and bounced at her natural busy flounce, as she bounded on tiptoe, door to door, her smile of greeting by one and all adored, her breasts with those nipples steepling, from the sides of her bib peeping, as the passing girls looked her loveliness straight in the nipples, as she giggled and smiled knowing those were not her eyes, but that their size would always bring sighs for want of their prize, till Amanda could bare no more and the rod’s prod would drive her to a new station of salvation, as her cunt’s salivation would slide the shaft fore and aft, fore and aft, fore and aft, fore and aft more swiftly for its lubrication, and she would become confirmatorily girl, as her world would swirl, and Celcus’ lovely legs, long lithe, long so long so lovely so shapely so strong so stretched so tall so smooth so sleek so leggy as she wiggled at top and bottom, with her imperious bottom, her nipples dancing, her breasts entrancing, her face aglow with glow of love and smiles, and her mouth, oh god her mouth, her mouth so moist and so wanting of a kiss, a kiss on the smile that glowed from her eyes, that sparkled her eyes, that smile that love that girl who now whirled around swinging her hips smiling with her lips swinging her legs as she walked before Amanda, as Amanda ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clopped with the shaft’s in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, outing her along, a slave suffering for a crime she was an innocent of, looking at heaven in the shape of a girl, those legs those legs those long, long, long, long, long, long, long long long oh god those legs……… Amanda came with a world-ending power that screamed her to whinny and upward buck, as she wiggled and was fucked and the shaft rodded and prodded as she plodded still pulling the truck ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clopping’ rodding and poling and rocking and rolling her, fucking her hard, in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out, and Celcus’ lovely legs, those legs those legs this girl this angel this heaven on poor earth, more than earth’s worth, those legs those long long long legs, as Amanda came, those legs, again! those legs, and again!! those legs, and again!!! those lovely, lovely, those those those those long, long, long, long, long, long, oh god those wonderful long legs!!!!!

Amanda whinnied through her bit-gag again and again, as she came again and again and again.

The rising sun shone behind, silhouetting and haloing Celcus’, despite its far star inferior inadequacy. As a true source of life and warmth and fire and love a mere token, compared with the girl so made bespoken.

Disobediently stood still now, Amanda’s head nodded as her behind-back single tight arm-gloved arms rocked up and down, the leather bands tying her wrists to her steel mouth bit so tautly, thus pulling on her head and thus also driving the steel penis gag pushed two-feet into her, in and out of her gagging throat. Her legs, her wonderful, beautiful, divinely shapely legs, stretched on en pointe feet beyond straight down, with her big toes tortured in the vicious vice grip of the ‘candle-holders’ holding the savagely mocking cruelly degrading debasing and dehumanising pony-hooves on her feet, feet bleeding from her ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ two-inch ankle-chain hobbled wiggle-walking. And she shifted unsettled ‘clop’ ‘clip’ ‘clip’ ‘clop’ ‘clop’ ‘clop’ ‘clip’ with her shuffling hooves even now, seemingly to work her honey-dribbling slit on the one-and-a-half feet of three-inch-diameter cold cruel cold-steel cart-shaft rod driven into her sweetest softest most succulent part, the very heart of her girlness, and held so hard up her by the crupper chain between her legs, clasped to her waistband, squeezing her wonderful natural twenty-two inch shapeliness into a nine-inches figure-eight-middle, to increase her incredible wiggle. Amanda, Amanda, oh god Amanda, that lovely mouth, the loveliest of all mouths, the lovely mouth of a negress girl, sucked on the tube leading up from the two tubes and the two needles deep in her nipples, to suck on her own milk, as her eyes, Amanda, Amanda, oh god Amanda, those dark brown deep-devil-down-dark-brown eyes looked up at Celcus in needing, not of pleading, but Amanda, Amanda, oh god Amanda, of: ‘whip me!’, ‘whip me!!’, ‘whip me!!!’, ‘whip me!!!!’, ‘whip me!!!!!’, pleas wanton needing. Amanda, Amanda, oh god Amanda: Amanda: girl elemental: girl fundamental: just girl: just girl: girl…

A deliciously delicately-golden forearm’s soft down, glister glistened in the sparkling morning sunlight, as another girl of all girls world without end, reached out in loving love’s softest sweetest tenderness to her negress sister and twin of all that is wonderful:

“Are you alright my angel?” whispered, soft sweet concerned smiling beauty, as Celcus’ long leggy lovely leggy love knew more than mere duty, and touched Amanda’s face and heart with a tiny pretty hand so sweet and gentle, as Amanda came again, and again, and again, and again, at the sight at the sight of Celcus’ lovely smooth, lovely long, lovely shapely, lovely curvy, lovely long, lovely long, lovely long, so long, so long long long long legs: Amanda: girl elemental: girl fundamental: just girl: just girl: girl…….

The End