View Full Version : The Things We Do For Love

Eve Adorer
07-02-2007, 09:12 AM
The Things We Do For Love
by Eve Adorer

Synopsis: “To honour and obey…”

The Things We Do For Love
by Eve Adorer

The olive-complexioned brown-eyed Italianate English housewife, her fresh-washed brunette hair flowing down to her shapely bottom: her soft fragrant hair gently fluttering on her arched back, as the breeze tousled and teased it, to taunt the eye and please it - Monimika Honeydew - tiptoed her way to the local shopping precinct.

The sun was wan: the day cool. The trees’ leaves, newly minted, beginning to unfurl to greet with green the summer’s coming on scene; today seemed to have decided to stay abed a further while instead.

Yet, in the goose-pimpling chill of early-morn, Monimika had dressed to please in a ‘little black number’ she considered had been too long at the back of her wardrobe.

Monimika’s hips waved magician’s wand as she wandered her wonder toward her day’s destiny: to begin her chores as a housewife, bored by shopping for the larder’s restocking. She was in the week before her sacrificial bleed. She was hormonally hyper-charged to her full emotional brim.

Dressed as if heading for a nightclub, she, listless and list less, overed in her mind the goods she needed to order today, and was headed first for greengrocery: when, to chill further still, came a confidently authoritative mid-distant call:

“Hey you there! The girl in the black minidress! Stop right where you are!”.

Monimika halted in her dainty tracks. The voice was polite, even if the call was rude and crude.

Two police officers, hitherto across the busy road leaning, backs to a wall holding them lazily tall, were now waiting for a gap in the traffic to come over to the side Monimika blessed withal.

The call could have been to any one of the dozens of girls milling around, and from either of the copettes; but Monimika somehowed it was for her, and knew why: she knew it was for two abundantly prominent reasons.

It had happened before when she had dared this way, to comport herself in such an attractive way.

As Monimika nervously waited to see the copette’s faces, her stomach let flutter its metaphorical butterflies. She was praying that neither of these, was one of the girls who had pulled her up in this way before.

As the pink-uniformed Girl-Control officers approached, Monimika smiled at them nervously, trying to find reassurance. But even her sun-shaming searing sincerity, with passionate lips, pristine white teeth, and love-lit eyes, could not win the moment.

The leading cop’s instruction, world weary in intonation, was brief and to the point; or, rather, to the points:

“Lady: if’n you don’t wanna be arrested, get those tits under control!”

Monimika blushed divinely. The Italianate dream knew that, as she traipsed her temptation’s temptation, her twin hills at roam, had risen and fallen more significantly and magnificently than the homophone city’s empire.

She was an exceptionally attractive young woman, and loved the head-turning stares caused by the double-dare of leaving her breasts bare under where she should have been wearing underwear.

“You won’t get another warning sweetheart. And don’t give us the old: ‘sorry officer I must have forgotten to put a brassiere on this morning’ routine, cos we’ve heard it a million times before, darlin’. Go home and get your tits bra’d in: and now!……. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes officer”, Monimika whispered nervously.

“You better had darlin’ if’n you don’t wanna trip to the station house.”

“What in G’s name is your husband doin’ letting you walk around like a tart?” the pretty blonde copette continued rhetorically.

Then, as she tried not to be seduced by Monimika’s disarmingly challenging charms, the officer, who had drawn close enough to Monimika, to assess her olfactorally, was suddenly aware of the staggeringly erotic seductively enticing musk she could smell.

“Jeese, you’re a daring one ain’t yer? Do you think us cops don’t got no sense of scent? You better go home right away sweetheart, and not only get yourself bra’d up, but get some panties on too.”

Monimika blushed again, deeper rose than before. She had dared herself to go ‘commando’. Under her figure-confirming black mini-dress she was as natural as the day: making the day long to stay daylong with her eternal loveliness. But society condemned this form of display.

On a now distant past day, she might have got away with it. But things were getting tighter.

The government’s call for a return to ‘Victorian values’ had hit the right note with a society that had also become hooked on narrow and ever narrowing religions.

Monimika was 24. In her teens, she had known the freedom that she was now trying to take advantage of. But, even in Monimika Honeydew’s sweet young life, the world had changed.

Like so many things, it had started in the USA.

The wearing of silver bands on the wedding ring finger, as a sign of chastity among the born-again celebrity ‘virgins’, had been taken up on the political right.

Schoolgirls copied the celebrities. The celebrities were also, and accordingly, influential with government. The establishment saw votes in getting them alongside, using high-profile visits to the White House. The ball had really got rolling with the election of President Georgina Shrub.

Legislation had been followed by legislation, all applauded and lauded by the right wing press and the ‘shock jocks’.

The abolition of abortion had come first. It had won an overwhelming majority, with the Democrats running scared of the voter’s reaction, if they did not follow the line dictated by the Republican controlled Congress and the president.

Nextly had come arranged marriages. Then the enactment, as law, of an obligation for girls to promise, at the altar when they married, to obey their husbands.

Then, finally, removal from the shelves, and the full legal prohibition, of all means of birth control, most especially ‘the pill’, with pre-marital intercourse an imprisonable offence, and restraint within marriage left as the only means of birth control still legally allowed.

As a result of this, it was not only the girls’ backs that were being turned to the increase in forced anal intercourse. Both sodomy and fellatio were illegal of course. But as long as they assured lifelong marriage, monogamy, and male satiation, the authorities turned a deaf ear to match a blind eye.

‘What the USA did in the morning, England would do in the afternoon’, and British society had gone through the negative-revolution, that could see a natural beauty, such as Monimika, in trouble the way she just now was, for simply being adorably natural.

In the here and now, Monimika Honeydew was saved by the bell; or, rather, the urgent radio buzz that called the Girl-Control patrol to the local park, where two schoolgirls were reported to be kissing secretly behind a woodshed.

As the cops left her, with a look summarising their warning about her state of dress, or, rather, undress, Monimika’s distant but distinct Italian blood, showed in her determination to be a one-girl-rebel against society’s strictures. She would not go home, she would continue, dressed just as she was, even though she was scared of doing so.

And, ‘oh my goodness, isn’t she pretty?!’ Monimika thought, as she spotted her new neighbour, or rather the new neighbour’s wife, little Casta De’Merara.

The delicate blonde was just coming out of ‘Heads N Tails’, the best hairdressers in Bulmington.

She wore a headscarf to keep her fresh sculpted hair from any harm.

‘If she’s protecting it that way, she must have some event in mind’, Monimika thought: ‘perhaps she’s off to a wedding or a special party’.

Monimika tried to hurry and catch the girl she had no more than exchanged distant smiles with till now. But she need not try too hard, as Casta had stopped, and was searching in the bag on the belt around her trim slim waist, to find her insistently ringing mobile.

Monimika therefore slowed, so as to combine her arrival with the end of the phone call, insofar as she could time such unpredictability: in order not to seem to be intruding or rude.

The two girls were close enough to smile in recognition of each other now. And Monimika’s sixth sense told her that Casta, far from wanting her to move out of earshot, wished her to stay so that they could meet.

The moss-green of Casta’s headscarf went with the bottle-green of her mini-dress, and the shimmering blonde of such as remained visible of her soft hair.

She stood en-pointe tiptop-tiptoe in her heelless square-toed ballet shoes, with her dainty feet at 25-past and 25-to the timeless eternity of her feminine beauty.

When she smiled, her lower eyelids closed up prettily, a little, as if to focus the beam of her natural seductiveness, like a heart-piercing laser arrow, while all the stars of the universe shone from her light-blue eyes.

She appeared to be 20 or 21, and yet looked such a young girl: just a schoolgirl, she was so fresh, and her complexion so heavenly. She was no more than five two tall, if that, and had the figure of a delicate doll: a porcelain doll standing on the shapeliest tanned bare legs.

Her freckle-danced face was heartbreakingly lovely. She wore no makeup. Above her sensually centrally-dimple-cleft chin, her pertinently prominent lips shone promisingly moist: her mouth being ever wet, and ever ready.

Although she surely had no need for one, she was wearing a brassiere, as the law required these days. And it was far from feminine, being too rigid for her two: thus, in effect, giving the distinct impression that Casta had conical breasts: which was a terrible lie, as the two heartrending gentle teardrops her bosom formed when she was naked, could irrefutably prove.

And she wore panties. Again, that was what the law demanded, even though it might prefer that they did not show this lovely girl’s potent bifid pod, bulging quite so evidently.

Casta was so sweet and innocent, that she was completely unselfconscious about the fact, that the skirt of her dress had such a high hemline, her transparent panties were completely revealing her just now freshly pre-pubescently-depilated purse.

Monimika’s eyes were drawn to this essential centrality. The most feminine part of this extremely feminine girl. And she felt tears of gentle love start in her eyes as she espied its heavenly beauty, for Casta’s inner lips naturally protruded beyond her labia majora, and she, in consequence, had the appearance of having a delicate pink orchid between her lovely legs.

“Hi!”, Casta breathed, breathtakingly, as she popped her phone back into her waist-belt-bag, and held out her sweet hands for Monimika to take.

“You’re so lovely”, Monimika found herself involuntarily volunteering in sudden outburst of her previous thoughts.

“Oh…thank you!” Casta breathed again, genuinely flattered; adding:

“Coming from such an attractive girl as you, Monimika, that is a real compliment”.

“How are you and David settling in at number 69?” Monimika ventured next, after the two beauties had exchanged sweet blushes.

“Well: fine! But poor David is so busy at work, and when he comes home, there is so much to do about the house and garden. And he so wants to get on with his career. And he is such a lovely man, I’m so glad his mummy and daddy agreed he should have me for his wife. We were betrothed a year ago. Sorry we haven’t looked Richard and you out: apart from the telephone directory to get to know your names. But we’ve been so busy. David wants to get Tokyo. His boss is coming at the weekend with his new wife, David’s competition for Tokyo. He’s in ********* you know, David I mean. Well so is his boss too of course: silly me! Anyway, so David’s little wifey here is going to show that she supports him all the way, and will make any sacrifice to support him, and honour her wedding day promise to obey him. I’ve started with having my hair done specially for him, and a full body waxing, so as to be at my best. He’s such a lovely man: and such a handyman. You should see my kitchen, and our bedroom, and the bathroom is done out in the darlingest pink! And he’s done magic with the garden. His daddy taught him all David knows about vegetables and herbs and things, and helped him dig the barbeque pit. Even if the tomatoes have not been too successful, and the grapes are staying green, if that is what grapes do; or it’s too early in the year yet, or something of the sort. I’m on a grapes-only diet. Have to get them from the supermarket though! You really should try it. It’s great for the complexion and keeps you all nice and fresh inside, if you know what I mean. But David says it makes me giggle cos it’s like, fermenting inside me? or something like that. But I’m still going to stuff myself silly with grapes ready for the weekend. We got married as soon as I was old enough. And the house came on the market just at the right time!” Casta enthused, with sweet smiles, and occasional light touches on Monimika’s bare forearm with gentle fingers, to punctuate her innocent sincerity.

Monimika listened dazzled by Casta’s lovely face, fascinated by her gorgeous freckles and her ever smiling ever shining eyes.

“So how long have you and David been married?” Monimika ventured, in order to have the joy of Casta pouring out her golden soul to her once more.

“Six months: since I was old enough to be allowed to lose my virginity” Casta replied.

“Old enough?” Monimika queried, surprised.

“Yes: you know: six months since when I was sixteen!”, Casta responded with her smile asking what the look of surprise on Monimika’s face was from.

“So you’re only sixteen?” Monimika astonished.

“Sixteen and a half!” Casta giggled, with a smile and a look that asked: ‘so how old did you think I was?’

“How about you and Richard then? Casta’s soprano sweetly sang.

“Oh we’re okay”, Monimika responded with a voice that said that that was not quite so.

“Just ‘okay’?” Casta whispered, with the gentlest look of concern for this comparative stranger, she was seeking to get to know.

“We’re alright now. It was stupid really. Young Frankie next door: he’s still at school, only a boy: about your age Casta: no: younger.”

“Well, he’d been moony about me for months. It’s so lovely and so flattering. Till one day he told me he loved me, and bought me the most gorgeous bouquet: it must have cost him a fortune, the poor lamb. And it was so lovely of him, so I gave him a kiss: just a teensy weensy peck on the forehead.”

“And Richard saw the flowers. And he was furious and kept on about my wedding vows. But he’s very inclusive on decisions is my Richard. So, between us, we arranged to have me whipped as punishment?”

“We used ‘Girl Cure’? – they’re in the golden pages. They were very good. Richard and I would definitely recommend them to anyone. All their operators are ex Girl-Police you see, so they know what they are doing. You should see my back and my bum! This is my first time out for a month!”, Monimika informed.

As she finished her sentence about her sentence, Monimika spotted two Girl-Police officers sauntering around, more in conversation with each other, than on the lookout for crime.

But, caution to the fore, recalling her earlier encounters, Monimika suddenly prompted: “Shall we go to ‘Bacchanalia’s’ for your grapes?”.

Casta smiled her assent, and two stunning girls, the gold wedding rings they wore through the septum of their noses, glinting in the soft sunlight, progressed in what the passing, wolf-whistling schoolboys, knew as, and called ‘the totty-trot’.

Both girls pirouette-high in their squared-off toed heelless ballet shoes, walked with steps saturated with sex.

Both girls, being married women, wore one-inch-chained gold thumb-cuffs to bind their hands, like emotional butterfly wings in front of them on their soft bellies, or more usually held up clasped, palms and fingers together, at lower breast, as if in a prayer of supplication: even though it was they who should be worshipped rather than them being the worshippers.

And they wiggled wickedly, because they also wore tight leather anklets with a two-inch long, two-inch short, two-inch strong, gold hobble chain between their ankles, to keep them under control, ensuring that, on foot alone at least, they could not wander far from the marital home, and must do ‘the totty-trot’ to progress at all.

With such short steps being dictated by their bound ankles, and with being sky-high on their big toes within the squared-off toe-ends of their shoes, the girls were at constant peril of a fall, and must use to the full, the beautiful muscles of their lovely legs even to stand at all.

Perforce they had had to learn the skill of walking in the tiniest of steps. To progress at all was immensely difficult: to perform other than an extremely erotic walk, impossible.

Their tiny tidy rapid steps, made the natural undulations of the hemispheres of their gorgeous bottoms, even more pronounced, indeed their buttocks to waddle like ducks’ tails, and their breasts, at least those of generously endowed lovelies like Monimika, to jig and jog sensationally, even despite a bra, when one was being worn.

The girls were therefore, as ever with girls of course, wonderful contradictions. That which the law had imposed in order to reduce their compelling attraction, had only resulted in its increase.

But, even though such imprisoning control of their beautiful legs was coincidentally erotic, and even if the result here was contrary to intentions, the state encouraged any control over matters sexual, and girls were seen as one-hundred-percent sexual.

In the new Victorian age, the state wanted the seductive attraction of girls overcome. It had begun with the re-confinement of women within marriage. It had continued, and was continuing, with the erosion of all women’s rights.

The state wanted men in church praying to a god, not worshipping the earthly goddesses that girls are in themselves.

As four stunningly strong shapely chain tamed legs wiggled the two wives about their sweet street ways, the passing schoolboys’ ever louder wolf-whistles of longing and unquenchable desire, fluted fluttering oral posies floating to ground before, to scent a petal path worthy of the immeasurably treasureable tread of the overwhelming beauty of these deeply blushing divine roses.

Casta and David had never had an argument on this scale before.

Casta was so sweet.

“Where’s you lovely wife? ‘JC’ - John Chalmerson - enquired.

“Yes, David, where on earth is the delicious Casta?!” The former Angelica Noir teased, whilst hiddenly enjoying David’s eyes roaming over her handsome thighs, as she once again changed her position so, as she hoped and intended, he might see further up the bell of her tiny skirt.

“Casta insisted on playing a personal part in the food preparation. She begs to be excused. She wants to let us talk ‘work-talk’ as she puts it. She says it’s far too complicated for her pretty little head.”

“We’ve hired staff: two very attractive redheads: from Herrod’s, to do the barbeque. But Casta wants to spring a little surprise. And she absolutely insists that she herself, ensures her meat is properly cooked. She’s terrified she’ll give us all food poisoning!” David informed, with the latter line intended to lighten the message.

“She has a point”, JC responded.

“Not about the food poising: about the work front I mean. I’ve got my laptop in the car.”

“Whilst your wife gets cooking with the old cooking, perhaps you me and Angelica can go through the accounts and the draft of my board report.”

“Angelica ought to leave the company now she’s a housewife of course; but she’s still with us in spirit, aren’t you darling?”

Angelica smiled loving consent, and David looked at her lips: the lips of heaven; the lips of an ebony negress: the lips she had parted with her squeaks of pleasure when his cock had pushed past her sphincter last Christmas after the office party. God how she had loved his cock filling and drilling her bumhole!

Casta and David had never had an argument on this scale before.

Casta was so sweet.

She’d planned, as soon as she had returned from the hairdressers, to reveal her new boyishly-feminine close-cropped gold-blonde hair: whisking off the headscarf inconsequentially as if she did not realise how devastatingly pretty her new hairstyle made her look: as if she were not pretty already with her innocent pixie’s face, the dapple of feckless freckles on her forehead and nose, and her so soft mouth with its constantly naturally moist shining lips.

That was her plan, her plan to make David fall in love with her all over again, as if he didn’t every single second; but sudden things had led to this row.

Casta was only sixteen. She would always look maturely young. Her high cheekbones and her deep-set sparkling blue eyes were part of the assurance that she would look young when she was ninety-five, and beautiful throughout her life. She had classic beauty: her freckle-kissed face had timeless loveliness.

She had so wanted David to notice and compliment her on her hair.

She had donned the headscarf, not out of need for it, but for its ‘abracadabra factor’. The opportunity it provided to flourish it from her head, and seemingly coincidentally reveal her new trim. The anticipated opportunity to casually remove it when she was sure David was looking: to do so with a look of cool commonplace on her face: to do so, and see his jaw drop at how pretty she looked with her glorious cool-gold-blonde corn stubble: to do so and await the compliment she was sure she would secure.

But David had not turned. Instead he had again been looking, first at the OBey internet website, and then at the Golden Pages, for the ‘Caterers and Catering’ sub-category.

Casta had not noticed the page on the computer’s screen at first.

In order to get him to notice her, and look at her, so that she could unveil her ‘new look’, she had leant her chin on his shoulder, and let him scent her soft breath, as she sighed a sweet “Hi” that was more sexy and sexual for its cool relaxed familiarity, than if she had ripped both his and her own clothes off and jumped on him.

It was a ‘Hi’ latent with cool relaxedness. It was a ‘Hi’ that was sensual and consensual. It was a ‘Hi’ of lust as well as a ‘Hi’ of trust. It was a ‘Hi’ of friend and platonic partner. Yet it was also a ‘Hi’ that said ‘bed’. It was a ‘Hi’ that told that they were lovers and in love with love as well as one another. It was a ‘Hi’ of high brevity; but a ‘Hi’ that spoke endlessly.

As it had happened out, Casta had got up close, breathed her breathless deathless breathtaking “Hi”, and then, straight after, whipped off her headscarf in anger. David was yet again looking at the Golden Pages website and the ‘Caterers and Catering’ category.

“David! Please darling! How many times? We’ve agreed. I’ve told you that I’ll provide. You don’t need to go to the expense of hiring caterers. It’s an insult to me. I find it so hurtful that you will not let me do my duty as your wife. I promised to obey when we married. I promised to support you come what may. I know how much Tokyo means to you my darling, and I’ll do my wifely duty to get you the post”, Casta repeated, reheating a discussion had more than once already between this lucky man and his absolutely lovely wife.

David turned and saw Casta’s new hairstyle. It was adorable. He longed to tell her that she looked simply stunning; but he could not risk losing the argument at this, it’s third eruption.

So the golden moment that should have been: the revelation of the field of gold: of the close-cropped boyish hair of the supremely feminine Casta, had missed its moment.

For her part, Casta knew David had noticed her hair; but she looked at him with her eyes conveying that she did not want to hear, what she really did want to hear in truth: a subliminal message that resolving who was to provide what at the weekend garden party, was more important, even though, just at that second, it was not, and even though a perfect moment in their love would be lost forever by it.

“Darling! Darling! Please!” David pleaded in loving submission, a hint of laughter in his voice, the laughter of love of his perplexed and perplexing wife, the laughter of surrender that precedes a kiss of adoration of a beautiful girl being so adorably frustrating.

“I am not, and you know I would never ever ask you to do that kind of demeaning thing for me sweetheart. We need you there as the lovely hostess. You can’t sacrifice yourself that way, even for my career”, David continued, his longing not to hurt his lovely wife paramount, and informing the gentle emotion in his voice.

“We must have caterers in for this one. They… if we hire them from Herrod’s…. they’ll supply everything, from crockery, and cutlery, to the vegetables and the all-important meat: I agree we need a whole carcass: that’ll impress for sure. But it’s not a job for you darling. It’s just way too demanding of you my angel.”

“JC himself will be coming. I want you there to meet him. He’ll fall in love with you. Every man does.”

“I…. we have to make the right mark, if I’m to get Tokyo, we’ve just got to hit the right note bang on target, and this weekend’s barbeque is our one shot…”

David could see that Casta was still feeling slighted, but he knew a way to her heart. He kept this ‘key’ under locked guard in turn. The key was a card that could not be overplayed, but it definitely needed deploying here, to save the day.

David never showed it openly, at least he assumed he didn’t; but he thought he knew Casta’s psychology enough to dangle his key card as bait to hook her, and fish her out of stormy waters such as he presently found her dwelling in and upon.

The opportunity to use the new hairstyle as the card was lost; but David was nothing if not quick-witted and clever.

“JC says you’re an absolute doll”, he threw out: using key, card, hook, line, and sinker in one nuclear burst of desperation: fishing with a compliment as oil to calm the oh so troubled waters.

“But he’s never met me!” Casta, touched and flattered, blushing the colour of rosť wine, prettily answered, as she shyly smiled: smitten: with David’s angled dangled bait completely bitten.

“I caught him admiring your photo on my office desk”, David informed.

“What photo?” Casta asked, kittenishly pleased to have David’s top boss as a hitherto secret admirer, and knowing, or thinking she knew, the answer before David gave it: thinking the answer would be one of her, in her former career as a gentle caring angel: one of her in her hospital nurse’s uniform.

“You on the beach in Senabre”, David answered to Casta’s shock.

“Oh god David: not me topless!” Casta concerned.

“No! Silly girl. As if I would. It’s one of you in your one-piece”, David assured.

Casta was reassured by this. As to why that should have been so, only an expert on girls could possibly know; and even she would have been baffled.

The photograph in question showed Casta in a figure confirming swimsuit, white and very wet, with her nipples promisingly prominent, and her love-lips outlined by the costumes intimate cling to her body: a cling intimating everything intimate: lucky thing.

Such was the shrink-fit of the costume she wore in that particular picture, that she appeared to be more naked in it, than in the snaps of her topless, in the thong she had worn later on in their honeymoon, when she had sought a fuller tan, and her shyness had been overcome.

David knew that. He found the picture he had on his desk incredible. He adored his young wife, and was so proud of her beauty that he would as soon, and with pride and no shame, have had a photo of Casta in her thong alone, were it not that he found this particular shot to be so tremendously erotic.

His trick card had worked. He had diverted her mind from her worries about the weekend barbeque, and Casta’s eyes once more shone with the shear joy of being a girl.

“I just love the hair sweetheart!” David now added, to pop a cherry of love atop the iced cake of peace.

Casta knew the latter compliment was rehearsed and consequently a tad insincere, but she fell forgivingly into David’s arms nonetheless, and held her face up, offering her ever-moist lips for a kiss to complete her and his bliss.

Afterwards came Casta’s sweetly determined after-words:

“That’s settled then. You arrange for Herrod’s to provide the caterers: so that they can produce the vegetables, whilst I oversee them; and I’ll cook my own meat”, she smiled, with adorable determination.

Although that was not what he had had in mind at all, and David could have had Casta whipped for being so presumptuous, he looked at her and laughed his loving surrender:

“Okay: okay: you win darling! You always did and you always do!”

“But, my love, I am not allowed to make decisions. I am only a wife. I promised to obey….”, Casta sweetly reminded.

“Then take it as an instruction from me for it to be as you suggest”, David responded.

When he had kissed Casta just now, why had David dreamed of the former Angelica Noir?

Casta’s sweet laugh as she parted after the kiss and swept up her discarded scarf, to get ready to go about the gardening David had earlier ordered her to do, only made David feel more guilty.

Angelica was his boss’ new wife. JC had married Angelica Noir, not three months since.

But not three months since before that, David had had Angelica in the storeroom at the Christmas party. The horny negress had ‘begged for it’, according to David’s self serving self-confidence-assuring version of the event: a version he had repeated to himself so often, that, truth or not, it was the truth as far as he was concerned.

What a sexy bitch Angelica was. Oh god she was horny! Before the bonds of marriage, and the ties that bind, she had walked as if she had a cock up her, and was enjoying its constant attentions, however inadequate they were compared with her appetites. If her walk had not been so natural, surely the pope would have had it banned.

And the colourful clothes she wore to contrast so beautifully with her dark brown complexion!

The day she wore geranium-red and the astounding compliment it was to her stunning negress black. The day she wore red and her bare brown arms! The day she wore red and her bare black legs in the summer sun! The day she wore red and had stood next to David in the office canteen, and their hands had accidentally touched! The day she wore red and he had smelled her natural musk, and just knew she was wearing no panties, and had turned and seen that she knew he knew, and had turned and seen her dark brown eyes and the orgasmic lips of her negress’ mouth, and the look of challenge in her ever-smiling eyes!!

Angelica and David were work companions and rivals. She was ex-university, with an acutely sharp mind, that JC, their joint boss, the local boss of bosses, had obviously noticed.

David had been in military service. Always an adventurer, he had seen the world and met Casta when posted in Africa, being given the lovely Senabrian, a girl from one of the white tribes of that god-blessed country with its over ninety-percent female population, and bringing her back to lucky England.

That was now a year since, and David, though in the forefront with JC hitherto as he, David, had calculated: he, David, was, was now concerned that Angelica, a newcomer with the brains and education he lacked, would leave him behind.

What David lacked in formal education, he had in cunning: and cunning he had in spades-full.

To his mind, the one sure way to ‘put Angelica in her place’, and to ensure he had a hold over her to keep her down, was to screw her, and threaten to let it be known she was letting herself be drilled outside marriage.

To David’s simple thinking, every girl wanted it up her; Angelica would be no exception. No girl could have what they had between their lovely legs and not obey its command over her; Angelica would be no exception to that.

The pop of champagne corks had caught David by surprise.

Indeed, it took the whole office by surprise.

But JC’s announcement that he and Angelica were to become man and wife, had had David jumping for joy on the inside.

His joy was not for the couple. His joy was from the fact that Angelica had, with the sub-orbital flight of one ground-to-air champagne cork, been shot out of the skies where Tokyo was concerned.

Tokyo was his! Angelica would be a housewife. Married women were not allowed to work. Angelica was no longer a threat: where Tokyo was concerned, Angelica was shafted.

Talking of which, he assumed that Angelica would still be free for a shag, as long as he only used her lovely bum as before. But then again, now she was married and a pregnancy could be risked, perhaps he could slide his cock into her sheath…..

The weekend had arrived, and so had JC and Angelica, who sat at table on the front lawn of David and Casta’s home, enjoying the sun and cocktails.

“Where’s you lovely wife David? ‘JC’ enquired.

“Yes, David, where on earth is the delicious Casta?!” Angelica teased, enjoying David’s eyes roaming over her handsome black thighs, as she once again changed her position so he could see further up the bell of her tiny skirt, as she intended.

“Casta insisted on playing a personal part in the food preparation. She begs to be excused. She wants to let us talk ‘work-talk’ as she puts it. She says it’s far too complicated for her pretty little head.”

“We’ve hired staff: two very attractive redheads: from Herrod’s, to do the barbeque. But Casta wants to spring a little surprise. She absolutely insists that she personally ensure her meat is properly cooked. She’s terrified she’ll give us all food poisoning!” David informed, with the latter line intended to lighten the message.

“She has a point” JC responded.”

“Not about the food poising: about the work front I mean. I’ve got my laptop in the car.”

“Whilst your wife gets cooking with the old cooking, perhaps you me and Angelica can go through the accounts.”

“Angelica ought to leave the company now she’s a housewife of course; but she’s still with us in spirit, aren’t you darling?”

Angelica smiled, and David looked at her lips: the lips of heaven; the lips of a negress: the eager lips of the girl whose tight anus he had had his cock up just last Christmas.

“But there’s no reason why your little lady can’t join us if she wants to. If she’s as pretty as her picture, I can’t wait to meet her”, JC charmed.

“She insisted on helping the caterers so as to leave us alone to talk business, which has, to be honest, always bored Casta”, David excused yet again.

A silence ensued. Neither JC nor Angelica wanted to challenge David’s explanation for the continuing absence of Casta, and David began to recognise that he needed to divert them further.

“Those papers then?” he reminded JC.

“What? Oh, the laptop. Sorry to be a bore old boy, but it would be very useful to go over the sales figures before the board meeting on Wednesday, and, as you know, I’m in London Monday and Tuesday”, JC summarised.

An hour’s distraction followed, with more cocktails being consumed, and much satisfaction being expressed, as Angelica pointed out an error in and between Tokyo and Kinshasa, the corrections of which, showed, albeit only marginally, a better performance in the far east and Africa, than the draft board presentation had hitherto been able to record.

As she concentrated on making the relevant changes to her husband’s notes on his laptop, Angelica licked her lovely negress lips, and giggled as she pointed out error after error in his syntax, and duly corrected them.

Angelica’s mind was as razor sharp, as her beauty was dazzling: and the black beauty was simply sizzling.

David and JC just had to sit back and let Angelica take charge.

With every point they raised, she came up with at least two counterpoints, and then a synopsis of the best way forward, which the two men challenged, only for it to dawn that this beautiful woman was, as ever, entirely right.

Glinting in the welcomingly warming sun, the wedding ring through Angelica’s nose sparkled, as, despite that she wore a wife’s controlling thumb cuffs, she dexterously flew her slender fingers, fingers David longed were stroking his cock, over the laptop’s keyboard.

As she did so, when she checked she had typed what she’d intended, her dark brown eyes flashed wasted love at the screen.

David’s eyes could not help but return to Angelica’s thighs: Angelica’s enormously strong long black thighs: the thighs of the amateur marathon runner she had been before marriage had confined her to domesticity.

A sideways flick of heaven’s lanterns, formed a look that said to David, that Angelica knew full well she was fascinating him, and that he wanted her: that he wanted to work her and spurt inside her: to inject her with the salty oyster swimming with his virile sperm.

And a mischievous smile played over, and then took over Angelica’s lips.

She was not given to being cruel, but she loved to tease, as much as she loved that her face and her body pleased. So it was no coincidence that her fingers wandered now to the wedding ring through her nose.

It looked from her lovely face, as if she was just touching it as if it were a charm that would aid her thinking.

Surely the fact that it signalled a reminder that she was no longer available, and that David should have done a better job when he had it up her bum that time, was accidental; or was it?

Her job done, without asking her husband’s permission, as she should have done, Angelica rose and rose to the top tips of her big toes en-pointe in her ballerina’s shoes, showing the incredible soft smooth strong muscularity of her calves, as she ‘totty-trotted’ tiptop-tiptoe back to JC’s car, to put the laptop safely away, and thus placed where it would not be forgotten later in the day.

As she wiggled away, she felt both men’s eyes ogling her, and held her dark-curled head high, with wholly justified pride that she was so sensationally attractive.

JC and David watched the rear of the devastating black beauty, as she totty-trotted, dancing entrancingly on her tiptop tiptoes, making her way down the garden path, with her immensely strong legs kept so safely under control by her two-inch chain hobble.

David had been drinking too much on an empty stomach.

Waiting for the meal that Casta was tied up in the preparation of, and relaxing while Angelica had completely redone JC’s work on his, JC’s, laptop, both men had drunk too much.

And David found, too late to prevent what he next said, that the drink had gone to his head. As both men ogled Angelica’s glory, he blundered out:

“Dear god almighty, you’re a fucking lucky man JC! What’s she like in bed?”

But, far from being upset by this crudity, JC did not even look to see that David was now biting his tongue in horror and regret at blurting this out; but continued to be the second man eyeing his wife’s lissom legs.

“Man to man David: just between me and you old boy, is that understood?” JC began, checking the ground for hidden mines as it were.

Trying to fight the tipsy feeling, David nodded confirmatory assurance, that whatever JC’s just now introductory statement was followed by, he would keep it cave.

“Well, entre nous, old chap, it’s an unmitigated disaster.”

“The wedding night was a total Titanic. She is just so beautiful!”

“When I saw her naked… oh god, I just came. I never even got it in her! And she was so forgiving….”

“I think I made my mind up there and then. I’m rising sixty. I told her I would never be able to give her what she needs: not in that way: I mean, she can buy all the fur coats and dresses and hats a girl could need, and as many more again; but I can’t take her where a girl needs to go: especially a girl as young as Angelica, with her drives and her passions….”

David was moved. Before now, he had never seen the human side of JC so openly displayed. And so he walked over and put a consoling hand on JC’s shoulder.

Even as he did so though, or just after, he looked up, and saw Angelica totty-trotting on her gorgeous legs, back to join JC and himself.

But JC had not apparently noticed, and continued his alcohol fuelled confessional lament:

“To be honest, old chap, I had a chat with her, and I told her I’d have no objection if she found herself a lover: someone younger.”

“And you know what? As if she knew what I was thinking, she insisted she would only do that if I watched them in bed: if I watched them screwing: if I saw my own wife being shagged……”

“Of course I said yes.”

“She chose the gardener: Steve…”

David was fascinated.

Angelica, despite the restriction of her stride to a two-inch wiggle, was totty-trotting closer and would soon be in earshot. He had to get the last dregs from this heart burst, before JC would, of necessity, have to clamp up, and he, David, might never hear how it panned out with Angelica and the gardener. Yet JC was silent, seemingly gone off into irreversibly internalised reverie.

“Steve the gardener?” David asked, to remind JC where he, JC, had just left off.

“What do you mean?” JC slurred.

“You were saying that Angelica chose Steve, your gardener, as her lover, and that they make love while you watch?” David coaxed, to milk more dregs of this high-octane gossip fuel.

“Oh yes: she’s a lovely girl: a very lovely girl”, JC rambled.

“Yes: Angelica’s a lovely girl: she’s every man’s dream”, David agreed, trying to hide the urgency in his voice: the urgency with which he sought the final punctuation mark in JC’s tale: the urgency with which he sought for this superb future ‘completely unattributable’ gossip gobbet, to be at its ending, rather than at a hangnail.

“Yes: Angelica’s a lovely girl”, David repeated, “But what about Steve then, the gardener, does he give her what she needs, have you watched them at it yet?”

“He?” JC snapped, “What are you on about David old boy?”

“Steve sir” David answered, fearing that alcohol would finally stay his bosses’ final say about this confession of inadequacy, and the solution he had found for his sensational wife’s insatiable needs.

JC looked up with complete mystification in his face:

“Steve”, he repeated: “Steve is a lovely girl: I mean Stephanie of course: they call her ‘Steve’ or ‘Steph’. I thought you’d… you know, I could have sworn blind; but no of course, I’m mixing you up, you’ve never seen Steve have you?”

“No sir; I’ve never seen Steve sir” David answered, fighting his cock’s growing urge to rise and take no bow, but shout ‘wow!’ at the thought of Angelica rolling in bed in another girl’s arms.

But the confession would have to end without the embellishing relish David wished for, for the bewitching Angelica wiggled onto the patio once more, and sat her statistical perfection between the two men that her devastating black beauty was completely devastating.

From the looks she saw on David and her husband’s faces, Angelica knew they had been talking about her behind her back.

And her eyes, her clever eyes, never showed that she knew she had been the subject of converse, or that it pleased her, or that she hoped the talk about her had been really deep down dirty.

Easing across, JC took the nubile ebony angel’s thumb-cuffed hands, and gently squeezed them. Angelica then craned her neck and kissed his cheek, before she leaned her lovely head on his shoulder.

Time had moved inexorably forward.

Whilst distracted by the work Angelica had orchestrated and succeeded with, on JC’s laptop; and by the gorgeous Angelica herself, none of the three had hitherto fully noticed the delicious scent that was wafting from David and Casta’s rear garden, behind their lovely home.

As the sweet aroma of cooking meat met his nostrils once more, and this time registered fully: “What a delicious smell”, JC opined, only to have Angelica nudge him in the ribs.

“Well: it is a lovely smell” JC insisted, with a look of love at his charming wife.

“There’s a little something special on the spit for us”, David informed.

“Casta absolutely insisted her surprise be kept, so none of us can go round the back till the caterers call us. I’ve got Herrod’s in. They have a wonderful catering department” David slurred, his tipsy state making him not realise he was repeating himself.

“If Angelica wasn’t here, I’d tell you just how pretty the young girls they sent us to do the catering are too!”

“Don’t let me stop you”, Angelica responded, with a tone of voice and a look of face aside from JC’s seeing, that conveyed ‘don’t you dare’, in contrast with her seeming assent.

David felt ashamed. Angelica’s look had hit home. He knew he needed to sober up and that he was behaving oafishly.

A distant clatter of crockery, and a chink of wine glasses suggested that the meal was close to being served up.

“Let’s pop out the back and see if they are ready for us, shall we”, David suggested, his realisation that he could stall no longer driving home into his mind, despite his desire to make the treat he and Casta had arranged, tantalise his guests a little longer.

With Angelica pushed aside by her marriage to JC, David’s confidence that the sumptuous feast that awaited his boss and his boss’ wife, would swing the Tokyo post his way, was sky high.

His only problem was the timing of his raising of the subject. He knew he was ‘muddled’ with drink. Now was not a good time. He would wait till an early day after the wonders he and Casta were about to serve up, had swung things his way, as he was sure they would. After all, now Angelica would be confined to the marital home, there was less of a swing for the meal to traverse.

As the threesome walked around the side of the cottage and into its back garden:

“We’re almost ready for you sir”, the lovely lead chef, and lead redhead smiled, calling over the distance, as she rotated the meat being slowly cooked over the red-hot artificial coals in the barbeque pit David had dug: the whole-roast meat impaled on the spit that ran through it from head to tail.

David almost dare not look to see if his boss was impressed; but JC was not in fact looking at the whole-roast, the piece-de-resistance close-ready for their feast.

Instead he was looking as if he’d found a chance needed, and was about to take a suddenly found opportunity, to whisper something as an aside to David: something it seemed he did not want Angelica to hear.

“David old boy” JC whispered, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I haven’t told her yet: I mean Angelica.”

“I don’t know how to put this to you old man. So straight to the point, as you’d expect from me old chap”

“I’m afraid the board has decided that Angelica will get Tokyo…… I know you’ll be disappointed, old son, but I hope you’ll support us in this.”

David was stunned: “But she can’t!” he said, all too loudly.

“But she can’t!” he repeated immediately after, more softly, as if his so doing would undo his earlier shout of exclamation.

“Why ever not?” JC responded in total surprise.

“She’s….. Angelica’s a housewife, the law doesn’t allow…” David reminded, but without any real confidence in his tone: sensing he had missed a trick, and expecting, despite hope against hope, that his ambition for Tokyo would be finally torpedoed.

“Oh that!” JC answered:

“Stuff and nonsense old chap. There’s no need of Angelica staying here in England old boy. She’s my wife. I’m her master. I can send her where I please. And, as you know, there’s no restrictions on women working in Japan old man… no restrictions at all.”

“Angelica’s got a first rate mind: we, the board and I, don’t want to see it go to waste….”

“Are you with us in this one Dave my boy?” JC concluded, with false-sounding bonhomie.

“Of course” David instantly answered, with his speech rising to a squeak like an adolescent boy’s newly breaking voice.

“Of course”, David then repeated in a more manly timbre, after he had cleared his throat from a longing to sob that was choking him: a longing to curse aloud at the shock disappointment that had just sledge-hammered him flat.

“I knew I could rely on you old chap: ‘rock solid’ - ‘David De’Merara is rock solid’ that’s what I always tell them at headquarters”, JC reassured, not realising that David was in need of consolation: not knowing the full bitterness of the pill he, JC, had just administered.

Resigned to the sudden shocking failure of his campaign, David turned to JC and Angelica, forcing himself to convey the look of the perfect host inviting his guests to go first; a host now resigned to his fate: a host about to drown his sorrows in the wine bottle given half a chance.

And so JC now turned his attention to where Angelica was already looking.

“Is that the lovely Casta over there?”

“Yes”, David confirmed, with pride that, in his life he had at least won one incredible top of top prize: his adorable wife.

“She looks absolutely delicious old boy!” JC confirmed, meaning it to be out of Angelica’s hearing.

“You’re incredibly lucky old man. She’s a complete dish.”

“What a wonderful tan she’s taken on! Wow, but she’s just so edible David: she’s so appetising!” JC murmured, despite that Angelica had heard what he was saying, and was giving him the strongest look of disapproval a wife these days dare, if she did not want to be whipped.

“And you’ve gone through a lot of trouble for us David old boy” JC continued, turning back from his first sight of the roast on the spit, as if choosing to wait a little longer for a fully cooked slice of meat: but turning back, noticeably without anticipatory signs, such as the clap of and eager rubbing together of hands, which is often symbolic of someone being almost unable to wait for the pleasure of hunger’s upcoming satisfaction.

As he followed this action up: as he followed his turning his back on the barbeque, JC’s usually bullishly confident speech was stumbling, yet he carried on despite that he hated showing indecisiveness the way he just now was:

“David old boy…. I don’t know quite how to put this but…. Angelica and I: we …. we can’t thank you enough ……..”, JC began, his conclusion veering off the path he’d intended at his outset.

“But… well I assumed you knew. I hadn’t realised you were preparing quite so much meat old fellow me lad.”

“I thought, maybe ‘just enough meat for David himself’ don’t you know.”

“It doesn’t stop me enjoying the aroma of meat cooking of course…”

“Only you see we: I mean since I married Angelica: we: both of us now: she always was of course: me, in this one thing at least, I have to do as I’m told by the dear little wifey old boy, you know how it is…. JC feebly tried to joke…..

“Well… to put it bluntly old chap…. You see…. I’m afraid: Angelica and I: Angelica and I…. we’re strictly vegetarian old man: strictly vegetarian these days…”

“…..Sorry old chap…”, JC finally announced, to the simply stunned David: to a David on the verge of simply simpering….

With the crank handle’s slow turn in turn, the two pretty redhead caterers constantly rotated the meat, at the ideal speed for it to cook; but so that it would not shrivel or be burned in the blazing flames from the gas-heated artificial charcoals in the barbeque pit they were rotating it over.

It’s grossly swollen tongue looked as if it were felating the steel spit that ran through its sexual part and out of its mouth.

The meat’s long legs were stretched out and tied to either side the spit, a fork from which also entered its anus, so as to ensure the carcase rotated with the spit, and avoided the spit simply turning within it; and thus without the meat itself turning.

Too distant to have heard JC and David’s conversation, Casta, making the ultimate sacrifice for love of her husband, to enable him to fulfil his ambitions, rotated slowly on the spit. In her terrible agony, she was still alive.

She was still alive and yet her breasts, her buttocks, her shapely calves, and her superb hams were already cooked to succulent dark brown perfection.

“Shall we serve her now sir?” the sexy saucy redhead, lead catering chef, asked, with a curtsey that answered for much more than the simple necessities of showing courtesy alone…..

Though poleaxed by the lost cause of Tokyo, and of his darling Casta in that same lost cause: too late by far, David just managed to raise a hand to stay the use of a carving knife to slice the perfectly deep-side-dimpled, perfect bottom, of his lovely wife Casta: of Casta intended for even an escoffier’s delectation: of the delicious Casta, spit-roasted to perfection, alive ….

07-02-2007, 01:30 PM
Thanks for the new story